Court of Foxes Read Online Free PDF Page A

and what was more, genuinely believed it.
    All the same the Unattainable Lady slept uneasily that night, her dreams full of white roses.
    She carried them when, next evening, she came into her box and stood for a moment in her white dress — no jewels! — looking down, cool, calm, as ever divinely remote, into the auditorium. If bright dark eyes looked back at her, she did not observe them; she was looking for a lighter brown and the brown eyes were not to be discovered. All about the rose and gold of the house, candles flickered, winking down upon jewelled throats and wrists, upon jewelled fingers passing jewelled snuff-boxes, fluttering jewelled fans, pure side out, naughty side in… In their boxes, the courtesans laughed and flirted, competing with each other for attention, winking across slyly at gentlemen who had their ladies not been present would doubtless have been among their visitors; it was the fashion to move about ceaselessly, calling at this box or that, regardless of the play going forward. But no Brown Eyes! The wagering was in full flood again, from the gallery rough voices challenged, ‘A tizzy on the Markiss!’ ‘Two to one on the sprig in the yeller weskit!’, in the harlots’ boxes shrill laughter urged, ‘Send her a posy, Charlie, she’ll not resist you !’ Even the great ladies exchanged furtive signals from behind their fans, backing their favourites. But among the bustle and the chatter — no Brown Eyes! He will send in the first interval, she thought.
    But he did not. Roses of every colour — she had secretly begged her sister to sell white to no one else that evening, so that she might be sure of the source if his bouquet came; violets and lilies, forget-me-nots, love-lies-bleeding, all pregnant with significance — but no white roses. ‘He will send in the second interval,’ she prayed.
    Within the little room, Mrs Brown and James were listing the names attached to the bouquets as footman George handed them in. ‘Here, Mother, she might carry this one — Lord Firth.’
    ‘Never mind old Firth. Has Tregaron sent yet?’
    ‘Not so far; therefore let us meanwhile encourage the possibles. Lord Firth is an earl.’
    ‘And near seventy,’ said Mrs Brown, locating him in Debrett. ‘Away with him!’ Her finger moved on down the page. ‘Here’s a Baron Proburn.’
    ‘A hundred years old and supports three permanent mopsies already.’
    ‘Oh, heavens!’ She went on leafing through the book. ‘Here is a Lord Flute, Viscount, who has sent.’
    ‘No good, he owes money everywhere.’ James laughed. ‘Probably to us, for that matter, for this very bouquet.’
    ‘It’s been paid for often enough already,’ said Gilda, sitting idly by. ‘It’s done duty three times to my certain knowledge — I recognise this canker mark on the rose.’ There came a light triple knock on the door and she raised her head sharply. ‘The signal! Someone in the corridor who carries his own bouquet.’
    ‘Quick, then, the champagne!’ James put a finger to his mouth and counterfeited the pop of a cork coming out of its bottle — night after night the same bottle did duty, ostentatiously carried in with the silver tray and single glass; night after night removed almost secretly since it had not in fact been opened. He sprang to attention behind her chair; Mrs Brown all deference presided over the bottle. George opened the door just sufficiently for the scene to be apparent to anyone outside in the corridor and handed in a vast bunch of red roses. Mrs Brown deserted her post and came forward, nid-nodding, to receive it. ‘What name shall I say to milady?’
    ‘The Earl of Tregaron,’ said George, and his voice shook a little.
    ‘Tell the servant, compliments and thanks and I’ll hand the flowers to her ladyship.’
    ‘ ’Tis my lord himself brings the flowers,’ said James, and edged the door a little wider open to give my lord the benefit of a further glimpse of the flower-banked room and