Death at Daisy's Folly (11 page)

“That's fine, then,” the Prince said, standing. “I wouldn't fancy having to give the bloody thing a push.” He raised his voice so it could be heard the length of the table. “Brookie! What do you say, Warwick, old chap? Shall we join the ladies? I understand they expect us to dance with them.” He turned to Charles with a more kindly look. “You don't have to start those interrogations tonight, Sheridan. I've seen you ogling that auburn-haired American woman. I waltzed with her last night, and she is quite light on her feet. You must ask her to dance.”

“Yes, sir,” Charles said, not unwillingly. He and the Prince were rising to leave when HRH was accosted by Reggie Wallace, whose face showed signs of nervous agitation.

“Bertie, there's something we must discuss,” he said peremptorily. He glanced at Charles and the three or four others in a nearby group. “A private matter, of some delicacy.”

The Prince patted his bulging waistcoat and puffed on his cigar. “Let us not speak of unpleasant things tonight, Reggie. I am looking forward to being entertained by the ladies.”

Wallace shook his head stubbornly. “This is a matter of urgency, Sire,” he said. He dropped his voice. “It concerns your reputation, and that of our hostess.”

“Ah, more of that,” the Prince said, with irritation. “In that case, it can surely keep until breakfast. Deliver it to me with the sausages, eh?”

Wallace was about to say something more, but a dark look from the Prince silenced him.

 

Upstairs, a space had been cleared at one end of the elegant gas-lit drawing room. A group of musicians was seated in front of the green velvet draperies and had struck up a gay Strauss waltz. The Prince went to Lady Warwick, bowed low over her hand, and led her onto the floor, which was a signal for the rest of the gentlemen to search out partners.

Charles stood off to one side, watching. Having just been assigned the unwelcome (and to his way of thinking, pointless) task of interviewing a hoard of servants, he did not feel very much like dancing. What he wanted most was to sit and talk quietly with Kate and forget about investigations. He wanted to broach the subject he had been considering before dinner, although he hadn't yet thought of a good way to do it. Charles had never before admitted to being in love, let alone made a proposal, and he felt like an awkward school-boy. But, he reminded himself, he did not intend to propose marriage, at least not tonight. He intended merely to sound Kate out on the subject, that was all—to see what her feelings were. He was about to go in search of her when he was stopped by the man to whom Bradford had been talking at table.

“I don't believe we've met,” said the officer, a handsome young man of military bearing. He sported a small blond mustache and his pale hair was brushed smoothly back from a broad forehead. “Andrew Kirk-Smythe,” he said. “Scots Guards. Taking a few days off from maneuvers in the New Forest.”

“Charles Sheridan.” Charles took his hand. The life of a young officer in the Foot Guards could be quite pleasant, he knew. Soldiering here at home was not taken very seriously, and the mess was run by civilian caterers, so that the food and wines were quite civilized. Most officers did themselves well, and it looked as if Kirk-Smythe was no exception. Underneath the young man's smart savoir faire, however, Charles thought he detected a certain uneasiness.

“Couldn't help overhearing you and HRH,” Kirk-Smythe said. He smoothed his mustache and gave Charles an ingratiating smile. “I say, old man, it's a beastly job you've got there, talking to all those servants.”

“Right,” Charles said ruefully. “A devil of a job.”

Kirk-Smythe straightened his shoulders, as if he were coming to attention. “Well, then,” he said crisply, “I shall be glad to offer my services. If it would lighten your burden, I can undertake to interview the outdoor staff.”

Charles was mildly amazed. He wouldn't have expected a young Guards lieutenant, particularly one so meticulously turned out, to volunteer for such distasteful duty. What was his incentive? “I appreciate the offer,” he replied, “but surely you have more pressing demands on your time.”

“Wouldn't want you to get the short end of the stick,” Kirk-Smythe muttered. “Been in thankless positions too often myself.”

From the young man's sleek, well-groomed appearance, Charles doubted that he had ever found himself in any sort of thankless position. His mistrust must have shown in his face, for Kirk-Smythe added, with clear discomfort, “I've been at Easton several times before, you see. I know my way around. What do you say?”

“Yes,” Charles said thoughtfully. “Well, let's talk tomorrow, shall we? I don't expect to start the interviews until sometime in the afternoon, in any event.”

Kirk-Smythe drew his heels together, and all but saluted. “Righto, then,” he said. “Now, if you'll excuse me, a certain beautiful young lady is waiting to dance with me.” He motioned with his head in the direction of several ladies sitting on the other side of the room, among whom, Charles saw with dismay, was Kate Ardleigh.

As it turned out, Kirk-Smythe had another target in his sights. Next to Kate were Lady Verena Rochdale and her daughter Celia. As Charles watched, Kirk-Smythe possessed himself of Celia's hand with a confidence that betrayed a prior arrangement. As they danced off, Lady Rochdale followed them with her eyes, frowning, clearly not pleased with the partner her daughter had accepted with such alacrity. He guessed that the mother had higher marital aspirations, and would remove her daughter from her admirer's grasp. Kirk-Smythe was about to get, in his own words, the short end of the stick.

Charles shook his head. That was what had put him off marriage for so long: the artifice of it, the social maneuvering that went with it, the family ambitions that attached to it. He wanted none of that where his own marriage was concerned—although he suspected that the minute his mother knew of his interest in Kate, the questions would begin. Who was she? Who were her parents and grandparents? Where in England did she come from? When did she come out (which was a decorous way of inquiring about her age)? What were her circumstances—meaning, did she bring her own fortune, or would her family provide her an adequate allowance? At the thought, his insides shriveled. No, if he were to marry, it would best be done without consulting his mother.

He walked across the room, greeted Lady Rochdale more curtly than he might have done, and turned to Kate. She looked more beautiful this evening than he had ever seen her. Her russet hair was piled high on her head and decorated with peacock feathers. She wore a green silk gown that exactly matched the emeralds at her white throat. He found himself thinking that the family diamonds would look much more lovely on Kate than on his sister-in-law, and wrenched his eyes away.

“I'm afraid I'm not a particularly good dancer,” he confessed, and saw Lady Rochdale's right eyebrow go up at his unusual candor. “But if you would care to risk a waltz—”

“Thank you,” she said promptly, rising from her chair with a smile. “To tell the truth, I am not especially fond of the waltz, Sir Charles.” She nodded at Lady Rochdale, whose left eyebrow had risen to match her right, and took the arm he offered her. “Perhaps we could just walk.”

They strolled down the ornate room, glancing at the paintings and statuary arrayed along the wall, while Charles, who was not practiced at small talk, tried to find a smooth way into the topic he wanted to open. Try as he might, though, he could not think how to begin. It was not a subject one could come at obliquely, and it seemed much too direct to blurt out, “I have been thinking of marriage, Kate, and would like to hear your views on the topic.”

Kate, for her part, thought that Sir Charles was probably preoccupied with the investigation he was carrying out for the Prince. It was a matter in which she had a compelling interest as well, for Beryl Bardwell had decided that a murder in a stable—suitably disguised, of course, so that it could not be traced to Easton Lodge—would lend drama to
The Loves of Lady Lenore.
As to who was murdered—well, that Beryl had not yet determined. She was deliberating between Lady Lenore's former lover and her husband, and had begun to think that Lady Lenore's present lover might be a reasonable suspect. Or perhaps it would be the other way around: the current lover would be killed, the murderer none other than the jealous husband, with the former lover as one of the prime suspects.

“How are you progressing with your investigation?” Kate asked, hoping he would respond with details that might help Beryl Bardwell with her plot. “What else have you learned about the stableboy's death?”

“There is nothing to tell you,” he said. “Only that the Prince has asked me to extend my interviews to all of the servants.”

Kate was momentarily taken aback. “
All
of them? The task will take at least a week!”

“It will take days, in any event,” he said glumly, “and I have no confidence that anything will be learned.” They had come to an upholstered bench at the far end of the drawing room. “Would you care to sit?”

They sat down and Kate folded her gloved hands in her lap, remembering her thoughts of that morning. Like it or not, she had to face the truth. Over the months she had known Charles Sheridan, she had grown to love him, and the thought of it filled her at once with a quiet pleasure and a deep sadness. Sitting beside him now, stealing a glance at his thoughtful face, she was convinced that he cared for her, too. But English men were rarely aware of their deepest emotions, or if they were, they gave little sign of it. He might not be able to say how he felt—nor did she wish him to, for should they marry, Beryl Bardwell would certainly come between them. If he asked her, she would have to decline, for he would not want to marry someone with a secret identity. More, she refused to give up the work that had become such a satisfying and important part of her life. No, it would be much better if she could turn the subject to something else before he could bring up the matter.

Charles, meanwhile, was trying to collect his thoughts. A moment ago, the idea of sounding Kate's feelings on the subject of marriage had seemed quite logical and not at all difficult. Her physical presence, however, was inordinately distracting. She was sitting quite close, pressing against his arm, her scent wafting around them like spring lilacs. For the life of him, he could not focus on what needed to be said, nor think how to begin.

He shifted uneasily. “I wonder if I might ask you your opinion about—”

“If you like—” Kate said at the same moment.

They both laughed self-consciously. Kate colored and looked away.

“Please,” Charles said, “go on.”

Kate bit her lip. The only subject she could think of was the one they had just left. “I ... If you like, I could help with your interrogation by speaking with the female servants. It might shorten your work.”

Charles found himself sharply annoyed. He wanted to tell the woman about his changed personal situation, explore her feelings about marriage, and
she
wanted to talk about the confounded investigation! He shook his head, bemused. She was a most unusual woman, with quite peculiar tastes. Try as he might, he could not fathom her interest in criminal matters.

“My dear Kate,” he said stiffly, “you were of inestimable help on the two other investigations in which I was engaged during the past year, and I am grateful. It is pointless, however, to involve you in the drudgery of this one. While there may well have been a crime, I fear that any evidence has been permanently destroyed.” He paused. “It is on another matter entirely that I have been thinking of speaking to you.”

“Another matter?” She turned her head to one side. “How can you think of anything else when your investigation is of such importance? Apprehending the boy's killer—if indeed he was the victim of foul play—has the highest priority, does it not?”

He cast about for inspiration. How the devil
did
one speak about marriage with a lady who kept pressing him about murder? But he could think of nothing. Suddenly, and to his enormous astonishment, he heard himself blurting, “Blast it all, Kate, I had meant to ask you to marry me.”

She looked at him, her gaze unreadable. She said nothing for a moment, then asked, in a small voice, “You
had
meant to ask?”

“Yes,” he said, wretchedly conscious that he was making a fool of himself and a great mess of the subject he had intended to discuss with rational succinctness. “Yes, I ... in a word, that is, yes.” He cleared his throat. “But something I learned recently has caused me to question whether a union between us would be ... wise.”

She looked down at her gloved hands, tightly clasped. “I think you are quite right to question your impulse, Charles. The subject is not one we can profitably discuss.”

He frowned, irrationally seized by a desire to dispute his own statement. “Is the thought of our marriage so preposterous?” he asked. “After all, we have known one another for over a year, and have had a remarkably amiable association.” He paused, awkwardly conscious that something more ought to be said in support of a proposal of marriage. “And I do... I do care for you, Kate. More than I ought, perhaps. That is, I mean to say—” He stopped, covered in confusion.

She lifted her head, and her eyes met his. “You said that something you learned recently caused you to question your intention. May I know what that is?”

The room had grown so insufferably hot that Charles could scarcely breathe, and he could feel the sweat trickling down his neck under his infernal collar. He could tell her that he would shortly inherit the family title and become the fifth Baron of Somersworth, but that was only the beginning. To enable her to fully understand the heavy burden of duty and responsibility that was about to settle on his shoulders, he would have to tell her his entire family history, which would take hours. And even then, she could not understand the subtleties of the system of primogeniture, or the almost feudal obligations that bound a landowner to land and tenants. How could she, being an American? They had freed themselves of all such restraints.