First Among Equals Read online

  Fiona laughed. “Did you go to Charles’s wedding?”

  “My darling, the only Etonians who have ever been seen in Hammersmith pass through it as quickly as possible on a boat, representing either Oxford or Cambridge.”

  “So you weren’t invited,” said Fiona.

  “I’m told that only Amanda was invited, and even she nearly found she had another engagement. With her doctor, I believe.”

  “Well, Charles certainly can’t afford another divorce.”

  “No, not in his present position as Her Majesty’s. Financial Secretary. One divorce might go unnoticed but two would be considered habit-forming, and all diligent readers of Nigel Dempster have been able to observe that consummation has taken place.”

  “But how long will Charles be able to tolerate her behavior?”

  “As long as he still believes she has given him a son who will inherit the family title. Not that a marriage ceremony will necessarily prove legitimacy,” added Pimkin.

  “Perhaps Amanda won’t produce a son.”

  “Perhaps whatever she produces it will be obvious that it’s not Charles’s offspring,” said Pimkin, falling into a chair that had been momentarily left by a large buxom lady.

  “Even if it was I can’t see Amanda as a housewife.”

  “No, but it suits Amanda’s current circumstances to be thought of as the loving spouse.”

  “Time may change that, too,” said Fiona.

  “I doubt it,” said Pimkin. “Amanda is stupid, that has been proven beyond reasonable doubt, but she has a survival instinct second only to a mongoose. So while Charles is spending all the hours of the day advancing his glittering career she would be foolish to search publicly for greener pastures. Especially when she can always lie in them privately.”

  “You’re a wicked old gossip,” said Fiona.

  “I cannot deny it,” said Pimkin, “for it is an art at which women have never been as accomplished as men.”

  “Thank you for such a sensible wedding present,” said Alexander, joining his wife of two hours. “You selected my favorite claret.”

  “Giving a dozen bottles of the finest claret serves two purposes,” said Pimkin, his hands resting lightly on his stomach. “First, you can always be assured of a decent wine when you invite yourself to dine.”

  “And second?” asked Alexander.

  “When the happy couple split up you can feel relieved that they will no longer have your present to quarrel over.”

  “Did you give Charles and Amanda a present?” asked Fiona.

  “No,” said Pimkin, deftly removing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I felt your return of the bogus Earl of Bridgwater was quite enough for both of us.”

  “I wonder where he is now?” said Alexander.

  “He no longer resides in Eaton Square,” said Pimkin with the air of one who has divulged a piece of information which can only guarantee further rapt attention.

  “Who would want the phony earl?”

  “We are not aware of the provenance of the buyer, as he emanates from one of Her Majesty’s former colonies, but the seller …”

  “Stop teasing, Alec. Who?”

  “None other than Mrs. Amanda Seymour.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Yes. Amanda, no less. The dear, silly creature retrieved the false earl from the cellar where Charles had buried him with full military honors.”

  “But she must have realized it was a fake.”

  “My dear Amanda wouldn’t know the difference between a Holbein and an Andy Warhol but she still happily accepted £10,000 for the impersonation. I am assured that the dealer who purchased this fabricated masterpiece made what I think vulgar people in the City describe as’a quick turn.’”

  “Good God,” said Alexander. “I only paid £8,000 for it myself.”

  “Perhaps you should get Amanda to advise you on these matters in future,” said Pimkin. “In exchange for my invaluable piece of information I’m bound to inquire if the real Earl of Bridgwater is to remain in hiding.”

  “Certainly not, Alec. He is merely awaiting the right moment to make a public appearance,” said Fiona, unable to hide a smile.

  “And where is Amanda now?” asked Alexander, obviously wanting to change the subject.

  “In Switzerland producing a baby, which we can but hope will bear sufficient resemblance to a white Caucasian to convince one of Charles’s limited imagination that he is the father.”

  “Where do you get all your information from?” asked Alexander.

  Pimkin sighed dramatically. “Women have a habit of pouring their hearts out to me, Amanda included.”

  “Why should she do that?” asked Alexander.

  “She lives safe in the knowledge that I am the one man she knows who has no interest in her body.” Pimkin drew breath, but only to devour another smoked salmon sandwich.

  Charles phoned Amanda every day while she was in Geneva. She kept assuring him all was well, and that the baby was expected on time. He had considered it prudent for Amanda not to remain in England advertising her pregnancy, a less than recent occurrence to even the most casual observer. She for her part did not complain. With £10,000 safely tucked away in a private Swiss account there were few little necessities she could not have brought to her, even in Geneva.

  It had taken a few weeks for Charles to become accustomed to Government after such a long break. He enjoyed the challenge of the Treasury and quickly fell in with its strange traditions. He was constantly reminded that his was the department on which the Prime Minister kept the closest eye, making the challenge even greater. The civil servants, when asked their opinion of the new Financial Secretary, would reply variously: able, competent, efficient, hardworking—but without any hint of affection in their voices. When someone asked his driver, whose name Charles could never remember, the same question he proffered the view, “He’s the sort of minister who always sits in the back of a car. But I’d still put a week’s wages on Mr. Seymour becoming Prime Minister.”

  Amanda produced her child in the middle of the ninth month. After a week’s recuperation she was allowed to return to England. She discovered traveling with her offspring was a nuisance and by the time she arrived at Heathrow she was more than happy to turn the child over to the nanny Charles had selected.

  Charles had sent a car to pick her up from the airport. He had an unavoidable conference with a delegation of Japanese businessmen, he explained, all of them busy complaining about the new Government tariffs on imports. At the first opportunity to be rid of his oriental guests he bolted back to Eaton Square.

  Amanda was there to meet him at the door. Charles had almost forgotten how beautiful his wife was, and how long she had been away.

  “Where’s my child?” he asked, after he had given her a long kiss.

  “In a nursery that’s more expensively furnished than our bedroom,” she replied a little sharply.

  Charles ran up the wide staircase and along the passage. Amanda followed. He entered the nursery and stopped in his tracks as he stared at the future Earl of Bridgwater. The little black curls and deep brown eyes came as something of a shock.

  “Good heavens,” said Charles, stepping forward for a closer examination. Amanda remained by the door, her hand clutching its handle.

  She had a hundred answers ready for his question.

  “He’s the spitting image of my great-grandfather. You skipped a couple of generations, Harry,” said Charles, lifting the boy high into the air, “but there’s no doubt you’re a real Seymour.”

  Amanda sighed with inaudible relief. The hundred answers she could now keep to herself.

  “It’s more than a couple of generations the little bastard has skipped,” said Pimkin. “It’s an entire continent.” He took another sip of christening champagne before continuing. “This poor creature, on the other hand,” he said, staring at Fiona’s firstborn, “bears a striking resemblance to Alexander. Dear little girl should have been