Page 81 of A Game of Scandal

Despite Sylla’s confidence, and Mrs Finch’s reassurance that the Aviary had found themselves in tighter spots than this, I was finding it hard to maintain the same businesslike sense of calm that the rest of them possessed.

“You look wonderful,” Mother exclaimed. “Oh, it reminds me of my own debutantes’ ball. What a thrill it was. I danced with your father that night, you know. Perhaps this evening you’ll dance with your future husband. Maybe that nice Mr Laing will be there,” she added slyly.

“Mmm,” I said noncommittally, resisting the urge to rip all this foolish decoration from my body. I wanted to scream. I wanted to order my mother to stay at home where it was safe and to lock all the doors, but of course nothing would give Laing a clearer sign that we were on to him. I had to pretend that everything was normal. Mrs Finch had been clear about that.

“You look lovely too,” I said truthfully, looking at my mother in the mirror. She was willowy and elegant in a gold gown that looked as if it weighed a quarter of my own.

Her eyes shone with tears. “I always dreamed of sharing this moment with my daughter,” she said softly.

I was surprised by the lump that rose in my own throat at her words. Suddenly, I found myself wondering, after I had so misjudged my brother, whether there was a better way for me to forge a relationship with my mother – a more honest one. There was nothing like the threat of imminent danger to give a person a sense of perspective. I’d been brave enough to tell Max how I felt and it had been worth the risk. Perhaps that might be the case here too?

There was only one way to find out.

“I know you enjoy these social events,” I said carefully, “but you and I are quite different.” She frowned and I pushed on. “I find social occasions to be quite overwhelming. I hope you won’t be disappointed if…” I hesitated. “If I don’t secure a husband at the end of the season. If that isn’t … what I want for myself.”

There was a long pause, while our eyes remained locked in the mirror. It was a small admission, but I could hardly believe I’d dared to say so much.

“You know,” Mother said, her tone conversational, “that I have received more than one proposal of marriage since your father passed away.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” I replied, uncertain where this was leading.

She smiled. “But I haven’t accepted any of them.” Now I felt that she was the one being careful. “I find I enjoy the independence of being a widow.” Her eyes met mine again, held. “Perhaps,” she finished quietly, “we are not so different as you think, Felicity.”

I blinked, surprised by the sudden rush of emotion her words inspired.

She toyed for a moment with my veil. “The world is changing so quickly.” Mother’s smile had faded. “And I don’t know if I will keep up with it. You have to understand … for my generation, getting married, it was imperative. It was security. I know you find it mercenary, but it’s the reality faced by many women – including me, when I was your age – that a good marriage is the only secure future. I still want that for you. I want you safe and provided for.”

It was more of a concession than I had hoped for. And it felt like an opening, of sorts.

“I understand,” I said. “I’d like to talk more. I’d like to hear more about your life as an independent widow.”

Mother laughed and the tension between us dissipated. “And I suppose you can tell me about your … mathematical interests.”

“But first, the ball,” I reminded her.

“Yes.” She turned, twirled me under her arm – a movement that ended with me tangled in all the unwieldy yards of my skirts. “You’re going to have such a wonderful time!”

My smile slipped away as I thought about the night ahead. “I’m sure it’s going to be eventful.”

I had never been inside Buckingham Palace before, and I wasn’t particularly enjoying the experience. I don’t think I would be, even if it weren’t for the knowledge that there was an explosive device ticking away somewhere. The first part of the ritual involved standing in line for hours, hot and miserable in our wretched gowns, while we waited to be presented to our royal hosts. As the sister of a duke, I was at least near the start of the queue.

The queen herself was not in good enough health to receive the endless line of fluttering young debutantes, so that position was being filled by the Prince and Princess of Wales. It was a strange thing really, to think that after over sixty years the time must almost be upon us to have a new king. Seeing him taking part in ceremonies like this one felt like a precursor to a change that, though inevitable, still felt almost impossible to imagine.

The presentation itself passed in a blur. I was ushered into a room of overwhelming gilded splendour in which two golden thrones were arranged. The prince and princess sat with impassive faces, showing neither pleasure nor the discomfort and boredom I was certain they must be feeling.

The Lord Chamberlain, a small man full of pomp and ceremony, announced my name in round, ringing tones. I approached the thrones as Mother had drilled into me, and dropped into a full court curtsey, my knee almost touching the floor. I felt the foolish feathers on my head wave. A bead of sweat ran down my spine, my legs shook, and I sent up a small prayer that I would not tip over.

When I managed to launch myself back to my feet without incident, I had to tackle the most treacherous part of the process: backing out of the room without stumbling over all the yards of material surrounding me, because it was not permitted to turn your back on royalty.

By the time Mother and I emerged into the ballroom where the celebrations were taking place, I was panting, as though I had run a race.

“You were wonderful.” Mother beamed, crushing my hot hand in hers. “I’m so proud of you.”

Seeing how happy she was made it almost worth it. Almost.

“Thank you,” I murmured, my eyes already scanning the room. The information that Sylla had wrung from one of the anarchists about their bomb making, indicated that given their range, the explosives were likely planted in the ballroom or one of the smaller reception rooms being used by guests for maximum impact. The throne room had been dismissed early on; Max had impressed upon us the impossibility of someone smuggling a bomb in there.

“Besides which,” Sylla had pointed out reasonably, “the prince and princess are due to join the guests at the ball afterwards, so it makes far more sense to target a much larger crowd.”