Death at Daisy's Folly (25 page)

Kate stepped forward. “She was infatuated with your master, was she not?” she asked. “Perhaps embarrassingly so?”

“Yes, thank you, madam,” Richards said. “That is exactly the case, I fear. Lady Metcalf made Sir Reginald's life a misery. She lives only three miles away, you see. She is always coming to call, and even invites herself to dinner. And when he tried to suggest to her—oh, in a most gentlemanly way!—that he wished to be let alone, she fell into an extraordinary fit, in front of the servants.” He shook his head, clucking reproachfully. “She was a great humiliation to him, and eventually, he was forced to advise her of his feelings. I am sorry to say so, but the lady might have wished to avenge herself. A woman scorned—”

“Thank you,” Charles said. “Can you think of anyone else?”

Richards seemed to be about to speak, then closed his mouth.

“If you have thought of anyone,” Charles said, “anyone at all, I should be most grateful for your opinion.”

Richards sighed. “I do hate to say it, sir.” “I am sure, Richards. These things are never pleasant. Who is it you have in mind?”

“Lord Warwick, sir.”

Kate was not surprised to hear it. Love affairs seemed to be taken lightly by the Marlborough set, but there must have been some strain between Lord Warwick and his wife's former lover. She fell into a bemused wonderment, thinking in what a complicated
ménage
of relationships the Warwicks lived. Lady Warwick; her husband; her former lover, Wallace ; her present lover, the Prince of Wales. It would be remarkable if Lord Warwick did not have a lover, too, she thought suddenly. If so, who was she? Lady Lillian, perhaps?

“I see,” Charles was saying. “Did Lord Warwick and Sir Reginald have words, Richards?”

“Yesterday, sir. Lord Warwick seems to have believed that Sir Reginald had possession of a letter belonging to Lady Warwick. Oh, but he was wrong, sir!” he interjected. “Sir Reginald would not have lowered himself to steal a lady's letter!”

“Perhaps it came into his possession by some other means,” Charles said. “Can you report any particulars of the conversation?”

“I'm afraid not, sir. Lord Warwick was quite unspecific in his charges, except to say that he feared that the Warwick name would be damaged, and Sir Reginald denied knowing anything of the letter. I must say, sir,” he added, “that Sir Reginald bore himself like the gentleman he was, even under Lord Warwick's intemperate attack.”

“Well, then. Is there anything else?”

Richards thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Thank you, then, Richards. I believe that will be all.”

When the man had left the room, Kate held out the folded paper. “I found this on the floor, beside the bed, Charles. It must have fallen from the sheets when the maid pulled them off.”

Charles took it from her, unfolded the paper, and began to read. “‘My Darling Daisy, We have an enormous but pleasant party here, though everything reminds me so much of the happy days we spent here two years ago! ... ' ”

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

—JOHN DRYDEN
The Countess of Vanvick's favorite poem

 

 

A
fter luncheon was over, Daisy pleaded letters to write and declined an invitation to participate in an impromptu croquet tournament with several of the guests. She went up to her second-floor suite, where she sat in the yellow velvet chair beside her window, listening to the loud ticking of the jewel-encrusted gold clock Bertie had given her and trying to prepare herself for what she now realized she could not avoid: a conversation with Charles, to whom she would have to confess some part of the truth.

Daisy recognized herself as a schemer—a gifted schemer, at that—whose impulsive actions often required her to redeem herself through clever stratagems. But scheme and strategize as she might, she could find no way around Charles. Damn Bertie, anyway! If the man were not so prone to theatrical gesture, there would have been no guard posted at the door of Reggie's room. She could have recovered that dreadful letter and saved herself and Bertie—and patient, complaisant Brooke, whose chief concern was always and forever the precious Warwick name—untold embarrassment, perhaps even public humiliation.

That was impossible now, of course. Daisy had known Charles for many years. He had invariably impressed her, and even awed her upon occasion, by his intellect, his thoroughness, and his determination. If Bertie's foolish note were hidden in Reggie's room, Charles would certainly find it.

After sitting for a time lost in thought, Daisy rose from the chair and began nervously to pace back and forth, the clock on her dressing table a loud metronome marking time to her movements. Of course, there was a slim chance that the letter would not come immediately to light. Reggie knew his way around Easton Lodge. He might have hidden it anywhere—in a map case in the library, or in one of the thousands of books, or even at the Folly. And Charles could have no clear idea what he was searching for. He might overlook the letter among Reggie's papers, assuming there were any. Or, having found it, he might intentionally pass over it out of a gentleman's sense of propriety and decorum or a respect for the monarchy. Yes, Charles, who came of the Somersworth Sheridans, understood how important it was to maintain appearances, protect reputations, preserve the monarchy. And it was no exaggeration to fear that the monarchy could be threatened by the Crown Prince's indiscretions. The Queen said so herself, often and loudly enough that Daisy had come to think that it was the Royal mother's complaints that prompted the Royal son's flagrant misbehavior.

Daisy turned to the window and pulled back the Belgium lace curtains that underhung the yellow damask drapes. She looked out toward the edge of the park, where the grounds staff had finished setting out the fireworks for tonight's display and was now raking the clipped grass. The difficulty was that she could not count on Charles's being alone when he searched Reggie's room. More likely, he would ask Kate Ardleigh to help him. Daisy did not know the American woman well, but she suspected that Kate would not be fettered by the same sense of social propriety that might restrain Charles. Still and all, the woman seemed prudent, and not likely to speak should Charles bid her to be silent. Even if they should find the letter, it would be safe in their hands, as safe as might be, under the circumstances. She was confident that she could persuade them to return it to her, and if not to her, then to Bertie—unless perhaps they thought it suggested a motive for Reggie's murder.

At the thought, Daisy took in her breath sharply. The missing letter was awful enough, but it was easy to explain in comparison to that note she had written to Reggie, which had almost certainly been on his person at the time of his death. And there was the missing pistol.

Oh, God, that wretched pistol! Should she assume that it had simply been taken by one of the servants and would never again come to light? Such a thing was entirely possible, of course. Much minor thievery occurred in an establishment of this size, especially when it was invaded during weekend house parties by armies of strange servants who often loitered about with too little to do. And the gun was a pretty thing, made by the Prince's favorite gunsmith. It would make a nice souvenir. She could almost convince herself that its loss, while coincidental, was unrelated to Reggie's death and hence unimportant.

But something told her that this was a forlorn hope. No, reporting the theft of the gun to Charles was probably the shrewder move, in case the weapon came to light and proved to be the instrument of Reggie's death. One would think it impossible to trace a bullet to the gun that fired it—but Bertie had spoken at lunch of scientific methods, of microscopes and marks on bullets and the like. For all she knew, Charles might be able to link the fatal bullet to her gun. At the thought, Daisy was seized in a grip of cold, clutching fear so powerful that it made her knees weak, and she sank into the chair once again.

After a long while, she glanced at Bertie's clock on the dressing table, the face of which was enigmatically inscribed with a line from her favorite poem, “I have had my hour.” Those words always heartened her, reminding her that she had led a charmed life. She had inherited one of the greatest fortunes in England, married one of the kingdom's handsomest and most titled lords, and gathered in her embrace the Empire's most powerful man. Yes, whatever dilemmas the future held, whatever hazards and dangers, she had had glories enough.

She looked at the clock again. It would soon be time to dress for tea. She would go to Reggie's room now. If she could not retrieve the letter herself, perhaps the search was over and she could discover what had been found.

Daisy's timing could not have been more perfect. As she reached the west-wing corridor that led to Reggie's room, Charles was just shutting the door. Kate was with him, and they were talking earnestly, their heads close together, their hands touching.

Daisy watched them, momentarily struck by a painful envy. She had had many lovers, but they had brought her only an empty passion that left her surfeited yet unsatisfied. She hoped that Charles would ask Kate to marry him after all, and that the American would say yes. Under other circumstances, she would have taken great pleasure in fostering their relationship, as she had done with so many others. But the expressions on their faces as they saw her brought her back to her reason for being there and gave her the answer to at least one of her questions. They had found the letter or the note, or both. She would have to brazen it out.

Charles gave her a small smile. “We have uncovered certain evidence that we must talk with you about, Daisy.”

“Of course,” Daisy replied with the smile that always put people at their ease. In her usual fashion, she took charge of the situation, gesturing toward the closed door.

“Shall we speak in Reggie's room?” Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door and swept in, noticing that the linens were missing from the bed. Perhaps that's where the discovery had been made. It would be like Reggie to simply slide Bertie's letter under his pillow!

She seated herself in the largest and most comfortable chair, waited for Kate to adjust the draperies and Charles to bring forward two more chairs, smoothed her skirts, and smiled.

“This ...
evidence
you have uncovered,” she said carelessly, intending to imply by her tone that it was barely significant enough to warrant her attention. “Does it perhaps include a note from me to Lord Wallace and a letter from His Royal Highness to me—a letter of a rather personal nature?”

The expression on Charles's face—a kind of relief, mixed with concern—told her that she had guessed correctly, and that her candor had achieved the effect she desired.

“You knew that Wallace had the letter?” he asked.

“I thought it quite likely. It went missing on Thursday, the day of his arrival. At first, I hoped I had merely misplaced it, but after an exhaustive search I began to fear it was stolen.”

“Did Wallace tell you that he had possession of it?”

“Not in so many words,” she said. “But there was something in his manner that told me clearly enough. Reggie and I were once ... quite well acquainted. I knew him very well. He was withholding something of importance from me, and he felt guilty about it.”

“Felt guilty?” The room was so quiet that she could hear the ticking of the clock on the writing table.

“Yes.” Daisy lifted her shoulders and let them drop in a small, casual shrug. “He still loved me, I believe, and did not wish to harm me.”

“Then why,” Kate asked in a puzzled tone, “would he have taken the letter? What did he mean to do with it, or to gain from it?”

“I have asked myself that same question,” Daisy admitted. “I believe he hoped to entice me to return to him. It was a vain hope,” she added lightly, “but he might have deceived himself.”

“So you wanted to talk with him to confirm your suspicions and perhaps induce him to return the letter,” Charles said.

“Yes,” Daisy replied. “I wrote a note and slipped it to him during the dancing, asking him to meet me at the Folly.”

“Did you meet?”

“No,” Daisy said. She looked down at her hands, turning the emerald ring the Prince had given her. “I was—”

“His Highness has said that the two of you were together,” Charles said evenly. “Is it true?”

Daisy nodded, feeling a great wave of gratitude. Nothing compelled Bertie to do this. Once again, he was protecting her!

“Were you in the vicinity of the Folly last night?”

“I was there yesterday at luncheon. After that, no.” She looked up and let her glance rest full on Charles. “How soon can you return His Highness's letter to me? Surely you can see that it has nothing to do with this unfortunate murder,” she hurried on. “And I am certainly innocent. Quite apart from lacking opportunity, I would never have left my note on Reggie's body. And had I known before we left for Chelmsford this morning that he was dead, I would surely have recovered Bertie's letter.” She frowned slightly. “I daresay the murderer knew nothing of the letter, either. Otherwise, it would not have been left where you found it. It would have been a most remarkable and useful trophy.”

Kate cleared her throat. “Unless it was intended to implicate you and the Prince in Wallace's murder,” she said.

Daisy felt her heart thudding against her ribs. “The ... Prince?” she whispered.