VOLUME 1, CHAPTER XXIV.
A DANCE AT CLARIDGE'S
The drive from the Leicestershire countryside back to the sprawling, fog-choked heart of London felt like a funeral procession to Seton Darville. Beside him in the plush first-class carriage, Edris was a kaleidoscope of manufactured affection. She chatted gaily about the upcoming season, the dresses she required, and her "longing" for their quiet life together once they were wed. Every word she uttered was a sharp needle piercing his soul. He sat with his chin resting on his gloved hand, staring out at the blurred skeletons of winter trees, knowing that in her vanity bag lay a secret letter to Karl, and in his own breast pocket lay the photographic proof of her treachery.
Stagsden Hall, when they had arrived days earlier, had provided no sanctuary. The house was a monument to the English upper class—all drafty corridors, hunting trophies, and the smell of floor wax and old money. General Temperley, a man whose world was defined by the rigidity of military honor, had no inkling that his daughter was a mistress of double-dealing. He had clasped Darville's hand with genuine warmth, treating him already as a member of the family.
"You've brought the roses back to her cheeks, Darville!" the General had boomed over evening port. "Switzerland did her a world of good. She was getting peaky in the midlands."
Marcus had merely nodded, sipping his drink with a stomach that felt like it was filled with cold lead. The "roses" in her cheeks were not from the Alpine air; they were the flush of a secret, illicit passion for a man Marcus had called his friend.
The breaking point had come on their second morning at the Hall. The maid had brought the silver breakfast tray to Marcus's room, and among the London papers was the dreaded thick envelope from Bennett. Marcus had waited for the door to click shut before tearing it open.
Inside were the high-resolution photographs of Edris's latest letter to Karl. He read it standing by the window, the grey morning light illuminating every cruel stroke of her pen. He recognized the bold, sweeping loops of her script—the same hand that had written him poems of devotion only weeks before.
She had written:
"My dearest Karl, the 'Old Man' is as blind as ever. He actually believes I spent the day with your mother! He is so incredibly easy to lead by the nose because of his ridiculous devotion. He is currently working on your 'appointment'—he thinks he is doing me a favor, the poor, boring fool. I count the days until we are together in London. My heart is yours, and this engagement to him is merely a bridge to our future."
Marcus had collapsed into a chintz-covered armchair, the photographs fluttering to the floor. The words "Old Man" and "boring fool" echoed in his mind like a death knell. He had given her his soul, his reputation, and his protection, and she had traded it all for the cheap thrills of a Swiss adventurer.
He did not cry this time. The well of his grief had finally run dry, replaced by a cold, crystalline reservoir of malice. He was Seton Darville, the man who outmaneuvered the most dangerous minds in Europe. If she wanted him to be the "Architect" of her future, he would build her a monument of ash.
Now, back at the Carlton Hotel in London, the tension had reached a fever pitch. Edris, sensing a change in his weather, had doubled her efforts to appear the doting fiancée. She had invited a friend to stay with her, providing a convenient excuse for Marcus to seek "solitude" for his work.
However, solitude was the last thing he found. On this particular Thursday evening, an invitation to the Countess of Culford's ball at Claridge's sat upon his mantel. It was an event he usually enjoyed—the height of society, the best champagne, and the sharpest gossip. He dressed in his evening tails with mechanical precision, his mind miles away in the dark alleys of Moscow.
Claridge's was a whirlpool of gold tissue, white silk, and the frantic rhythm of a jazz orchestra. The "Bright Young Things" were out in force, their laughter ringing like breaking glass. Marcus stood near the edge of the dance floor, a glass of untouched champagne in his hand, feeling like a ghost at a feast. He was a celebrated man, a man of mystery and power, yet he would have traded every ounce of his fame for one moment of the genuine love he had thought he possessed in Hove.
"Seton," a voice whispered—a voice that belonged to his past.
He turned to find Elaine, the Countess of Culford. She was a vision of tragic beauty, her brown hair swept up, her throat adorned with a collar of diamonds that must have cost a king's ransom.
"You look like you've seen a specter, my friend," she said, her eyes searching his.
"Perhaps I have, Elaine," he replied, bowing over her hand.
"Take me into supper. I cannot bear another moment of Gladys's prattle about her polo ponies."
They found a quiet alcove in the supper room. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive cigars. Elaine watched him with the intuition of a woman who had known him since his youth.
"It's the Temperley girl, isn't it?" she asked bluntly. "She's broken you."
"She hasn't broken me, Elaine. She's merely... redefined me."
"Seton, listen to me," she said, leaning forward, the diamonds at her neck catching the light. "My life is a desert. My husband lives for his horses and his actresses. I have the villa at Antibes, I have my own fortune. Come away with me. Tonight. We can be in Paris by morning and the Mediterranean by the weekend. Let the world scream. We've both played by the rules for too long, and look where it has gotten us."
They left the ball together, slipping out into the cool night air. Her Rolls-Royce was waiting, a silent, silver beast in the Brook Street fog. As they drove through the deserted streets of Mayfair, Elaine clung to his arm, her ermine cloak falling open to reveal the desperate pulse at her throat.
"I love you, Seton," she sobbed. "I think I have always loved you, even when we were children playing on the lawns at Blacklands. Why go back to a girl who doesn't understand your worth?"
Marcus looked at her—the woman who offered him peace, luxury, and a genuine, if desperate, affection. He could say yes. He could leave the "Valley of Lies" behind. He could let Karl Weiss have Edris and disappear into the sun-drenched sanctuary of the Riviera.
But the "Architect" within him would not allow it. His pride had been too deeply stung. The revenge he had set in motion was a masterpiece of intelligence work, a perfect trap that required his presence to spring.
"I cannot, Elaine," he said, his voice like the tolling of a bell. "I have a duty to perform. A job for a certain young Swiss gentleman."
"You are choosing her?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"I am choosing the finish of the story," he replied.
He dropped her at her mansion, her huddled figure the last thing he saw as the car pulled away. Returning to the Carlton, he went straight to his desk. He took a sheet of Whitehall stationery and began to write. It was the formal offer for Karl Weiss. The "lucrative appointment" was ready. The destination: Moscow. The role: A spy who would be "burned" the moment he crossed the border.
As the sun began to pale the London sky, Seton Darville sealed the envelope. He felt nothing—no pity, no remorse. He had been the "Old Man" and the "boring fool" for the last time.