“A woman has to make her way in the world as best she can,” she said.
“May I make so bold as to ask if there is a Lord Meserole?” he said.
“So early in the evening?” said Madam, and laughed again. Lord Venturi found himself laughing with her. My word, he told himself, this wit is a lot easier than I thought!
“No, of course I meant—” he began.
“I'm sure you did,” said Madam, tapping him lightly with her fan. “Now, I mustn't monopolize you, but I really must drag both of you away to talk to some of my friends—”
She took Lord Venturi by the unresisting arm and piloted him across the floor. Selachii followed morosely, being of the opinion that when respectable women called themselves Bobbi the world was about to end, and ought to.
“Mr Carter has extensive interests in copper and Mr Jones is very interested in rubber,” she whispered.
There were about six men in the group, talking in low voices. As their lordships approached they caught “—and at a time like this one really must ask oneself where one's true loyalties lie…oh, good evening, Madam.”
On her apparently random walk to the buffet table Madam happened to meet several other gentlemen and, like a good hostess, piloted them in the direction of other small groups. Probably only someone lying on the huge beams that spanned the hall high above would spot any pattern, and even then they'd have to know the code. If they had been in a position to put a red spot on the heads of those people who were not friends of the Patrician, and a white spot on those who were his cronies, and a pink spot on those who were perennial waverers, then they would have seen something like a dance taking place.
There were not many whites.
They would have seen that there were several groups of reds, and white spots were being introduced into them in ones, or twos if the number of reds in the group was large enough. If a white left a group, he or she was effortlessly scooped up and shunted into another conversation which might contain one or two pinks but was largely red.
Any conversation entirely between white spots was gently broken up with a smile and an “oh, but now you must meet—”, or was joined by several red spots. Pinks, meanwhile, were delicately passed from red group to red group until they were deeply pink, and then they were allowed to mix with other pinks of the same hue, under the supervision of a red.
In short, the pinks met so many reds, and so few whites, that they probably forgot about whites at all, while the whites, constantly alone or hugely outnumbered by reds or deep pinks, appeared to be going red out of embarrassment or a desire to blend in.
Lord Winder was entirely surrounded by reds, leaving the few remaining whites out in the cold. He looked like all the Patricians tended to look after a certain time in office—unpleasantly plump, with the pink jowliness of a man of normal build who had too much rich food. He was sweating slightly in this quite cool room, and his eyes swivelled this way and that, looking for the flaws, the clues, the angles.
At last Madam reached the buffet, where Dr Follett was helping himself to the devilled eggs and Miss Rosemary Palm was debating with herself as to whether the future should contain strange pastry things with a green filling that hinted mysteriously of prawn.
“And how are we doing, do we think?” said Dr Follett, apparently to a swan carved out of ice.
“We are doing well,” Madam told a basket of fruit. “There's four, however, that are still proving awkward.”
“I know them,” said the doctor. “They'll fall into place, trust me. What else can they do? We're used to this game here. We know that if you complain too loudly when you lose, you might not be asked to play again. But I shall station some stout friends near them, just in case their resolve needs a little…bolstering.”
“He is suspicious,” said Miss Palm.
“When isn't he?” said Dr Follett. “Go and talk to him.”
“Where is our new best friend, doctor?” said Madam.
“Mr Snapcase is dining quietly but visibly, in impeccable company, some way away.”
They turned when the double doors opened. So did several of the other guests, who then turned back hastily. But it was only a servant, who hurried over to Madam and whispered something. She indicated the two military commanders, and the man went to hover anxiously beside them. There was a brief exchange and then, without even a bow towards Lord Winder, all three men went out.
“I shall just go and see to the arrangements,” said Madam, and, without in any sense following the men, headed towards the doors.
When she stepped into the hall the two servants waiting by the cake stopped lounging and snapped to attention, and a guard who was patrolling the corridor gave her a quick glance of interrogation.
“Now, madam?” said one of the servants.
“What? Oh. No! Just wait.” She glided over to where the commanders were in animated conversation with a couple of junior officers, and took Lord Venturi's arm.
“Oh dear, Charles, are you leaving us so soon?”
