the room with sudden brilliant light, giving it a burnished look. Everything gleamed.
It occurred to her that the room looked different this evening and, of course, it did. Irina, her niece, had been at work. She had filled it with numerous vases of flowers, rearranged certain objects of art, and put new cushions on the sofas and chairs; done one of her ‘fix-ups’, as she called them. Irina could do wonders with quite ordinary things, bringing new life to any room in this house.
Francesca loved Irina and her sister Natalya, as if they were her own daughters. And, in a sense, they were. She and her husband Michael were childless and had brought them up for the past eleven years and had helped to make them who they were today.
When Francesca’s brother, Maurice, and his Russian wife, Kat, had decided to move to Shanghai, the girls had not wanted to go. They had begged their parents to let them stay in London with their aunt and uncle.
Francesca and Michael were genuinely happy to become their guardians and to bring them into their home to live with them. Maurice and Kat had been relieved and touched by this generous offer, and the girls had been well educated and looked after with great care and affection. Natalie, at twenty-five the elder of the two, had sometimes mothered Irina to a certain extent. But it was to Aunt Francesca that they usually turned for advice. Now grown-up young women, they were lovely to look at and a joy to be around. They still lived at the Chelsea house with their aunt and uncle.
The sound of a carriage coming to a stop outside made Francesca turn around. She saw Violet, the housekeeper, hurrying across the hall to the front door. Natalie and Irina were coming down the staircase, as usual well dressed and perfectly groomed, Natalie wearing a fashionably cut dress in palest yellow silk and Irina a gown made from a pretty cream silk with tiny green sprigs.
The two of them were smiling broadly as they stopped next to Aunt Cheska, as they called her. At the same moment, Violet opened the front door to admit James Falconer and Peter Keller.
After introductions had been made, Francesca ushered them all into the drawing room. ‘Let us wait in here for the other guests to arrive … I’m so pleased you are punctual. It always upsets Cook when we have latecomers – she doesn’t like to have her best dishes ruined.’
Keller, wanting to join in and be sociable immediately, said, ‘I understand how Cook feels. After all the great effort she must put in, it would be such a disappointment for her.’
Francesca smiled at him warmly. ‘I like thoughtful young men. Now come along, Mr Keller, and tell me all about yourself. Let’s sit over there by the French doors.’
James quickly glanced around the drawing room. He had seen great beauty and stylishness but had not yet had any time to take in the details. Primrose-yellow walls, touches of pinks and greens, a marvellous airiness and pale colours which were uplifting. He had never seen a room quite like this before, and unexpectedly he felt a sudden lightness of spirit. He was always aware of his surroundings. He preferred beautiful places, which soothed him.
Aware of someone beside him, he turned around swiftly. Irina Parkinson stood next to him. He stared at her, seeing her properly for the first time. She was tall and svelte, and her abundant brown hair was swept up into a mass of silky curls on top of her head. Her eyes were remarkable: very dark, framed by thick lashes. While she was not a great beauty in the current fashion, Irina had lovely features, and her dark eyes and high cheekbones gave her an exotic look that he found fascinating. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude … I’m afraid I got caught up with this room. It’s lovely, Miss Parkinson.’
‘I’m glad you like it, Mr Falconer, and you weren’t rude, not at all.’
‘So many flowers, so many unique objects.’ He glanced at a mahogany table and asked, ‘What are these objects here? I’ve never seen anything like them, not even at the estate sales I used to go to in the country with my father years ago.’
Irina stepped closer to the table and beckoned to him. ‘They are icons,’ she explained. ‘Pictures of a sacred or sanctified person. They are traditional to the Eastern Christian church, especially the Russian church.’
‘They are so beautifully painted, every detail perfect and in such rich colours. As for the frames, they are works of art in themselves,’ James said, peering at the icons. ‘And there are so many. Obviously your aunt collects them,’ he finished, straightening, looking at her.
‘No, she doesn’t, actually. These icons belong to me and Natalie. They were given to us by our mother. She uses the name Kat, but she was christened Ekaterina. You see, she is descended from the Shuvalovs, as are we. We are half-Russian through our mother’s side of the family.’
James nodded. ‘Of course. Now I remember! Your sister did once make a remark to me about being from an old Russian family, but she never told me anything more, nor alluded to it again. It was something said in passing, and it never came up later.’
He felt a sudden pull to her, wanting to know her better.
Realizing he was staring at her, he went on quickly. ‘So how did an old Russian family come to live in London?’
She was silent for a moment or two, gazing at him.
James said, ‘I do apologize. I must sound very nosy and rude. It’s just that—’
She interrupted him with a small, quiet laugh and shook her head. ‘No, not in the slightest. I am happy to tell you the whole story. And I’d better make it quick before the other guests arrive.
‘It was my great-grandfather, Konstantin Shuvalov, who first came here. He was a courtier in the Romanov court, and was posted here in 1850 as the Russian ambassador to London. My great-grandmother was called Zenia and they had one son, my grandfather, Nicholas Shuvalov. My great-grandfather had been educated at Eton and so he sent his son there too, ensuring he spoke excellent English. Nicholas was the father of my mother Kat and her sister Olga, who now lives in Russia.’
Irina broke off as she heard voices echoing in the hall and noticed her aunt hurrying across the room.
‘Excuse me, Mr Falconer, but I have to go and greet the new arrivals. I’ll tell you more about the Shuvalovs later.’
‘I’ll hold you to that!’ James exclaimed.
Irina turned around and smiled at him. It was a lovely smile that filled her face with radiance.
James smiled back and felt his heart lifting, something he had not experienced for a few years.
After the three women went out into the entrance hall, Keller joined James, who had remained standing next to the mahogany table where the icons were displayed. Keller was immediately interested in them. After studying them for a moment, he said, ‘What a splendid collection of icons! Many of them must be very old, I think, and highly valuable.’
‘I didn’t even know what they were,’ James admitted, pursing his mouth, shaking his head. ‘You are truly amazing, Keller. Your knowledge is extraordinary.’
‘Mrs Lorne must enjoy collecting them,’ Keller answered, as usual low-key.
‘Oh, they’re not hers, actually,’ James informed him. ‘I thought the same as you, but Irina told me they belong to her and Natalie. Their mother gave the icons to them. You see, through their mother’s side of the family, they are descended from the Shuvalovs, apparently a well-known and ancient Russian family. Their great-grandfather
