by C. J. Archer
“Is everything all right?” I asked. “Is that guest troublesome?”
“He’s not a guest, he’s another candidate for the position of assistant manager. This will be my second interviewee for the day, the fifth in a week. None have been up to the standards I expect of an assistant manager and I already don’t like the look of this fellow. His beard is unkempt and his tie is loose.”
Poor Mr. Hobart. I suspected the reason he didn’t like the man was because he compared him to Mr. Armitage. The disappointing outcome of Mr. Hirst’s appointment had made him even more negatively inclined toward anyone who wasn’t his nephew.
“May I make a suggestion?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Have you looked internally to fill the position? One of the current staff could step into the role. Since they already know the hotel very well, it wouldn’t be a steep learning curve.” I eyed the front desk where Peter was cheerfully greeting another guest with his usual welcoming smile.
Mr. Hobart followed my gaze. “Peter would be the perfect candidate, but there is just one problem.”
“Oh?”
“He’s too familiar with the other staff. They wouldn’t respect him as their superior and he would be too friendly with them. To be frank, he’s just too nice. The assistant manager must exude authority and not be afraid to give orders to those beneath him. He needs to command respect.”
I thought it might come to Peter in time, but didn’t say so. It was not my place.
Mr. Hobart excused himself and approached the interviewee. I headed off towards the sitting rooms, greeting John, the lift operator, as I passed. Situated beside each other, the smaller of the two sitting rooms was accessed off a short corridor. Where the large sitting room was used for afternoon tea by guests and members of the public, the small one was for private use, usually by the family and their friends for more intimate gatherings.
Compared to its grander neighbor, the small sitting room was exactly as the name suggested. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t considerable in size. I’d recently been in the drawing room of a Mayfair townhouse owned by a wealthy lord, and it was about the same size as the hotel’s small sitting room. It was large enough to separate into three distinct areas, each with its own cluster of sofa, two matching armchairs, and at least two occasional tables. The most expensive furniture, decor, and paintings were kept here—there was even a Whistler hanging over the fireplace—and more personal items were dotted around the room, including photographs of the family.
Two sets of sofas and armchairs had been pushed aside and two card tables put in their place. Eight women, each holding a hand of cards, sat at the tables. None looked up upon my entry, so I went to my aunt’s side.
“Cleo, dear, how lovely to see you,” she said as she studied her cards. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
“I was at the museum.”
“Again?” She played an ace, earning groans of resignation from her opponents.
“Your niece is an intellectual, Lilian,” said a woman with copper red hair and freckles. While she spoke with a smile, there was a hint of derision in her tone.
Aunt Lilian gathered up the played cards and placed them beside her in a neat pile. Her movements were quick, but her fingers were bone-thin and, when she finally looked up at me, I noticed her pupils were dilated. She smiled and there was no pain in it, no worry or sorrow. Her tonic was working, for now. “Cleo is very clever, and there is nothing wrong with that these days. She is an excellent conversationalist on a broad manner of topics.”
A sudden panic gripped my heart and squeezed. I glanced around the room as all eight sets of eyes settled on me with varying degrees of curiosity. Oh lord. I’d walked into a den of vipers. I hadn’t been summoned to this room to be chastised about my friendship with Harry Armitage. I’d been summoned here to be put on show, paraded in front of my aunt’s friends. I’d wager my entire savings that these women were all mothers of eligible sons.
“She is indeed,” said the woman jotting down the score on a notepad. I recognized her as Lady Caldicott, husband to Uncle Ronald’s banker. “Good afternoon, Miss Fox. Will you sit with me?” She signaled to the footman I’d failed to notice standing by the sideboard. He brought over a spare chair. The women shuffled around and he placed the chair beside Lady Caldicott.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” I said. “I have to meet Flossy.”
My aunt frowned. “Flossy is having luncheon with the Druitt-Poores. Are you sure you’re supposed to meet her?”
“Perhaps I’ve got my days mixed up,” I muttered as I sat.
Lady Caldicott smiled. “Do you know how to play bridge?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to intrude on your game. We can’t play with five.”
“Then you can help me. I could do with some assistance.”
The woman shuffling the cards to my right huffed out a breath. “Don’t believe her, Miss Fox. She plays perfectly well and wins often, just not today.” She stopped shuffling and put out her hand to me. “I’m Mrs. Helen Digby.”
Aunt Lilian introduced me to all of the ladies at both tables before play resumed. I observed, which meant I quickly became bored. Bridge was only interesting if one had stakes in the game. I couldn’t see any purses close at hand, but that didn’t mean they played only for the glory of winning.
“It’s been an age since I’ve had friends here for a bridge party,” my aunt said after the second round. “The winter has felt particularly long this year.” Several women nodded or murmured their agreement. “Some of my friends are filtering back into the city now, which is absolutely marvelous. I’ve been desperate for a day of cards with them all. We have so much to talk about.”
Mrs. Digby’s smile was sly as she dealt. “So much gossip to impart, you mean.”
A light round of laughter drifted up from both tables. I laughed with them then angled my chair closer to the table. I might not enjoy the game, but I could get something out of this party and it wasn’t a husband. These women were precisely the sort I needed to speak to. Isobel Warrington might move in the same social circles as my aunt’s friends. Perhaps one of them knew her.
Chapter 3
Lady Caldicott leaned closer and showed me her cards. After the dealer declared diamonds as the trump suit, Lady Caldicott asked me what she should do.
It was an easy decision based on her abundance of spades. “Pass.”
The other players made their calls and the round was played. Lady Caldicott asked my opinion before each of her turns and between her and her partner, we won more tricks than we lost.
I gathered up the cards and shuffled as Lady Caldicott jotted down the score.
“My son, Edward, mentioned you recently, Miss Fox,” she said as she wrote. “You made quite an impression on him.”
Edward was the younger of the Caldicott sons. I’d been strategically seated beside him at dinner one evening, the elder brother having been earmarked for Flossy. I’d enjoyed our conversation, but only after steering him away from financial topics. Unfortunately he always steered the conversation back to the business of economics, or tuned into the conversation between my uncle and his father, seated at the other end of the table. I was surprised to hear he thought of me at all.
“How are his travel plans coming along?” I asked, recalling that he was going on a tour of the continent.
“Well enough, but his departure may be delayed.”
“What a shame. He must be disappointed.”
“Not at all. It was his decision.” She exchanged small smiles with my aunt.
My panic returned. I needed to leave this room and these grasping, matrimonial-minded mothers, or I might get sucked into conversations I didn’t want to have. But I needed to find out what they knew about the Warringtons before leaving. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of a smooth way to introduce the topic and in my panic, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“What a nasty business for Mr
. Warrington, receiving those threatening letters.”
The players from both tables stared at me as if I had two heads.
It was too late to take it back. I’d have to brazen it out and follow through with my awkward attempts at information gathering. “Oh, did you not hear about the letters?” I asked, innocently. “Do any of you know him? Or his wife?”
The ladies continued to stare, one even wrinkled her nose. It was left to my aunt to come to my rescue, if that’s what it could be called. She gave me a sympathetic look. “Dear Cleo, always concerned for the welfare of others. I heard about those letters too. You don’t need to worry about Mr. Warrington. Politicians have thick skins and are used to people disagreeing with their views.”
“So you know him?” I pressed. “Or Mrs. Warrington? How is she faring in all of this? She must be worried for her husband.”
“I don’t know her.”
“I do,” Mrs. Digby said. She shuffled the cards slowly, as if it were an unconscious motion of her hands. Her attention was focused on the gossip. Going by the spark in her eyes, she was enjoying this change of topic.
“And how is she coping?” I prompted.
“Rather well, I suspect.”
“Does she not know about the letters? Is she not in London perhaps?”
“She’s here. I saw her only last week. She was very happy. Very happy indeed.” The phrase seemed to be some sort of code, understood by the other women. Some smiled coyly, others pursed their lips disapprovingly, but none looked confused.
It wasn’t difficult to decipher the meaning of the code, given what I knew of Mrs. Warrington. It was confirmation that Mr. Warrington had not lied to me, something that had crossed my mind. He could have wanted me to find a liaison that wasn’t there to provide him with a reason to divorce his wife. Given that he had initially hinted that Mr. Armitage ought to trap her using whatever means available to him, it was an obvious assumption to make.
“She ought to be careful her husband doesn’t find out just how happy she is,” one of the ladies at the other table piped up.
“Perhaps that’s what she wants,” Mrs. Digby said. At the shocked gasps of her friends, she merely shrugged. “Perhaps she wants him to divorce her.”
“And endure the humiliation? Don’t be ridiculous, Helen. Why not simply agree to live separate lives? Many couples do. Even if he refused to give her an allowance, she’s independently wealthy. She came to the marriage with property and money.”
“Divorce won’t see her lose any of that,” Mrs. Digby pointed out. “Not since the law changed in the eighties.” This elicited another round of knowing nods from her friends.
“As to why she would prefer a divorce and not a separation, the answer is simple,” Lady Caldicott said. “She wants to remarry.”
The benefits or otherwise of divorce were debated with spirit from both sides of the argument, although my aunt didn’t join in. She looked as though she was flagging. The effects of the tonic must be wearing off. I was about to ask her if she wanted to retire when the doors opened and a procession of waiters entered pushing trolleys laden with plates of sandwiches, tarts, scones, and small cakes. The women rose to help themselves while the waiters poured glasses of wine.
By the time I looked up from the impressive array of choices, my aunt had slipped out of the room. She returned ten minutes later with diluted pupils, a bright smile, and her daughter.
“It seems Florence wasn’t having luncheon with the Druitt-Poores today, after all,” Aunt Lilian said with a lilting laugh. “I’m so forgetful sometimes.”
I intercepted Flossy after she piled up a plate for herself and before she sat. “Is your mother all right?” I whispered.
“She insisted on taking another measure of that tonic, so I thought I’d join her in here for a while to make sure she doesn’t take more later.”
I squeezed her arm in sympathy. “Surely their game won’t go on much longer.”
“It’ll go on for some time yet.” She glanced at the gold and onyx clock on the mantelpiece. “They’ll resume after lunch, play until six then stop for a drive in the park, weather permitting, then return for dinner and finally resume playing. Their bridge parties go well into the evening.”
“Your mother won’t last that long. Not without her tonic. And if she takes more, she’ll need all of tomorrow to recover.”
“And the day after.” Flossy emitted a resigned sigh. “I’ll try to cut the party short.”
“I’ll help.”
She kissed my cheek. “I’m pleased to see you, actually.” Her eyes suddenly brightened, as if she’d switched on an electric light to cast out the darkness of her mother’s ailment. “I have a plan. Come and sit with me and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I allowed her to steer me to the sofa positioned furthest from the card tables. “A plan for what?” I asked before taking a bite of cucumber sandwich.
“I’ve been thinking about your debut.”
I choked on the sandwich. “My what?” I spluttered when I’d recovered.
“Your debut.”
“Flossy, I’m twenty-three, not eighteen.”
“It doesn’t matter how old you are. There are no rules about age.” She put down her half-eaten sandwich and turned fully to me. “Please listen and try not to interrupt. Can you do that?”
“Only if you don’t say anything foolish, like suggest I be presented at court.”
She tucked a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “And what’s wrong with that? I was presented last year. Mother sponsored me and she’ll sponsor you too.”
“Of course I will,” Aunt Lilian said from behind us. I hadn’t noticed her draw closer. “How wonderful it will be for you, Cleo. One’s debut is so special.”
“Better than one’s wedding day,” Mrs. Digby agreed.
“And wedding night,” another said, before remembering two unwed women were in their company. She blushed and muttered an apology to Aunt Lilian.
My aunt hadn’t heard her. She sat on the armchair opposite Flossy and me, her plate of food forgotten as it balanced precariously on her lap. “It would be my honor to present you to the queen, Cleo dear.”
“It would most likely be the Princess of Wales these days,” Mrs. Digby said. “The queen is far too old to sit for hours on end to greet all the girls.”
“That’s because the Lord Chamberlain allows too many girls to participate,” said a thin-faced woman with slightly protruding front teeth. “In our day, only girls from the best families could be presented at court. Now they let in anyone.”
At Mrs. Digby’s censorial glare, the woman’s face paled as she remembered that I was not from one of the best families, by strict definition. My father had been an academic with a middle-class upbringing.
My mother, however, had been presented, as had her sister, Aunt Lilian. Although their father hadn’t been noble born, he’d been wealthy enough to be accepted by those who mattered, despite making his fortune in trade. He paid an impoverished dowager countess to sponsor both his daughters and they’d been presented in the same year. That was the story my paternal grandmother had once told me. She’d made it sound like an outdated ordeal that served no purpose in the modern world. Given what I now knew about her prejudices towards my mother’s family, it was possible she’d embellished the story to make them look bad.
“Do say you’ll do it, Cleo,” Flossy begged.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Cleo,” my aunt chided. “Don’t dismiss the idea just yet. You have time before you must decide.”
Lady Caldicott approached the sofa, a palm-sized diary in hand. “Not all that long actually. There are usually two presentations before easter and two after. Easter this year is in mid-April. Invitations from the palace will be sent out three weeks prior…” She flipped back through the pages of the diary. “You’ll need to get your application in soon, Lilian.”
Aunt Lilian clapped her hands, dislodging the plate on he
r lap. I managed to leap up and catch it, but not before the sandwiches slid off onto the rug. The footman approached to clean it up, but I held up my hand to stay him. I picked up the sandwiches and returned them to the plate and set the plate on the table.
Aunt Lilian grasped my hand, seemingly unaware that she’d dropped food on the floor. “What fun it will be, Cleo. There’ll be balls, parties and dinners every night for weeks afterward.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You’ll be having too much fun to be tired.”
Flossy took my other hand. “Just think of all the new dresses you’ll have. Father will pay for them, of course, and I have enough jewelry for both of us.”
Aunt Lilian agreed. “You shall have a different dress for each event.”
“You both forget that I’m in mourning. I’ll still be wearing half-mourning by easter.”
“Six months will have passed by then, won’t it?” Flossy counted on her fingers and realized she’d miscalculated. “Anyway, you’ll be so close to the end that no one will mind.”
We’d been through this before when it had been time for the hotel’s New Year’s Eve ball. I’d not wanted to attend but had changed my mind at the last moment in order to catch a killer.
My aunt and cousin watched me like two puppies eager for me to throw them a bone. I was very aware of everyone in the room straining to hear our conversation, perhaps sensing an argument about to erupt between Aunt Lilian and the niece she’d generously taken in. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
“Thank you, Aunt. It’s so good of you to offer to sponsor me. We’ll talk about it later.”
The response satisfied my aunt, Flossy, and some of the other women in the room, but I knew not all realized that wasn’t acquiescence.
“Well played,” Lady Caldicott said as she joined me at the sandwich trolley where I made up another plate for my aunt. “But it’s going to be a tough battle for you to win. Lilian seems to have her heart set on you having your debut. She won’t give up easily.”
