“Come on, Richard. You’ve been boiling all night.”
Field handed it to Penelope, who gave it to the servant. “Is the master in?” she asked, but he shook his head.
Penelope was already walking through to the sitting room, but Field hesitated again, looking first at the front door, which had been shut, and then at his jacket, which was being taken through to the cloakroom.
“Penelope.”
She didn’t answer. He followed her obediently through to the living room. He stood between a grandfather clock and an antique teak desk, beneath thick oil paintings of the English countryside, not dissimilar to those at the country club.
She had poured him a drink.
“You know, I don’t want to be a bore . . .”
“You are being a bore.”
“I have a very early start.”
“But you’re young and fit and Geoffrey will be furious with me if you are not here when he gets back.”
Field looked down at his glass. She drank, but he couldn’t face any more whiskey. Through the haze of his own inebriation, he had the feeling that she was nervous.
“Come.” She took his glass and placed it with her own on a low Chinese table before grabbing his hand and leading him toward the door to the hallway. “You’ve got to see our greatest treasure.” He resisted at first, then once again found himself following her, this time out into the hall and up the stairs. “It’s a giant gold Buddha,” she said, and as soon as he entered the room, he saw it beside the bed.
She turned to him. “What do you think?”
“It’s magnificent,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Would you hold on a minute?”
She stepped into the bathroom, slipped her dress from her shoulders, and stepped out of it as it fell to the floor.
She was wearing a white garter belt and stockings, but no underwear, the patch of dark hair at the base of her belly smaller and neater than he’d imagined, her breasts rounder and more upright than they’d seemed when she’d leaned toward him at the club.
She reached behind the door for a long silk dressing gown. She wrapped it around herself and looked up, catching his eye. He realized she had known he was watching.
“Richard . . .”
“I’m going to go now.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for a pleasant evening.”
“Richard, you can kiss me good night.”
He didn’t move.
“I’m not that unappealing, am I?”
She walked over to him, flicking his lapel with one long finger, as Natasha had done two nights before. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“Are you in love, Richard?”
He didn’t answer, his face burning.
“I sense a man in love, Richard. Isn’t that so?”
He stepped back. “I don’t know,” he said, turning to go.
“Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Do I disgust you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then your haste does you a disservice.”
“You are my uncle’s wife.”
“And you’re ashamed of me?”
Field sighed deeply.
“Your uncle hasn’t fucked me for years. Did you know that?”
Field turned away again and walked down the stairs.
“Good night, Richard.”
Twenty-two
