LONDON DECEMBER 1880

LONDON
December 1880

Roger Cutting fidgeted with the cigar cutter in his hand. The damned woman was taking her time again, despite knowing perfectly well how important punctuality was.
He poured another whisky, picked up the glass, then put it down without taking a drink. He had already had two in short order, and he felt it in his face.
“ARE YOU READY YET?” he shouted from downstairs, where he had been pacing near the front entrance for the better part of ten minutes.
“Damned woman,” he muttered.
Their bedroom was one floor above, her dressing room adjoining it.
She pretended not to hear him.
Roger placed the cigar cutter sharply upon the hall table and bounded up the staircase two steps at a time.
“The carriage is here, woman!”
He burst into the dressing room to find his wife seated before the mirror, calmly fastening one earring while the maid hovered nearby with pins and perfume bottles. The room smelled faintly of powder and lavender.
She was taking her time deliberately, Roger suspected, simply to frustrate him.
Finally, she stood, smoothed the front of her gown and picked up her evening bag with theatrical leisure.
“Ready…” she said lightly, then suddenly paused. “Oh, wait. Where is my fan?”
Roger felt his temper flare. She was always like this: dawdling, fussing, lingering over trivialities while everyone else waited upon her convenience.
The fan lay directly in front of where she had been sitting. Roger snatched it up and thrust it into her hand.
She smiled.
They descended the staircase together.
Roger opened the carriage door and assisted his wife inside before climbing in after her.
“Regimental Hall!” he snapped through the hatch. “And make it fast.”
The driver cracked his whip above the horses’ heads, and the carriage lurched forward.
Roger drew a small silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch before sneezing violently into the handkerchief tucked inside his sleeve.
He had been born to the regiment.
His grandfather had served with it during the first Anglo-Burmese war in Rangoon. His father had naturally followed him into the same regiment and spent much of his career stationed in Lucknow.
Roger himself had been born beneath the vast skies and crushing heat of British India.
Unlike many boys raised within the Imperial system, Roger had loved the country deeply. He spoke enough Urdu and Hindi to converse comfortably with servants, grooms and stable hands.
The carriage eventually joined the procession of coaches crowding the street outside the brightly illuminated Regimental Hall.
Gas lamps cast warm pools of light across polished harnesses and gleaming carriage wheels.
Two Indian Havildars in immaculate dress uniform descended the broad entrance steps to assist arriving guests. Their saffron turbans stood out brilliantly beneath the lamps, each wrapped with perfect precision, the regimental badge fixed proudly at the centre.
The turban was sacred to the Sikh.
Every officer who had served properly in India understood that.
A man wishing to die only needed to lay disrespectful hands upon one.
And the saffron colour carried meaning of its own in the regiment. These were not ornamental decorations worn by parade-ground soldiers. The colour marked men who had already proved themselves under fire.
Roger and his wife alighted when their turn came and ascended the steps.
At the doorway, the regimental steward struck the floor lightly with his staff.
“Captain and Mrs. Cutting!”
They entered.
The great hall glittered.
Crystal chandeliers flooded the ballroom with warm golden light. Regimental colours hung proudly from the walls, while silver polished to a mirror shine reflected dozens of dancing flames from the sconces. The scent of perfume mingled with cigar smoke, beeswax polish and expensive brandy.
A large Christmas tree dominated one corner of the room. Dozens of candles glowed amongst silver tinsel and delicate angel decorations, their light dancing across polished ornaments hanging from the branches. At the very top sat a star fashioned in the likeness of the regimental crest. It had crowned the tree every Christmas for generations, a reminder that service to the regiment was as much a family tradition as the celebration itself.
A woman across the room spotted Roger’s wife immediately.
“Emily!”
She waved enthusiastically.
Emily smiled and waved back.
Within seconds she had detached herself from Roger’s arm and disappeared into a gathering of officers’ wives near the champagne tables.
Roger watched her go before adjusting his cuffs.
The room buzzed with conversation.
Young subalterns laughed too loudly as they attempted to impress one another. Majors and lieutenant colonels discussed postings, promotions and politics. Elderly veterans occupied comfortable positions near the walls, from which they could observe both the dancers and the younger officers eager to replace them.
The ladies were no less impressive.
Silk gowns in emerald, sapphire, crimson and ivory drifted through the crowd. Jewels sparkled beneath the chandeliers. Fans fluttered lazily as gossip passed between old friends and old rivals.
For Roger Cutting, failure within these walls was unthinkable.
A reputation in the regiment took years to build and moments to destroy.
Unlike many officers who rose through family influence and patronage, Roger had earned every step of his advancement himself. It was less a matter of principle than necessity; he had neither connections nor wealth to smooth his path. His success had won him the respect of capable men and the quiet resentment of those who believed advancement was their birthright.
He took a glass of champagne from a passing steward and surveyed the room.
Then he saw Cuthbertson.
The son of the Lieutenant Colonel stood near the centre of the ballroom, surrounded by admirers as though he were royalty rather than merely the spoiled brat of a senior officer.
Tall, broad-shouldered and effortlessly handsome, Cuthbertson possessed the sort of appearance that opened doors before a word had been spoken.
Blond hair. Blue eyes.
Perfect posture.
A smile suggesting confidence bordering upon arrogance.
His uniform appeared almost tailored directly onto his body.
Two young officers lingered nearby like loyal hunting dogs. Both laughed a little too quickly at his jokes and watched constantly for his approval.
Roger disliked them almost as much as he disliked Cuthbertson himself.
Cuthbertson was speaking with a group of ladies.
Roger noticed how every woman smiled when addressed.
More importantly, he noticed how every husband watched.
The man was a cad.
A predator wrapped in charm and privilege.
His reputation within the regiment was well known.
Other men’s wives.
Other men’s daughters.
Other men’s careers.
Nothing was sacred.
Cuthbertson collected indiscretions the way some men collected medals. Women were seduced, husbands humiliated and complaints quietly disappeared. Young officers foolish enough to lend him money soon discovered repayment was never forthcoming, while those who pressed too hard found their prospects deteriorating.
His father’s influence ensured that consequences rarely reached him, and the two young sycophants at his shoulder were always ready to reinforce the lesson.
Roger watched as Cuthbertson moved through the gathering, kissing ladies’ hands with practised ease.
One woman blushed.
Another giggled childishly.
Then Roger saw him bow over Emily’s hand.
She smiled politely.
Cuthbertson lingered.
Just a fraction too long.
Enough for Roger to notice.
Enough for Cuthbertson to know he had noticed.
Before Roger could continue his observations, he found himself intercepted by Major Weatherby, an old friend of his father’s.
The elderly officer immediately launched into yet another retelling of his exploits during the Afghan campaign.
Roger endured it with all the patience he could muster.
The stories changed slightly with every telling.
Victories grew larger.
Enemies became more numerous.
Odds increased
The Major himself became progressively more heroic.
Roger nodded at appropriate intervals while secretly searching for an opportunity to escape.
Mercifully, the Bandmaster finally mounted the podium.
At precisely eight o’clock, he tapped his baton against the music stand.
Conversation faded.
The room quietened.
The musicians raised their instruments, and the first notes of a waltz drifted across the ballroom.
Instantly, the atmosphere changed.
Gentlemen approached their promised partners. White-gloved hands found waiting fingers. Ladies rose gracefully from their chairs.
The dance floor filled.
Silk skirts swirled.
Medals flashed beneath the chandeliers.
The polished floor reflected a hundred moving couples.
The great ballroom seemed suddenly alive.
Roger finally escaped the Major’s grip and searched the dancers.
Then he saw it.
His stomach tightened.
His wife was in Cuthbertson’s arms.
The pair moved effortlessly amongst the other dancers.
Cuthbertson smiled down at her as they turned.
Roger could not hear the conversation.
He did not need to.
The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.