by Robin Paige
But no matter. One would see how it all came out. A footman stepped forward to refill his glass with champagne, and he looked up to find the American woman watching him curiously. The Americans—quite charming, they were, and much more free and natural than British women. Randy Churchill’s widow, Jenny, for instance, a beautiful lady, amazingly accomplished. Randy had married better than he deserved.
Sir Friedrich smiled at Miss Ardleigh—undeniably attractive,. at least as pretty as Jenny, and fifteen or so years younger—and lifted his glass in cordial salute. During the evening’s entertainment, he would make her acquaintance. A friendly American woman might be just the breath of fresh air he needed to clear out his stale head. There was certainly nothing wrong with taking a bit of pleasure with one’s work, and she might prove very useful.
10
Did ye not hear it?—No; ‘twas but the wind
Or the carriage rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
—LORD BYRON Destruction of Sennacherib
The kitchen and scullery maids had just gotten started with the washing up, and the butler and several footmen were serving after-dinner wines and cordials in the drawing room while the evening’s entertainment was under way. Lawrence had laid out Mr. Marsden’s clothes and tended to his before-dinner needs (he had, after all, been a valet for some years before he added mechanicing to his bag of tricks), then made his way to the servants’ hall, where he joined the general revelry. Some were playing cards on upturned boxes, others were telling tales in the chimney corner, and several had pushed the table against the wall to make room for dancing. In accompaniment, one of the gardeners was fingering a reel on a wheezy concertina, while a coachman sawed away on a fiddle and a porter kept time with a spoon on a battered kettle.
“I still say ‘twas a kick in th’ ’ead,” maintained Benton, the shaggy Easton groom who had that morning discovered the body of the ill-fated lad in the Royal stall.
“Belike they’ll niver find out ‘ow ’t ’appened,” Winnie Wospottle said from her stool in front of the fire, a disheveled rose, her face reflecting the firelight and a gaudy red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“Too bad,” said a pretty brown-haired maid named Meg. “Th’ boy were a likely lad, an’ ’andsome.” She shook her head and her red ribbon fluttered. “Marsh says they doan’t want t’ find out ‘ow ’t ’appened. ‘E says they doan’t care ’bout a dead servant any more’n they cared ‘bout a livin’ one wi’ ’is leg shot off.” The disgruntled Marsh, Lawrence had been given to understand, was upstairs tending to his duties as a footman.
“They’ll find out,” Lawrence said with assurance. He was smoking a cigarette, one elbow propped against the mantel. “Sir Charles is a great detective, ‘e is.”
Benton shrugged. “Well, yer detective’s been detectin’ all day an’ ‘e doan’t seem t’ve learned noffin’ yit. So I doan’t reckon as how ’e’s so great.”
Meg got up and went to the other side of the room. Foster, a good-looking youngster who worked as a maintenance man on the estate, stretched out his hands to the fire. “If th’ copper wants t’ learn somfin‘, ’e ought t’ talk t’ Deaf John.”
“‘E’s no copper,” Lawrence said defensively.
“Then why’s ’e doin’ a copper’s work?”
“‘Cause ’e likes it.” Lawrence leaned forward. “‘Oo’s Deaf John?”
“Th’ farrier,” Foster said. “Meg’s father.”
“Why should Sir Charles talk to th’ farrier?”
“ ‘Cause ’e saw somebody comin’ out o’ th’ barn. ‘E thinks it cud’uv bin th’ one’oo killed th’ Prince’s groom.”
“Somebody?” Lawrence asked. “A servant?”
Foster shook his head. “No servant. Somebody wrapped in a cloak.”
“A woman, then?” Lawrence asked, sensing that he had learned something of potential importance. “I’ll tell Sir Charles.”
“‘Ullo, Lawrence.”
Lawrence looked up to see Amelia standing close beside him. She was wearing the blue frock he fancied, and her hair was tied back with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes. She looked young and demure and lovely, and the sight and scent of her, delicate as lilacs in spring, caught at his throat.
“‘Ullo, Amelia,” he said, feeling his heart thump in his chest like a wounded bird.
Amelia’s smile was shyly bold, and she held out her hand. “‘Ud ye like t’ dance wi’ me, Lawrence?”
Lawrence was about to say that it was his dearest wish, but Winnie stood up from her stool and crowded against him.
“Acquaintance o’ yers, Quibbley?” She smiled generously at Amelia, flashing a bright gold tooth. “Any friend o’ Quibbley’s is a friend o’ mine.”
Lawrence shifted his weight in the opposite direction. “Amelia,” he said, “this is Winn, ‘oo manages th’ laundry. Winn, this is Amelia. Her an’ me, we—” His tongue seemed to trip. The room had become fiercely hot.
Amelia held out her hand. “ ‘Ow ’bout that dance?” she asked sweetly.
As he lifted his arm, Winnie took it and clung. “Jes’ what I was goin’ t’ suggest,” she said. She beamed up at Lawrence. “‘Member those nights on th’ West Pier, Quibbley? We used t’ dance ’til daybreak, we did. An’ afterwards—”
Lawrence cleared his throat, beginning to feel desperate. “Amelia,” he began, but she interrupted him.
“Oh, that’s alright, Lawrence,” she said, lifting her chin. “I kin see yer otherwise ‘ngaged.” She turned to Foster, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she came in. “Ye look th’ sort ’oo likes t’ dance, luv,” she said gaily. “Shall we?”
And Lawrence, feeling the Saharan winds of jealousy blowing through his soul, was forced to yield to the iron grip of Winnie Wospottle, while Amelia and Foster whirled around the floor on flying feet.
Upstairs, dinner was over in an hour, as it always was when the Prince was a table guest. The women having adjourned to the drawing room, the men pushed back their chairs and settled down to their customary port and cigars. They had broken into two groups, those at Lord Warwick’s end of the table and those around the Prince. After his glass had been filled and then filled again, the Prince caught Charles’s eye and beckoned. Guessing what was wanted, Charles stepped behind the Prince’s chair and quietly reported the outcome of his investigation.
His Highness grunted, obviously displeased. “What am I to tell Alix, then?” He puffed his cigar. “Come now, Charles. You’re bound to have found a clue or two.”
Charles sighed. The Prince had a reputation for refusing to let go an idea he fancied. “Unfortunately, the boy’s body was relocated prior to my arrival, sir. The stall from which it was taken had been so thoroughly disturbed that I could learn nothing there. As I said, the lad’s injury might have been caused by a horse—but it could also have been inflicted by a fall from the loft above, or by a blow from a blunt instrument. I doubt that even a surgeon’s examination would tell us more.”
The Prince puffed on his cigar. “Have you questioned all the servants?”
“I’ve spoken to the grooms and stableboys. No one admits to seeing anything.”
“Well, then, question them again, damnit. Someone is hiding something, I’m convinced of it. If you don’t learn anything from the stable staff, question the others.”
“All eighty of them?” Charles asked, carefully showing no expression. “As well as the servants of the guests?”
“How else are you going to find out what happened?” The Prince thrust his cigar back into his mouth and spoke around it. “Daisy has given me to understand that you’re going along on tomorrow morning’s little expedition.”
“She has asked me to photograph the occasion, yes,” Charles said. “Of course,” he added disingenuously, “if Your Highness would pr
efer me to stay at Easton and question the servants—”
“Question the servants in the afternoon,” the Prince said with a wave of his hand. “By all means, come with us. The more the merrier.” He sighed ruefully. “I must say, I don’t know why Daisy wants to inflict on me the ugly sight of a mass of wretched souls in a workhouse. But she has a generous heart, easily moved. One credits her with benevolent intentions.” He glanced down the table at Bradford, who was talking to Kirk-Smythe, the young Guards lieutenant. “And I am to ride in your Daimler, Marsden?”
Bradford looked up. “Oh, yes, sir,” he said eagerly.
“You know how to pilot the blasted thing, I trust. It is in good working condition?”
“Oh, right, sir. Tip-top.” Bradford cleared his throat. “Of course you know, sir, the Daimler is imported. I fear we have let France and Germany have the lead where motorcar manufacture is concerned. Unless we begin producing English automobiles in England—”
“That’s fine, then,” the Prince said, standing. “I wouldn’t fancy having to give the bloody thing a push.” He raised his voice so it could be heard the length of the table. “Brookie! What do you say, Warwick, old chap? Shall we join the ladies? I understand they expect us to dance with them.” He turned to Charles with a more kindly look. “You don’t have to start those interrogations tonight, Sheridan. I’ve seen you ogling that auburn-haired American woman. I waltzed with her last night, and she is quite light on her feet. You must ask her to dance.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said, not unwillingly. He and the Prince were rising to leave when HRH was accosted by Reggie Wallace, whose face showed signs of nervous agitation.
“Bertie, there’s something we must discuss,” he said peremptorily. He glanced at Charles and the three or four others in a nearby group. “A private matter, of some delicacy.”
The Prince patted his bulging waistcoat and puffed on his cigar. “Let us not speak of unpleasant things tonight, Reggie. I am looking forward to being entertained by the ladies.”
Wallace shook his head stubbornly. “This is a matter of urgency, Sire,” he said. He dropped his voice. “It concerns your reputation, and that of our hostess.”
“Ah, more of that,” the Prince said, with irritation. “In that case, it can surely keep until breakfast. Deliver it to me with the sausages, eh?”
Wallace was about to say something more, but a dark look from the Prince silenced him.
Upstairs, a space had been cleared at one end of the elegant gas-lit drawing room. A group of musicians was seated in front of the green velvet draperies and had struck up a gay Strauss waltz. The Prince went to Lady Warwick, bowed low over her hand, and led her onto the floor, which was a signal for the rest of the gentlemen to search out partners.
Charles stood off to one side, watching. Having just been assigned the unwelcome (and to his way of thinking, pointless) task of interviewing a hoard of servants, he did not feel very much like dancing. What he wanted most was to sit and talk quietly with Kate and forget about investigations. He wanted to broach the subject he had been considering before dinner, although he hadn’t yet thought of a good way to do it. Charles had never before admitted to being in love, let alone made a proposal, and he felt like an awkward school-boy. But, he reminded himself, he did not intend to propose marriage, at least not tonight. He intended merely to sound Kate out on the subject, that was all—to see what her feelings were. He was about to go in search of her when he was stopped by the man to whom Bradford had been talking at table.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said the officer, a handsome young man of military bearing. He sported a small blond mustache and his pale hair was brushed smoothly back from a broad forehead. “Andrew Kirk-Smythe,” he said. “Scots Guards. Taking a few days off from maneuvers in the New Forest.”
“Charles Sheridan.” Charles took his hand. The life of a young officer in the Foot Guards could be quite pleasant, he knew. Soldiering here at home was not taken very seriously, and the mess was run by civilian caterers, so that the food and wines were quite civilized. Most officers did themselves well, and it looked as if Kirk-Smythe was no exception. Underneath the young man’s smart savoir faire, however, Charles thought he detected a certain uneasiness.
“Couldn’t help overhearing you and HRH,” Kirk-Smythe said. He smoothed his mustache and gave Charles an ingratiating smile. “I say, old man, it’s a beastly job you’ve got there, talking to all those servants.”
“Right,” Charles said ruefully. “A devil of a job.”
Kirk-Smythe straightened his shoulders, as if he were coming to attention. “Well, then,” he said crisply, “I shall be glad to offer my services. If it would lighten your burden, I can undertake to interview the outdoor staff.”
Charles was mildly amazed. He wouldn’t have expected a young Guards lieutenant, particularly one so meticulously turned out, to volunteer for such distasteful duty. What was his incentive? “I appreciate the offer,” he replied, “but surely you have more pressing demands on your time.”
“Wouldn’t want you to get the short end of the stick,” Kirk-Smythe muttered. “Been in thankless positions too often myself.”
From the young man’s sleek, well-groomed appearance, Charles doubted that he had ever found himself in any sort of thankless position. His mistrust must have shown in his face, for Kirk-Smythe added, with clear discomfort, “I’ve been at Easton several times before, you see. I know my way around. What do you say?”
“Yes,” Charles said thoughtfully. “Well, let’s talk tomorrow, shall we? I don’t expect to start the interviews until sometime in the afternoon, in any event.”
Kirk-Smythe drew his heels together, and all but saluted. “Righto, then,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, a certain beautiful young lady is waiting to dance with me.” He motioned with his head in the direction of several ladies sitting on the other side of the room, among whom, Charles saw with dismay, was Kate Ardleigh.
As it turned out, Kirk-Smythe had another target in his sights. Next to Kate were Lady Verena Rochdale and her daughter Celia. As Charles watched, Kirk-Smythe possessed himself of Celia’s hand with a confidence that betrayed a prior arrangement. As they danced off, Lady Rochdale followed them with her eyes, frowning, clearly not pleased with the partner her daughter had accepted with such alacrity. He guessed that the mother had higher marital aspirations, and would remove her daughter from her admirer’s grasp. Kirk-Smythe was about to get, in his own words, the short end of the stick.
Charles shook his head. That was what had put him off marriage for so long: the artifice of it, the social maneuvering that went with it, the family ambitions that attached to it. He wanted none of that where his own marriage was concerned—although he suspected that the minute his mother knew of his interest in Kate, the questions would begin. Who was she? Who were her parents and grandparents? Where in England did she come from? When did she come out (which was a decorous way of inquiring about her age)? What were her circumstances—meaning, did she bring her own fortune, or would her family provide her an adequate allowance? At the thought, his insides shriveled. No, if he were to marry, it would best be done without consulting his mother.
He walked across the room, greeted Lady Rochdale more curtly than he might have done, and turned to Kate. She looked more beautiful this evening than he had ever seen her. Her russet hair was piled high on her head and decorated with peacock feathers. She wore a green silk gown that exactly matched the emeralds at her white throat. He found himself thinking that the family diamonds would look much more lovely on Kate than on his sister-in-law, and wrenched his eyes away.
“I’m afraid I’m not a particularly good dancer,” he confessed, and saw Lady Rochdale’s right eyebrow go up at his unusual candor. “But if you would care to risk a waltz—”
“Thank you,” she said promptly, rising from her chair with a smile. “To tell the truth, I am not especially fond of the waltz, Sir Charles.” She nodded at Lady Rochdale, wh
ose left eyebrow had risen to match her right, and took the arm he offered her. “Perhaps we could just walk.”
They strolled down the ornate room, glancing at the paintings and statuary arrayed along the wall, while Charles, who was not practiced at small talk, tried to find a smooth way into the topic he wanted to open. Try as he might, though, he could not think how to begin. It was not a subject one could come at obliquely, and it seemed much too direct to blurt out, “I have been thinking of marriage, Kate, and would like to hear your views on the topic.”
Kate, for her part, thought that Sir Charles was probably preoccupied with the investigation he was carrying out for the Prince. It was a matter in which she had a compelling interest as well, for Beryl Bardwell had decided that a murder in a stable—suitably disguised, of course, so that it could not be traced to Easton Lodge—would lend drama to The Loves of Lady Lenore. As to who was murdered—well, that Beryl had not yet determined. She was deliberating between Lady Lenore’s former lover and her husband, and had begun to think that Lady Lenore’s present lover might be a reasonable suspect. Or perhaps it would be the other way around: the current lover would be killed, the murderer none other than the jealous husband, with the former lover as one of the prime suspects.
“How are you progressing with your investigation?” Kate asked, hoping he would respond with details that might help Beryl Bardwell with her plot. “What else have you learned about the stableboy’s death?”
“There is nothing to tell you,” he said. “Only that the Prince has asked me to extend my interviews to all of the servants.”
