Lady Rample Steps Out

by Shéa MacLeod

  He looked blank for a moment, as if I’d spoken in Mandarin or some such. “Americans? Yes. Yes. They got two rooms between ‘em.”

  “The woman. Coco Starr. You’ve seen her, of course.”

  He nodded. “Yes, madam. I mean, Milady.”

  “Do you recall a few nights ago when she was ill?”

  “’Course, Milady. Had me runnin’ around gettin’ her soup and whatnot.” He gave a grimace. “Had to work the night shift that day of all days.”

  “Did you ever see her leave the hotel?”

  “No, Milady. She never even left her room. Not since I come on at eight.”

  I leaned closer, nudging the note toward him. “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, Milady. Positive. Like I said, had me runnin’ to her room every five minutes with tea and soup and lord knows. Ooops.” He flushed. “Sorry, Milady.”

  I waved him off. “And you’re certain that she couldn’t have slipped out while you were getting the soup or tea?”

  “Oh, no, Milady. See, at night we keep the doors locked for safety at ten. Whoever is on duty has to let people in or out. Ain’t nobody could have got out ‘less I let ‘em out.”

  “Thank you.” I slipped him the note and stepped back outside as quickly as I could without being too obvious. Relieved to be in the fresh air once more, I quickly took stock.

  While time-wise Coco was in the running for murdering Musgrave, the fact that the hotel was locked three hours before the murder took place made it impossible for her to have done so. I mentally crossed her off the list. One down. Too bad the rest wouldn’t be as easy.

  ANOTHER DULL PARTY I couldn’t get out of. The same dull people as always. Unfortunately, Lord Dalton kept his study—and therefore his whiskey—locked up tight. Chaz had disappeared somewhere, so I couldn’t make use of his lock picking skills. I was, alas, reduced to drinking sherry.

  Eventually I made my way to the terrace and from there into the garden. Soft laughter echoed from the bushes as couples disappeared into the dark for assignations of one nature or the other.

  At the very back of the garden was an empty bench, half hidden from view beneath an overgrown wisteria. I sank onto it, grateful for a moment of quiet. In the darkness, the tip of a cigarette flared orange.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded.

  A shadow moved in the dark. In the faint light spilling from the house, I could just make out his features as Hale Davis moved into the light.

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the club?”

  “It’s early yet.” His voice was a low rumble, smooth as velvet and sexy as sin.

  “That doesn’t answer the question. What are you doing here?”

  “Lord of the Manor liked how I play. Hired me for a couple sets. Figured I’d squeeze in a smoke before the second.”

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be back here.”

  He shrugged. “Too bad. Not in the habit of doing what I’m supposed to do.”

  I suppressed a grin. “Cheeky. I like it.”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret, but the smolder in his gaze never dampened. “You’re the lady detective.”

  I laughed. “Don’t let Detective Inspector North hear you say that. I’m not exactly what he considers detective material.”

  “Oh?”

  “Wrong body parts.”

  He grinned. “Guess you’re not in the habit of doing what you’re supposed to, either.”

  “Not in the least.” I leaned back on the bench, crossing one leg over the other in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion. “I don’t know your name.” Total lie, of course, but I didn’t want him to know I’d been asking about him.

  “I don’t know yours.” We stared at each other for a few heartbeats. The air between us was thick enough to choke on. “Hale Davis.” He held out his hand.

  His hand engulfed mine, warm and firm, smooth except for slightly rough calluses on his fingers from playing. In the darkness, my skin was moonglow bright against his. Something zinged up my spine. We held hands a little longer than strictly necessary. “Ophelia Rample.”

  “Don’t you mean Lady Rample?” he asked, letting go of my hand at last.

  “If you care about that sort of thing.”

  He sat down without asking. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, and beneath that, something citrusy. “Do you care about that sort of thing?”

  “When you’re richer than God, you don’t have to care about that sort of thing. People will forgive you for all sorts of nonsense.”

  He lifted a brow. “Including not knowing your place?”

  I didn’t smile, because I knew he wasn’t talking about the difference in our genders or stations. The world was an ugly place sometimes. “I suppose it depends.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He tossed his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his foot. “Find the killer yet?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Not yet.” It didn’t escape me that I might be sitting next to the murderer. After all, I knew nothing of this man. What if he’d had a reason to shoot Alfred Musgrave? Except that was ridiculous. He’d been onstage playing the piano when Musgrave was shot. I couldn’t think of a better alibi than that. Even if he wanted to kill Musgrave, he couldn’t possibly have done it. “What will you do now Musgrave is dead? Will you stay in London? Or go back to the States?”

  “The coppers won’t let us leave the country. Fortunately, Mrs. Fairfax has asked us to stay on, keep playing. Works for me.” He stared into the dark. “After that, who knows.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was full of things unspoken. Finally, I had to ask. “How did you feel about Alfred Musgrave?”

  He sneered. “Now that’s something I can’t repeat to a lady.”

  “So you didn’t care for him.”

  “Putting it mildly.”

  That wasn’t good. “What did he do?”

  “What didn’t he do? Man was a racist, sexist slime. When he wasn’t molesting the women, he was threatening the men, docking our pay, ordering us about like we were on a plantation.”

  I shuddered. I’d read about that. The horrific things done to people. It was shocking and horrifying to me. “Did you kill him?”

  He smiled and there was something deadly in it. “No. If I’d have killed him, it wouldn’t have been cowardly with a gun to the back of the head. I would have met him face to face like a man. Beat him to death with my own fists.”

  His words chilled me, but they also made sense. I didn’t know this man, but his character was clear to me. He was the sort to face a problem head on. Killing from behind wasn’t his style. That he could kill at all was somewhat shocking, but then again, I suppose any of us could kill given the right impetus.

  I cleared my throat. “Tell me about your life in America.”

  He gave me a long look. “I’ve got to get back. Job to do. Why don’t we have a drink later, and I’ll tell you all about it.” There was a husky quality to his tone, promising more than a mere drink. “Meet me at the club tonight.”

  “All right,” I found myself saying.

  With that, he melted into the shadows. I stayed in the darkness for a while, as piano music drifted toward me on the evening breeze.

  I HAD HOPED TO CONVINCE Chaz to accompany me to the Astoria Club again, but alas, he was otherwise occupied, having found a French Count with scintillating stories of his world travels. I was fairly certain Chaz was less interested in the stories than the count himself. I had no issue leaving him to his devices, but it left me in a quandary.

  As often as I enjoyed throwing convention to the wind, a single lady at a jazz club would have stirred scandal of epic proportions. Asking Varant to accompany me to meet another man simply wasn’t on, and Aunt Butty—for all her bohemian wildness—couldn’t stand jazz. Although she didn’t go so far as to call it the Devil’s music, as my father no doubt would, she shuddered every time I brou
ght it up.

  There was only one thing for it. The club closed at three. At a quarter to, I drove my Roadster into Soho and parked a block from the club. As I watched the door, I wished for the first time I smoked. It would have given me a way to occupy my time instead of fidgeting like a teenager at a country dance.

  I carefully considered my reaction to Hale Davis. Frankly, it was ridiculous. I was a grown woman who didn’t get flustered over handsome men. Especially not handsome inappropriate men. And Hale Davis was the epitome of inappropriate. He was a musician, for God’s sake. Imagining the stir it would cause in the upper echelons of society was enough to make the strongest quail. Not that such a thing would stop me were it true love.

  I laughed at my own nonsense. True love? I’d only just met the man. Right now, it was a simple case of lust.

  Varant, on the other hand, was imminently suitable. Handsome, yes. Rich, my yes. And a Lord, to boot. His family was of the very best. Yes, he’d be suitable. And he was surprisingly progressive and supportive of my desire to play detective, but I worried he’d also be dull. And while there was a certain chemistry between us now, I feared that eventually I would be forced into the part of Lady Varant with a fake smile plastered to my face and ice shards in my heart.

  No, staying a merry widow had more perks than draw backs. Aunt Butty had certainly proven that. Lord Rample’s name gave me a shield more precious than the mounds of gold he’d left me. I shook my head, amused by my own thoughts.

  The door to the club swung open and patrons, half-drunk with music and booze, stumbled out laughing and calling to each other. A man grabbed a young woman and pulled her into a shadowy doorway, kissing her thoroughly. She kissed him back with abandon. Then they ran into the night, giggling like school children.

  Eventually the stream of humanity stopped. And then the door opened again, and out came the musicians smoking cigarettes and slouching with fatigue. I immediately made out Hale Davis, straight and tall at the back, his handsome features highlighted by the street lamps. I knew the minute he saw me even though his expression didn’t change.

  Faintly I heard him bid the others goodnight as they turned and walked away down the pavement just as the clouds opened up and rain poured down. Up went black umbrellas and the rest of them scurried into the night.

  Hale pulled up his collar, ducked his head, and dashed to my car, sliding into the passenger’s seat. “Lady Rample.” His eyes were inscrutable in the dim light.

  “Mr. Davis.”

  He grinned, his teeth a slash of white. “How clandestine.”

  “I do love a secret assignation.” Was that my voice all breathy?

  His grin widened. “There’s a bar not far from here. We can walk.”

  I eyed the rain still pouring down, forming puddles on the pavement. “How far?”

  “Two blocks.”

  “All right.” I grabbed my brolly from the back seat. “Lead on.”

  Huddled beneath my umbrella, we scurried down the sidewalk. Our breaths mingled in the chill air.

  “This way.” He guided me into an alleyway. I had a moment of suspicion until he knocked on a black, unmarked door. It cracked open and an eyeball appeared. Then the door swung fully open and Hale ushered me inside.

  It turned out to be, quite literally, an underground club, serving alcohol long past what the law allowed. Likely it was the closest thing to an American speakeasy in London.

  A narrow staircase led down into a large room with bare floorboards, pressed tin ceilings, and rickety tables and chairs scattered about. The bar was well stocked and the patrons bohemian. This place did not cater to the upper crust, but to the artists, musicians, writers, and leftists of London. It was not the sort of place a lady should be seen in, and I loved it immediately.

  We sat at the bar, also something a lady should never do, and ordered drinks. A highball for me and straight-up whiskey for him. There was no ice, so my drink was warm, the ginger ale was unusually spicy, and the whiskey sharp and cheap. Still, I didn’t mind. I was too busy drinking in the atmosphere and the energy radiating from the man sitting next to me.

  In my world, a black man and white woman sitting together would have caused raised eyebrows and polite outrage. Here, no one noticed. No one cared. In fact, we were far from the only interracial couple in the place. It made sense. There were more women than men in Britain since The War, and rejecting love on the basis of skin color seemed... utterly ridiculous. I knew Aunt Butty agreed with me. Her second husband had been born in India of a British father and Sikh mother. It had caused quite a stir back in the day. Possibly it was why she’d hired Mr. Singh as her butler.

  We talked of inane things at first, and then I asked, “Where are you from?”

  “I was born in New York, but music has taken me all over. Especially after I joined up with Beau and Coco. They’re from New Orleans.”

  “Did you live there? New Orleans?” It had always seemed a fascinating place to me. Romantic. Perhaps one day I’d visit.

  “For a time. Every jazz musician worth his salt hits New Orleans at one time or another. I just happened to hit and stay awhile.”

  “How long awhile?”

  He grinned. “Ten years.”

  “How long have Beau and Coco been together?”

  He lifted a brow as if to let me know he knew what I was doing. “Since they were hardly more than kids. They’ve been married four years now.”

  “And how many times has he cheated on her?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t miss much, do you?”

  I didn’t say anything, simply watched as he toyed with his glass with those long, elegant fingers. I tried very hard not to imagine those fingers playing over my skin.

  “I guess from the beginning. Volatile, that’s what they call it. They’re all heat and fire and passion. But it burns hot and fast, you know? And then they can’t stand the sight of each other. He goes off, finds himself someone willing. Coco finds out, gets all het up, gives him a tongue-lashing. They make up and start all over again.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  He grinned. “Maybe. But it seems to work for them. And don’t believe Coco is an innocent. She’s had her share of men on the side. Women, too.”

  That surprised me. “Really?”

  “If rumor is to be believed, she and Josette were an item before Beau got to her.”

  By golly, if that didn’t take the cake. That was one thing I didn’t see coming. Could it be that Josette and Coco were somehow in on the murder together? Might Coco have been jealous of Musgrave? Or angry that he was forcing himself on her former lover? Or maybe Josette had Coco wrapped around her little finger. Convinced her that Musgrave needed to die. Was Coco really in her hotel when Musgrave was killed? I didn’t see how she could have been anywhere else, but one never knew.

  “I can see the wheels turning.” Hale’s voice interrupted my musings. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should let him in on my new theory. It was a wild shot in the dark, after all, and probably didn’t amount to anything. Still, he could have some valuable insight. “I was wondering if Coco and Josette could have been in on the murder together.”

  That made him laugh. “I can’t imagine those two committing murder. Either of them. And certainly not together. Any tender feelings they may have had are long gone. They hate each other with the heat of a thousand suns.”

  “Why? If Coco is used to Beau cheating on her, why would she be more upset than usual?”

  “I think it’s the first time she truly believes someone could steal him permanently.”

  “Oh.” Well, that didn’t sound good. I felt bad for Coco. “Do you have any, ah, family?”

  He gave me a knowing look. “Ain’t married, if that’s what you’re asking. No woman, either. Not for a long time.”

  I shifted, feeling suddenly warm. “Children?” I blurted. After all, plenty of men had children without being married to their mothers.

&nb
sp; “Not that I know of. What about you?” He leaned a little closer. “What’s your story? How’d you end up in London?”

  “What makes you think I’m not from here?” I took a sip of my drink, pretending his nearness didn’t make my heart flutter.

  “You’re different from all them other... what’s the term? Toffs.” He grinned. Rather cheekily, too.

  “I’m from the Cotswolds,” I admitted. “But my aunt came and rescued me when I was sixteen. Brought me to London.”

  “Rescued you. That sounds like a story.”

  And not a story I was ready to tell a virtual stranger. Fortunately, the two-man band started playing something dance-worthy and Hale grabbed my hand. “Come.”

  Several other couples hit the dance floor at once, and Hale swept me around the outer edges and into the center. I was used to dancing with Chaz. Dancing with Hale was a whole new experience. Where Chaz was all elegance and grace, tightly restrained, perfectly balanced, Hale’s moves were smoother, wilder. There was more energy and movement. He never lost a step or missed a beat, but he threw in an extra flourish here and there, just out of pure fun.

  Something built between us. Something that set off a fire low in my belly and brought a flush to my cheeks. The musky scent of him, the sweat glistening on his brow. My breath came short and fast and it had nothing to do with the dance and everything to do with the man.

  At last the song ended and Hale led me from the floor back to the bar. I was both relieved and disappointed. I probably downed my drink a little too fast. But it was either that or make a fool of myself. I pressed my palm against the coolness of the wooden bar, willing myself to maintain decorum.

  Hale traced a finger across the back of my hand. His voice was a low rumble in my ear. “Listen, Ophelia—"

  A disturbance at the door drew our attention. A newcomer staggered into the club, drunk as a lord. A few of the rougher customers greeted him, which surprised me. He was well-dressed and clearly of a better class of person, if one discounted his current state. I recognized him instantly as Helena’s husband, Leo Fairfax. The man was everywhere these days.