by Shéa MacLeod
Lady Rample and the
Silver Screen
Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Three
Shéa MacLeod
Lady Rample and the Silver Screen
Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Three
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover Art and Design by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs
Editing by Alin Silverwood
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Lady Rample and the Silver Screen (Lady Rample Mysteries, #3)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
Note from the Author
About Shéa MacLeod
Other books by Shéa MacLeod
To A
With Love
Chapter 1
“Ophelia, we must pack at once!” Aunt Butty charged into my bedroom waving a piece of paper in the air. Her hat—a pink straw cloche with a wide brim and an enormous matching pink bow tacked down with giant red cherries—was slightly askew and her face flushed with the exertion of charging up the stairs of my London townhouse.
My maid, Maddie, stared at me with wide eyes over the mound of clothing currently piled in the center of my bed. She clutched a handful of lacy knickers to her narrow chest as if they might protect her from my aunt’s exuberance.
“Did you leave the front door unlocked again?” I asked Maddie from my place on the chaise longue—China blue to match the wallpaper of my bedroom—where I’d been directing her activities.
She shot me an outraged look and went back to neatly folding a silk slip before tucking it into a yellow suitcase. “No, m’lady. I locked it proper.”
Which meant my aunt had, no doubt, used her key. The one I’d given her for emergency situations only. I highly doubted this was such an emergency.
“Aunt Butty, darling,” I said with infinite patience, “what does it look like I'm doing?” Was my aunt losing her marbles? Surely not. She was far too young, just tipping sixty.
Aunt Butty stopped and stared at the disaster that was my bedroom as I waved my hand toward the pile of clothing and my startled maid. My aunt squinted as if unsure what to make of the open trunk and the pile of hat boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner.
“If you recall, we spoke about needing an adventure. A trip to the South of France. My villa?” My late husband, Lord Rample, had left me very nearly all his worldly possessions—including a very nice house on the French Riviera. The only thing he hadn’t left me was his title, entailed, and the manor house in the wilds of Yorkshire. Both of those had gone to his ghastly cousin Binky. Frankly, I was happy to see the back of both of them.
“Dearest Ophelia,” Aunt Butty said, plopping down in a chair after removing the dresses Maddie had draped across it, “I am well aware of our plans. I haven’t yet taken leave of my senses. In fact, I’ve already sent Mr. Singh ahead to prepare the villa, as you well know.” Mr. Singh was Aunt Butty’s Sikh butler. She’d met him during her travels and apparently hired him on the spot. Typical of Aunt Butty, but Mr. Singh had proved a treasure and could be relied on to accomplish whatever task was set before him with dignity and thoroughness. “No, my dear, I have a much better adventure in mind.” She held out the paper to me.
With some trepidation, I stared at the black, scrolling letters barely able to make them out. It appeared to be an invitation of some kind. “Who is this Cyrius Bimbo?” I asked.
“Cyril Brumble,” she corrected, propping her elbow on my vanity and managed to knock over three bottles of nail varnish in the process. Maddie dumped my knickers back on the bed and rushed to save my cosmetics.
“Bimbo. Brumble. Whatever the case may be, who is he?” I handed back the letter.
“Cyril Brumble is a very dear friend of mine,” she said. “We met many years ago in New York. You see, he was putting on a play—as one does—and I was invited to the after-party. That’s what they call it in show business. Everyone was three sheets, and this naked woman—”
“Aunt Butty,” I interrupted, “please! I don't need to hear about naked ladies and New York. Who is Cyril Brumble?”
“Oh, yes. He is one of the foremost producers of films in Hollywood.”
I felt a little flutter of excitement which I quickly quashed. I was inordinately fond of moving pictures, especially those involving dashing private detectives or rugged cowboys. Still, it wouldn’t do to seem overeager. “I
nteresting. And what does he want with you?”
“As you can see by the letter, he wishes me to attend his nuptials in Hollywood, California next month.”
“Oh, yes?” I plucked the letter out of her hand and squinted at it. There it was. The words “marriage” and the date, August 25, 1932. “Are you going?” I felt a pang of disappointment. I’d have enjoyed her company in France. The time I didn’t spend with Hale Davis—my... paramour, for lack of a better term—that is.
“Yes. And I want you to come with me.”
My jaw hit the carpet. “You realize that's a ten-day trip. One way.” It would be simply ages before I got to my villa. Then again, Hollywood! Swimming pools! Movie stars! I was nearly giddy at the thought. But I had plans. Important ones.
“Eight, if one hustles,” Aunt Butty said, not batting an eyelash at the logistics of such an undertaking.
“Still much longer than going to the French Riviera.” And no Hale. He was a jazz musician and was set to perform at a club in Paris for the next few days before heading to another gig in Nice. My plan was to meet him there away from the prying eyes of upper crust English society. In France, no one would care that I was a rich, white widow or that Hale was a poor, black musician. And an American to boot! We could finally spend some real time together instead of sneaking moments here and there. And perhaps I could finally decide what I wanted this thing between us to be. What it could be. If anything.
“Buck up, Ophelia,” Aunt Butty snapped. “There’s adventure to be had. It’s Hollywood.” As if that clinched matters.
Images of glamorous parties, handsome film stars, and free-flowing champagne flitted through my mind. It did sound divine. We’d only be gone... two weeks or so for travel each way, a couple of weeks for the wedding... yes, I could surely make it to Nice by the end of September. I’d still catch Hale there. We wouldn’t have as much time as I’d hoped, but still... there’d be plenty if we made the most of it.
“Yes,” I said at last. “I think it’s a marvelous idea, darling.”
“Excellent. I already have the tickets.” Aunty Butty shoved herself to her feet. “We leave in the morning. Maddie’s to come, too.”
And she sailed out of the room, leaving Maddie and myself staring after her with our mouths open.
“Well, I never,” Maddie finally managed.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“YOU’RE GOING where?” Chaz demanded as he poured me a glass of champagne. It fizzed up to the top, a few stray bubbles sliding over the rim.
I’d decided that such an adventure required a celebration and there was no one I’d rather celebrate with than my best friend, Chaz. And there was nowhere I’d rather celebrate than the newest jazz club in London, Grande Café. It had sprung up shortly after the downfall of the Astoria Club after the owner was convicted of murder. Something I may or may not have taken part in. The conviction, I mean, not the murder.
While the Grande Café wasn’t quite as posh as the Astoria had been, it was still very upscale with mirrored walls behind the live band, flocked purple wallpaper, and a marble-topped bar that served more varieties of cocktails than even I knew what to do with. The band was playing a lively tune I didn’t recognize, but which had my feet tapping to the beat, and the dance floor was packed with men in dark suits and women in flashy evening dresses all the colors of the rainbow.
“Hollywood, darling,” I shouted over the din. “Isn’t it a scream? Don’t tell Aunt Butty, but I can’t wait! Too bad I can’t stuff you in my suitcase, but we’ve been invited to a wedding. Hardly the done thing to drag you along, more’s the pity.”
Chaz languidly blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “You know, an old school chum of mine lives in Hollywood now. Archie’s been simply begging me to come visit for ages. Now seems as good a time as any.” He winked.
I very nearly squealed in joy but settled for clapping my hands instead. “Really? That would be brilliant. We could see the sights together. Check out the clubs. I bet they have an amazing music scene. You’re brilliant!” I lifted my glass in a toast.
“Of course, I am,” he said with a knowing smirk that turned him from dashingly good-looking to devilishly dreamy. It was really too bad he preferred the company of men. He would have made an excellent suitor. Not that I had any intention of marrying again—I quite liked having my freedom—but still. “It’s settled then. I’ve got a couple things to take care of here, but I’ll book the next available boat across the Pond. Be there before you know it.”
“This will be an adventure,” I declared, topping off my glass. “To Hollywood!”
Chapter 2
I felt like an absolute bumpkin, but I couldn’t help myself. I sat in the back seat of the Bentley with a silk scarf wrapped over my hair and stared about me like a young farm girl in the big city for the first time. There were palm trees! Oh, sure, they had them in the French Riviera, but I’d only ever been there once. And these were tall, spindly, soaring things—so different from anything I’d seen before.
Behind us came a much older car carrying Maddie along with the bulk of our luggage. Aunt Butty had debated bringing her maid, but the girl wasn’t well-trained, so she sent Flora off to join Mr. Singh at my villa. I felt rather sorry for him. Flora could be... challenging.
The cars wound up and up through the narrow streets of what our driver had referred to as “Beverly Hills.” Every now and then, I caught a peek-a-boo glimpse of sea blue through the trees and hills. The Pacific Ocean, far off in the distance, sparkling in the sun. Breathtaking.
I’d asked if we would be close to the sea, but the driver had given me a startled look and assured me that only poor people lived down near the beach. The wealthy and important lived up in the hills. I considered that utter nonsense, but who was I to tell the Hollywood elite how to live? Still, I was determined to visit the ocean before I left California.
I’d hoped we’d be able to sail with Chaz, but he’d been forced to stay in London another day before catching his own ship west. It was a pity. It would have been a great deal of fun to have him along. As it was, the voyage was entirely uneventful.
The trip from London had taken nine days in all. Nearly six on the steamer over the Atlantic, and a further three on the train cross-country after Aunt Butty hustled me directly from the port to the station without a moment to enjoy New York City. We’d been collected at the Los Angeles train station by a uniformed chauffeur with a brand-new Bentley in a rather attractive shade of green. He’d had the top down, “For the view,” he’d explained. And despite feeling overly warm, dusty, and out of sorts, I’d been wide-eyed the entire ride.
At last, we pulled into a long drive that wound among the trees and shrubbery, reminding me of the manor houses in England. And finally, the house came into view like something out of Grimm’s Fairytales complete with turret. With its white-washed walls and dark timbers, it looked like a Bavarian castle!
“Cyril always did love to make a statement,” Aunt Butty said, leaning forward to get a better look. “At least with his surroundings. Poor man.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
The car swept up the drive and came to a stop at the front door. The chauffeur—who’d earlier introduced himself as Sam—hopped out and opened first Aunt Butty’s door, then mine. “Go on in,” he said. “I’ll bring up the rest of the luggage once it arrives.”
He had dirty blond hair beneath his driver’s cap and an oddly flat accent. Almost, but not quite, nasally. His skin was sun-kissed—no surprise in this land of harsh sunlight—and his eyes the precise color of the ocean I’d glimpsed on the drive up. He was ridiculously handsome and clearly knew it. I swear he flexed his biceps as he strode toward the boot of the car.
Trunk, I reminded myself. I was, after all, in America now.
America! The stuff of dreams! Home of the silver screen. Probably, being a member of the aristocracy, sort of, I shouldn’t be so overwhel
med. But honestly, it was too, too thrilling. Aunt Butty had assured me we’d be seeing movie stars everywhere. I was secretly hoping to meet Gary Cooper. The man was positively swoon-worthy. I’d thought so ever since I’d first seen him in The Virginian.
“Where is that Cyril?” Aunt Butty muttered, joining me. “He’d better have a drink ready for me.” She charged up the two shallow steps and into the house, with me trailing behind, gawking at everything like the country girl I had once been. London, after all, hadn’t always been my home. I’d grown up in the small Cotswolds village of Chipping Poggs. Every now and then I still forgot my sophisticated veneer.
The inside of the mansion was dim and cool, a relief from the heat outside. The entryway soared two stories high with a stairwell sweeping elegantly upward directly in front of the door. The floor was dark hardwood polished within an inch of its life, pink rugs scattered across it for a spot of color. A rococo table against one wall held an enormous arrangement of pink roses.
“Butty! My darling!” A man appeared at the end of the hall and rushed toward us with arms outstretched. He was short, perhaps an inch or two shorter than me, slightly built with narrow shoulders, a receding hairline, and a thin moustache. He wore light beige trousers and a white button-down shirt and looked to be perhaps mid-forties or so, though there wasn’t a gray hair in sight. No doubt due to liberal application of hair dye.
I instantly knew what Aunt Butty had meant. There was nothing extraordinary or interesting about Cyril Brumble’s appearance. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed his surrounding to be so over the top.
“Cyril, you old dog,” Aunt Butty crowed. They embraced, kissed each other’s cheeks, and embraced again. It was all very ebullient. My aunt is rather more prone to dramatics than the usual English person. She turned to me. “This is my niece, Ophelia. Lady Rample. Ophelia, this is Cyril Brumble, a dear friend of mine from way back.”
