Death in a Stately Home: Book Three in the Murder on Location series

by Sara Rosett

  A slightly paunchy middle-aged man with curly brown hair, he was about two inches shorter than his wife, and his clothes were as casual as Jo’s were dressy. But he didn’t look the least bit intimidated or worried that he was underdressed in his white polo shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and leather sandals. He hovered slightly behind Jo, looking content to let her do all the talking. “Jay,” he said, shoving a large smartphone into his pocket and extending his hand.

  I returned his greeting, and Beatrice said, “First names are fine for now, but tonight we’ll use formal address at dinner. We must be Regency appropriate for at least one night.” She looked toward Waverly. “Tea?”

  “Being served on the terrace,” he said, his face expressionless.

  “Very good.” Beatrice turned back to the Funderburgs. “Perhaps you’d like to freshen up then join us for tea?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Jo said.

  “Thomas will show you to your room,” Beatrice said as Thomas floated out of one of the deep corners of the room, already toting two large suitcases. I noticed the couple exchange a quick smile before following Thomas up the staircase. It was one of those quiet glances that I’d sometimes seen married couples exchange, full of meaning and only for each other. Holly quickly closed the distance to Beatrice and drew her into a discussion over the tablet as they went back toward the estate office. Sir Harold nodded and drifted toward the library.

  I turned, intending to go to the terrace, but I faltered after only a few steps. The house was huge, and the only times I’d walked through it before had been when areas were roped off and guides directed you along a path that wound through the rooms.

  A chorus of voices in a soprano pitch echoed up to the vaulted ceiling as three young women came down the grand staircase. A curvy woman with black corkscrew curls cut in a long bob and a porcelain complexion was at the center of the group. She wore distressed skinny jeans with a white T-shirt with the word “Bride” stitched in curly font. She swiped her finger across her phone, then held it out to her two companions. “Did you see this one? Isn’t it just too, too gorgeous?”

  A lanky woman on her right, her thin blond hair caught back in a ponytail, which was additionally secured with a thin headband, smiled perfunctorily. “Cute.” She wore black running shorts, a hot pink sleeveless workout top in a dry weave fabric, and expensive running shoes. Her face was free of makeup, and her hair was damp around the hairline.

  The petite woman on the other side of the bride wore black jeans and a white top with a cowl neckline. Her dark brown hair feathered around her face. She had a small mouth and large dark eyes. She looked at the phone longer, then said, “Umm, very sparkly, but don’t you think it might be a bit much? For a headpiece, I mean. You want everyone looking at your face, not your tiara, right?”

  “See, that’s why I brought you, Amanda. You’re so sensible.” The woman in the bride shirt pounded down the last few steps, her generous bosom bouncing. She spotted me. “Oh, another new person. Hello, I’m Beth Coleson. At least for now, I am. In a year, I’ll be Mrs. Hugo Stanhope-Smithy.” Her tone indicated that I should recognize the name of her fiancée. “These are my bridesmaids. We’re planning the wedding this weekend. I thought it best to get away so we could give it our complete concentration.”

  “How…nice,” I said and introduced myself.

  Beth grinned happily at me then pointed to her lanky blond friend, “This is Torrie Peters. She has no interest in all this wedding stuff at all, but she’s been my best friend since we were three so she’s my chief bridesmaid.”

  Torrie trotted down the last steps and shook my hand. “I’m only here to make sure there are no bows or ruffles,” she said flatly. “I don’t do well in ruffles.”

  It didn’t sound like Torrie had much interest in fashion, but it did seem she had good instincts when it came to her body type. Fussy, frilly styles wouldn’t go with her rather boyish build.

  “And this is Amanda Atherton,” Beth said, turning to her brunette friend, who glided down the last few steps and extended her hand. “Amanda is a chef.”

  “Sous-chef,” Amanda said quickly.

  Beth rolled her eyes and waved off the distinction. “She makes sublime desserts. She’s making my cake and helping with…well, everything else. She’s so organized and efficient.”

  “So are you interested in the Regency weekend?” I asked.

  “Sure. It’s a nice bonus. What we really needed was the peace and quiet of this weekend to plan. Although, it will be so much fun to dress up. I absolutely adore dressing up.” Beth squeezed her shoulders together and wrinkled her nose.

  I glanced around the group and noticed Torrie looked less than enthusiastic. Amanda had a half smile on her face and was shaking her head slightly. Her expression might have been captioned, “resigned exasperation,” which made me wonder if she was more an unpaid wedding planner than a friend. Beth’s face went serious. “Of course the Regency stuff is fun and all, but we can’t forget the real reason we’re here—my wedding.”

  I suspected that no one in Beth’s immediate vicinity would be allowed to forget it.

  “Why are you here? Are you with anyone else?” Beth asked, her gaze roving around the corners of the entry.

  “No, I’m on my own. I’m doing research.” I left it at that. I’d met people like Beth before and knew that despite her declaration of being solely interested in planning her wedding, if I mentioned the words television documentary production, she’d be after me like a magpie after a shiny trinket. “Are you on your way to tea? I’m looking for the terrace and don’t know how to get there.”

  “Come with us.” Beth linked her arm through mine. “Amanda knows the way.” She nodded for Amanda to go first.

  By the time we arrived on the terrace, I’d seen Beth’s ring, a diamond so large that I wondered if it would give her carpel tunnel syndrome from the sheer weight of lugging it around. I also learned that Beth had met Amanda at school and various other tidbits about the upcoming wedding, including the date and the potential color schemes and themes, which were still under consideration.

  Several café tables and chairs were scattered about the flagstone terrace, which I recognized as being connected to the larger terrace at the back of the house next to the gift shop where the tours of the house ended. Thirsty tourists often stopped at the tea shop located near that larger terrace before touring Parkview’s grounds. This terrace was more intimate and gave a view of a long stretch of parkland with a fountain. Antique telescopes were mounted on each end of the terrace.

  A few groups of people were already seated, and somehow Beatrice had beat us here. She expertly disengaged me from Beth’s group with the excuse that I hadn’t met everyone yet. She guided me to a table with a couple who didn’t seem to go together at first glance. A woman in her mid-thirties wore a Regency dress of what I supposed was sprigged muslin—it was lightweight and patterned with tiny pink flowers—with cap sleeves and a pink sash. The man at her side looked to be near her age, but he was dressed in modern clothes, dark slacks and a faded blue collared polo shirt that strained over his biceps.

  The woman looked up at me from under the brim of her straw bonnet, which covered all of her hair except a few red bangs that brushed her forehead. Beatrice introduced her as Audrey Page. The skin around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “I couldn’t wait to wear period clothes,” she said without a hint of self-consciousness. “When I found out about the house party, I was so excited. An opportunity to wear my Regency clothes, and at a true stately home!”

  “So the clothes are yours?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I love Jane Austen and the Regency. I’ve been making historic clothing for years for other people—sort of a sideline to my real work. I’m in graphic design—freelance, you know, but for years I’ve wanted to get involved in reenactments, but our girls were too small. Now that they’re older, I’ve decided to join a local chapter, but you must have the correct clothes, so I’ve made four dresse
s for myself. I’m so excited to get to wear them this weekend.”

  “Your dress is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She shot a glance at the burly man beside her. “Now, I just have to get Simon into his coat and breeches tonight. I think he’ll love it once he wears it.”

  He looked up from a notepad. “You’ve talked me into it this once, but no more.” He had a large nose and a gap between his front teeth. He had a rougher vibe than his wife that made me think he might have been a boxer. He bent his shaved head over the paper, and Audrey winked at Beatrice and me. “We’ll see.”

  Simon harrumphed, but didn’t contradict her.

  Audrey said, “I only managed to convince Simon to come because he’s interested in preparedness. He’s already had a long chat with the housekeeper about canned food storage.”

  Simon nodded. “Excellent example of sustainability in the pre-war years.”

  “We try to carry on the traditions where we’re able,” Beatrice said then moved me on to the next table, which had a solitary occupant. “Kate, this is Michael Jaffery.”

  The young man, probably in his early twenties, put his finger in a book with a butterfly on the cover. He was the complete opposite of Simon Page. Thin and rather gawky, his rumpled suit jacket hung on his bony shoulders. He shook my hand and mumbled it was nice to meet me, but kept his head ducked and angular shoulders hunched as if he didn’t want to talk. His thin blond hair fell forward against the rims of his circular glasses.

  “Mr. Jaffery is writing a book on lepidoptery,” Beatrice said.

  “Butterflies?” I asked, nodding to the book.

  “Yes,” he answered me, but I noticed that his gaze was drawn to Amanda as she crossed the terrace.

  “He’s here to consult the Parkview collection,” Beatrice said. “The second baronet was an extensive collector, a study that Sir Harold has also taken up.”

  Amanda sat down at a table with Beth and Torrie, her back toward us. Michael drew his attention back to us. “It’s one of the best collections in Britain,” Michael said, reverence in his voice.

  “We’re glad you could stay for the house party,” Beatrice said as Sir Harold ambled over from another group and sat down with Michael, who managed to sit a little straighter.

  “Hello, Sir Harold,” Michael said. “Frightfully nice of you to invite me to stay.”

  “Delighted you are here. Now, tell me about your book. I understand you’re especially interested in our blues.”

  I assumed Sir Harold was referring to butterflies, not music, and Beatrice confirmed it with a tilt of her head, indicating we could move on. “They will be at it for hours.”

  She steered me to the final couple at another table. I did a double take, which I hoped wasn’t as noticeable as I feared. If I’d had a chance to read over the packet with the guest bios I wouldn’t have been surprised, but I didn’t expect to meet two celebrities at the house party.

  Beatrice announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Toby Clay,” but she didn’t have to. This was one couple who I wouldn’t have to struggle to remember their names. Toby Clay and his trophy wife Monique were household names, but for completely different reasons.

  Toby was a millionaire entrepreneur who dabbled in all sorts of things now, but he’d gotten his start in online gambling, purchasing the domain name Longshot and revamping the site right before online gambling surged in popularity. I don’t normally keep up with British movers-and-shakers, but a year or so ago, he’d married Monique Gillbank, who frequently appeared in the tabloid press. It didn’t matter how uninterested you were in celebrity news, the couple, which the media dubbed “Tonique,” a combination of their two first names, was everywhere—on the covers of the tabloids at the checkout in the grocery, at the newsstand, and on the television news as their relationship became the leading human interest story of last summer.

  I supposed the reason for all the hype was that they were an unlikely couple. A relationship between a rich, freshly divorced businessman from his wife of nearly a decade and a young socialite who seemed to move from one train-wreck moment to another was catnip to the celebrity press. Monique was one of those troubled famous people who show up in the news at frequent intervals, the media documenting her every failure and misstep. The fact that she seemed to court the attention, even revel in it, only drew the media to her more.

  The family business, Gillbank Pharmaceuticals, was a household name in the States as well as in the U.K. She was the only daughter of the family, and had made a career out of dressing outrageously and getting caught while driving under the influence. The fact that her family was in the drug business had made for some incredibly tacky headlines after her arrest. She’d managed to parley her fifteen minutes of fame into several years of coverage. With her platinum blond hair styled in retro curves, blood-red lips, and white halter-top sundress, she looked as if she were a Marilyn Monroe impersonator.

  Toby put down his tea cup and stood as Beatrice introduced me, his gaze running lazily over my figure. He was good-looking with mesmerizing blue eyes in a tan face and had a carelessly charismatic, I-live-the-good-life aura. “Charmed,” he said, holding my hand a bit too long. Coming from anyone else, that line would have seemed trite, but he carried it off.

  Beatrice introduced me to Monique, who stayed in her chair and only tilted her head an inch, the huge dark ovals of her sunglasses hiding her eyes. Her ruby lips twitched to one side as Toby motioned to a third chair. “Won’t you join us?”

  I slipped into the chair. Beatrice nodded for a footman to serve me tea, which he did, but only before quietly asking if I would like the welcome packet I’d been carrying around sent to my room. I handed it off, and he traded it for my tea.

  “If I could have your attention for a moment.” Beatrice had moved to the center of the terrace. “Sir Harold and I would like to welcome you to Parkview. We hope you enjoy the house party. If you need anything, anything at all, let one of the staff know, and they will take care of you.”

  I glanced around, remembering that Beatrice had asked me to focus on the staff. I’d been so wrapped up in meeting the other guests and concentrating on names that I hadn’t even noticed the staff, but as I looked now, I saw that several of the staff stood around the edge of the terrace, wearing historical uniforms of footmen and maids. Holly hovered inside the doors that opened into a sitting room, her navy blazer blending in with the shadows. If it weren’t for her bright whitish blond hair, I would have missed her. Her attention was focused on the computer tablet. Everyone seemed to be doing exactly what they should be—attending to the guests, removing empty cups, or offering plates of cakes and sandwiches.

  “To make your experience as immersive as possible, we have one request. Please silence your cell phones and refrain from using them in the common areas. We ask that you be considerate of your fellow guests and abide by this rule. I realize not everyone here is interested in historical accuracy.” Beatrice’s gaze skimmed over Monique and Toby. “But some guests do want to experience a true Regency house party and that will only be possible if everyone cooperates.”

  Monique let out a little huff, but changed a setting on her phone, which she had placed on the table beside her teacup. As a couple of the other guests removed phones from purses or pockets and followed Beatrice’s request, an orange and black butterfly flittered along a low hedge that surrounded the terrace then drifted toward Audrey’s straw bonnet. She patted Simon’s arm to get his attention. He was absorbed in watching the other guests, and it took a firmer poke for Audrey to draw his attention, but by then the butterfly had moved on. It dipped near Monique’s plate, which contained one sandwich splayed open. She’d apparently eaten the slice of cucumber and left the bread. The butterfly flitted lower, and Monique whipped her hands back and forth, shooing it away, her long, red fingernails blurring with her almost frantic movements.

  Toby didn’t move a finger to pull out a cell phone. I wondered if it was because he thought he was above the rules, or
if he didn’t have a cell phone on him. He struck me as the type of person who would hand off as much as possible to an assistant.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said. “Now, on to the more enjoyable things. We dine at seven-thirty tonight, but will meet in the large drawing room at seven for drinks. I look forward to seeing you all in your Regency finest,” Beatrice concluded and went to join the Funderburgs. She would introduce them to everyone once they’d had their tea. I never realized what hard work it was to be a hostess.

  “Not me,” Monique muttered. The screen on her phone flashed with a new message. She tossed her sunglasses on the table and grabbed the phone. Toby sent her a cold glance then explained to me. “My wife doesn’t wear anything that isn’t couture.”

  “Well, it would seem that handmade Regency gowns would be about as couture as you could get,” I said. “Everything looked to be one of a kind. At least the ones in my room were each unique.”

  Monique had been tapping out a text, but she paused long enough to give me a pitying stare as she arched one golden eyebrow. She had gorgeous topaz eyes thickly fringed with dark lashes. Now that the glasses were off, I could see that the pictures in the tabloids hadn’t done her justice. The combination of high cheekbones, flawless skin, and sculpted lips combined with her unusual golden brown eyes made her a beautiful woman. “I brought my own gowns for dinner.” She went back to texting.

  Okay, so more beautiful on the outside than the inside.

  A chair behind me scraped across the flagstones as Sir Harold rose. “Let me get the monograph to show you.” Michael half rose to follow him, but Sir Harold waved him back to his chair. “No, wait here. It is just in the sitting room. Won’t be a moment. I was reading it yesterday. It has some interesting information on the Dwarf Blue from South Africa.” Sir Harold moved across the terrace to the sitting room.

  I returned my attention to my table mates. Toby was frowning at Monique. “Not everyone finds fashion so consuming.” Unlike her completely smooth face, his face was rough and the skin wrinkled into deep furrows around his eyes as he smiled an apology at me. “Do you dress for dinner tonight in Regency clothes?”