Beautiful Creatures Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Lulu Taylor

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part Two

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Part Three

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Everyone has heard of the Beaufort twins, but few have ever seen them…

  On the eve of their 21st birthday, at one of the most lavish parties society has ever seen, Octavia and Flora Beaufort are launched into the world.

  For Octavia, it is one of the most thrilling nights of her life, an evening glittering with the promise of her future. But Flora shrinks from the limelight, fearful of what lies beyond the walls of her over-protective aunt’s house.

  As Octavia is swept into a whirlwind of lavish spending and fashionable society, she grasps eagerly at whatever she wants: clothes, houses, men… even a department store. But Flora yearns for security – and when she is rescued from harm by a kind stranger, she seems to have found the love and protection she craves.

  Prey to all kinds of dangers, the twins soon realise that without each other, they run the risk of losing everything. But is it already too late…?

  About the Author

  Lulu Taylor grew up in the English countryside, was educated at Oxford University, and has lived all over the world. She is married and lives in London.

  Also by Lulu Taylor

  Heiresses

  Midnight Girls

  To Fiona Alexander

  With love and thanks

  Part One

  1

  Spring 2008

  The night was balmy, one of those gold and petrol-blue evenings when the day seems to take its time slipping away, turning softly and slowly from light to dark. A silvery moon hung low in the night sky, glowing benignly over proceedings.

  Below was a scene that might have come from three centuries before. In the exquisitely manicured gardens, people promenaded elegantly between the privet hedges and herbaceous borders, gliding past statues and fountains as they talked and laughed. The gentlemen were in white stockings, buckled shoes, breeches or pantaloons, and gorgeously embroidered coats worn tight across the shoulders and to the waist, before billowing out in extravagant folds. The ladies were a truly splendid sight: on their heads were towering wigs of white and silver, some halos of powdered thistledown, others masses of intricate curls and ringlets. In their locks were velvet ribbons, sprays of crystal flowers or other magnificent adornments. One lady had the proverbial galleon in full sail perched on her ocean of hair; another wig was encrusted in jewelled sea creatures, with crabs, lobsters and oysters nestled among mother-of-pearl shells and crystal rocks. Below the sumptuous wigs were powdered and painted faces, with spots of rouge in doll-like circles and velvet beauty spots worn on cheeks, at the corners of eyes or on the curve of a pretty jawline. Each dress seemed more lavish than the last, encapsulating the extravagance of the ancien régime: heavily embroidered silks and satins, edged with stunning laces, glinting with gold and silver thread, in a rainbow of beautiful colours.

  Diamonds sparkled and pearls glimmered softly in the moonlight or in the beams of the delicate Chinese lanterns suspended at intervals from bamboo poles. The women moved slowly, held back by the weight of their costumes, waving fans in front of their faces as they talked and flirted with the gentlemen, their merry laughter ringing out across the stately garden.

  A few clues revealed that this was not a night of pre-Revolutionary jollity at the court of Versailles: some of the dresses were scandalously low-cut and rather short, with the slim legs visible beneath clad in fishnet tights and feet on towering platform heels or sharp stilettos, or even, in one case, magenta biker boots with chrome buckles up the side. More than one hand was holding a cigarette, and more than one breast, back or shoulder sported a tattoo.

  This was no eighteenth-century soirée, but rather a twenty-first-century party where the rich and privileged of society had gathered to play. ‘Fête Champêtre’ the invitation had proclaimed in gold engraving on the stiffest card, to celebrate the twenty-first birthdays of Octavia and Flora Beaufort. Dress: Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI.

  A group of girls sat on two semi-circular stone benches in the rose garden, dressed in a riot of silks, petticoats and wigs.

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing a wig, Amanda?’ asked one, who had a peroxide-white tower on her head with fat ringlets falling on to her snowy bosom.

  ‘Because, Suze,’ said Amanda sweetly, putting her head on one side, ‘I’ve come as Madame de Pompadour.’

  ‘Oh.’ Suze looked blank, her round eyes wide. ‘But didn’t the invitation say Marie Antoinette? Who is Madame de Pompadour?’

  ‘She was a royal mistress,’ Amanda said, her nose in the air. ‘One of the people who held real power at court. Do you like my dress?’ She looked down at her costume with satisfaction. ‘I sent my pet dressmaker to look at the portrait in the Wallace Collection, and then had her make it up. It’s come out rather well.’

  The others gazed at the splendid confection. It was a beautiful shimmering sea blue, cut low, with a rose-pink silk bodice adorned with large pink silk bows that narrowed towards the tiny waist. The full skirts below were like something from a fairy-tale princess’s gown, festoon
ed with ruffles and miniature pink roses. The sleeves were tight to the elbow, then billowed out into a cascade of silk and lace, with tiny bows stitched wherever a tiny bow could be put. Amanda wore no jewellery but round her neck was a delicate chiffon fichu in the same pink as the roses. On her feet were rosy silk slippers with bows on their high stiff fronts. She looked magnificent.

  ‘I’m not David Starkey or anything,’ drawled another of the girls sitting on the benches, ‘but wasn’t Madame de Pompadour the mistress of Louis XV, not Louis XVI? You’re about fifty years out of date, sweetie.’

  Amanda smiled condescendingly. ‘Don’t split hairs, Claudia darling. I’m in a bloody costume, aren’t I? Besides, you can talk. You’re covered in fake tan and wearing sunglasses! Was Marie Antoinette satsuma-coloured? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Piss off, sweetie. No one comes between me and my sunnies.’ Claudia smoothed out her own candy-pink taffeta dress. ‘Anyone know the time? I’m not wearing my Cartier.’ She looked over at the sundial near the centre of the rose garden. ‘That thing’s useless at night. Not that I’d know how to read it in the daytime anyway.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can see it at all, with those sunglasses on,’ murmured Amanda.

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ piped up someone else.

  Amanda pouted and looked sulky. ‘Ten o’clock? For God’s sake, how long do you think we’re going to have to wait? I only came to see those girls. I can’t think of any other reason for coming out here to the back of beyond. How long are they going to hide away? This is their party, for fuck’s sake.’

  Just then a voice said loudly, ‘Joan Fish, as I live and breathe! Joan Fish, is that you?’ and a man at the tail end of middle age, with white hair, bright brown eyes and suspiciously unlined skin, appeared on the path leading to the benches. He went straight to Amanda and bent to kiss her.

  ‘Gerry darling.’ Amanda offered him one smooth cheek and then another as she pursed her own rosy lips and touched the air with a kiss. ‘I’m not Joan Fish, I’m Madame de Pompadour.’

  ‘Same difference.’ Gerry Harbord gave a flourish of his wrist, flicking out the waterfall of lace ruffles that emerged from his startlingly tight frock coat. ‘La Pompadour was just a sexy little parvenue, sweetheart. She may have died a marquise but she was born plain Mademoiselle Jeanne Poisson. Or Joan Fish, as I call her. Still, one can’t fault her taste. She was exquisite – and so are you.’ He looked around at the others politely. ‘You all look fabulous.’

  Suze twirled a ringlet round one finger and said, ‘What I don’t understand is why everyone’s making such a fuss anyway. Who are these girls? I’ve never heard of them.’

  Gerry breathed in sharply. ‘Never heard of the Beauforts? What on earth are you saying?’

  Claudia laughed. ‘Oh, Suze, you are an idiot. Surely you know about the Beaufort money. It all came from steel, I think. A couple of generations back at least.’

  ‘And you must have heard of that divorce,’ chimed in Amanda.

  ‘The custody battle,’ sighed Gerry. ‘Two little girls, fatherless, left with their feckless mother, then taken in by their aunt after a vicious court case.’

  Suze seemed puzzled, her small face looking rather comical under the great wig she was wearing. ‘But that must have been years ago.’

  Claudia tossed back her long dark curls over one shoulder. ‘I remember seeing that court case all over the news like anyone else, though it didn’t mean much to me at the time. Suze is right, it was fifteen years ago, wasn’t it? And I haven’t heard anything about them since.’

  ‘Hardly anyone has,’ Gerry said mysteriously. ‘They’ve been protected like little princesses in purdah. Who knows why? But all that’s about to change.’ He smiled at the little group. ‘Now, I’m going to steal my darling Amanda away, I simply can’t go a moment longer without her. Do excuse us, ladies.’

  He offered his arm to Amanda, who stood up and took it, and they walked away together along the path, leaving the other girls staring after them. They made a striking couple, with Gerry outfitted in a magnificent cream coat and matching breeches, the shimmering silk embroidered with golden birds sitting in twisting golden vines. He had attached a curling white tail of hair to the back of his head, tied with a black velvet ribbon. ‘You’re very out of fashion, darling,’ he murmured. ‘Scandalous.’

  Amanda smiled at him mischievously. ‘I know what I’m doing. Everyone else was going to come in huge white nylon wigs, all struggling to outdo each other.’ She put her hand to her head. ‘So this is my take on Madame de Pompadour … a little modern twist.’ Her hair, usually a rich brown and cut into a full, wavy bob, had been dyed a colour that was almost silver until the light caught it in a certain way and then it glowed the softest lavender. It was pulled back into a simple chignon, and pinned with a few more miniature silk roses to match the ones on her dress.

  ‘Now, I love that,’ Gerry told her. ‘It ought to look pure Mrs Slocombe but somehow it doesn’t. So clever. I might have known you’d do something a little special, Amanda. You never let one down.’

  ‘And if I know you, Gerry, you’ll have the same colour by Monday morning, and claim it was all your idea,’ Amanda retorted, although she smiled at his compliment. They progressed up the long walk towards the splendid Queen Anne house that dominated the night skyline. The strains of a Haydn string quartet floated out from the terrace on the night air. ‘Now listen, I want to know when these blasted girls are going to make an appearance. If anyone knows anything, it’ll be you. There are furious rumours going around that you planned this whole bash. You always get Chloe de Montforte on the harp – and there she is, strumming away by the grand staircase. I’d guess the guest list is your work too. All your pals are here.’

  Gerry looked pleased. ‘Of course I did, my dear. Frances called me. She’s an angel … a bit stiff perhaps but a darling at heart. She knows no one, though. Just think – all that money and not a friend to call her own, only that crusty old husband of hers. She told me about her scheme to launch the girls in society, and I simply clapped my hands with joy. It was just too adorable! Two little nuns, never been seen out of the convent, and here they are, making their debut as no one does any more. If a girl retains much of her unworldly innocence beyond thirteen these days, she’s probably a simpleton. So refreshing to find two of them so unspoiled.’

  ‘Oh, spare me,’ muttered Amanda, rolling her eyes. ‘And have you actually met them? They’ve been under lock and key for so long, I’ve begun to think that they don’t really exist at all.’

  ‘Well … no, not really. I spied a couple of portraits in the house when I visited but one never can tell how true to life they are.’ Gerry looked a little shame-faced, as though he had failed his own high standards of social spying. ‘But it was my idea that they should appear at just before midnight, like a pair of Cinderellas. And it was my idea too to have a fête champêtre,’ he added happily.

  ‘Yes – it has your queeny old fingerprints all over it.’ Amanda giggled.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘I forgive you for disobeying the dress code and coming out of period,’ he declared nobly. ‘Isn’t that nice of me? Now, here comes a footman with some champagne. You clearly need a drink. I decreed gallons of vintage Krug and the old girl didn’t bat an eyelid. There are cases and cases and cases of it. And there’s a special surprise later too.’ He lifted two flutes off the footman’s tray and passed one to Amanda. ‘Are you hungry? I’m starving. Let’s go to the Orangery. There’s a supper laid out there and, if I say so myself, it’s inspired.’

  They moved through the crowds. The revellers had by now been drinking and eating for a couple of hours and there were already signs of dilapidation among them: some wigs were looking distinctly askew, velvet ribbons and silk stocks were no longer crisply tied but hung down loosely, and some of the carefully applied make-up was a little smudged. The younger crowd had disappeared inside to the ballroom, which had been transformed with black velvet drapery
and twinkling starlit cloths into a modern dance floor, the whole room pounding with the beat from the sound booth. The Orangery was quieter, with the strains of Haydn floating in from the terrace, and an older crowd relaxing among the armchairs and chaise-longues that Gerry had arranged be put there: their rich damasks and silks, laden with cushions, looked theatrical and stylish among the great stone pots, pedestals and statues that adorned the room.

  It was certainly an amazing feast, with everything displayed as elaborately as possible: towers of seafood decorated with seaweed and oyster shells full of caviar, ice sculptures of cupids dancing in the middle of exquisite jellied terrines, whole salmon scaled in the tiniest, whitest slivers of cucumber, curling about ice waves. Lobsters, oysters, smoked chickens, foie gras, sides of beef and glistening hams studded with cloves … it was a riot of plenty and, in the manner of the period, focused predominantly on meat, which suited most of the society ladies who were on high-protein diets and refused to touch potatoes or bread.

  Just then, Gerry was collared by an elderly dowager so Amanda went to admire the buffet table. She leaned over and plucked a langoustine from a tower of fruits de mer, dipping it into a jug of rich, yellow mayonnaise. While she ate it, she studied the table opposite where the puddings were laid out. They were just as marvellous: marzipan castles decorated in crystallised fruit, baskets of raspberries, blueberries and candied currants; towering, wobbling milk blancmanges swathed in cream, champagne jellies with violet and rose petals suspended in them, vast pillowy meringues drenched in vanilla-flecked cream and studded with scarlet strawberries. All was exquisitely beautiful, displayed on Meissen, Sèvres and Venetian glass, like a banquet from a fairy story.

  Gerry returned as she was finishing her third langoustine, unable to resist their delicate sweetness. He looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, my darling, the countess insisted on talking to me about her party. She wants me to organise it but of course she wants all this’ – he waved a hand about – ‘for a fraction of the price. I don’t think people really understand how much a bash like this costs.’

  ‘Go on, tell me. How much?’ Amanda said mischievously. ‘Daddy spent fifty grand on my twenty-first and it wasn’t a patch on this.’ She licked a finger delicately and smiled at Gerry.