Turpin's Assassin: Hero. Highwayman. Legend. by Richard Foreman

Author:Richard Foreman [Foreman, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2021-08-24T22:00:00+00:00

10.

Turpin had never particularly enjoyed the taste of champagne, but he immediately gulped down the glass, which was handed to him, as he walked out into the garden. He was keen to drown out the nagging voice of envy, which seemed to be screaming in his ear like an opera singer, as he observed Hervey and Marie playing host and hostess at the gathering. They were akin to a married couple, but happy. They stood on either side of the manicured lawn, greeting their esteemed guests.

The oblong garden – Turpin thought it shaped like a coffin – reached far back. A string quartet on a painted wooden platform sat at the other end, although he could barely hear the melodious music over the bleating guests, the chime of laughter and clinking glasses. It was all very civilised. Smartly attired waiters and waitresses weaved their way through the bejewelled party, carrying silver trays laden with full or empty glasses. Turpin would hear the word “exquisite” more than a dozen times throughout the event. The lawn was bordered by a multitude of flowers – hyacinths, magnolias, tulips and roses. The sea of green was also broken-up by narrow pathways of polished Carrara marble. The garden hosted a couple of young pear trees – and was populated by a number of stone statues (Turpin recognised the figures of Bacchus, Alexander the Great and Artemis, among others). Several figures among the guests at the ever-swelling party also caught the highwayman’s eye. There was perhaps no place on the planet, at present, which rustled with as much silk, Turpin fancied. A team of pickpockets could likely retire from the potential haul on display, he calculated. Bulging wallets, handkerchiefs, pocket watchers, precious stones as populous as pebbles on a beach, were ripe for plucking, like the fruit hanging from the pear trees. A couple of barrel-chested footmen stood at the entrance to the garden, but they seemed too busy leering at the serving girls and their dresses, with pronounced low necklines, to notice anything else going on.

The footmen – and plenty of guests – also feasted on the sight of the hostess. Marie’s fringe of blonde hair was curled, in the latest French fashion. Her dress was an unusual cut, the lines both accentuated her waist yet exaggerated her normally pert posterior. Purple. Pleated silk. Fine, lacework finished off the cuffs and hem. Marie was making a statement that she no longer wanted to follow the most recent fashions - but set them. A diamond necklace hung around her elegant porcelain throat, yet still her eyes shone brighter than the twinkling gem stones. Marie was mindful of staying on the marble pathways, lest her stiletto-like heels pierce and lodge in the lawn. The former artist’s model appeared like she might stay eternally beautiful in life – and not just in the portraits she graced. She beamed – and not a solitary (male) guest failed to smile in reply. Men bathed in her attention like soaking up the rays of the sun.

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