Free The Master's Wife by Jane Jackson

principles that got Mr Gladstone elected.’
    ‘You are a journalist, not a politician,’ Sir Douglas snapped. ‘You will not have understood all the –’
    ‘I understand this, sir,’ Pawlyn rose from his chair and Jago followed. ‘The Consul-General is playing a very risky game.’
    Jago watched the battle between contempt, curiosity and fear play across Sir Douglas’s face. ‘How so?’
    ‘His belief that the arrival of the fleets in a show of force will intimidate Egypt into capitulation is at best naïve, at worst dangerous. What if the threat doesn’t work? What next? An invasion and occupation of the country by the British army?’
    ‘Sir Edward Malet is a most experienced diplomat,’ Sir Douglas blustered. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’
    Pawlyn opened his mouth, closed it again, and gave an abrupt nod. ‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’
    Caseley stayed in the bath until her fingertips wrinkled. Cool and refreshed, her skin faintly perfumed with rose soap, she put on her shift then sat on the bed, her head turned to one side as she brushed her hair from underneath to let the air through and help it dry.
    Jago stormed in, his face tight with anger, shrugging out of his coat and practically ripping off his cravat. Knowing better than to ask – he would talk when he was ready – Caseley continued brushing her hair.
    While he was in the bath she picked up his clothes, shook out the creases and laid them on the bed, then reluctantly fastened the hooks of her corset before putting on stockings and stepping once more into her lilac gown.
    He came out of the bathroom, one towel wrapped around his hips, rubbing his head with another.
    ‘Sir Douglas may be a capable assistant consul as long as his superior is present. But right now he’s on his own and out of his depth. Damn it –’ he broke off. ‘Forgive me, but the man’s a pompous fool.’
    Caseley lifted the mass of gleaming bronze waves over her shoulders and fastened the buttons on the front of her bodice. ‘An example Mr Blaine appears to be following.’
    Jago tossed the towel over the brass rail at the foot of the bed and picked up a comb from small table. ‘I’m aware a consul isn’t a trained diplomat.’ As his gaze met hers shared memory arced between them.
    ‘No,’ she agreed.
    ‘Your father was blunt but never crass.’ He raked the comb through his hair, dropped it back on the table without looking in the mirror and ran both hands down his beard. ‘Collingwood’s attitude towards the Egyptians ... It’s their country, for heaven’s sake. But to hear him talk – He’s the worst type of arrogant Englishman.’ He blew out a gusty breath. ‘I apologise.’
    Crossing to the small table she sat down, combed her hair back and coiled it into a bun on her nape that she anchored with pins. Fine tendrils curled on her forehead, temples, and in front of her ears. Behind her she could hear him dressing.
    She set the comb down. ‘Now you have vented your anger it will be easier for you to be polite during dinner.’
    He looked up from buttoning his shirt. ‘How do you know these things?’
    ‘Experience,’ she said lightly, but kept her face averted so he would not see her mouth tremble.
    Two large chandeliers lit the long room in which Antonia’s photographs had been hung. Walls painted a soft pink that gave the room its name provided a contrasting backdrop for the mounted black and white photographs.
    Antonia greeted them warmly. Immediately, a waiter appeared with a silver tray that held flutes of champagne. Caseley would have preferred a soft drink, but Antonia pressed. ‘You must have one glass, for a toast. I never thought this day would come. Now it has. Unfortunately most of the people I invited have left Alexandria, so I am denied the pleasure of watching them eat their words.’
    Jago caught Caseley’s eye. She read the warning and realised this was not Antonia’s first glass of the evening. As he turned away to