Death at Daisy's Folly (3 page)

Ellie shook her head. “The men usually breakfast early at these weekend affairs, then go out to tour the estate or shoot or fish—some such masculine entertainment. The women breakfast whenever they choose.” She looked around at the sunny breakfast room, with its butter-yellow walls, glazed chintz draperies, and silver, crystal, and china arranged in gleaming richness on the mahogany sideboard, and brightened perceptibly. “Easton Lodge is a delightful place, isn't it? You must see my room, Kate. The bed is trimmed in yellow velvet. And I shall show you my new tea gowns, too. They are from Paris—really quite nice.”

Kate nodded, although she didn't share Ellie's enthusiasm for personal decoration. It was trial enough to submit to having her abundant auburn hair twisted and braided on top of her head; she drew the line at being laced into a corset, and disliked the elaborate dresses designed to show off a wasp waist. She favored more rational garments: tailored blouses, plain bodices, and simple skirts. Villagers near Bishop's Keep had become accustomed to seeing her bicycling down the lanes in a divided skirt—and occasionally even in knickerbockers.

Ellie gave Kate a scrutinizing look. “I hope you have brought the gowns we purchased when you were last in London, Kate. Especially the green silk, which suits your coloring so well. In the company of Royalty,” she added pointedly, “one must not dress carelessly. The Prince may act like a dear old uncle, but when he sees something he does not like, he can be a bear. And remember, he prefers women to wear some sort of headdress at dinner—a tiara, jewels, at the least, a ribbon. You will have an opportunity to put on all your favorite finery.”

“I would admit this to no one but you, Ellie,” Kate said in a low voice, “but I have precious little favorite finery, and less patience for putting it on. Assembling a wardrobe for this party was a challenge, and I am finding that dressing for the various events takes an inordinate amount of time—not to mention the business of unpacking and sponging and pressing.” Women guests were expected to change into fresh gowns for breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner, Kate had learned. Even an informal party like this one required almost a dozen different gowns, each appropriate to a particular time of day and degree of formality. Already, she had worn three of the ten costumes she had brought.

“But what else have we to do while the men are amusing themselves out-of-doors?” Ellie asked reasonably. “Anyway, that's what maids are for.” She buttered a half slice of toast. “Did you bring Amelia? If not, the Countess will provide you with someone—no doubt better trained.” Without waiting for Kate's response, she added, “That little maid of yours is sweet, Kate, but she's only a country lass. I do wish you would find a maid who is
au courant
with the latest styles of dress and coiffure. If you intend to join the Marlborough set—”

“But I don't,” Kate said emphatically. “That kind of social life is not for me. I am much more at home in the village than I am in London.”

An American of Irish descent who had lived in England for only a year, Kate was uncomfortable with the social hierarchies of British life and had little admiration for the fast Marlborough crowd that flocked around the Prince and Princess of Wales. But if she cared little for Society's glitter and even viewed Royalty with the wry humor of an American outsider, she was deeply intrigued by her hostess, the Countess of Warwick.

Kate had met the Countess at a garden party and several times since, and had read about her in
The Times
and
The Lady's Realm.
A stunningly wealthy heiress of aristocratic descent who had married Lord Francis Brooke, the handsome heir to the earldom of Warwick, Lady Warwick was a leading beauty of the Prince's circle. With her extravagant costumes and priceless jewels and heedless, spendthrift ways, the Countess was often portrayed in the press as the epitome of wastefulness and questionable morality. Knowing as much, Kate had not been shocked to learn from Ellie that Lady Warwick and the Prince were carrying on one of those clandestine love affairs with which the Marlborough set, having little else to do, amused themselves.

But there was more to the Countess of Warwick than met the eye. Since their first meeting, Kate had suspected that the cool, elegant Lady Warwick, called Daisy by her friends, had another, quite contradictory side. While the women of the Marlborough set cared for little other than balls and race-meetings, Daisy Warwick had a passion for philanthropies. The Countess had mentioned the needlework school she had established in a wing of the main hall at Easton Lodge, and seeing Kate's interest, had invited her to visit, spend the weekend, and be presented to the Prince.

Yesterday, Kate had toured the small school. The thirty or so students were local girls, taught the sought-after skill of fine embroidery by two French instructresses. They earned two and sixpence a week during their preliminary training, and ten shillings after—a quite respectable wage. Their work was sold in a Bond Street shop under the name “Lady Warwick's Depot for the Easton School of Needlework,” and the proceeds went to support the school. The project, however, did not meet with overwhelming approval, according to the newspapers. Lady Warwick's friends professed to be shocked by her excursion into trade and whispered that they had seen the Countess herself serving customers behind the counter, while local gentry in the villages around Easton complained that M‘lady's scheme robbed them of potential servants and gave the unfortunate girls ideas above their lowly station. “Not fit fer kitchen nor nurs'ry when she's through wit 'em,” one country wife had proclaimed, “nor good husband, neither.”

But Kate, who had known poverty firsthand, was deeply intrigued by the Countess's attempt to provide training and employment for women. Orphaned as a small child, Kate had been taken in by an uncle who earned his livelihood as a policeman in New York City, with a wage that provided scant food and clothing for the six children in the family. To support herself, she had become a governess. At the same time, seeing the rapidly growing market in sensational fictions, particularly stories of crime and passion, she had assumed a pseudonym and taken up her pen. To date, she had written—

Kate's thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of two women. “Good morning, Ellie,” the first said pleasantly. “And good morning to you, Miss Ardleigh.”

The woman who had interrupted the wandering train of Kate's thoughts was Lady Warwick herself, a slim, handsome woman in her early thirties with a flawless complexion, dark blue eyes, and hair the color of golden-brown leaves. She was dressed in a pale pink morning dress with a lacy collar and sleeves that puffed at the upper arms and fitted tightly from elbow to wrist. A step behind the Countess was Lady Verena Rochdale, short and round, with graying hair pulled back into a chignon and dressed in a fussy gray silk. Lady Rochdale's bright black eyes snapped with avid curiosity, and she seemed to be peering at everything.

“Good morning,” Ellie said, and Kate echoed her. “I wonder, Daisy,” Ellie added, “whether you have heard from my brother Bradford? He was expected for dinner last night, and I have been worried about him. He is motoring, you know.”

Lady Verena made a face. “Those motorcars,” she said. “Someone soon will be killed in one of them.”

“Actually, I have heard from your brother, Ellie,” Lady Warwick said. “He was delayed in Braintree when his motorcar suffered a breakdown. He and Sir Charles expect to arrive this morning.”

“Charles Sheridan?” Kate asked, surprised.

“You're acquainted with Sir Charles, then?” Lady Warwick asked with a smile. “I have asked him to photograph an excursion His Highness and I are planning tomorrow.”

“An excursion?” Lady Verena asked eagerly. “Wonderful! Where will we be going?”

Lady Warwick turned toward the mahogany sideboard on which breakfast was displayed. “It is a short side trip I have arranged for His Highness's entertainment,” she said carelessly. “Other diversions are planned for any who do not prefer the usual riding and shooting.” She pointed to a silver dish and the footman lifted its lid. “I particularly recommend the pheasant, Verena.”

As one of the two servants filled the women's plates with pheasant, deviled kidneys, coddled eggs, and fruit from the well-stocked sideboard, Kate sat back, feeling that the weekend had suddenly brightened. She had a deep respect for Sir Charles—and more. She would not acknowledge it to anyone, not even to Ellie, but she had grown to love him. What was more, she thought he cared for her, as well. He hadn't yet spoken of his feelings, but when they were together, as they had been often of late, there was a look in his eye and a tender tone in his voice that revealed a great deal.

She felt a sudden warmth. Perhaps this would be the weekend when Sir Charles would declare himself. Perhaps he would sweep her into his arms, declare his love, and—

Kate caught her breath and picked up her teacup. That was a lovely romantic dream, but it was a fantasy that could not be allowed to become real. Sir Charles's declaration would only open a painfully embarrassing exchange, for she could not accept him. Care for him though she might, marriage was out of the question. For one thing, she was an American of Irish extraction, and she had already felt some of the suspicions that many of the British upper class felt toward Americans and Irish. For another—

“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Ardleigh?” Lady Warwick asked. She and Lady Verena sat down on the other side of the table while the other footman—a dark, pocked-faced young man with heavy black eyebrows and a brooding face—stepped forward to pour their tea.

Collecting herself with difficulty, Kate managed a smile. “Very much, Lady Warwick. I was quite impressed by the needlework students to whom you introduced me yesterday. Perhaps one or two will someday establish their own dress-making businesses.”

“Spoken like an American,” Lady Verena remarked. Her dark eyes considered Kate and dismissed her. “As a people, you are so irrepressibly entrepreneurial. So interested in money.” She spoke the word as if it tasted like a spoiled egg.

“And so down-to-earth,” Lady Warwick said. “I did appreciate hearing your ideas and suggestions yesterday, Miss Ardleigh.” She glanced pointedly at Lady Verena, who was avidly forking up deviled kidneys. “There is much to be done, and few who are genuinely concerned about the rural poor.”

Lady Verena's eyes narrowed. She appeared to have felt the barb, but she made no reply.

“Kate is quite active in poor relief in her parish,” Ellie said, sipping her tea.

“Is that so, Miss Ardleigh?” Lady Warwick asked, interested.

Kate nodded. “But please,” she said, “call me Kate.”

Lady Warwick looked pleased. “Then you must call me Daisy. My given name is Frances,” she added, “but my stepfather, Lord Rosslyn, always called me his fresh little daisy. The name has stayed with me.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” Kate said. “My aunt supported several local charities before her death. I am merely carrying on her work.”

“But you have done much more than that, Kate,” Ellie protested. “You provide blankets and food to the workhouse and sponsor prizes at the local school and—”

Lady Verena rattled her spoon noisily. “As I was saying when we came down to breakfast, my dear Daisy, I rose early this morning, thinking to write a few letters. But I opened the latest issue of
Blackwell's Monthly
and chanced on a fiction so engrossing I forgot all about my correspondence. I fear the post has gone without it.”

“I wonder, Verena,” Daisy said, “whether you're speaking of ‘The Duchess's Dilemma.' My sister Blanche recommended the story to me, and I deeply enjoyed it. The author writes with such frank intimacy that I almost feel I know her characters.”

Lady Verena was slathering butter on a roll. “Oh, indeed,” she said. “In fact, the authoress—the name Beryl Bardwell is quite obviously a pseudonym—appears to be writing about people we
do
know.” The dark-browed footman put a spoonful of strawberry jam on her plate, and she transferred it to her roll. “Some of the details of the story lead me to suspect, Daisy, that she is one of our class. If this is true, we
must
learn her identity. It is shocking to think that one among us might retail our most intimate secrets. Not that I have anything to hide,” she added. “Or you, my dear.
Especially
you.” The barb had been returned.

Kate lowered her glance, her cheeks staining. She longed to leave the room, but she could think of no excuse.

“One of us?” Daisy asked, ignoring Lady Verena's scarcely disguised jab. “Perhaps. But no one of my acquaintance is possessed of Miss Bardwell's enviable talent. Surely, if she were one of us, some hint of her skill would have surfaced before this.”

Lady Verena agreed, lifting her cup. “As it happens, my husband's former secretary has some position or another in the publishing house that produces
Blackwell's.
I plan to telegraph him this morning. Perhaps he can tell us the real identity of Beryl Bardwell.”

“That's a splendid idea, Verena,” Daisy replied. “When you find out, I really must know, too.” She looked across the table. “And you, Kate? Or you, Ellie? Have either of you read the story we have been speaking of?”

“I fear not,” Ellie said, “but if you will lend me the magazine, I shall do so this very afternoon.”

Kate made no answer, for she was thrown into an internal chaos. She had no need to wait for a telegram to learn the mysterious writer's identity.
She
was Beryl Bardwell, and one of the reasons she could not accept Sir Charles's offer of marriage—if indeed he intended to make it—was her secret occupation as a writer of detective fictions. It was not an occupation he would wish his wife to pursue. Nor would she give it up, for her writing was a part of her, and she could not imagine her life without it.