autumn night. On one of the walls he noticed a small Rembrandt. The lighting in the room was an unusual white-branched chandelier, hung with faceted crystals. It was lightweight compared to the heavy designs so currently in vogue, a combination of elegance and daring that was like that of Venetia herself, but then Venetia Fox was a woman who set fashions rather than followed them.
Linwood had thought of nothing other than Venetia in all of the past days. Whatever else she was, this attraction between them was real and solid, and escalating in ways he had not imagined. He had never wanted a woman as he wanted her. He had never wished to know one as he wished to know her. The desire was more than physical. He liked her. He admired her. He even respected her, his opponent in this game. A woman of courage and unflinching nerve, of confidence and strength, yet beneath it there was softness and compassion and vulnerability. There was a connection between them, a strange bond that he had not felt before. She felt it, too. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her body leaned in to his, hear it in her voice. The game was immersing them both. And he embraced it.
He waited until she took her seat at the head of the table, before taking his at the foot. Ten feet of solid polished mahogany stretched between them.
‘Is it your own décor or that which came with the house?’
‘All my own.’
‘You have exceptional taste.’
She dipped her head in a tiny acknowledgement and her mouth curved in a smile.
‘I could not help but notice the Rembrandt.’ The painting was worth a fortune, more than even the highest paid and successful of all actresses could afford.
‘It was a gift.’
‘From an admirer?’ He thought of Clandon and felt that same wariness and anger, but even Rotherham’s bastard son could not have stretched to buy such a thing. And then he remembered Razeby’s talk of Arlesford and Hunter, of Monteith and York.
‘From my father.’
‘Not a country vicar at all, then.’
‘No.’ She glanced away and he sensed her unease over the subject.
They fell silent as Albert and the footmen arrived, bringing an array of silver serving dishes to set upon the table between them. Two footmen remained, standing smartly against the wall, eyes fixed front.
‘I hope you are hungry, Francis,’ she said and met his eyes directly once more. It was the first time she had used his given name, and he understood its significance.
‘Ravenous, Venetia,’ he replied, but his eyes were not on the food, only on her.
She smiled as she helped herself to a variety of dishes.
Linwood waited until she had completed her selection before making his. ‘The food is excellent.’
‘I shall pass on your compliments to my cook.’
They talked of easy things, things that were comfortable, and over which they seemed to have much agreement. They talked and ate, while the footmen topped up their glasses with fine wine. There was no pretence of champagne when it was just the two of them.
It seemed too soon that the food was eaten.
The plates were emptied, the cutlery abandoned upon them. They looked at one another across the length of the table.
‘Shall we retire to the parlour for a drink?’
‘I would like that, Venetia.’ He followed where she led, watching the hypnotic sway of her hips, smelling the subtle scent of her perfume in the air.
The parlour was a small room at the back of the house, furnished for comfort and privacy rather than show, but still with her recognisable stamp of elegance.
There was a small bookshelf, a proper desk rather than a lady’s writing bureau, and a sofa and matching armchair positioned before a roaring fire. It was tidy enough, but not pristine as the other rooms had been. There were letters and newspapers piled upon the desk, a collection of pens beside them, a romance novel left abandoned on the table by the decanter and a newspaper balanced on the arm of the chair by the fire, as if she had been reading it earlier in the day. The whole room felt snug, warm, private, providing yet another glimpse into the life of the woman beneath the mask of the actress.
They were alone, no sign of the servants. He closed the door behind him.
‘Brandy?’ she asked.
He gave a nod. ‘Thank you.’
She poured two glasses and passed one to him, lifting the other herself.
‘To friends, Francis.’ She raised her