The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “Your grace,” Veronica said, “may I please present my dearest friend, Miss Cora Clarke?”

  This is the duke?

  No wonder Veronica had termed him to be not very welcoming.

  Cora sank into an awkward curtsy.

  “Hmph,” the duke muttered and wandered away. His slippers squeaked on the landing above.

  A maid appeared to assist Veronica and Cora in removing the offending coats and boots that had caused the duke such distress.

  The door opened behind them, and Lady Audrey appeared.

  “Where were you?” Veronica asked.

  “Just parking the car,” Lady Audrey said.

  “Right.” Veronica frowned. “Let’s go.”

  Cora followed Veronica into the drawing room.

  The room smelled deliciously of pine needles. Garlands were strung about the ceiling, and a large Christmas tree shimmered with brightly colored ornaments.

  “Darling!” a man’s voice sounded, and Veronica’s whole face lit up.

  She dashed toward the newcomer, and he spun her around in his sturdy arms.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “This is Cora Clarke,” Veronica said, still resting in his embrace. “She was one of the actresses with whom I worked for years.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” murmured Cora.

  “How was your journey?” he asked.

  “The ship was far too slow.” Veronica tilted her head up to him as if for him to kiss her, but he gave her a peck on her cheek.

  “The servants are around,” Lord Holt said.

  “Oh.” Veronica managed to look confused, but her husband squeezed her hands.

  “You can greet my mother.” He led them to the other side of the room.

  For some reason, Cora had expected Veronica’s husband to be more dynamic. Lord Holt was tall, but his amble seemed hesitant, as if his limbs resented their extra length. Veronica had a habit of being linked to the most smashing male leads, the men who graced magazines with maddening frequency, even though they never seemed to manage to have so much as a shirt to accompany them on their photo shoots.

  No doubt Lord Holt’s title and wealth made up for his lack of regular features and the absence of a chin, and perhaps he thought the utter absence of imperfections on Veronica’s features might render handsome children.

  Lord Holt halted before a woman. “Mother, may I present Miss Cora Clarke? Miss Clarke this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Hawley”

  “How do you do?” the woman said, scarcely lifting her gaze from her book, and Cora noted the trace of an Eastern European accent.

  Cora had been expecting a woman with gray hair to match that of the duke, but the duchess had rich auburn hair. She had none of her son’s uncertainty and wore a bold emerald dress that highlighted slender ankles. The dress was likely Parisian, instead of the kind hastily made from cheap, if shiny, fabric favored by budget-conscious Hollywood producers.

  Veronica tossed her hair. “Hello, Ma.”

  The woman’s exquisitely plucked eyebrows rose and for a moment, Cora thought the duchess would roll her eyes. Instead, the duchess gave Veronica an icy smile. “I do hope you enjoyed the elopement.”

  “A night with your son—what’s not to adore?” Veronica asked.

  The duchess swallowed hard.

  Voices sounded from the foyer.

  “Ah... It must be the Italian gentleman.” The duchess rushed toward the door, hurrying over the Oriental carpets. “Signor Palombi! Welcome.”

  A man stepped into the room. Cora had envisioned him with a forceful attitude and a bulging figure that came from making business deals over steak.

  The man she saw did not seem to possess either of those qualities. His figure was trim, and his facial features were of such regular size that they could, like the Duchess of Hawley’s bone structure, be termed pleasing.

  Cora’s lips twitched.

  The man was the most stereotypical sort of Italian. Her own father was Italian American and was a singer in Las Vegas. The studio had decided that her mother’s name was more appropriate for an actress. His career had grown with Cora’s, and he had needed larger and larger rooms to fill with starry-eyed fans as he belted Italian songs few could even understand.

  Signor Palombi swept his gaze across the room, and Cora had the impression that not a single candlestick or teacup would go unnoticed.

  “Why this is magnifico,” he declared.

  “I’m so glad you like it.” The duchess beamed and clasped her hands to her heart.

  Lord Holt stiffened. Perhaps he thought his mother was behaving in an almost besotted fashion.

  “Archibald will like it too,” Signor Palombi said.

  “He brought another guest?” A scowl formed on Lord Holt’s face.

  “Archibald! Stop inspecting the foyer,” Signor Palombi exclaimed, and pitter-patters sounded.

  An adorable small dog with curly white fur stepped into the room.

  “He’s lovely,” the duchess said, bending down to greet the four-legged guest.

  Edmund stiffened. “I’ll make sure the rooms are prepared.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Veronica said quickly.

  They left the drawing room, and after a few minutes of conversation with the duchess, the Italian gentleman joined Cora.

  “My name is Achille Palombi.” He swept himself into a bow. “You are lovely. A friend of the famous actress?”

  “We acted as children together.”

  “Are you performing anything now?”

  “Not for the time being,” Cora admitted.

  “Then enjoy Christmas,” the Italian said. “I am told that the English do an excellent Christmas pudding.”

  The dog tilted his head at Cora, as if assessing her, and then strode up to her and licked her shoes.

  “Forgive Archibald,” Signor Palombi said. “He has evidently determined that your shoes have traveled far. He’s never been to California.”

  “His name is Archibald?” she asked.

  “Ah yes,” Signor Palombi said. “I’ve always desired to have an English name myself.”

  “I didn’t know Italians were fond of the English,” she said. “What with Mussolini and all.”

  Signor Palombi’s smile wobbled. “I like the gravitas in his name.”

  “Archibald does sound rather venerable,” Cora agreed.

  The dog twirled around, perhaps delighted at being described as respectable.

  “I see I was not the last to arrive,” Signor Palombi said.

  Cora followed the Italian’s gaze to the doorway.

  A man with gray speckled hair and a mustache entered the drawing room. His features seemed composed entirely of chiseled planes: a sturdy jaw, high cheekbones and a nose that managed to not slope up or down. Mr. Bellomo would have dragged him to the casting couch. The strands of silver did not hide the man’s handsomeness.

  “Miss Clarke, isn’t it?” the man said. “You must be the other starlet.”

  “Indeed.”

  “A pleasure.” His voice was also polished. How did the British manage to make the simplest words sound heavenly? Her mind drifted once again to the strange photographer.

  “My name is Rhys Ardingley,” the newcomer said.

  “I’m glad someone fun is here,” Veronica called from the landing. Veronica hurried down the steps, and Lord Holt followed her at a more sedate pace. “We’re going to have a riot. Cora, meet my brother-in-law.”

  “The black sheep, I’m afraid,” he said. “Older, but Father was naughty and didn’t marry my mother.”

  “Don’t scare her,” Veronica warned. “This is her first time out of the country.”

  “An ingénue!” Mr. Ardingley tapped his hand over his heart, and his eyes widened. “And you’ve chosen my father’s house to make your foreign debut?”

  “Likely an honor he does not appreciate,” a female voice said.

  Mr. Ardingley’s smile tightened. “Katherine. I did
not see you.”

  “Oh, just look down and behind you. That’s generally where I am.”

  “Right.” Mr. Ardingley’s voice croaked, and he stepped away.

  A woman with dark curly hair and thick eyebrows worthy of Joan Crawford sat in a wheelchair.

  “Miss Clarke, please let me present my darling wife,” Mr. Ardingley said smoothly.

  “Oh, you needn’t act so romantic,” Mrs. Ardingley said, pushing down on the wheels to propel herself forward. “Any fool can tell you’re not devoted, and we’re in the presence of two actresses. They can see past your lines. They probably don’t even consider them well-delivered. I certainly don’t.”

  Mr. Ardingley’s earlier cocky grin vanished.

  The woman thrust her hand out to Cora. “Welcome to Chalcroft Park. I see you’re the uninvited guest.”

  “I invited her,” Veronica said quickly. “Cora is my dearest, most darling friend.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Ardingley continued to scrutinize her.

  “Perhaps we should retire,” Veronica said hastily. “We had a long voyage.”

  “Dinner is at eight,” Lord Holt said.

  “I remember.”

  “Good.” He nodded curtly and turned away.

  When she looked at Veronica, her cheeks had grown somewhat pink. “Edmund is the strong and silent type.”

  Cora nodded. Perhaps the man made up for any lack of strength with an excess of silence.

  “And he is an earl,” Veronica said again, sliding her hand around Cora’s arm. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  They ascended the steps and entered a long hall. The chairs were pressed against the sides of one wall. The heavy carved furniture seemed discordant with the cozy environment she expected of a home. Still, this was going to be a wonderful visit.

  Chapter Four

  The formality in the house extended into Cora’s bedroom. The room might lack the animal print upholstery and gold and silver detailing favored by Hollywood’s elite, but the domed canopy bed and the floral curtains draped upon it must be expensive. Matching curtains lined the windows, though these were topped with stiff pelmets. The busy pattern seemed at odds with the increasingly white landscape outside.

  Cora strode to the window.

  Golly.

  The snow was positively racing downward, as if each flake had decided to enter the Grand Prix. Cold air hurtled through cracks in the aged windowpane, and she glanced longingly at the large stone fireplace that dominated one wall. A thick Oriental screen was placed in front of it, presumably to protect from any wayward sparks. Not that any sparks were happening now; the room was chilly. She moved toward the bed, eyeing the abundant compilation of coverlets, bedspreads, quilts, and duvets with pleasure.

  Perhaps she might rest.

  Just for a bit.

  Cora removed her shoes, sat down on the bed, and soon found her eyelids seeming to grow heavy. She lay down and pulled the covers about her.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, she slept.

  A knock sounded, and Cora jerked her torso up.

  The door swung open.

  Cora pushed away the covers. “Veronica?”

  “It’s only me, ma’am,” a stern voice said. “The maid. One of them.”

  Cora scrambled up, and the blanket lay crumpled around her legs.

  A middle-aged woman scrutinized her. She wore a bulky black dress, the color evidently not muted from frequent washings, and a crisp white apron. A lace cap perched on her head. “You should have rung for me.” She pointed to the silk rope that hung from the ceiling.

  “I—”

  “I’ll make a fire for you,” the maid said. “Even if these aren’t conventional hours.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” Cora declared.

  “Can’t have you sleeping under the covers with your afternoon dress on.”

  Cora wouldn’t have referred to a dark blue frock as an afternoon dress, but clearly this was the sort of place where one changed for dinner, even if one were merely going downstairs, and not to some riveting new club or movie opening.

  Another maid entered the room.

  Her uniform was every bit as meticulous, though she was younger than the other maid and wore rouge and lipstick. She stared at Cora.

  Cora knew that look.

  “I can dress her,” the new maid said.

  “I never thought you were eager to add more duties,” the first maid said.

  “I am now.”

  “Very well.”

  Cora was somewhat glad when the first maid left the room. She’d seemed rather too reminiscent of the school teacher who had taught Cora on the sets of movies, pulling her into a classroom with Veronica and some other child actors, whenever the adults were on break.

  They’d studied arithmetic and reading, while the adults laughed and sipped cocktails.

  Cora had had no desire to sip cocktails in those days, but she’d still been scared of the schoolteacher who’d seemed to work from the assumption that child actors were spoiled, even though unlike most other children, they all worked hard.

  “I’m Gladys,” the new maid said.

  “And I’m—”

  “Cora Clarke.” Gladys’s eyes shimmered. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, miss. Now let’s get you dressed.”

  Cora rose from the bed, still groggy from the hours of travel.

  “I’ve seen every one of your films, miss.”

  “I hope you enjoyed them.”

  “Oh, naturally. Seeing you tap dance on the ceiling. Really, too brilliant.”

  Cora smiled.

  Gladys glanced at Cora’s feet, perhaps half expecting her to burst into dance.

  “Let me unpack for you,” Gladys said. “You must have all sorts of lovely gowns for dinner.”

  “Well—”

  Gladys whisked her clothes into cabinets and wardrobes, exclaiming over some of them.

  None of her clothing was French, and Cora didn’t have any tweed, two things that likely encompassed the wardrobe options here. Gladys eventually dressed Cora in her finest gown, murmuring something about how she needed to make a good impression.

  Gladys gave her directions to the dining hall, and Cora strode downstairs, armed in her mint satin gown. Unfortunately, the balloon sleeves did seem a trifle outrageous, and the rest of the gown might have had an overabundance of ruffles.

  Dining with movie stars was one thing, but it was quite another to dine with English aristocrats greater than twice her age, who had a penchant for narrowing their eyes at her statements. Likely her very accent was cause for amusement.

  No matter.

  Cora ignored the uncertainty coursing through her.

  Voices sounded.

  Good.

  She must be near the dining room and she rounded the corner of the hallway.

  The dining room was nowhere in sight.

  Signor Palombi and the duchess were speaking in an alcove, and Cora hesitated.

  Are they having a private conversation?

  But they’ve only just met...

  She frowned, and some curiosity caused her to halt.

  “I don’t like seeing you on your own here,” Signor Palombi said. “Not with that man. Come with me, Denisa.”

  He was on a first term basis with the duchess? And he was suggesting she run away with him?

  Cora was certain that did not follow etiquette rules.

  But the duchess did not seem offended by the man’s impertinence.

  No slap sounded.

  In fact, the space between them was very narrow, and they seemed almost to give each other a hug.

  “I can’t. I wish I could follow you there,” the duchess said. “Spend the rest of my life with you, but I-I have commitments.”

  Oh.

  That sounded exactly as if they were having an affair.

  Perhaps that was why the duke and duchess had seemed so cantankerous. They were consumed with their own worries, and Veronica should not dwell on their
supposed disapproval.

  “The child is grown,” Signor Palombi said.

  The duchess smiled. “He’s married, but it feels...wrong.”

  Cora stepped back. She was not going to eavesdrop further; she’d listened to far too much as it was.

  She crept quietly down the corridor until she eventually heard voices, and this time they did not belong to people in the midst of having illicit affairs.

  Veronica, her husband, the duke and Lady Audrey were sipping martinis. Beyond them was an elaborately decked dining room table. No doubt they were waiting for the others to arrive.

  Thankfully, Lady Audrey was deep in conversation with the duke. She wore a striking black dress that managed to radiate sophistication, if not, precisely, personality. Perhaps she confined her fondness for color to her art.

  Cora entered the room.

  The duke raised his eyebrows and glowered at her. “Ah, we’re only missing four people now. I shouldn’t wonder that my children keep requesting money: even the ability to tell time eludes them and their wives.”

  “I’m here,” Lord Holt said quickly.

  The duke lowered his bushy brows. “I suppose it’s just the ability to make conversation so your presence is known that eludes you.”

  Lord Holt’s cheeks took on a shade of deep rose.

  “Were you missing us, Father?” Mr. Ardingley entered the room.

  “Just remarking on your tardiness,” the duke said.

  “We’re here now.” Mr. Ardingley walked to a bar cart and poured himself a drink as his wife wheeled herself into the room.

  She smoothed her forest green gown, running her hands over the drop waist. The sparseness of her thin shoulder straps was not quite hidden by the navy and green shawl draped about her. The lower half of her dress was composed of a variety of ruffles, and beads sparkled from each layer. No doubt the dress had been expensive at one time, but it was dreadfully out of fashion, and worn shoes peeked from the hem.

  The duke frowned. “For the amount of time it took, I would have expected your wife to look at least somewhat glamorous.”

  “She does,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “She’s been wearing that dress for the past ten years,” the duke said. He subjected Mrs. Ardingley to a disdainful stare. “Is that your Christmas dress?”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t been nearly that long.” Mrs. Ardingley raised her chin and kept her voice defiant, but the reddening of her skin, even underneath her substantial powder, impeded the effect. “Besides, I cannot walk. And this is comfortable.”