drawing room enjoying a cup of hot chocolate and the company of ladies, a novel situation for one who had spent years in the rough company of his soldiers in the wilds of the North-West Frontier.
Lady Packard had descended downstairs and was settled on a sofa in the drawing room, near the long window overlooking the gardens to the rear of the house, where she could gaze out and enjoy the warmth of the winter sunshine. A tartan rug covered her legs; she was pale and a little breathless, yet she smiled at Captain Bowen and he soon fell under the spell of her charm and beauty.
‘My husband tells me you are posted to St Petersburg,’ Olga purred in her sultry, heavily accented voice. ‘It is my home town, you know, I was born and raised there.’
‘Indeed, ma’am?’ Captain Bowen sat attentively on the edge of his seat, setting the cup of hot chocolate in its saucer as he answered her. ‘And you are quite correct, I am due to sail at the end of April, weather permitting.’
‘Have you been there before?’
‘No, ma’am, I have not had the pleasure.’
‘Do you speak Russian?’
‘Unfortunately I do not, but the Brigadier has offered to tutor me. I do manage to get by in French, though.’
‘Russian is a difficult language, not one that can be learned in a hurry.’ Lady Packard frowned, absently stroking her slender white fingers over the tartan of her rug, several ornate and expensive rings glinting. ‘I am a little puzzled, then, my dear Captain, as to why you should be sent, having no experience.’
‘Oh, Mama,’ protested Sasha gently, who sat on the far side of the room near the fireplace, where the light from the front window fell behind her, her figure a silhouette, ‘what an embarrassing question.’
Her mother laughed. ‘Sasha dear, I am sure Captain Bowen is made of sterner stuff.’
‘Indeed. I am flattered by your interest,’ he replied politely, glancing over at Sasha, and then to Georgia, seated to her mother’s right and as close to Captain Bowen as she could contrive, flashing her brilliant sapphire eyes at him. ‘I believe it may be my experience in Afghanistan that is the chief reason why I have been posted to St Petersburg. The Russians have long been conniving to get a foothold there.’
‘And why would they do that?’ Sasha asked, intrigued.
He turned slightly to face her, his eyes roaming over her shadowed face as he tried to discern her expression. ‘Because, Miss Packard, Afghanistan is close to India, indeed, a crossroads between Europe and Asia, and the routes from one country to the other are much valued, either for trade or war.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Sasha looked away.
‘And do tell us,’ Georgia gasped in a breathy voice as she leaned towards him, ‘what Mrs Bowen thinks of her imminent removal to such a distant land?’
‘Um…’ He cleared his throat and looked at his cup. ‘Er, there is no Mrs Bowen. I am a bachelor.’
‘Oh, pardon me!’
‘It’s not a disease, darling.’ Her mother laughed. ‘I do believe you are to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve, Captain Bowen.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you, I am looking forward to it.’
‘Are you?’ Georgia asked, leaning towards him, her eyes soft and moist, inviting, holding his gaze for a moment almost too long beyond the limits of propriety, then her lashes swept down, and she looked away. ‘I do so love Christmas, don’t you, Captain Bowen? It’s a wonderful time of year, all the presents and the tree and the food, and then even better still is New Year. I do so enjoy a good New Year’s Eve party, with all the hugging and kissing under the mistletoe.’
‘Georgia,’ her mother admonished, in a soft voice, laced with mischievous laughter very similar to the sound purring from her daughter’s throat.
‘Indeed.’ Captain Bowen quickly finished his cup of chocolate and set it on a small table, rising to his feet. With a small bow towards Lady Packard, he bade her farewell and gave his thanks.
When he had left and the door closed behind him, Sasha leapt to her feet, exclaiming, ‘Oh, Georgia, I am so ashamed of you!’
Her sister looked up with a wide-eyed gasp. ‘Goodness, Sash, what on earth have I done?’
With a swish of her skirts Sasha hurried to the door, retorting over her shoulder, ‘Oh, you know very well! You were like a cat with a mouse! You are going to toy with him, just like all the others.’
‘Rubbish! Why would I?’ snorted Georgia with a little toss of her head.
‘To make Felix jealous! And just because you are so beautiful, you can!’
‘Of course not, darling Sasha.’ Georgia smiled, casting a wary, sidelong glance to her frowning mama. ‘Anyway, what do you mean? What others?’
‘Hamish?’
‘Oh, he had red hair and was a terrible bore!’
‘I liked him!’
‘He was no good for you.’
‘Robert.’
‘He was French!’ Georgia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.
Sasha rarely lost her temper, but now she made a strangled noise in her throat, her fists clenched. ‘Sometimes, Georgia, I absolutely loathe you!’
The drawing-room door banged on her retreat and they could hear her feet pounding as she ran up the stairs. Lady Packard clucked her tongue and gave her daughter Georgia a look that was both a little amused and chastising. Georgia merely shrugged, with raised brows and a demure smile playing on her shapely lips.
In the next few days Captain Bowen was a frequent visitor to Roseberry Street, yet the girls saw little of him, as he spent long hours with the Brigadier in the library, engaged in intensive Russian lessons. Until the day before Christmas Eve, when the Brigadier summoned his daughters to assist him, a not unusual occurrence if he had more than one student. He directed Sasha to sit with Colonel Bellamy and converse with him in French, and Captain Bowen he assigned to Georgia. The two sisters, impeccably dressed in long-sleeved, crêpe de Chine tartan dresses, bustled and bowed, sat down at opposite ends of the room and not for the first time the Brigadier noticed that his eldest two daughters were not on speaking terms. He frowned, hands behind his back as he contemplated Sasha for a moment, and then Georgia, yet he had no idea what ailed them. He returned his grim attention to young Lieutenant Liptrott, whose inability to grasp the basics of either French or Russian would most likely get him killed in some far and foreign land.
Colonel Bellamy, a portly man well into his sixties, sprouting a thick white beard and a monocle from one eye, did not hold much truck with a snippet of a girl trying to educate him on the niceties of the French language. Sasha, too, was not greatly concerned with her charge, her eyes wandering across the room to where Georgia sat with Captain Bowen. They laughed a lot, and Georgia was leaning towards him, touching his arm with her fingers, tossing her blonde head in a most coquettish, annoying manner, Sasha thought. And here she was lumbered with Colonel Bellamy, who clearly would rather be somewhere else, the Officer’s Mess, presumably.
‘How
