Death at Daisy's Folly (12 page)

“The matter... is of such gravity and weight that I have scarcely managed to absorb it myself,” he said finally, and with far more stiffness than he intended. “Let it suffice to say that my family obligations make it difficult for me to—”

“My dear Kate, there you are!” It was Daisy Warwick, with Lady Lillian in tow. “I do hope I'm not interrupting. I have a proposal to make.”

Kate looked up with a strained smile. “Interrupting? Why, no, of course not.”

Lady Lillian stepped close to Charles. “While Miss Ardleigh is speaking with our hostess,” she said demurely, “perhaps you might ask me to dance.”

Charles wrenched his eyes away from Kate. “I regret to say that I am not a good dancer, Lady Lillian. I—”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Lillian exclaimed prettily. “The problem is that you have not yet found the right partner. Do come—we'll have such fun.” She took his hand, tugging gently. Before Charles knew it, they were circling the floor.

Deeply shaken, Kate watched Charles put his arms around Lillian Forsythe and dance away with her. A moment ago, he had been about to tell her why he had changed his mind about asking her to marry him. What reason would he have given? That his family would not tolerate his marriage to an Irish-American woman? Or that he had discovered the identity of Beryl Bardwell and had decided he could not marry a woman who practiced such an occupation?

“—and so I would like you to go with us,” Daisy was concluding.

“Please forgive me.” Kate pulled her attention back to the conversation. “Where are you going?”

“To Chelmsford,” Daisy said.

“Oh, yes,” Kate said. “To the workhouse.” In spite of herself, her eyes had gone back to the dancing. For a man who didn't waltz, Sir Charles was managing quite adequately. She frowned. Was it really possible that he knew about Beryl Bardwell? Yes, of course it was. She had tried to conceal her work from the servants at Bishop's Keep, but she had seen their secret smiles when they came upon her in the act of writing. They undoubtedly knew. It was possible—no, it was quite likely—that Amelia had told Lawrence, who had told his master, who...

“Excuse me, you know about the expedition?” Daisy repeated with some annoyance, for what must have been the second time.

With an effort, Kate turned away from the dancers. If Sir Charles had changed his mind about asking her to marry him, that was all to the good, actually. It would have embarrassed them both when she refused him, as she fully intended to do. And if he preferred to dance with a woman so blatantly obvious about her intentions—well, that was his affair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charles step squarely on Lillian Forsythe's instep, and felt wickedly glad.

“My maid mentioned the excursion to me,” she said. “I understand that His Royal Highness is going along.”

A trace of bleak humor, and then perhaps something darker, flickered across Daisy's face and disappeared. “There's no keeping a secret from the servants' hall,” she said with a resigned sigh. “But since you already know about it, I suppose I don't have to explain. The Prince will be riding in Mr. Marsden's Daimler, and Sir Charles and I—he is to photograph our tour—will be following in the brougham. It occurred to me that since you are interested in improving the lot of the poor, you might be interested in seeing the workhouse. And I am sure that your lively company would make the visit more interesting for His Highness.”

Sir Charles was going? Then she should not, Kate thought, for it would be too uncomfortable. She spoke regretfully. “Thank you for the invitation. I would like to go, but I fear I must decline. Perhaps another time, when—” Her eyes went toward the dancing couples.

Daisy followed her glance. “Does this have to do with Sir Charles?”

“I'm afraid so,” Kate said ruefully. She colored. “You see, he does not—That is, I cannot ...” She stopped, thinking that her face and manner were giving too much away.

“I fancy I see a great deal, my dear,” Daisy said gently. She touched Kate's hand. “These things do work themselves out, though. If you are meant for each other, fate will offer you a way. With Charles's changing circumstances, there will be a great many opportunities, I should think.”

Kate frowned. “His ... changing circumstances?”

“His brother's tragic illness quite alters his situation, of course. When Lord Robert is gone and Charles comes into the title—” She tilted her head, frowning. “But you look as though this is news to you, my dear. Am I telling you something you didn't know?”

Kate nodded mutely. She had not known, but it all made perfect sense. Charles's brother was dying, and he would inherit the baronetcy. He cared for her, but he knew she could not bear to live in London during the Season, or go to balls, or host house parties, or—

And even if Kate were willing to try, there was Beryl Bardwell, who would be both a constant thorn and a potential embarrassment. His family—all proper English aristocrats, she was sure—would be mortified if he brought home an Irish-American bride with the unfortunate habit of scribbling stories. No wonder he didn't think it wise for them to marry. She completely agreed. In fact, she thought it a perfectly ludicrous idea!

“I am frightfully sorry, Kate,” Daisy said. “I fear I have told you something that Charles intended to tell you himself.”

Kate was about to reply, but she was interrupted by a polite, “Pardon me, Miss Ardleigh, but I wonder if you might enjoy a waltz.” The speaker was Sir Friedrich Temple, whose stern eye had fallen on her once or twice during dinner. His face was softer now, and he was smiling. “If our hostess will permit, that is,” he said, bowing to Daisy.

“Since when did you need my permission to make off with a beautiful woman, Freddy?” the Countess asked with careless gaiety. “By all means, carry Miss Ardleigh away and amuse her. She has been far too serious these last few moments. In any event, I see someone with whom I have been meaning to speak.”

Kate followed her glance. She was looking at Sir Reginald, standing alone on the other side of the room. And then, before Kate realized what had happened, Sir Friedrich had whirled her away among the other dancers.

The whole seems to fall into a shape,
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead;
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!

—ROBERT BROWNING
“Andrea del Sarto”

 

 

C
harles thought that the column assembled in the courtyard the next morning must be the most extraordinary ever organized at Easton Lodge. In the vanguard was the highly polished and finely tuned Daimler, the Royal pennant fluttering from its standard, the engine idling like a poorly-maintained thrashing machine. Bradford, wearing duster, motoring cap, and goggles, sat behind the tiller, waiting for the Prince. Seeing Charles, he gave a cheerful wave.

“A red-letter day in British motoring history,” he called, and Charles suppressed a smile. The Prince was about to discover that the Countess's stratagem wasn't the only one to which he would be subject today.

Next in line behind the Daimler was the shiny black fourseater brougham in which Charles and Daisy would ride, with room for HRH, should ill fortune befall the motorcar. Under its seats were several large wicker baskets covered with red-and-white-checked cloths. Charles supposed them to be emergency rations, should they be detained beyond lunchtime. The rear guard consisted of a supply wagon which would follow behind, probably at some distance, conveying Bradford's mechanic (his man Lawrence) and a hopefully adequate stock of spare parts, spare tires, and petrol. A good idea, Charles reflected. Motoring was a dodgy business. One never could be quite sure of arriving anywhere without incident.

Charles turned and motioned to Lawrence, who had carried his photographic gear downstairs. “Put that in the wagon,” he said. “Carefully, please.”

“Yessir,” Lawrence replied, and began to stow the various cases.

Charles had brought a camera made in Paris in 1890, a large and fairly cumbersome model, but one that would function under conditions of poor illumination and produce high-quality prints as well. The mahogany front panel folded down when the camera opened, supporting a square leather bellows and a Eurygraphe Extra-Rapid No. 3 lens. He had been intrigued with photography for as long as he could remember, and his collection of cameras now threatened to overtake the room in his Knightsbridge house to which they were consigned. He frowned. Fettered by duty he might be, but photography was one of the interests he intended to pursue.

“‘ Scuse me, sir,” Lawrence said, having stowed the camera paraphernalia. “May I 'ave a word?”

“Certainly, Lawrence,” Charles said. Marsden's man had a seedy look about him this morning. Perhaps he had indulged a little too freely the night before. Charles opened a leather valise and began counting glass photographic plates. “What is it?”

Lawrence glanced over his shoulder as though to be sure he wasn't overheard by the stable staff and groundsmen that were gathering to gawk at the motorcar. “‘Tis about th' dead stableboy,” he said in a low voice. “I've learnt o' someone ye shud talk to.”

Charles snapped the heavy valise shut. “I don't know if I'll get to it, Lawrence. As things stand—” As things stood, he had over a hundred servants to question. A damned wild-goose chase.

“Beggin' yer pardon, Sir Charles,” Lawrence said urgently. “I know ye've got a lot o' detectin' t' do, but ye ought t' make th' time t' talk t' Deaf John. He seen ‘im. Or 'er, as th' case may be. 'E cudn't tell which.”

“Saw who?”

“Th' killer, that's ‘oo.” Lawrence leaned closer. “Comin' outta th' stable yestiddy mornin'.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “And who is Deaf John?”

“‘E's th' farrier. Works in th' smithy.” Lawrence jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That way.”

“Thank you, Lawrence,” Charles said. “I'm very grateful for your intelligence.”

“Yer welcome, sir,” Lawrence growled. “If ye'll pardon me, there's a thing er two I need t' check on th' Daimler.” He glanced at the coachman, a bandy-legged little man named Wickett, and dropped his voice. “An' I need t' talk t' Lord Marsden 'bout a sartin wager.”

“What wager?”

“I've laid a bob that th' Daimler'll get t' Chelmsford an' back in three hours, not countin' th' time spent there. Wud ye say that's reason'ble?”

“It's reasonable,” Charles agreed. “The Countess is expecting us to return before luncheon, at one.” He watched Lawrence walk to the motorcar to talk to Bradford, wondering whether he had time to seek out Deaf John before the expedition got off. But at that moment, he was interrupted.

“Good morning, Charles.”

He turned swiftly. Kate was standing a few paces away. She was wearing a gold wool walking costume with a short matching cape around her shoulders, and the rich color of her gold felt hat heightened the russet glow of her hair.

“Good morning, Kate.” Charles felt himself flushing. “I regret that we were interrupted last night. I wasn't at all eager to dance with Lady Lillian, but I—” He stopped. The damned woman was trying to hide a smile. “Have I said something amusing?” he demanded crossly.

“It is not to me that you should apologize,” Kate said. “I wonder that poor Lady Lillian can walk this morning.”

“Lady Lillian doesn't merit an apology,” he snapped. Poor Lady Lillian, indeed! He had resorted to rudeness in an effort to be rid of the foolish woman, and even that wasn't enough. It wasn't until Sir Friedrich came up and asked her to dance that Charles was able to make his escape. By that time, Kate was firmly attached to Ellie and Bradford and the opportunity to talk with her had vanished.

Kate's smile was gone and she was looking at him gravely, her head tilted to one side. “Regarding last night,” he said. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “What I meant to say to you in our brief conversation, Kate, was that over the past year I learned to care for you very much. I came to believe that I wanted to marry you.” He stopped. Why the deuce was he speaking of his desire in the past tense? It sounded as though he no longer cared, and that wasn't the truth. “That is,” he said, reddening still more and intent on correcting his error, “I
do
want to marry you. However, I have just recently learned that—”

Kate put out her hand, stopping him. “Charles, please. I own that I, too, had begun to care for you. But it is well that we recognize those feelings as inappropriate to our situation.” Her green-flecked hazel eyes were clear, her gaze unswerving. “Speaking frankly—and frank speech is always better than hints and suggestions—a match between us is not suitable. We should be glad that both of us understand and accept that fact.”

He blinked, startled into a response he hadn't intended. “Not suitable? For heaven's sake, Kate, what makes you think—”

“Good morning, Sheridan!” came the Prince's booming voice. “A fine morning for a drive, is it not?”

Charles, feeling deeply frustrated by the interruption, turned to greet His Highness and the Countess. Kate, for her part, felt deeply grateful. She had said what she intended to say, and she very much hoped that the matter was closed. Their relationship might be strained for a brief time, but once they accepted the inevitable, they could continue their friendship without complication. She could go on being Beryl Bardwell, and he could go on to the baronetcy of whatever-it-was.