Ginny, garbed in a light gown of green-striped cotton, trimmed in grosgrain green ribbons to match her gown and Laura’s, thought that she had never been as happy as she was at that moment. With her children and her husband at her side, she could conquer anything the world might toss her way….
And indeed, they made a lovely spectacle as Steve, so darkly handsome in his casual jacket and trim trousers, handled the reins with relaxed expertise. Ginny was the very image of a doting mother, an exquisite creature laughing with her children as they sped past pedestrians.
“Do you see them?” inquired an observer of his comrade.
The second man, taller than his companion, did not take his eyes from the phaeton as it passed them where they stood in the encompassing shade of a towering oak. “Yes. I know him. It is the woman who interests me, however. She is the one we need.”
“They are all tools, my friend. Weapons in our battle against injustice.”
As the phaeton sped past, none of the occupants noticed the men watching them with such intense scrutiny. One day, they would notice them—but by then it would be too late.
6
It was to be their last official social event before leaving London, and Ginny took great care with her toilette. Berthilde, looking distracted and harried, scurried from the dressing room to the bedchamber with another gown, finding at last the one that they both liked, while Steve waited impatiently.
“If we are to get there before the late supper tonight, you’d best choose a gown, Ginny.”
From amidst the bouquet of crimson-and-yellow silks scattered on the wide tapestried bed like wilted flowers, Ginny’s voice sang out, “I chose the one I’m wearing. I’ll be ready in just a moment!”
By the time she emerged, Steve considered the results well worth the wait. Standing in the entrance hall, he heard her coming down the sweep of stairs and turned to comment on her tardiness.
A shimmering copper skirt floated around her legs, reflecting lamplight, and the snug bodice clung to her breasts and small waist with cunning efficiency. A filmy wrap seemed to drift around her bare shoulders.
She wore a necklace of gleaming topaz, stones of a rich amber set in gold filigree, with matching earrings so long they brushed against her shoulders.
Berthilde was still fussing around her, following and straightening folds of the skirt, rearranging one of the ribbons that streamed down the back, tucking another flower into the mass of curls atop Ginny’s head, clucking under her breath when she was finally told to stop.
“Enough,” Ginny said, tugging at an elbow-length glove, “the ribbons will only be crushed in the carriage. You may have the rest of the night off, Berthilde. We’ll no doubt be quite late returning.”
“Oui, madame.” Berthilde looked pleased, and pursed her mouth primly.
Ginny seemed to sparkle. When they reached the sprawling mansion that was brilliantly lit, even in the gardens where Chinese lanterns dangled like fireflies above neatly clipped yew hedges and overflowing urns of fragrant flowers, she stood out vividly in the sea of more sedate gowns. As usual, Ginny received admiring glances from the men as they entered the house and were announced in dulcet tones. They made their way down the receiving line, where the Prince of Wales greeted them with gruff good humor.
“Ah, Ambassador Morgan, it is pleasant to see you again, as always. Will you be visiting the racecourse tomorrow? I hear Lord Hartsfield has a prime bit of horseflesh entered.”
Bowing slightly from the waist, Steve reminded the prince that he was leaving for Mexico in two days.
“But I am certain you will be back, Ambassador Morgan! You cannot deprive us of your beautiful wife’s company for too long. Or is she remaining here, perhaps?”
The profligate prince regarded Ginny with an avid admiration; it was no secret that he conducted many affairs, not bothering to be discreet despite his wife’s chagrin. It did not matter to Prince Edward if the object of his desires was married, as long as the husband had the good sense to look in the other direction.
Steve Morgan gave no indication of being that kind of husband, and Ginny had no intention of being another Alice Kepple. She tactfully rejected the prince’s suggestion that she accept English hospitality while her husband was away on business, and moved gracefully along as those behind her moved forward.
Then Steve felt her falter, heard the strained note in her voice as she greeted the man standing next to the prince in the line.
“General Ignatiev, I see you did not return to Russia after all.”
“Not yet.” Tall and spare, with vigorous mustaches that swept out to the sides, the Russian general who had helped arrange Ginny’s flight from Stamboul regarded her with icy eyes that held no hint of welcome. “And I see that you did not go to Saint Petersburg though you professed such eagerness to see the tsar again.”
“Plans change, or are changed by fate.”
“And did you find Colonel Shevchenko…efficient?”
“I am here, so I would say that he was most efficient, General.”
Ignatiev’s gaze moved to Steve. He nodded in recognition and then shifted away as they moved along.
“I got the distinct impression that the general wasn’t very happy to see you, my love,” he said when they reached the crowded ballroom. Strains of a waltz were playing, barely discernible over the noise of the crowd. Ginny’s face was pale, her mouth stretched into a taut line as he moved her toward the windows that opened onto a wide verandah.
Her shoulders lifted in a light shrug. “He wasn’t very pleasant when I last saw him, so I don’t think his opinion of me has changed greatly.”
Steve studied her for a moment. Incongruous color that had nothing
