‘Thank you — just making quite sure you’re not carrying a pistol.’
‘A pistol?’ The astonishment could not have been faked. ‘Why would I be carrying a pistol?’
‘Wife of a self-confessed assassin — one can’t be too careful,’ Lily said lightly.
‘Assassin!’ The word was spat out in disgust. ‘He was never closer than a hundred miles to Rasputin, if that’s the yarn he’s been spinning. And ask yourself this — what sort of man has to brag about being a killer to get the admiration of the crowd?’
‘Soldiers sometimes do,’ Lily said equably. ‘And your husband would appear to be every inch the soldier. The military bearing … the scar-’
‘Pouf! The scar was incised by a surgeon’s scalpel in Vienna. Under anaesthetic. False. Like everything about the man. He is an … impostor.’
‘That’s a very melodramatic word. I beg your pardon. This is all a bit hard for me to understand. Listen, Zinia, and I’ll spell out my concerns. Your husband was just a few minutes ago introduced to the heir to the British throne, in whose company I find myself this evening … Gustavus is even now sitting at the Prince of Wales’s table. Surely-’
Zinia cut her short. ‘My husband has been tracking him for weeks. Wheedling invitations. Currying favour. So he’s managed it at last. The fiend has got within range of his prey.’
Chapter Twenty-One
As the last of the guests trickled through and some began to return to have their plates filled again, Charles Honeysett quivered with the effort of concentration. This was a tricky moment. The dishes had to be replenished and the food kept flowing, but above all the wine glasses had to be continually topped up.