A Most Novel Revenge (5 page)

“I think I'll just go back to my room now,” Isobel said, casting a sweeping glance around the table. “I have some writing to do. I intend to finish the book within the month. I have the feeling it will be quite the sensation.”

She was halfway to the door when Reggie spoke.

“I'll kill you first.” The words were barely a whisper, but were perfectly audible in the dead stillness of the room.

In response to this threat, Isobel looked over her shoulder at him and clicked her tongue. “Shame, Reggie. In front of your guests.”

And then she was gone, and it felt rather as though all of the air had gone out of the room with her.

We were all quiet for a moment, sitting in something of a stunned silence.

“If you'll all excuse me,” Reggie said suddenly. He turned and strode from the room.

And still no one spoke.

I think we were all in a bit of shock. I could not, in all my many years of society dinners, remember anything remotely as dramatic occurring at the dinner table.

It was Beatrice who marshaled her poise first.

“That was unpleasant,” she said, a profound understatement. Her gaze caught mine. “Allow me to apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Ames. I'm sure that was terribly embarrassing for you.”

“There's no need to apologize,” I said. It was not, after all, she who had orchestrated the climactic scene.

“Nevertheless, Reggie must have known something like this was going to happen. He shouldn't have invited you if he planned to have that woman here.”

She turned to Desmond Roberts, Isobel's young secretary. I had almost forgotten that he was at the table.

“I should apologize to you as well, Mr. Roberts,” she said, neatly avoiding actually doing so.

“Isobel can be quite provoking,” he said, without any great emotion. I suspected this was awkward for him as well, though it was also possible he was under orders to remain at the dinner table and observe our reactions to her grand announcement.

“Perhaps I had better go and see to Reggie,” Beatrice said, pushing aside her untouched dessert. “Coffee will be served in the drawing room. I'll join you there shortly.”

I met Milo's gaze as we moved toward the drawing room, but it was, as usual, difficult to tell what he was thinking. I doubted he had been much moved by the scene. He was terribly difficult to shock. I thought if Reggie had stabbed Isobel with a dinner knife, it might possibly have elicited some slight surprise.

My cousin's countenance was a bit more voluble. Her eyes were wide, and she was pale as she caught my arm as the others went ahead of us into the drawing room. “This is just the sort of thing I was afraid would happen,” she whispered. “Reggie … did you see his face, Amory? I was afraid he would…” Her voice trailed off, leaving me wondering whether she feared for his health or what he might do to Miss Van Allen.

“What could she possibly have to put into another book?” I asked. I had never pressured my cousin for details about the tragedy at Lyonsgate. I had sensed it was something that she didn't wish to discuss. Now, however, it seemed imperative to know just what had happened at the time of Mr. Green's death. Apparently, there were more secrets to be exposed. Isobel Van Allen's new book had the potential to wreak just as much social havoc as the first had done.

“I don't know,” she said. “There were a lot of dreadful things happening that I wasn't aware of at the time. It could be anything.”

This was not encouraging, but we couldn't very well stand in the hallway all evening discussing the grim possibilities.

“We'll talk more about it later,” I told her.

She nodded, and we went into the drawing room. The mood was subdued, to say the least, but the others had begun to sip their coffee and attempt light conversation. Laurel took a seat near Gareth Winters. He had remained outwardly unmoved throughout Isobel's performance, but I wondered what his inner thoughts on the matter might be. Presumably, he was just as opposed to the idea as the rest of the guests were.

I was not surprised to see Lucinda Lyons had seated herself near Milo. She had appeared a bit shaken as we left the drawing room, but I was sure Milo would quickly set her at ease. I was glad of it. I expected the young woman felt a bit alone, her brother and sister having decamped and left her in a room full of strangers.

I thought perhaps Desmond Roberts felt the same way. He sat alone on a settee near the fire, sipping his coffee with every appearance of indifference, yet I suspected the air of confidence with which he carried himself was superficial. I had noticed that, when he thought people weren't looking, a very lost expression had flickered momentarily across his face.

I wondered how it was that he had fallen into Miss Van Allen's clutches. There was, I supposed, something flattering to the male ego at having captured the attention of so exotic a woman as Isobel Van Allen. That she was twenty years his senior did not seem to be a consideration. She was, after all, very beautiful and, I assumed, quite rich.

But perhaps I was being cynical. Perhaps they truly cared for each other. It was not outside the realm of possibility. My instinct told me, however, that it was not a love match.

Well, whatever his reasons, it was none of my business. He was an adult, and there was absolutely no reason that he could not do just as he pleased. That didn't mean, of course, that I couldn't try to befriend him.

“It seems we are both outsiders here, Mr. Roberts,” I said as I approached. He appeared to have been lost in thought and hurried to rise.

“Please don't get up.” I took a seat near him and accepted a demitasse from Henson, the butler.

“I'm afraid it's not just in this room, Mrs. Ames,” Mr. Roberts said as Henson moved away. “I'm rather an outsider in this country.”

“Have you lived in Kenya long?”

“Nearly my entire life. I don't have many memories of England. Mainly cold, gray mornings and unending rain. This visit has done little to change the picture in my mind.”

I smiled. “Yes, I can imagine it's not what you're accustomed to. Perhaps winter was not the best time to make a return.”

“I had very little say in the matter.”

He took a sip of his coffee, the glass dwarfed in his long, brown fingers. His nails were manicured, I noticed, and his cuff links were gold. It seemed that Miss Van Allen kept him well maintained. It was not a very nice thing to think, but the thought had come unbidden.

“Do you expect to stay long?” I asked, not entirely without ulterior motive. If I meant to do all I could to calm the troubled waters here at Lyonsgate, it didn't hurt to gather information in the form of polite conversation.

“I may never go back.” His answer was automatic, and he was gazing across the room with the unseeing look of a man lost in his own thoughts.

Within a moment, he seemed to recall where he was, however, and turned to me with an easy smile. “Then again, I may be back within a fortnight. One never knows, does one?”

“No,” I replied. “I suppose not.”

Fully self-possessed once again, he began telling me about life in Africa. He spoke with some animation of his homeland, and I found myself liking the young man and hoping that whatever troubles he was hiding beneath the surface would not distress him for long.

At last I excused myself and made my way toward Milo and his young admirer.

Lucinda was laughing delightedly at something he had said, the troubles at dinner apparently forgotten. She turned to me with a bright smile as I approached and Milo rose from the sofa.

“Oh, Mrs. Ames! Your husband is so amusing.”

“Yes, isn't he?” I agreed. Milo was almost invariably charming. It came to him naturally, but when he put extra effort into it, the effect was remarkable. Lucinda was practically glowing under his attentions.

“He has been telling me about his horse Xerxes,” Lucinda said. “Such fun! I do adore high spirits and glossy black hair.”

“Yes, he's quite a lovely thing,” I said, no longer certain if we were speaking of Milo or the horse.

“Mr. Ames has told me the most delightful stories,” she said. She hesitated for a brief moment and then added, “It's nice to laugh after that unpleasantness at dinner.”

“It does seem the mood has lifted since Miss Van Allen excused herself,” I said lightly.

“She's a dreadful woman, isn't she?” Lucinda said, without much feeling, as though she thought it was what was expected of her. “But she's very beautiful.”

I could not disagree with either assessment.

“And her gowns are lovely. I wouldn't have thought she'd be much of one for stylish clothes, having lived in the wilderness for so long, but all her things are the height of fashion.”

“I suspect she made a stop in Paris,” I said. “She seems to have adapted quite easily to European life. I'm not sure the same can be said for Mr. Roberts. Not only is he in a strange country, but the conversation at dinner can't have been pleasant for him.”

“No, I suppose not.” Lucinda looked across the room at the young man in question. “I don't know what they see in each other, really. He's much too young for her. I find older men
much
more interesting.” Her gaze flickered momentarily to Milo as she said this. “In any event, perhaps I should go and speak to him, since Reggie isn't here to be host.”

“That would be nice of you.” She was young and quite pretty, and I couldn't help but think it would be much preferable for her to lavish her attentions on an unmarried gentleman of her own age rather than my husband.

I really was being unbearably snide tonight.

She rose, smoothing out her skirt. “I'll just go keep him company for a while, if you'll excuse me.”

I took Lucinda's vacant seat on the sofa, and Milo sat close beside me.

“Come to rescue me, darling?”

“She's not the first of your admirers I've had to chase away,” I replied with a smile. “Really, though, I'm glad you diverted her. I imagine all of this has been rather difficult for her.”

“I'd wager she's been a bit neglected.”

“Yes, I doubt her brother and sister have had much time for her since they returned to Lyonsgate.”

“I'm sure she shall be excessively diverted by Isobel's dashing amanuensis.”

One could hope. I hadn't come to discuss Lucinda, however. What I really wanted to do was speak to him about what had occurred at dinner, but we did not have the chance. Reggie and Beatrice came back into the room just then.

“Forgive us our absence,” said Beatrice, who appeared completely unruffled by the events of the evening. “Has everyone had their coffee?”

Conversation resumed its normal course as everyone attempted to pretend that the night had not had any impact upon them.

I glanced at Reggie. He stood at his sister's side, looking as though he could use a drink.

I was not, apparently, the only one to think so, for Henson came almost at once with a glass upon a tray, the contents of which were not the strong coffee we had been drinking.

“Let's play a rubber of bridge, shall we?” Laurel suggested suddenly. She was looking at Reggie as she said it.

“Oh, I don't think…” he began.

“Oh, do partner with me, Reggie. We always play so well together.”

He hesitated for only a moment. “Very well.”

“Beatrice?”

“No, thank you, Laurel.” She took a seat by the fire and lit a cigarette.

“Mr. Roberts and I will play,” Lucinda said. She looked at Mr. Roberts expectantly, and he nodded his agreement.

The players moved to a table in the corner, and Gareth Winters wandered over to where we sat.

“I'm glad to have escaped that,” he said. “I don't care for the game.” Somehow I didn't find this surprising. Mr. Winters didn't seem as though he would enjoy maintaining the concentration required to follow the bidding.

“I'm afraid my heart wouldn't be in it this evening,” I admitted. “It seems you were right this afternoon when you said things were bound to get unpleasant.”

He smiled that vague smile of his. “I'm afraid the worst is yet to come.”

*   *   *

UNFORTUNATELY, I COULDN'T
disagree.

As soon as politely possible, I made my excuses and retreated to my room, leaving Milo and Mr. Winters to have a drink together. It had certainly been an eventful evening, and I was very tired.

Winnelda was sitting in a chair, which she had dragged perilously close to the fire, and reading a book. She set it aside and sprang to her feet when I came into the room.

“Oh, madam!” she said with great enthusiasm. “Is it true? Was there really a lot of shouting and threatening at dinner?”

I never ceased to be amazed at the rate at which news traveled through the domestic staff. Winnelda, in particular, seemed to be an absolute magnet for gossip. She must have made fast friends with some of the maids.

“There was a bit of unpleasantness,” I admitted. “I'm afraid the people here are not the greatest of friends.”

“I do hope you'll tell me all about it,” she said, as she moved to unfasten my dress.

“It's rather a long story.”

“I don't mind, madam.” Winnelda never minded long stories. She was drawn to scandal like a bee to honey.

I stepped out of my gown and pulled on a nightdress as Winnelda moved to hang the dress in the wardrobe. I didn't particularly want to go over it all again, but I knew that she would never rest easy until I had given her the details.

“It all goes back to something that happened here several years ago. There was a death, and Miss Van Allen wrote a book about it.”

“Yes,
The Dead of Winter
.” Winnelda said over her shoulder.

I turned to her, surprised. “You know it?”

“Oh, yes, madam. It's one of my favorites. I was quite young when it was published, and I remember all the sensation it caused. My mother told me I shouldn't read such things, and so naturally I was all the more eager to read it. My friends and I all bought copies. Let me tell you, it set me to blushing more than once.”