“I don’t know.” Maybe she was wrong to think the two deaths were related. But how could they not be?
Phil stripped off her gloves. “I think we’d better finish up here.”
But before they could leave, they heard the sound of a key in the lock.
Bev grabbed Phil’s hand. Phil took a deep breath while she desperately searched for a lie as to why they were in the library. Half of her hoped it would be John Atkins. But what if it were Charles Becker?
The door creaked open, a man slipped inside.
Bev let out a squeak and cowered into Phil.
“Bev? Philomena? What are you doing here. How did you get in?”
Phil cleared her throat, looking for her voice. “Mr. Sloane? We . . uh…” She sounded just like the guilty schoolgirl of days gone by. She cleared her throat again. “We might ask you the same thing. Where did you get that key?”
Sloane looked at the key. “It was a spare I found from when I lived here. I saw no reason I shouldn’t have access to my own library.”
“Mine,” Bev corrected.
“Regardless, that doesn’t tell me how the two of you managed to get in.”
“Clever Ph—”
Phil pinched her.
Sloane was only paying half attention to them. His gaze was constantly drawn away, and it was clear to Phil he was looking for something. To make sure his paintings were still on the walls? Or …
Phil made a stab. “Perhaps we can help you find what you came for,” she said at her most imperious. She wasn’t sure it would work on Daniel Sloane. He’d seen her at her least flattering and guilty moments.
He darted another look around.
“Phil is ever so clever and we’ve done an efficient search.”
Sloane’s eyes shifted to Phil. His eyebrows rose. She remembered that expression; it presaged a blistering scold.
But evidently not today. “Reggie had planned to leave me something.”
“What?” exclaimed Bev. “You knew he was leaving?”
“No, no my dear.” He rushed forward to reassure his daughter. Though Phil saw him cast a quick glance toward the inkstand. The secret compartment.
Interesting. She knew it was empty, but perhaps he didn’t. So what did he expect to find there? And did it have anything to do with the murders?
Should she tell him and put him out of his anxiety? Perhaps not quite yet.
“Tell us what it is and we can help you look for it.”
“Oh, nothing. Just doing a favor for a friend who was interested in being published.”
“A manuscript?”
“No. No. It doesn’t matter. Why don’t you girls run along, and I’ll just have a little walk down memory lane.”
“Oh, Papa,” Bev said, coming to stand next to him and sounding like a little girl. “You know there’s no use in brooding over Mama. You should be living and having some fun. Come on, I’ll have Tuttle fix you a nice drink while Phil gets ready.”
Somehow, Bev steered him toward the door. Wax in her hands, thought Phil as she followed them out the door. Though Bev’s father did take a quick look back before she closed the door on the library, and he was forced to relock it.
Bev looked at Phil over his bowed head.
Phil shook her head. She had no doubt he’d be back. But for the moment she could only admire Bev’s technique.
11
“Just remember when you’re nodding over your crème glacée,” Bev said as she watched Lily add the final touches to Phil’s rather elaborate hairstyle, “that I told you so.”
Phil had tried to get Bev to stay downstairs with her father; she wasn’t sure that she trusted Daniel Sloane not to go snooping around the library on his own. But Bev was afraid he’d start asking questions, hence her sitting on Phil’s bed making dire predictions for the evening.
“Then there’s the interminable hour while the gentlemen linger over their port and ribald conversation and their wives sit demurely in the parlor with banal gossip and suppressed yawns,” Bev continued. “Ugh. I’m sorry that this should be your first introduction to New York society.
“At least Hilda and Arthur generally have guests who are worth knowing and you’ll probably start receiving invitations as a result,” she added.
Phil motioned Lily away while she went over to kiss Bev on the cheek. “This too will pass, my dear. Then you can show me the town the way it should be.”
“If I don’t die of boredom first.”
“You’ll survive. I’m almost ready, go keep him company.”
“You can watch the cobra circling her prey tonight.”
“Does that upset you?”
“Not at all. If she makes him happy. He’s eager enough. Though I can’t imagine what he sees in that straitlaced matron.”
Phil threw her a coquettish look. “Perhaps she’s a fireball behind closed doors.”
“The mind boggles.” Bev started for the door. “Don’t hurry, the preprandial conversation is always a crashing bore.” She stopped. “Though I suppose I should thank them. They are one of the few ‘haute’ society couples who took a liking to Reggie. I think because he gave them good racing tips. Arthur Tappington-Jones is a member of the Turf Club. Lord, I can’t imagine why else we were always invited.” She slipped out of the room.
Phil came downstairs a few minutes later to find Daniel Sloane standing at the cold hearth with a drink in his hand. He put down his glass and strode across the room to kiss Phil’s hand.
“You look lovely, Lady Dunbridge.” It was said with charm and finesse, but she could tell he was agitated.
Which was unsurprising since Bev was sitting on the sofa looking like she’d just chewed on a castor bean.
Phil however was feeling à la mode. She was looking forward to getting away from the stress of murder, even for a few hours. Her new dinner gown perfectly fit her mood, a deep plum velvet cut over chiffon. Light enough to billow when she walked and yet with bit of dark rich fabric in keeping with the late bereavement. Monsieur Worth had outdone himself on this confection, if she did say so herself. Lily had also outdone herself in coiffure tonight, and Phil had topped the low curls with a very modest tiara of diamonds. She was a countess, after all.
“I almost wish I were going,” Bev said. “You look exquisite.”
“Indeed,” her father said.
Bev sighed.
“You know, dear girl,” he reminded her, “you’re always yawning after the first hour at one of Hilda’s soirées.”
“I know. And it isn’t Hilda’s fault. But Arthur reeks of cigars and only has two subjects of conversation, Tammany Hall and the track. You can imagine Reggie and he got along famously.”
“Well, yes.” Daniel Sloane shot his cuffs, revealing large oval blue opals fitted in gold. “Though I must warn you, Lady Dunbridge.”
“Please call me Philomena.”
Bev snorted. “Just call her Phil, everyone does.”
“I wouldn’t presume,” her father said, darting her a black look. “It won’t be an exciting evening. The Austrians are a cool lot, but I confess I wouldn’t mind having a few minutes with the attaché about the Hungarian situation.
“Father, please don’t be an old bore tonight. It’s Phil’s first night out.”
“I’m sure I will be entertained,” Phil said, and smiled at Daniel Sloane. She didn’t mind political discussions. The few newspapermen she’d been acquainted with were passionate, serious people. She had no doubt Daniel Sloane was one of them.
“Well, Bev isn’t altogether wrong, Lady Dunbridge. We dine too late, have too many courses, talk too long, and go home exhausted from the sheer length of it all.”
Phil laughed. “And you enjoy every moment of it, I have no doubt.” She took his arm and they went out into the foyer, stopping long enough for Lily to drape Phil’s evening cloak about her shoulders.
A carriage was waiting for them outside, and Phil thanked the stars that her dress wouldn’t have to withstand an
open-air drive in a motorcar to dinner. She’d been in them before. They were quite exhilarating, but not when you were on your way to your debut dinner in America.
Mrs. Tappington-Jones’s intimate dinner turned out to be an affair for twenty people. Thank heaven Phil had worn her tiara—she wouldn’t want to be underdressed.
Conversation stopped as she and Daniel Sloane were announced. He was rather debonair in a slightly erratic way. Phil, on the other hand, looked ravishing. She accepted her hostess’s hand graciously. Nodded to her husband, a tall, barrel-chested man, with thinning red hair and, yes, the acrid aroma of cigars.
“Glad you could make it, Lady Dunbridge. Hear they’ve been keeping you under wraps since you arrived. Terrible business,” Mr. Tappington-Jones said, then turned to her companion. “Well, Daniel. Glad to see you out as well. Black band is more than enough, if you ask me. Come, I want you and the countess here to meet the cultural attaché.” He leaned closer to Daniel and said under his breath, “Only understand one in every two words he says, damn accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. But a pleasant enough fellow.
“Personal favor to the president. An honor, really. Don’t always agree with the man. But after what he did with the Rough Riders and then how he stepped in after that anarchist assassinated McKinley, you can’t fault him. Leastways not on everything. Lady Dunbridge?”
He offered his arm to Phil.
Daniel offered his to Mrs. Tappington-Jones, and they were trundled across the floor to meet the attaché.
Mr. Tappington-Jones leaned closer to Phil. “I dare say you’ve met the fellow. I know he makes several trips to England a year.”
“Why, yes, we’ve met on several occasions.” And she wouldn’t mind if they never met again. The man was in his dotage, hard of hearing, and had the habit of looking down one’s gown at the least opportunity.
“Well, good. Good.”
And if Arthur Tappington-Jones thought she was going to entertain Heinrich Ganz all night, he was very mistaken.
A small group of people were clustered around the screened fireplace. A man in black evening wear stood with his back to her. He was taller than she remembered him. Actually …
“I’ve brought an old acquaintance of yours, Herr Schimmer,” Mr. Tappington-Jones said.
The attaché turned to greet them, revealing the official red sash draped across his chest.
“My dear Herr Ganz” died on Phil’s lips.
For a second Phil and the attaché stared at each other. Him trying to place her and where they had met, and her wondering who the hell he was. He was tall, with short-cropped dark reddish brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyebrows were bushy, which seemed out of keeping with the precision of the rest of his appearance. And the eyes …
Tappington-Jones, perhaps sensing something was wrong, interjected a hint, “Lady Dunbridge.”
“Ach,” the attaché said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’m sure I would have remembered.”
“No, we haven’t met,” Phil said. “How absurd. Herr Ganz must have retired.”
“Yes, that is it. I am Johann Schimmer, the new attaché. At your service.” The attaché’s eyes met hers for a brief second. They were a lovely shade of blue and twinkled humorously. But it wasn’t their color; it was something else that gave her pause. She’d seen those eyes before. And she definitely recognized that scent of his tobacco as he bent to kiss her hand.
He bowed to Daniel Sloane. “I’ve been telling my friends here how much I admire their metropolis.”
“Yes, lovely, isn’t it?” Phil said. “I’ve only just arrived myself.”
“Indeed? Are you making a long stay?”
Was she? Did she even have a choice? Phil inclined her head. “I think … perhaps yes.”
Bev would have hated this small talk. Phil didn’t usually care for it herself, but tonight she had ulterior motives, a phrase that had taken on new meaning since she’d arrived in Manhattan.
She really couldn’t care less about the dinner. Conversations at table were usually desultory. But she looked forward to Bev’s boring hour with the ladies after dinner. The best secrets were kept by the tightest-lipped women. All it took to get them to share was a little finesse.
“You must get out to Belmont track before you leave, Herr Schimmer,” Tappington-Jones said. “Is Devil’s Thunder still running this next week, considering the circumstances?”
“I imagine so,” Daniel said with a slight frown. “We haven’t discussed it. I’m sure Freddy will see that all is in order.”
“Now, Arthur, no horse talk before dinner,” his wife chided. “Honestly, during racing season these men have one-track minds.” She tittered at her little joke. The men in the group smiled.
Herr Schimmer looked befuddled, then he laughed. “Ah, one-track mind, I see, ha-ha, you must forgive my lack of wit, my poor English, I’m afraid.”
His poor English indeed. It was impeccable as far as Phil could tell, as were his manners and his charm.
“Ah, here are the Gringolds.” Tappington-Jones made the introductions to the attaché, and Phil and Daniel Sloane took the opportunity to ease away.
“Seems nice enough, the new attaché,” he remarked as they stopped to take glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray.
“Yes, but I had no idea Heinrich Ganz was leaving his post. I only saw him a few weeks ago and he didn’t mention it.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t of his choosing. Things are a bit unstable in Europe these days. Between the Russians and their revolution and the situation in Serbia and Bosnia, I imagine the Austrian government is in a state of zealous preparation.”
“For what exactly?”
“God only knows. Ah, I see an old friend and his wife. I’ll introduce you.”
It didn’t take long for Phil to take the tenor of the dinner guests. The men were friendly to Daniel, commiserated with him over the death of his son-in-law. They were enamored of Phil, as she knew they would be—a title, a tiara, and a little subtle flirtation and they were hers.
The women, however, were more circumspect, as she also knew they would be. They obviously didn’t approve of the Reynoldses’ lifestyle and, by association, Phil’s. Or perhaps her reputation had preceded her.
They were perfectly polite, glad to make her acquaintance—she was a countess, after all. Still, they couldn’t help but let slip their disdain for the English peers all the while willing to give their eyeteeth—and their fortunes—to be one. And they were all afraid their husbands would go to bed that evening comparing them to the newest visitor. It would take some work to gain their confidences, but Phil gladly accepted the challenge. She had no doubt they were a storehouse of information.
She went in to dinner on the arm of Mr. Tappington-Jones and saw Herr Schimmer dart a quick smile toward her as he seated Mrs. Tappington-Jones at the far end of the table and took his seat next to her. Phil wondered what he thought was so amusing. He’d be yawning into his game hen before dessert was served.
The dinner was excellent and the talk was lively, and in spite of Hilda’s admonitions, conversation kept slipping into enthusiasms for the next Belmont races. Phil rather enjoyed the races, but what she really wanted to know was their opinions of Reggie’s horse and of the man himself.
She would have gladly stayed and shared a glass of port with the men, but she followed the other ladies out to the parlor.
“Let me introduce you to my good friend Mrs. Fielding.” Mrs. Tappington-Jones guided Phil over to a small group of ladies already in conversation. They smiled tightly but invited the countess to sit, which she did.
“And how are you enjoying our fair city?” asked Mrs. Fielding, not without a bit of malice, Phil thought.
Phil smiled. “Well, I must say, it isn’t quite what I expected.”
“I dare say,” said another lady.
“It must be such an imposition, being accosted by policemen at every turn.”
&n
bsp; And what had they been hearing? Phil wondered. “It’s certainly not what I’m used to,” Phil said at her haughtiest.
“We were discussing the upcoming nuptials of Louisa Langham’s daughter. She just became engaged to Lord Abington. The wedding will be in London next year.”
“Have you met the Langhams? They’re forever traveling to England.”
Looking for a title for their daughter, no doubt, thought Phil.
“She’s such a lovely girl. So pretty, and petite.”
“Oh, good,” Phil said. “Then she won’t end up like poor Consuelo, always having to look down on her husband.”
One of the ladies tittered. “Oh, is Lord Abington a short man? Do you know him well?”
“We used to run in the same circles.” Quite often, in fact, when he had partaken of a bit too much champagne. Fortunately, he’d never caught her.
“Is it true what they say about Consuelo?”
“Well…” Phil paused, inviting more confidences.
It took a few minutes of well-edited morsels on Consuelo’s lack of love life before Phil steered them into the subject they were really interested in: Reggie’s murder.
“Probably someone Reggie knew,” said Mrs. Fielding. “He was known to consort with lowlifes. I don’t know why Beverly put up with it. Such a disappointment to Daniel. No one would blame him if…”
“Really?” Phil said. “He seems like such a doting father.”
“Oh, my dear, he was furious with her last year. You do know about the mistress.”
“I’ve heard a little…”
“Well, they say Reggie wasn’t her only, how shall we say, suitor?” said Mrs. Fielding.
“I believe we’d call it something else, Priscilla.” The woman on her right, a Mrs. Rollins, pursed her lips.
Priscilla Fielding smiled slyly. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, I would,” said Mrs. Rollins.
“Do tell,” Phil encouraged her.
“Well, what I mean is…” She looked around, leaned in closer. “My Phillip is on the council, and he said she was arrested one night in the company of several gentlemen, in less than acceptable clothing.” She gave them a knowing smile. “Both her and the gentlemen.”
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