Death at Daisy's Folly (9 page)

—FRANCES (DAISY) BROOKE, LADY WARWICK
Discretions

Think, too, how to beauty
They oft owe their fall,
And what may through vice
Be the fate of you all.

 

 

K
ate had been introduced to most of the guests the night before, and she had taken a few minutes before dinner to study the guest list, trying to match names and faces. But as she assumed her place in the line to go in to dinner, she still had to make a deliberate effort to remember which names belonged to which individuals.

There was no mistaking the Prince, of course, with those exophthalmic eyes that Victoria had passed on to her children, and that clipped graying beard and portly profile. He was about to lead the Countess into the dining hall.

There was no mistaking the Countess, either. Lady Warwick was dressed in a creamy tulle with ivory velvet ribbons and a froth of lace that gave her a young girl's air of innocence. It seemed to Kate, however, that beneath Daisy's lighthearted gaiety was a certain apprehension. Perhaps, she thought, watching the Countess glance from the attentive Prince to her debonair husband, chatting animatedly with Lady Forsythe, it had to do with the awkward situation in which she found herself. It must not be easy to manage both a princely lover and a husband under the same roof, even if the husband obligingly turned the other way when the occasion called for tolerance. But did he always? Or did Lord Warwick sometimes object to his wife's affairs?

Lord Warwick himself escorted Lady Lillian, brilliant in sapphire taffeta that rustled richly as she moved. Kate saw her catch Sir Charles's eye and speak to him in a low voice, with a smile that promised intimacies. They had obviously made an acquaintance, at tea, perhaps. Kate couldn't help wondering, with a distinct uneasiness, whether Lady Lillian had brought up the subject of bats, and whether Sir Charles had found her remarks interesting.

As for Sir Charles, unusually elegant but stiff and uncomfortable-looking in his evening wear, Kate found herself torn. She had been hoping that they were to be table partners and was disappointed when he was asked to escort Celia, the coyly self-conscious daughter of Lord and Lady Rochdale, who had only recently come out. On the other hand, she thought it might be better if she and Sir Charles did not have easy opportunities for conversation this weekend. Perhaps she could postpone the day when he might bring up the subject of marriage and she would have to tell him... Tell him what? That she was not interested? It was a lie, but it was better than the truth: that he would not be interested in her if he knew everything about her.

Behind Lord Warwick and Lady Lillian, third in the procession, came Celia's parents, Lord and Lady Rochdale. Lord Malcolm was tall and stooped, with a perpetual frown between his too-small eyes, a long nose with a droop at the end, and pale, thin lips. Lady Verena's low corsage outlined her bosom in layers of lace, emphasizing her plumpness, and she wore a false black chignon with a bunch of fat black curls that dangled coquettishly over her left shoulder, several shades darker than her graying hair. Kate studied her uneasily, but if Lady Verena had received a telegram that gave away Beryl Bardwell's identity, it was not apparent from her demeanor. Her glance slid past Kate as if she were invisible.

Nor did Ellie Farley seem to have found her out. Ellie gave her a warm smile and touched her arm. “You're beautiful tonight, Kate,” she whispered, as she stepped into line behind the Rochdales, on the arm of a handsome young Scots Guards lieutenant whose name, Kate had learned the night before, was Andrew Kirk-Smythe. “But do relax, dear. You look as if you're afraid someone will bite you.”

Kate tried to smile, but without much success. In spite of the bare-shouldered elegance of the green silk gown that had seemed so grand in the privacy of her bedroom, she felt herself just plain, ordinary Kate, an American—a redheaded Irish American, at that—and decidedly out of place in the midst of such a splendid company.

The feeling was heightened by the joking, gossipy banter exchanged by the two pairs of couples that followed Ellie and Kirk-Smythe in the line: Lady Felicia Metcalf, escorted by a sandy-haired man of erect military bearing with a gold pince-nez, Sir Friedrich Temple; and Mr. and Mrs. Milford Knightly. Mr. Knightly, a turf friend of the Prince, was a sardonic man with one glass eye, wreathed in an aura of cheap cigars; his wife, several years older than her husband, was dressed in an olive green gown that made her skin look sallow. Behind them came Lord Reginald Wallace, Bradford Marsden, and the financier Samuel Isaacson, engrossed in a conversation about motorcars. Then, after some confusion about the order of the guests, came Kate, on the arm of a retired army officer with surly black eyebrows who glared at her and snorted “American, eh? Too many of you gels over here, looking for husbands.”

The feeling of alienation persisted all through dinner, where Kate was sandwiched between the gray-bearded ex-officer with surly eyebrows (whose name, she discovered, was Sir Thomas Cobb) and Lord Malcolm Rochdale, who carried on a conversation with each other over her head. Lord Malcolm owned a country estate named Alwyne, not far from Chelmsford, and was building a grand new house there. That work, and the construction of his stables, occupied all his thoughts, Kate concluded, for he talked of little else. By the time dinner was over, she had learned that the newly constructed house had three wings and a clock tower and that the grounds were enclosed by a wall the height of his wife's head. The whole affair was constructed of locally produced brick (making it sound to Kate remarkably like a prison), and Lord Malcolm commented several times on the extraordinary amount of money he had saved by this expedient. “One pays attention to such mundane business as construction savings these days,” he said, leaning forward to speak to Sir Thomas.

“Ah, yes,” Sir Thomas answered glumly. “Now that these ruinous death duties have been laid on us, we may all be constrained to build with cheap brick,” which remark put an end to the conversation for several moments.

If Lord Malcolm was obsessed with bricks, Sir Thomas was preoccupied with shooting. So far this season, he confided to Lord Rochdale when they were speaking again, guests at the three shooting weekends he had hosted at his Warwickshire estate had bagged two hundred partridges, three thousand pheasants, and nearly four hundred hares—bloody statistics which left Kate pitying the ptarmigan on her plate (a favorite of the Prince) and feeling a trifle ill. But at least Sir Thomas had left off glaring at Kate and muttering about American gels; now his scowl was directed across the table at Sir Reginald, Kate's luncheon partner, who had gotten into the tiff with Lady Warwick. Kate decided that Sir Thomas must have some kind of grudge against Sir Reginald, for he spent the dinner hour bristling his brows and grimacing at him, these quite remarkable facial gestures accompanied by shoulder hunches and audible snorts and hisses.

During the interval between the ptarmigan and the peas and asparagus in aspic, Kate glanced up and down the table. The guests—ten to a side, with Lady Warwick on one end and Lord Warwick on the other—were decorative in their glittering jewels and gleaming shirtfronts. They were attended by liveried footmen moving soundlessly in and out of the shadows while the myriad candles glinted off the crystal goblets and rich gold plate. A tableau of social perfection. The picture of elegant and unceasing pleasure, of well-bred sophistication, of happiness.

But glancing from face to face, Kate suddenly saw the scene as if it were a still life. The guests, frozen in various postures of eating and drinking, seemed to wear their countenances like smiling masks that covered the avaricious expressions of unhappy pleasure-seekers with nothing to do but indulge their insatiable appetites for fine food, fine houses, fine horses, and each other. And as Kate looked up and caught sight of Daisy Warwick, her face decorated with a strained, set smile, there suddenly seemed something quite false and entirely sinister about the scene, and she shivered.

 

At the head of the table, Daisy caught Bertie's lovingly proprietary glance and returned it. But her accustomed smile covered a surge of cold panic. How was she to tell him that she had mislaid one of his letters—one of his foolish, fatuous, extraordinarily indiscreet love letters? Would he accuse her to her face of carelessness? Would he—?

No. Bertie, whatever else he might be, was the perfect courtly gentleman. Even if he considered her to be careless and irresponsible, he would not tell her so. He might, however, decide that she was not to be trusted. He might never tell her anything important ever again. Worse, he might—

And then another thought struck her, and the panic became a tidal wave. What if she had not mislaid the letter, but it had been stolen? She did not deceive herself: her personal maids, like everyone else, could be bought. And on the blackmail market, such an indiscreet document would be worth thousands of pounds. The panic closed over her head like a dark wave, leaving her gasping for air. Who could have done such a thing?

Her glance went down the table to one face, sullen and jealous, and she felt a sudden cold surge of anger. Reginald Wallace would not have stolen the letter himself, but he was not above arranging its theft. And if that were true, if he had it, she might persuade him to give it back. Of course, she had no money to give him. She already owed him thousands of pounds, exactly how much, she had forgotten. But he wanted something else from her, something that would cost her nothing. She took a deep breath, raised her chin, and smiled at him.

But now the Prince was speaking to her, and she had to retrieve her smile, silence her thoughts, and answer him with a witty charm. As the Royal mistresses before her had learned to their cost, His Highness must never become bored.

 

Midway down the table, Sir Reginald Wallace caught Daisy's smile. What was it the woman wanted now? His forgiveness for her fickleness? His acceptance of a situation over which, at bottom, neither of them had had any control? It was damned late for either the one or the other now, though. She wanted something more tangible, money, most likely. Her estates, her income—they were nothing compared with the fortune that went for clothing and jewelry and entertainment. Yes, by God, he recognized that glance! Later tonight, he'd receive a note from her, asking him to meet her at the Folly, where she would plead with him for another loan.

The idea of it—of being with her again privately, of perhaps even touching her face, her hair—raised a sudden heat within him, and he lowered his head lest his hunger show in his face. For all his disapproval of her actions and her dangerous affiliations, those were external matters, and not the woman herself. His feelings for her had never changed, not even in those dreadful months after Margaret had died and everyone was whispering that he had killed her. He looked up and saw Sir Thomas glowering at him around the fruit-filled epergne, flushed deeply, and looked away, forcing his thoughts back to Daisy.

She was going down a perilous road. Her Socialist fellow travelers were scoundrels, or worse, plotting England's demise and the destruction of the monarchy. He might be willing to make her a loan, but to get any money from him, she'd have to listen first, and he would warn her in terms she could not ignore or laugh away. He would tell her that there were persons close to the Crown who saw what she was doing, feared she might succeed, and would do anything to ensure that she would not. His affair with Daisy may have cost him all his pleasure, destroyed his every happiness, but he loved her still. If it was in his power to keep her from making a ruinous mistake, he would.

He looked up, caught Felicia Metcalf's mooning gaze, and scowled. Blast the woman, couldn't she see that she was making fools of both of them? The business in the upstairs hallway after tea had been uglier than he intended, and he wished that scalawag Knightly had not heard so much of what passed between them. But he and Felicia were finished, that was all there was to it. He was a gentleman and hated public scenes, but was sick to death of her and the sooner she understood, the better. And as for Knightly ...

Wallace's eyes narrowed. It was just about time for accounts to be settled. Knightly might think he could use that embarrassing business in the upper hall to get out from under his debt. But he was wrong. What Wallace had learned that morning completely eliminated Knightly's advantage. All he had to do now was collect.

 

With a half smile, Felicia Metcalf released Sir Reginald's glance and allowed the footman to refill her champagne glass. As she did so, she felt Mr. Knightly's boldly amused gaze on her. Her smile faded and she looked haughtily away, feeling the hot flush rise to her cheeks. It was intolerable that Milford Knightly—that wretched man with his glass eye and sardonic mouth—had overheard her little
contretemps
with Reggie in the upstairs hallway. He was such a reprobate, quite common, with nothing to recommend him except his horse-racing friendship with the Prince. And that wife of his—well, really!

She glanced again at Reggie. Of course, he hadn't meant that angry little outburst in the hallway upstairs. During the after-dinner entertainment, she would let him know that her bedroom door would be open to him tonight. Or perhaps they could meet at the Folly, where Daisy saw to it that the bedroom fires were lit so that trysting couples could take their pleasure there.

At the thought of Daisy Brooke, Felicia's lips compressed and her jealous resolve hardened. Daisy was a selfish, manipulative woman who had used poor Reggie dreadfully, used him still, no doubt, whenever she could. And if sweet, foolish Reggie imagined himself still in love with that shallow schemer—well, as Lillian Forsythe had remarked at luncheon, one did quite relish a challenge, didn't one?