The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure by Adam Williams Page A

together, between a brougham and a landau, under the uninterested gaze of a Chinese groom. When they heard voices behind them, they quickly broke apart and turned with innocent smiles to greet Mr and Mrs Dawson, who had come to take Helen Frances into their carriage for the journey back to Peking.
    *   *   *
    â€˜Who’s the filly?’ asked Simpson, as Manners rode up beside him.
    â€˜Helen Frances Delamere,’ drawled Manners. ‘It seems she’s to be my travelling companion to Shishan.’
    â€˜Well, there’s a piece of luck for you. Nothing like a bouncy redhead to calm the troubled brow.’
    â€˜She might be a bit of a challenge. Apparently she’s engaged.’
    â€˜What, to Cricketing Tom over there? Shouldn’t be any trouble to you, old man.’
    â€˜Certainly makes the prospect of Shishan more interesting. Now, what’s the wager?’
    â€˜Twenty guineas I reach the city walls before you do. Or, tell you what, double the stake and I get an hour with that new Mongolian bint you’ve been pleasuring at Mother Zhou’s.’
    â€˜She wouldn’t even look at you. But all right, you’re on. Make it fifty guineas. You’ll owe me before sundown.’
    â€˜Ride hard, my boy, ride hard.’ Simpson laughed harshly.
    â€˜I always ride hard,’ said Manners, and whipped his horse to a cantering start.
    *   *   *
    Sir Claude stood at his favourite spot overlooking the plain, a cheroot between his lips, his hands clasped behind his back. In the distance he could make out puffs of dust where his guests were straggling back to the city. He could just identify the towers and the walls in the haze on the horizon. The sun was sinking behind the trees. It had been a tiring but a satisfying day. He had spent half an hour talking to the Russian minister and, as he had expected, the initial bluster had given way to smooth platitudes about harmony between their two empires and a common purpose to civilise Asia. He was confident that a cable would be despatched from the Russian Legation this evening, and that he would soon be hearing something confirmatory from Kashgar. He had also had a useful conversation with the Japanese minister and was pleased that he seemed to share the same view of the Chinese situation. One never knew with the Japanese, but he was glad on this occasion to have an ally in what promised to be another confrontation with Monsieur Pichon during the Ministers’ Council on Tuesday. What was Pichon thinking about? Arming the Legations? How provocative could one get!
    Behind him the servants were clearing the tables, the gardeners were sweeping up cigar ends from the lawn. His wife had drawn a bath and was resting after the party. He looked forward to a quiet evening reading a volume of Trollope, with a glass or two of good malt.
    He heard a cough and was surprised to see Pritchett standing uncomfortably behind him.
    â€˜Pritchett, man, what are you doing here? Everyone’s long gone home.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir. I rode off together with them, but then I decided that this couldn’t wait until Monday, so I—I came back again.’
    Sir Claude had a sincere admiration for Pritchett’s professional qualities. He fulfilled his ostensible function as interpreter to perfection. He was a fine Orientalist. He was also more than competent in his other role as intelligence gatherer for the Legation. But the man was maddeningly diffident. ‘You could have taken me aside at the picnic.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Well, go on, what is it?’
    â€˜We’ve received another letter, sir.’
    â€˜Boxers again?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Oh, Pritchett. Pritchett. You and your Boxers. What is it this time?’
    â€˜It’s from our agent in Fuxin, sir. That’s in Manchuria, west of Mukden. It’s on the edges of Chinese cultivation, close by the