"But that's ... that's outrageous."

"I'm rather glad you think so. However, it happens and everyone knows it happens. At every weekend house party in the country, bedrooms are allocated with a nod to who is presently involved with whom-long walks down corridors in the middle of the night not being popular. There is only one fundamental requirement and it is that though everyone knows about it, one mustn't be caught out."

"Or the jig will be up?"

He burst into laughter again. "Yes, Delia. Or the jig will be up."

The frank nature of their conversation prompted her to ask something she'd longed to ask, but had previously thought might be too personal. After all, Ivor had said that Sylvia had no daughters. It was equally possible she had no sons, either, and that the Bazeljettes' marriage was as childless as Ivor's marriage to Olivia had been. "Have you children, Jerome?" she asked. "You haven't said."

"I thought you were never going to ask. Yes, I do have a child. I have a son, Jack."

He stopped walking and reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a small snapshot. "He's three. Do you think he looks like me?"

Though small, it was a formal studio portrait. Standing on an Oriental rug by the side of a decorative Chinese pot holding an aspidistra, was a confident-looking little boy. His hair was dark and curly and, still being worn long, hung in ringlets any girl would envy. His eyes were as dark as his father's and full of bright intelligence. He was wearing a sailor suit and knee-high white socks and shoes.

"Oh, he's a cracking little boy!" she said sincerely. "You must be very proud of him."

A doting expression crossed his face as he said, "I am," and slid the photograph carefully back into his waistcoat pocket.

They were now at the corner of Cadogan Square and as he walked her to the foot of the steps leading to the Grecian-pillared portico of the Conisborough mansion, she said, "Ivor may be home from the House of Lords by now. Would you like to come in and say h.e.l.lo to him?"

He shook his head. "No. I'll catch up with him this evening at the Digbys'. Goodbye for now, Delia."

She wished him goodbye, impatient to know if Ivor was home, and when Bellingham opened the door to her with the words "His lordship is in the drawing room, your ladyship," she dragged off her peac.o.c.k-feathered hat, sent it spinning onto the first available surface, and ran for the drawing room, eager to have her husband's arms around her once again.

THREE.

Despite the fact that a maid or a footman was likely to walk in on them at any moment his kiss was deep and pa.s.sionate and she slid her arms up and around his neck, responding to him ardently and with all her heart.

When at last he raised his head from hers he said, "I have good news, sweetheart. Sylvia arrived back in London an hour or so ago. She'll be at Cuthbert's birthday festivities this evening."

"Oh, what a wonderful surprise for Jerome!"

"A surprise? Probably not, Delia. He most probably went to meet Sylvia from the boat train."

Still held in the circle of his arms, she shook her head. "No, he didn't. Gwen and I met up with him unexpectedly while we were having afternoon tea at Fortnum's and then, because Gwen had to leave rather hurriedly for an appointment in South Molton Street, he walked me home."

Ivor raised his eyebrows, his slate-gray eyes startled. "He walked you home? From Piccadilly? What an extraordinary thing to do. And since when have you and Jerome become on first-name terms with each other?"

"Since he joined Gwen and myself for tea at Fortnum's. I'm not quite sure how it happened, Ivor, but as it's mighty comfortable, please don't be cross about it."

His arms dropped from her waist, but with relief she saw that though he was exasperated, he wasn't cross. "It's the sort of thing I should have expected from Bazeljette," he said disparagingly. "He's far too bohemian for truly polite society."

Suspecting Ivor was referring to Jerome's faithless private life and not wanting her husband to put an immediate end to their burgeoning friendship, she made no response, merely tucking her hand lovingly into the crook of his arm.

His light-colored eyes darkened with desire. "I've told Willoughby I won't be needing him for the next hour or two." Willoughby was his secretary. "And if you have already had afternoon tea you will not be wanting more. It's a situation I think we can take advantage of, don't you?"

Heat flooded through her. Even though it was only late afternoon he was going to take her to bed. Her response was one of immediate willingness-and amus.e.m.e.nt. For in making love to her when it was still light, her handsome and oh-so-correct husband was himself behaving in a bohemian fashion.

The mint-green satin evening dress Ellie helped her into a few hours later had not come from a London-or a French-fashion house, but was one that Ivor had bought for her in New York before they had sailed. The three strands of enormous pearls he had bought on the same day were precisely the right length for the daringly decollete gown. Her soft-flowing skirt was fashionably straight, barely skimming her feet.

Ellie had brushed her t.i.tian-red hair in a center parting then, allowing the deep waves to frame Delia's face, had coiled the rest high into a chignon.

"I don't think I want any jewels in my hair," Delia said as Ellie reached for a diamond hair ornament. "There is an arrangement of white roses in the drawing room and I think one tucked in my chignon will look far better than jewels."

It did. When her toilette was complete and Ivor walked into the bedroom dressed in white tie and tails, his stiff-fronted shirt fastened with mother-of-pearl studs, his blond hair shining, his expression at the sight of her was one of deep satisfaction.

"Will I do?" she asked, as she had always asked her father before going to a ball at White Sulphur Springs.

"You will be the center of attention and I shall be the envy of every man there," he promised as he escorted her out of the bedroom and along the broad corridor to the head of the magnificent, bra.s.s-bal.u.s.traded staircase.

As they began to walk down it she noticed, for the first time, that on a prime position overlooking the stairs there was a faded area where a large painting must have once hung.

Her hand tightened involuntarily on Ivor's arm for she had no doubt at all that the painting had been the portrait of Olivia.

"All right, sweetheart?" he asked, flashing her a quick glance.

She nodded, forcing a swift bright smile, grateful that the portrait had been taken down, knowing how disconcerting she would have found those brilliantly piercing black eyes.

Sir Cuthbert and Lady Digby's house was in Fitzroy Square, a half-hour drive from their own home. "And not as convenient for either Buckingham Palace or the House of Lords," Ivor said drily as the Conisborough Rolls-Royce crossed Oxford Street in the direction of Regent's Park.

Ivor's chauffeur made a couple of right-hand turns and as they neared Fitzroy Square, Delia could sense Ivor's increasing tension. That he was impatient to show her off thrilled her and her nervousness ebbed into pleasurable antic.i.p.ation.

Once they had been received by Sir Cuthbert and his elderly wife, she quickly realized that the term "birthday party" had been a complete misnomer, for the "birthday party" was a full-scale ball. In Virginia, the b.a.l.l.s held at White Sulphur Springs were regarded as incredibly grand, but they were nothing in comparison to this gala.

Beneath a sea of glittering chandeliers several members of the royal family had gathered, though not the King and Queen, who she had quickly learned rarely attended private functions in the evening. There was a scattering of foreign royals-she recognized a Montenegrin prince and a Russian grand duke whom she had seen at the unveiling of the Queen Victoria Memorial. The rest of the guests were British aristocrats and politicians. A vast number of men were wearing military decorations-the Montenegrin prince was as heavily festooned as a Christmas tree-and all the women were sumptuously bejeweled.

Across the crowded room she caught sight of Jerome in conversation with the prime minister and was relieved that there was at least one person present whom she knew well enough to be able to have a friendly conversation with.

She waltzed with Ivor. She waltzed with the Montenegrin prince. She waltzed with Lord Curzon. When she wasn't dancing, Ivor introduced her to so many people that her head spun. Just when she thought she might be able to speak with Jerome, Ivor's hand tightened on her arm and he said with a throb in his voice, "Sylvia has arrived. It's finally time for me to introduce you to her, Delia."

She allowed him to lead her through a throng of people to a dark-haired woman who was seated on a spindly legged gilt chair, one hand languidly holding a fan of ostrich feathers.

She looked like a queen holding court, for though she was seated there was a semicircle of gentlemen around her, all paying her avid attention. Her gleaming hair was drawn to a flat coil on the crown of her head. Her midnight-blue sequined gown was very slim-fitted, very soignee. Even before she turned her head at their approach, Delia knew her face would be spectacularly beautiful.

Ivor cleared his throat. "Sylvia ... I would like to introduce my wife. Delia, Sylvia, Lady Bazeljette."

As Sylvia Bazeljette turned, Delia was aware of two things.

The first was that she had been right in her a.s.sumption, for Sylvia Bazeljette was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

The second was that Ivor had been wrong. Her worries were not now at an end. They were escalating with such speed she could no longer breathe, for the face of the woman now regarding her with mocking amus.e.m.e.nt was the face in the photograph that had spilled from Ivor's diary.

Jerome's wife was the woman whose photograph Ivor needed to see on a daily basis. Jerome's wife was the woman who had written on the back of the photograph that her love was for him, and him alone.

It was all too bewildering for her to take in.

"How lovely to meet you at last." Sylvia's husky voice was like cracked ice and the smile on her beautifully curved ruby-red lips was patronizing. "Ivor tells me you are to be my protegee."

Delia gasped, bewildered no longer.

With utter certainty she knew that Sylvia Bazeljette had been Ivor's mistress. The knowing expression in those sloe-dark eyes told her so as clearly as words. Ivor's barely suppressed impatience in the Rolls-Royce had not been because he was impatient to show Delia off. It had been because he was impatient to see Sylvia. When Jerome had warned her of the lack of marital fidelity among British aristocracy, he had done so in order to prepare her for this moment.

The realization was so earth-shattering that she swayed.

Jerome, not Ivor, steadied her.

Out of nowhere he gripped hold of her elbow, saying nonchalantly to Sylvia and everyone around her, "It's devilish hot in here, isn't it? I think the heat is proving too much for Lady Conisborough. It might be as well if I were to take her outside for a breath of fresh air."

And without waiting for Ivor to answer he propelled her away from the group. Only when they had stepped through open French windows onto a blessedly empty balcony did he swing her toward him, saying fiercely, "How, in the name of G.o.d, do you know?"

"Her photograph is in Ivor's diary." She began to shiver. "I thought it was a photograph of Olivia."

He swore beneath his breath and she said, "I don't understand, Jerome. Was it after Olivia's death that... that..." She wanted to say "that my husband and your wife became lovers," but she couldn't.

He didn't finish her sentence for her. Instead he said brusquely, "You're cold. I'll go get your evening cloak."

"No!" She put a hand on his arm, appalled at the thought of being left alone on the balcony. "I'm not cold, Jerome. It's the shock. I thought Ivor kept the photograph where he could see it every day because despite his being so much in love with me, he was also still grieving for Olivia. And I could understand that..."

"Stay here," he said, his voice charged with emotion. "I'm going back to give your apologies to Lady Digby. I shall say I'm escorting you home as you have a headache and that I am doing so, instead of Ivor, as the King has asked him to speak in an unofficial capacity to one of her guests. The Montenegrin royal will be a good choice as it's common knowledge he returns to the Balkans tomorrow."

"What about Ivor?" she said, knowing she couldn't possibly face her husband until they were in the privacy of their own home.

"I'll give him the same message, and publicly, so that there is no gossip about you leaving with me. He'll pick up straightaway on the Montenegrin red herring. And when we leave there's no need for us to walk the length of the ballroom. There's a small side staircase just to the left of the French windows."

Without waiting for any kind of a reply, he was gone.

She closed her eyes, knowing that the very worst thing about what had happened was that there was no question of her having put two and two together and having made five. Though Jerome hadn't said so specifically, that he knew his wife had been Ivor's mistress was too obvious for her to have made any mistake about it.

The sound of laughter and the buzz of animated conversation drifted through the French doors. And then the orchestra struck up into a deafening Strauss waltz.

She dug her nails into her palms, knowing that she was going to have to come to terms with the fact that she would regularly be meeting with her husband's ex-mistress. Even worse, that it was Sylvia who would be presenting her at court.

She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. She had thought Ivor sensitive, yet in having asked Sylvia to present her at court he had behaved in a way that was unimaginably cruel. She remembered Jerome's shock-the way he had said, "Ivor has asked Sylvia to present you?" when she had told him the arrangements.

She tried to think how she would feel, being accompanied to Buckingham Palace by a woman who was as intimately acquainted with Ivor's body as she was; a woman who knew exactly how he kissed, how he always shouted at his moment of climax.

It was a situation so far removed from anything she had ever experienced that she didn't have the slightest idea as to how she was going to handle it. All she wanted to do was go home and wait for Ivor to return. When he did, he would, she was sure, make everything all right. He would explain about the photograph and how he had presumably forgotten it was still tucked in his diary. He would explain how, after Olivia's death, he was so stupendously lonely that he had embarked on an affair with Sylvia. She tried not to remember that Sylvia was Jerome's wife and that his having an affair with her was the action of a cad. She would come to terms with that later. For now, all that mattered was that Ivor rea.s.sure her that she was the one he loved with all his heart and that his feelings for Sylvia were in the past.

The French windows opened and Jerome stepped onto the balcony again, her cloak over his arm. "We can leave without causing gossip, Delia," he said, slipping the evening cloak around her shoulders. "Clara Digby sends her sympathy and will call on you in the morning. Are you ready to make the short walk to the side stairs?"

She nodded and he took her arm, the anger he felt toward her husband and his wife so intense he thought he was going to explode.

Jerome's motorcar was parked in the square; there was no chauffeur. He opened the front pa.s.senger door for her. "I always drive myself," he said, knowing very well that Ivor never did so. "I hope you'll feel safe."

"I will." She managed a wobbly smile and something terrible trembled within him.

As she huddled deep in her warmly lined cloak he cranked up the car.

A few minutes later they were driving out of the square and into Fitzroy Street and she said with touching simplicity, "Is it because Sylvia has been unfaithful to you, that you are unfaithful to her?"

He crossed Howland Street and continued into Charlotte Street fighting the temptation to say yes and gain her sympathy, knowing that if he did she might, in a little while, even turn to him for comfort.

With any other woman-especially a woman so overwhelmingly desirable-it was a ploy he wouldn't have thought twice about using. Delia, however, was different. In the short time they had known each other she had become a friend and, unscrupulous as he was about many things, he was always punctiliously truthful to his friends.

"No," he said. "I'm unfaithful to Sylvia because being unfaithful is in my nature. I'm sorry if I disappoint you, Delia."

She shook her head to show that it didn't matter to her; only Ivor mattered to her. Ivor, whom she suddenly felt she didn't know at all.

Jerome changed gear. "Would you like me to take you somewhere so you can get your thoughts in order before going home? We could drive out to Hampstead if you'd like?"

She shook her head. "No. I want to be in the house when Ivor arrives. I want him to explain about the photograph to me-and I want him to tell me that I need never spend time with Sylvia again after she presents me."

They were driving down Park Lane, Hyde Park dark and mysterious on their right side.

He frowned, his face grim. He had thought that she understood-and he now knew that she understood barely anything. He said unhappily, "If you need me, you've only to telephone my club, the Carlton, and leave a message for me there."

"Thank you-and thank you for bringing me home," she said, as he turned into Cadogan Square. "And don't worry about me, Jerome. You once told me that marital fidelity wasn't a virtue highly esteemed among the British aristocracy, but my marriage is far different. Whatever the situation that existed in the aftermath of Olivia's death, it isn't one that will continue. Ivor loves me now and he will be as faithful to me as I will to him."

He brought the car to an abrupt halt, knowing that he should say something.

With the breath hurting in his chest he walked around the car and helped her step from it.

She squeezed his hand tightly and then, before he could speak, ran across the pavement and up the steps.

If Bellingham and Ellie and the rest of the servants were intrigued seeing her arrive home without Ivor they gave no indication. Bellingham was as imperturbable as ever and when Ellie removed the white rose from her hair and unpinned her chignon, she did so swiftly and silently.

Later, when Ellie had left her, Delia seated herself at her dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The face looking back at her was not the face of the carefree young girl who had left the house three hours ago.

White lines of tension edged her mouth. She had told Jerome that whatever the situation that had existed between Ivor and Sylvia after Olivia's death, it was one that existed no longer, but as she remembered the expression in Sylvia's voice, fear flickered in her chest.

Sylvia's demeanor had not been that of a woman whose lover had fallen in love elsewhere. Her expression was one of a woman whose lover's marriage was of no consequence whatsoever.

It would, though, be of consequence to Ivor. Of that she was sure.

She looked toward the small clock that stood on her dressing table. It was now an hour since Jerome had escorted her home and with luck he had already told Sylvia that no matter what her expectations to the contrary, her affair with Ivor was over.

Fraught with tension Delia began brushing her hair hard. Then, from the street, she heard the sound of a car door closing. She held her breath, the hairbrush motionless in midair. Moments later the front door opened.

Slowly she laid the brush down.

There was a sound of muted male voices, though whether Ivor was speaking to Bellingham or to his valet she couldn't tell. She heard his tread on the broad sweeping staircase.