Free The Russian Concubine by Kate Furnivall Page A

don’t know. You know what she’s like.’
    He uttered a faint groan, and she became frightened he might crash the car in a wild Gallic gesture of despair, so she hurried on, ‘But I expect she’ll get over it quickly. Just give her a few days.’
    The grand Town Hall with its pillars and Union Jack shot past in a blur, then Victoria Park with a smattering of prams and nannies. Lydia felt her cheeks gripped by the wind as Antoine put his foot down.
    ‘I love her, you know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt her. I should never have mentioned the baby.’
    ‘Yes, maybe that was a mistake.’
    ‘Does she love me?’
    ‘Yes, of course she does.’
    ‘Really, chérie ?’
    ‘Really.’
    The glorious smile he gave her was worth the lie. It sent a tingle all down her spine, right to her fingertips, and it was then that an idea occurred to her.
    ‘Antoine, do you know what I think might help?’
    ‘What?’ He stuck out an arm and swung left up Wordsworth Avenue, the car’s motorbike engine growling as it launched itself at the incline.
    ‘If you gave Mama a present she really wanted, I think it might win her over.’
    His dark eyes darted a look of alarm at her. ‘I’m not rich, you know. I cannot bestow her with jewels and perfumes like she deserves. And when I did once offer her a little money, you know, just to help, she refused it.’
    Lydia looked at him in surprise. ‘But why?’
    ‘She shouted at me, threw a book at my head. Said she was not a whore to be bought.’
    Lydia sighed. Oh Mama . Such pride came at a price.
    At the top of the hill in the British Quarter the houses were large and elegant, built of pale stone and surrounded by well-tended lawns and neat hedges. The school was coming into sight. She must hurry.
    ‘No, I don’t mean anything expensive. I was thinking of something . . . to comfort her when you’re not there.’ She glanced at him warily. ‘When you’re with your wife.’
    He frowned. ‘Like what do you mean?’
    She swallowed and said it quickly. ‘A rabbit.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Yes, a white rabbit with lovely long ears and sweet pink eyes.’
    ‘Un lapin?’
    ‘That’s right. She owned one when she was a little girl in St Petersburg and has always longed for another.’
    He looked at her closely. ‘You surprise me.’
    ‘It’s true.’
    ‘I’ll ask her.’
    ‘No, no, don’t do that. You’ll spoil the surprise.’ She smiled at his profile encouragingly and thought what a beautiful Roman nose he had. ‘She’ll be reminded of you every time she runs her fingers through its soft white fur.’
    She could see he was thinking about it. The corners of his mouth curled up and he shrugged in his eloquent French way that said so much more than English shrugs.
    ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘ c’est possible. ’
    ‘A red ribbon would be nice too. On the rabbit, I mean.’
    But she wasn’t sure he heard straight. He was manoeuvring around a large black Humber out of which three girls in Willoughby Academy uniforms were tumbling and staring at Lydia with envy. Clutching the bouquet of roses in her arms, she kissed her handsome companion’s cheek in full view of them and sauntered into school. The day was starting well.
    It was only later, when dreaming out of the window in class, that she allowed herself to think about the lithe young figure she’d noticed half hidden in the shadow of the rickshaws across the road, of the pair of black Chinese eyes watching her as she entered the school gates.

5
    The Ulysses Club was as pretentious as its name. Theo hated it. It stood for everything he despised about colonial arrogance. Self-important and disdainful. The building was at the heart of the British Quarter, set back from the road, as if disassociating itself from the noise and bustle of the town behind a dense barrier of rhododendron bushes and a sweep of manicured lawn. It boasted a grand white façade with towering columns, pediment, and portico, all carved to the glory of