Death at St. James's Palace Read Free Page A

a fancifully liveried footman, Sir Gabriel presented his card. But there formality ended. From some inner room, the sounds of gaiety clearly audible as soon as she had flung open the door, Elizabeth Chudleigh herself emerged.
    “Ah, the most elegant man in Kensington,” she cried, going directly to Sir Gabriel and giving a deep curtsey. “I had intended to call on you one day, Sir Gabriel Kent, is it not?”
    He was utterly charmed, his son could see that. “Madam, you are even more beautiful than your portraits would have us believe. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
    Miss Chudleigh turned, as politeness decreed, towards Emilia, then she gave a greeting that was a masterpiece of hidden messages, managing to convey simultaneously a hostess’s welcome, a smile that did not extend to the eyes, and a sweeping glance at Emilia’s ensemble together with a look that dismissed it as boring, John felt a definite flush of annoyance and only wished that he could have thought the same about his hostess’s appearance. But this was not possible. It was a rig fit to daunt a queen, which, so the world said. Miss Chudleigh’s appearance did to the new mouse who occupied the throne beside young George III.
    The hoops of the lady’s gown, in a deliberate snub to the fashion of wearing English country clothes, were as wide as the style of some ten years previously, at least fifteen feet in all and stretched over rods of osier. The black petticoat visible through the wide gap in her skirt was encrusted with rows of drop pearls, the gown itself was flauntingly crimson. But it was to Miss Chudleigh’s face and hair that John’s eye was drawn. For she wore the very latest coiffure, beginning to rise in height, plastered with pomatum and covered with white powder, the edifice topped with swaying black feathers of enormous size. This was a trend in fashion that the Apothecary had read about but not yet seen, a daring move away from the natural ringleted style that Emilia still wore. He noticed with slight anguish that his wife’s attention was riveted on Miss Chudleigh and hoped that she was not feeling too much the pregnant little frump.
    The Apothecary’s gaze moved down from the formidable hair creation to the face below. It was beautiful, there was no denying that, though the passing years had added the lines of experience here and there and given a slightly wrinkled look to the petulant drooping mouth. But the large wide eyes, a difficult colour to pinpoint, clear as a stream and with the same liquid intensity, showed little signs of the excessive living of which Miss Chudleigh was accused. Yet even while they gave him a frank stare, in the depths of which flickered a definite appraisal, John had a strong sense of something else about the woman, something that he could not quite pinpoint.
    “Miss Chudleigh,” he said, and gave an unenthusiastic bow, still angry that she had snubbed Emilia.
    She gave him the full beam of her attention, rather alarmingly so. “And you are, Sir?”
    “John Rawlings, Madam, Sir Gabriel’s son. And this is my friend of many years standing, Samuel Swann.”
    Oh how that woman could curtsey! A polite bob for
    Samuel, a somewhat deeper salute for John, indicating respect for his father’s status. The Apothecary decided that he definitely didn’t like her, though he was still unable to find the word that described this daring and difficult socialite.
    She was leading them into an inner saloon glittering with crystal chandeliers and rich furnishings. Within, a positive throng had already gathered, many of whom were local to the neighbourhood. John recognised Benedict Mitchell, who lived nearby, close to the Brompton Park Boarding School, and the Duke of Rutland, whose property bordered on to that of Miss Chudleigh. To add the royal seal of approval - though the Apothecary surmised that most of these people had probably come out of curiosity rather than to pay their respects to the blind