Lady Rample Steps Out

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Cocktails are being served in the sitting room, My Lady.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Mr. Singh.” I made my way into Aunt Butty’s sitting room. On a good day, it tended to be overcrowded with items she’d collected on her travels: Egyptian goddesses, wooden masks from Africa, perfume bottles from Marrakesh. Currently, it was packed with guests in evening togs, trying not to jostle each other’s drinks.

  A gentleman in a plum velvet smoking jacket sat at Aunt Butty’s grand piano tinkling out some absurd and slightly dirty ditty. A woman I recognized as a popular stage actress entertained several men in the corner. Aunt Butty held court from her chaise longue, smiling benevolently at all from beneath a rose-pink turban festooned with diamonds and feathers.

  I wanted to ask my aunt about Helena’s possible drug use, but now was not the time. Instead, I have her a little finger wave and looked about me for a drink.

  Someone handed me a tumbler filled with amber liquid. “I believe you favor the highball.”

  For one heart stopping moment, I forgot where I was and simply stared like an idiot. Lord Peter Varant had the enviable position of looking rather like the divine American actor, Gary Cooper. What the man did to a tuxedo should be illegal.

  “You remembered. Thank you.” I took the drink from him, proud that I managed to get out a full sentence without sounding moronic.

  “Of course I remember.” His voice was a low rumble. “I remember everything.”

  I swallowed. “Well, isn’t that something.” Lord, could I be any more inane?

  I’d met Lord Varant shortly after I married Felix. It had been one of those numerous, boring parties we’d seemed forced to attend. Felix had wandered off with some Lord Whatsis or other for cigars and whiskey. I was left to my own devices. Technically, I suppose I was meant to mingle with the other ladies, but being new to this particular social stratum and having no friends among them, I was more or less an outcast. After all, the new Lady Rample was a mere vicar’s daughter with no money of her own. I’d yet to find my way among them and so keenly felt my otherness.

  And so, I’d been feeling rather out of sorts and uncertain of myself until Lord Varant made it his business to keep me entertained and introduced me around at the party. I will never forget his kindness.

  While Lord Varant had never been anything but a gentleman, his interest had been clear from the get-go. After Felix died, I’d expected Lord Varant to pursue me, but other than flowers for the funeral and the occasional solicitous note to ensure I was well, he’d made no advances. Aunt Butty had assured me that after the appropriate year of mourning, he’d be on my doorstep. Well, the year was up and he’d yet to arrive. It baffled me no end. Still, it was clear in his manner that he found me as attractive as ever. Men. I swear I shall never understand them if I live to be a hundred.

  “I hadn’t realized Aunt Butty had invited you to her little soiree.”

  “She doesn’t usually,” he admitted. “But we happened to run into each other recently, and she insisted.”

  “Did she now?” How convenient of her. I gave my aunt a hard stare. She must have felt my gaze for she looked up, grinned wickedly, and gave me a little finger wave.

  “How have you been holding up, My Lady?” Lord Varant asked.

  “Well enough, thank you. Life goes on.” It was the British way. Stiff upper lip and all that.

  “I must apologize for not calling sooner. I’ve been away in the country. Some matters on my estate needed tending to, but I’m back in town for the season and hope to see more of you.”

  I smiled, pleased by the attention. “I’m certain that can be arranged.”

  I couldn’t help but compare Lord Peter Varant to Hale Davis. Both men were ridiculously handsome, but where Lord Varant was smooth sophistication and quiet smolder, Hale was raw, blatant sexuality. Lord Varant clearly belonged in my world. Hale just as clearly did not. And yet I found them both quite intriguing.

  A gong sounded from the hallway.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Aunt Butty clapped her hands. “Dinner is served. Gentlemen, please escort your assigned lady.”

  Lord Varant held out his arm gallantly. “My Lady.”

  “You were assigned to me, were you, My Lord?” Aunt Butty no doubt interfering again.

  Lord Varant smiled a bit coyly, I thought, and escorted me into the dining room.

  The room, despite being in a mere flat, was large enough to contain a table that seated sixteen. Aunt Butty had her entire Royal Doulton Berkshire set out with its green and gold trim, plus enough crystal to blind a person. Once everyone was seated, Mr. Singh made the rounds with a bottle of wine.

  Lord Varant was seated at my left. On my right was a gentleman I’d met only briefly before. He was fiftyish and handsome in a dissipated way, as if he’d spent too much of his youth overindulging in booze and food. He immediately monopolized me.

  “My Lady, perhaps you remember. Wilburton Huxton. We met at the Winter Ball held by the Duchess of Kent.”

  “Ah, yes.” I vaguely remembered. It had been shortly before I met and married Felix. If memory served, at the time Huxton had been drunk and completely uninterested in a penniless girl from a small village in the Cotswolds. That he now found me fascinating was unlikely due to the elegance of my evening gown and the rumors of just how much Lord Rample had left in my bank account.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your terrible loss.” His voice oozed with faux sympathy.

  “Thank you.” I tried to turn back to Lord Varant, but I suddenly felt a hand on my thigh. Very high on my thigh.

  In shock, I turned to stare at Huxton. He gave me an oily smile. So, I did what any decent woman would do. I smiled back with cloying sweetness. Then I took my fish fork, slipped it beneath the table, and stabbed the blighter in the hand.

  Huxton let out a yelp. The entire table turned to stare at him.

  “Is everything all right?” Aunt Butty asked.

  Huxton gave her a pained smile. “Oh, yes, quite. I, er, have a sore tooth,” he said lamely.

  “Oh, dear, do you need to go home? Perhaps Mr. Singh can call the doctor?”

  “No, no. Thank you. I shall soldier on.”

  And soldier on he did, but he didn’t say a word to me the rest of the evening.

  Chapter 6

  The joint was jumping, the wail of the saxophone cutting through the cheerful chatter and blue clouds of cigarette smoke hanging over the Astoria Club. Helena sashayed toward us the moment we walked in, swathed in a slinky gown of shimmering silver. Long, drop earrings hung nearly to her shoulders. At first, I thought they were real rubies, but as she drew closer their shine gave them away. They were very good paste. Just how deep was she into this thing?

  She thrust a highball glass at me, which I took gratefully. Gone was the tortured woman of earlier. In her place was a cool, calculated dame, worthy of a Marlene Dietrich role. Will the real Helena Fairfax please stand up?

  She gave Chaz air kisses before showing us to the same table as before. She gave me a knowing look. “Good view of the band.”

  I gave her a tight smile. I found this sudden shift in personality confusing. Was she, perhaps, embarrassed at revealing so much emotion earlier? “Divine.”

  “Josette is about to come on.”

  “Josette?” Chaz asked, his smooth tenor carrying easily over the noisy club.

  “Josette Margaux, our singer,” Helena supplied. “Alfred discovered her in France. Charming girl. Very talented.” There was something hard and cold in her expression. A tightening around the eyes. “Much better than Coco Starr. She came with the band. American. Very brassy.”

  How odd. She’d rhapsodized over Coco only the previous night. “I look forward to hearing Josette,” I said cheerfully, taking a sip of my highball. It was perfect.

  “I’ll catch you later,” she said vaguely, drifting away to greet another couple who’d just entered.

  “She’s a peculiar one, don’t you think?” I asked Ch
az.

  “All the inbreeding. You know how us upper crust sorts are.”

  I snickered, being only vaguely related to the upper crust despite my title and ridiculous amount of brass. My people weren’t exactly common, but close enough to it. Not that it ever bothered Felix one wit. And I’ve found that money often talks louder than bloodlines, even among the ton. Especially if you’ve enough of a bloodline to brag about it.

  The music paused, the lights dimmed, and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Hale Davies tickled the ivories with a little flourish, dark gaze locked on mine. I felt myself flush in the most unladylike places.

  Just then, a man stumbled through the front door. He was clearly drunk, staggering between the tables, slapping everyone on the back with forced bonhomie. He was in perhaps his early forties, handsome, but with a week chin.

  “I recognize that man,” I said to Chaz. “Who is it?”

  “Helena’s husband, Leo Fairfax,” Chaz muttered. “Quite the winner, eh?”

  “Quite,” I said dryly. “He’s the man we saw outside the club last night, isn’t he?”

  Chaz shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.” His tone was final. In fact, when Leo waved at him, Chaz pointedly turned his back.

  Helena also made a point of ignoring her husband, even when he shouted at her across the room. The head waiter arrived and ushered him quickly toward the bar. I was half surprised Helena didn’t have bouncers throw him out.

  I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when Leo pushed away from the bar and sauntered toward us. “Chaz.” His words were as heavily slurred as they had been the previous night. “Old buddy. Long time. We’ve missed you.”

  Chaz’s face was white, pinched. His fists were clenched. “Get away from me, Leo.”

  “Come now,” Leo taunted. “We’re having a party tomorrow. You should come. Plenty for everyone.”

  Chaz went from white to red. I was afraid he’d punch Leo in the face then and there. Granted, Leo deserved it, but I knew Chaz would hate drawing that sort of attention to himself. So I did the first thing that popped into my head. I faked a drunken stagger and trod on Leo’s instep with my heel, giving it an extra grind for good measure.

  Leo let out a howl of pain and I tittered an apology, playing up the drunken idiot angle. Granted, I was a bit buzzed, but not near so far gone I couldn’t control myself.

  Helena, the headwaiter at her side, came rushing over. “Is everything all right?”

  “Get him away from me, Helena.” Chaz’s voice, usually so full of charm, was barely more than a snarl simmering with rage.

  Helena nodded to the headwaiter, and the man gripped Leo’s arm, steering him away. “Come now, sir. I’ve called a cab for you.”

  “Don’t need no cab,” Leo slurred.

  “Of course not, sir.” The headwaiter managed to manhandle Leo out of the club and up the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m sorry,” Helena said softly. Chaz ignored her, but I gave her a grateful smile.

  And then from behind the stage curtains came a wisp of a thing. Hardly more than a girl, really, with shiny black hair cut short and smoothed down. Her skin was a dusky almost golden taupe, shimmering beneath the spotlight as if dusted with diamonds. Her wide eyes were heavily rimmed in kohl, drawn out into points in the Egyptian style. Her full lips were painted carnelian red, mesmerizing.

  When she opened those red lips, the sound that spilled out was rich, throaty, magical. I blinked, stunned, as goose flesh rose on my arms. How could such a tiny thing produce such sound? It made me shiver right down to my toes.

  “All of me. Why not take all of me? Can’t you see, I’m no good without you...” Josette crooned into the microphone. Her long fingers played with the stand, stroking it lightly, suggestively.

  Behind her, the band played slow, meaningful, sexy. Almost against my will, my gaze slid toward the pianist. He wasn’t looking at me, instead he focused on his hands skimming over the keyboard. I toyed with asking Helena to introduce us, but that might raise her suspicions. Chaz could ask for an introduction without raising eyebrows, but I could imagine the mocking he’d give me if I suggested it.

  As the last notes of the song died away, my attention was snagged by a commotion near the door. Alfred Musgrave had arrived looking none the worse for wear after his brush with death other than a sticking plaster on his forehead. A scrawny man hustled up, face pinched as if his shoes hurt. I recognized him as the man who’d overheard Musgrave and Helena’s argument. Musgrave pushed him away and barreled past as the band struck up the next song, something zippy and bright as champagne bubbles.

  I watched as Musgrave disappeared through a door, half hidden by drapes, next to the bar and vaguely recalled the argument I’d overheard between him and Helena the previous night. Must be in regard to that audit he was talking about. Which reminded me that I should probably schedule an audit with my own business manager at some point in the near future. Not that there was anything amiss, but I liked to stay on top of things. “Never trust anyone with your money,” Lord R always told me. “You’ve got to keep an eye on it yourself.” And I planned to. I did not want to have to move in with Aunt Butty, much as I loved her. Nor did I want to run back to Chipping Poggs. Perish the thought.

  “Chaz, are you sure the club is doing well?” I asked.

  “Seems to be. Why do you ask?”

  I cast another glance toward the door through which Musgrave had disappeared. “I overheard Musgrave telling Helena he wanted an audit.”

  Chaz shrugged. “Don’t mean a thing, old bean. Audits happen in business all the time.”

  “Yes, I know, it’s just... I don’t know. Something felt...off.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Now come on. We’re here to have fun!” Chaz grabbed my hand and dragged me out on the dance floor. After shaking our tail feathers for a couple of songs, Josette slipped away backstage while the band played on. I watched her walk, light and delicate, across the stage, envying her slim figure in that slinky dress.

  A few minutes later, or at least I assumed it was a few minutes, she returned, hovering at the side of the stage as unobtrusively as possible. The sax player tapped the trumpeter and then left the stage to join Josette. They bent their heads together a moment before he disappeared backstage, leaving Josette to make her way to the bar.

  A few moments later, the sax player returned clutching a cigarette and a lighter in one hand, the other thrust into the pocket of his black jacket. He strode across the dance floor and exited out the door leading to the front stairs. He looked more like a man on a mission than one headed for a smoke. Maybe he didn’t have much time. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “What’s the time, Chaz?” I bellowed into his ear over the music.

  “Quarter past one or so. Why?”

  “I do believe it’s cocktail time.” I was feeling a pleasant buzz and didn’t want to risk it wearing off.

  We’d just reached our table when there was a slight pause in the music. I heard a faint popping sound. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first. “Did you hear that?” I asked as I slid into the booth.

  “Hear what, old bean?” Chaz asked, taking a seat.

  I frowned, recalling where I’d heard it before. Felix and his friends off to hunt grouse. “It sounded like a gunshot, but very quiet. Muffled, perhaps.”

  “’Fraid not. Probably a cork. Loads of champers in here, don’t you know.”

  I glanced around. The barkeep was in the middle of shaking a cocktail. I couldn’t see anyone else with a fresh bottle of champagne. I shook off the odd feeling. Maybe he was right. Or maybe I was imagining things. Too many highballs. Or maybe not enough.

  The waiter arrived with fresh drinks as the saxophonist reappeared looking a little jittery. I guess the ciggy hadn’t worked. He quickly took his place, rejoining the music as if nothing had happened. Was it just me, or were his hands shaking a bit?

  The piece came to an end, and the master of ceremo
nies popped up on stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back Josette Margaux.”

  Josette left her drink at the bar and tripped lightly across the stage to take her place. She smiled at the audience, but I could have sworn she looked strained. She opened her mouth.

  A piercing scream rent the air.

  Chapter 7

  Everyone froze, eyes glued to the backstage curtains. Another scream. I jumped up from the table.

  “Darling, where are you going?” Chaz demanded, half rising.

  “Someone’s in trouble.” I strode toward the door leading backstage. Since I’d used the WC the evening before, I was familiar with the layout.

  “Dash it, Ophelia!” Chaz shouted, running after me. “Let someone else handle it.”

  I ignored him, pushing my way through the door. Down the short hall past the WC, I found a door standing open. Inside, sprawled across a desk in a pool of blood, was Alfred Musgrave with a bullet hole in the back of his head. And over him stood Helena, white as a ghost, her heavy makeup smeared by tears.

  “I-I think he’s dead,” she sobbed. Her voice was hoarse from screaming.

  “It would appear that way,” I said dryly.

  I have no idea why I didn’t do something proper like faint. Any normal upper crust woman would do so and gracefully. Preferably into the arms of a delightfully gorgeous peer of the realm. Maybe it was my practical upbringing, or working in a hospital during the War. Or maybe it was dealing with Lord R’s death. But somehow, I marshalled my inner strength and took charge.

  “Chaz.” I whirled to face my friend. “Call the police immediately. Not from in here.” There were spatters of blood across the rotor. “There must be another phone. Helena? Helena!”

  She jerked a little as if I’d pulled her out of a day dream. “Behind the bar.”