Murder Most Austen (7 page)

I really didn’t care one way or the other. I wanted only to get away from this blowhard and go to our room, but my mother raised me to be polite. “They’re very nice,” I offered. Apparently, my offering missed the mark entirely.

“Nice?” John cried in a loud tone of outrage. “They’re a damn bit more than just nice, I can tell you. They’re bloody brilliant! I just got mine last week. Paid through the bloody nose for it, but, damn it, I didn’t care! I simply had to have it. When I see something I want, I’m not one to dither about. No, indeed. I act!”

“You’re perfect,” Aunt Winnie said, her eyes bright. I surreptitiously nudged her, hoping she’d rein in the sarcasm, but I needn’t have bothered. John missed her meaning entirely.

“Well, as you Americans are fond of saying, that’s how I roll,” he informed us with a straight face. Aunt Winnie was right. He
was
perfect. Unintentionally so, and for all the wrong reasons, but nevertheless, he was indeed perfect.

“So, is it a date?” he asked, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“Date?” I repeated, confused. Surely I had misheard.

“Yes. To show you around Bath. In my car,” John answered.

I turned to Aunt Winnie for assistance, but she was of no help. Instead, she considered me, her eyes merry and her mouth spread in a wide grin. I could have killed her. “Oh, well, that’s very nice of you,” I finally managed, “but I’m afraid we already have plans today. We’re meeting friends.”

John was not deterred. “Oh, who are you meeting? I probably know them. I know practically everybody here.”

“Cora and Izzy Beadle,” I replied hesitantly, hoping that he did not know them. Seeing his blue eyes light up, I knew that hope was in vain.

“Izzy! Why, Izzy is one of my closest friends here! This is perfect! We can all go together.”

My brain, still tired and suffering from the draining effects of jet lag, drew a complete and utter blank. I gaped at John in frustrated confusion. Thankfully, Aunt Winnie finally came to my rescue.

“That’s a lovely invitation, John,” she said now, as she took my arm to steer me toward the stairs, “but I am afraid that we will have to decline it. However, I’m sure we will run into you later during the festival. Now, if you will excuse us.”

John called out something about getting in touch with Izzy, but Aunt Winnie kept us both moving steadily up the stairs until we were out of his sight.

“Dear God,” I muttered when we were out of earshot.

“What are you complaining about?” Aunt Winnie teased as we continued down the hall to our room. “I thought you loved the English. If I’d told you a week ago that an Englishman, complete with a tweedy blazer and posh accent, would be practically begging to take you for a drive in his convertible, you would have been thrilled.”

“First of all, I am quite happy with Peter, thank you very much. And second, that man gives all Englishmen a bad name. They should take away his passport.” I paused. “I have to admit, that while Catherine Morland isn’t my favorite of the Austen heroines, she does have one trait that I envy.”

“Really, what?”

“When
she
first came to Bath, she didn’t have a single acquaintance. I, on the other hand, have not only acquired a new best friend but have secured the attention of a blowhard with a Jaguar.”

Aunt Winnie laughed. “Remember, if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”

“That very well may be true, but I am neither seeking an adventure nor am I Catherine Morland,” I pointed out.

Both were true, of course. Only I forgot that sometimes you don’t need to seek out an adventure to find one.

CHAPTER 6

Insufferable woman!… A little upstart, vulgar being … and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.

—EMMA

O
UR ROOM WAS
another high-ceilinged wonder, only this time the décor was faded floral prints rather than crisp neutrals. Tall windows afforded us a view of the back courtyard. After unpacking our things, we headed back out to the center of town. Happily, John was nowhere to be found.

Our first stop was to the Jane Austen Centre. Located on Gay Street, where Austen herself once lived, it’s set between two of Bath’s highlights, Queen Square and the Circus. Outside the door to the centre is a mannequin of Jane Austen, so Aunt Winnie and I were delayed several minutes from entering because we had to take numerous pictures of each other standing next to “Jane.”

Inside, we toured the costume museum, had tea upstairs in the Regency Tea Shop, collected our information for the festival, and then hit the gift shop. Aunt Winnie bought—among other things—a reproduction of the large oil painting of Mr. Darcy/Colin Firth while I bought several books and more
I
♥
DARCY
paraphernalia than was perhaps strictly necessary. Our final bill was shocking, and that was before we calculated the exchange rate. However, we left the store secure in the knowledge that our feelings of guilt would pass, and no doubt more quickly than they should.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon happily wandering through the streets of Bath and returned to our hotel in the late afternoon only to shower and get ready for our dinner with Cora and Izzy. However, I had forgotten that Aunt Winnie is a shower singer. A loud shower singer. Her choice of song depends on her mood. For instance, if she’s stressed, she sings country. If she’s feeling silly, she belts out bad ’70s love songs. (Her favorite being “A Little Bit More” by Dr. Hook. Try hearing
that
without gagging.) But when she was happy, as she apparently was now, she became a “Fanilow.” Which was why I was being assailed with every verse, every lyric of Barry Manilow’s opening act at Caesars in Vegas.

By the time she got to “Mandy,” I could take no more. As I was already ready, I headed to the hotel’s reading lounge where I could escape the jukebox from hell and call Peter.

“Hey! How are you?” he said when I got through. “How’s Bath?”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Aunt Winnie and I went to the Jane Austen Centre and had tea, and we took our pictures next to the Austen mannequin.”

“Of course you did. When does the festival start?”

“Tomorrow. There’s a costume promenade in the morning and then a fancy dress ball tomorrow night. Tonight we’re going to dinner with an old friend of Aunt Winnie’s and her daughter. I think they might even be bigger Austen fans than Aunt Winnie and I—and that’s saying something.” I told him about our encounter with Richard and his crazy theories and Cora’s subsequent fury.

“Well, I’m glad that you’re having fun,” he said, “but be careful. Knowing your luck, someone will kill this Richard guy, and you’ll get all caught up in another murder investigation.”

I laughed. “Highly unlikely. These are Janeites we’re talking about. We’re too civilized for such base behavior.”

“Well, be careful anyway. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” I said, wondering for the hundredth time if I made a stupid decision in not moving in with Peter. As I cradled the phone close to my head, I found myself regretting that decision. “Peter?” I said.

“Yeah?”

I paused. Now was not the time to bring it up or change my mind. “Nothing. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I hung up and stared blankly at my phone. What was the matter with me? I was a reasonably intelligent adult. Why couldn’t I figure out what I wanted with Peter? He was perfect—at least he was perfect to me. Although I had disliked him when we were little, mainly because I had misinterpreted his adolescent teasing as evidence of a cruel nature, that was all long ago and long forgotten. Okay, mostly forgotten. Peter was intelligent, kind, and funny. At six feet, with brown hair and brown eyes, he was also very handsome, which, as we Janeites know, a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can.

So just what the hell was my problem?

I decided not to try to analyze that right now and instead pulled out the itinerary for the week. After tomorrow’s promenade and ball, the festival offered various sessions for attendees. There were walking tours, dance workshops, fencing lessons (for fans of Colin Firth’s portrayal of a frustrated Darcy), plays, and numerous lectures. Several of the more popular sessions such as “Dueling Mr. Darcy,” “Dressing Mr. Darcy,” and “A Regency Wedding” were offered daily. I was reading the write-ups on these when another couple entered the lounge.

I gauged them to be about my age. The woman wore a long-sleeved, high-necked dress that appeared to be constructed entirely of black doilies. She was petite and very pale, with almost colorless blond hair that hung in tight ringlets about her long, narrow face. Honestly, if I didn’t know such things didn’t exist, I would have pegged her as one of the living dead. Her companion, too, had blond hair and pale skin, but his look was more waspish than deadish. His outfit, a blue blazer and crisp jeans, was also less funereal than hers. His expression, however, was similarly disconsolate. After hearing a few minutes of their conversation, I understood why.

“Ian,” said the woman, her nasal twang turning the one-syllable word into three, “it’s not that difficult. Just do as I say and ask him. It’s very simple. We need the money. He has the money. It’s your right to have some of it. He’s family, for goodness’ sake!” She paused to study the silver tray laden with complimentary goodies for afternoon tea. There was an assortment of small cookies, some powdered, some jam filled, and some sugar encrusted, in addition to a variety of grapes, figs, and nuts. Next to the tray was another, this one holding a squat blue teapot and an intricately cut crystal decanter.

“What is this?” the woman asked, lifting the stopper of the decanter and lowering her hooked nose close for a suspicious sniff. “Sherry? Yuck. And I suppose
this
is tea,” she grumbled, indicating the porcelain teapot. Lifting the lid, she peered inside, her pale blue eye doubtful. “Just as I suspected,” she pronounced with a kind of proud resignation. “Tea. Why can’t they ever have coffee at these places?”

“Well, it
is
called tea—” began Ian, but Ms. Living Dead cut him off.

“I know that, Ian. I’m not stupid. But it’s not 1772, is it? Haven’t they heard of Starbucks? No wonder they aren’t a superpower anymore. They are hopelessly stuck in the past.”

“Well, some might say—” began Ian, but again he was not allowed to finish.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. I want you to promise me that you will talk to him,” she said, settling on the damask-covered love seat in the far corner of the room and arranging her skirt. “If you don’t, then he is going to spend it all on
her,
and that can’t happen. She has no need for the money, whereas you do! You can put it to good use. What is she going to do with it? She’s only one person, her expenses are nothing, where you have a
family.
What about little Zee? Have you considered his future? Honestly, it’s no contest.”

“You have a point,” the hapless Ian agreed.

“Of course I have a point! And I’m sure that he will see
your
point once you explain it to him. He can’t mean for you to be left out.” The woman paused to thumb through the pile of magazines spread out on the low coffee table before her. “I haven’t heard of any of these. They’re all foreign. Don’t they even have
People
?”

“I imagine that they just carry the local magazines.”

“Well, that’s shortsighted, then. Most of the people who stay at these places aren’t from here, are they? No, they aren’t,” she continued, answering her own question. “Nine times out of ten, they are Americans, and the people who run these types of establishments should remember that.”

“If you say so,” said Ian, staring miserably at the floor.

Another person entered the room now. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Aunt Winnie. It was John. I immediately ducked my head and intently studied the festival guide. Happily, I was not John’s focus. “Ian! Valerie!” he called out. “It’s splendid to see you again! How are you? How’s
Forever Austen
going?”

I peeked up. Ian?
Forever Austen
? This was Richard Baines’s son? Well, well. Better and better.

“Hello, John,” said Valerie. “We’re fine. The magazine’s going splendidly, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” John replied. “One hears things, is all. Economy’s in the tanker, you know.”

“Well, not for
Forever Austen,
” Valerie replied testily. “
It’s
doing just fine.”

“Excellent, that’s excellent.” John’s eyes now landed on me. “Well, hello again!” he boomed. “I was hoping to find you.” Both Ian and Valerie now seemed to notice my presence in the room. Ian smiled politely at me. Valerie did not.

“Hello,” I offered with a quiet smile.

Turning to Ian and Valerie, John said, “Ian and Valerie Baines, I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Elizabeth Parker. She is also here for the festival. Elizabeth, the Baineses run the magazine
Forever Austen.
”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said before glancing back down at my festival guide. My hope that this move would deter further attention from John was, as it turned out, a rather silly one.

“Is that the guide for the festival?” asked John. “Why, you’ve no need for that! Not with me around. I’m the best guide there is! You are going to the ball tomorrow, aren’t you?”

When I reluctantly nodded, John clapped his hands. “Excellent! Then I will claim a dance! I know them all, of course. Many of my partners consider me to be one of the best Regency dancers.”

I paused. Unlike Catherine Morland, I experienced no reflection of felicity in being already engaged for the evening, for I knew that to go previously engaged to a ball does not necessarily increase either the dignity or the enjoyment of a young lady. Besides, I think I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than stand up for an hour with John; it would be insupportable.

Oh, I missed Peter.

Realizing that John was waiting for an answer and that Ian and Valerie were watching me as well, I produced a strangled cough and muttered, “Well, I’m not sure what our plans are right now…”