The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “Comfort is something sought by the weak,” the duke replied.

  The duchess and Signor Palombi entered the dining room together, and Lord Holt’s knuckles tightened around his martini glass. He swallowed the remainder of his drink, and one of the footman scrambled to replace it.

  The duchess wore a scarlet gown. The bias cut fabric, and the manner in which the silk hugged her body, made it obvious that unlike other women of her generation, she did not achieve her well-proportioned body through the aid of old-fashioned corsets. Rubies sparkled from her throat and wrists. Her sleeves were not puffed or in any manner billowing; evidently she did not require any volume on her shoulders to create the impression of a dainty waist. The duchess’s waist was already slender, despite the cook’s undoubted effort over the past thirty years to place temptations before her.

  “You look well, Ma,” Veronica called out cheerfully.

  “She looks beautiful,” Signor Palombi said firmly.

  “Let’s go in,” the duke said, choosing not to comment on the Italian’s statement. Perhaps he was accustomed to his business partners musing over the attractiveness of his wife.

  Signor Palombi offered Cora his arm. “Allow me.”

  Cora took the man’s arm cautiously, pondering whether he was indeed the Duchess of Hawley’s lover. They settled around the dining room, and Cora took in the dark paneled walls, adorned with all manner of medieval weapons. Her eyes must have widened, for Mr. Ardingley winked.

  She drew back and focused on the less intimidating aspects of the room. Sconces flickered golden light. The ceiling was painted a pale blue color that might have been intended to mimic the sky on a pretty day, since she’d heard that those were rare in England. So far, she hadn’t seen a blue sky since Arizona. Even New York had been devoid of them.

  Footmen in glossy black attire stood behind them. The frequency of the footmen’s glances at her made it clear that they knew her identity.

  “It’s so quiet in here,” Veronica said loudly. “This is a clear case for music.”

  The duchess frowned, managing to direct centuries of carefully cultivated aristocratic disapproval, but Veronica only laughed.

  “You mustn’t look so cross,” she said. “I promise to not put anything too shocking on.”

  “We don’t own a gramophone,” said the duchess.

  “Oh, but I do,” Veronica said.

  “Gramophones are more an indulgence for the servant class,” the duke said. “When one has heard the 1812 Overture played at the Royal Albert, one really cannot listen to big band music with all those ghastly brass instruments.”

  “Unless one is tone deaf.” Lady Audrey sipped her glass of wine daintily. “Did I ever mention how truly interesting I thought your Broadway Bonanza of 1936 performance was, Veronica? I could swear your singing voice was much higher pitched in the film. A true soprano. How unexpected when your speaking voice is so deep.”

  “Men find deep voices appealing,” Veronica said. “You may not know that.”

  Lady Audrey flushed, but she retained a sweet tone. “I merely questioned that you had really used your own voice in the film.”

  “Obviously the director’s taste was questionable. My singing voice is outstanding.” Veronica tossed her hair.

  Lady Audrey smirked. “Then perhaps you can provide the musical entertainment tonight.”

  “My gramophone will do quite well. Not all of us listen to music as if we’re still scared of the French.”

  “I’m not scared of any French.” The duke pounded his fist against the table.

  “We know you’re not,” said the duchess. “Though perhaps you should be frightened by the Germans.”

  “Fiddle-faddle,” the duke said, momentarily distracted when the footman switched the soup course for fish.

  “A gramophone must be an unconventional item to take with you,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I think it’s splendid you brought one.”

  “It’s for my work,” Veronica said. “I’m doing an adaption of Horror Most Dreadful, the radio play. I thought I should listen to the original play.”

  “How thrilling,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I’ve listened to the radio play. Dear Katherine has quite a morbid fascination for the entire crime genre, don’t you darling?”

  Mrs. Ardingley shifted in her wheel chair. “Only when you place the Proust out of my reach.”

  Cora had the impression Mrs. Ardingley did not want to enjoy anything that Veronica excelled at.

  “So do you have a copy of the radio play with you?” Mr. Ardingley asked. “Perhaps we could listen to that after dinner.”

  “Oh, how dull,” Lady Audrey said. “The most atrocious jazz music would be preferable.”

  “I agree,” Lord Holt said. “Why listen to a version of a play that my darling wife will only perform so much better?”

  Veronica beamed and blew him a kiss.

  “That is the last moving picture you will be in, I hope,” the duke said.

  Veronica straightened. “Yes, your grace.”

  “Dear Father,” Mr. Ardingley said. “They don’t call them moving pictures anymore. They’re no longer a novel concept.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re appropriate,” the duke grumbled. No wonder Edmund couldn’t bear to introduce this woman to me before his so-called elopement.”

  “Real elopement,” Veronica said. “We’re married.”

  “So you say.” The duke took another slurp of red wine, and when he spoke, his teeth were as stained as a recently satiated vampire.

  Mr. Ardingley smiled. “You’re one to feign propriety, Father. I think you’ve shocked Miss Clarke with your collection of medieval weapons.”

  “Good,” the duke said. “Those Americans should be scared. Acting like they’re the superior power in the world.”

  “Father is involved in all sorts of mysterious activity with other governments and companies so large they seem entirely devoid of a nation’s values with which to adhere.”

  “Is that so?” Signor Palombi asked. “How exciting. Fascinamento.”

  “I hope your tongue is not always that loose,” the duke said to his oldest son.

  Mr. Ardingley flushed.

  “So these are medieval?” Cora asked. “I hadn’t realized the house was that old.”

  “Estate,” the duchess corrected her. “We don’t live in mere houses.”

  “It’s all new,” Mr. Ardingley said. “All quite fabricated.”

  “It’s Victorian,” the duke said. “You mustn’t give the American the wrong impression. They are most gullible.”

  Mr. Ardingley waved his hand. “This place is fifty years old. Younger than dear father.”

  “My father built it,” the duke said.

  “It’s a monstrosity.” Mr. Ardingley took another sip of wine. “One rather wishes our ancestors had started oppressing people in the eighteenth century instead of waiting until the nineteenth, so we could have one of those bright airy places in style then instead.”

  “Nonsense,” the duke said. “Those manor houses look all alike. All dado rails, friezes, and cornices. Ridiculous decorations, as if the English hadn’t advanced past appreciation for the Greek column. This is Victorian. This is English.”

  “I’ve always liked it,” Lord Holt agreed. “I, for one, think Grandfather did a wonderful job building this. It will be my honor to continue the dukedom at this great property.

  “Brown-noser.” The duke waved his hand, in the same dismissive gesture as his eldest son. Wine spilled from his glass onto the white tablecloth.

  Lord Holt’s shoulders lowered, as if he were pondering the effectiveness of the centerpieces as spots behind which to hide.

  The duchess directed her gaze to Veronica. “Perhaps poor taste runs in the family.”

  Veronica concentrated on cutting her food, as the room fell into silence except for her knife screeching against the plate.

  “Well, I do like this place,” Cora said, trying to be polite.r />
  “Your grace,” the duke said. “You can call me that.”

  Cora blinked.

  “Father paid big money to get that title,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Lloyd George gave it to him in exchange for considerable funds.”

  “My family’s impact on the region was considerable,” the duke said.

  “Yes, but the impact was hardly good,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Anyway, Father is determined to get his money’s worth of respect before he dies.”

  “He didn’t mean that, your grace,” Mrs. Ardingley said hastily.

  “You mean you paid to become a duke?” Signor Palombi asked, his voice incredulous. “How fantastic.”

  The duke scowled, and his expression did not even improve when the footman exchanged his fish course for game.

  “My ancestors made this region great,” the duke said. “They provided coal and steel for thousands. The Empire flourished because of the Holt family.”

  “They lowered the life expectancy of this region to thirty years,” Mr. Ardingley said. “But money must be made, and it gave father dearest a dukedom.”

  “My son is upset that I refused to lend him money,” the duke confided. “He is envious he was not as successful as his ancestors. But then he is only my bastard. As I’ve said before, no bastard of mine will ever inherit a farthing.”

  Mr. Ardingley stiffened, and Mrs. Ardingley trembled. She wrapped her blue and green shawl more thoroughly around her, as if the cotton threads could offer fortification against her father-in-law’s harsh words. Even Lord Holt appeared upset, and Cora wondered how close the two brothers were. Had they played together during holidays? How sad that their futures would have been so different.

  Signor Palombi coughed. “Well, your grace, we in Italy are grateful that you can share England’s industrial triumphs with us.”

  “For a price,” the duke said hastily. “Always a price.”

  “Naturalmento,” Signor Palombi said. “I look forward to our conversation later.”

  “Hmph.” The duke concentrated on his plate.

  Cora frowned.

  Something about their exchange had felt...wrong.

  Obviously, though, everything was wrong. The duke might possess wealth, but his family and business affairs seemed needlessly unhappy. Even the people who did not argue with the duke seemed to be subdued, as if recalling past disagreements with him.

  Dinner progressed, and the footmen brought out increasingly complex courses.

  Cora sipped her wine. Likely it was complex and to be raved about by wine connoisseurs, but now she longed for something simpler.

  “Your dog is very adorable.” Cora told Signor Palombi, striving to move the conversation to a more cheerful topic.

  The Italian beamed. “Certo.”

  “I like dogs,” the duke grumbled. “Bigger dogs. Not your little European petite ones.”

  Signor Palombi straightened. “Archibald is at the optimal weight for his breed.”

  “And his breed is suboptimal. White. Fluffy. Not the least bit masculine.”

  “I find Archibald charming,” the duchess said hastily.

  “Hmph.” The duke sniffed. “Wish you would have let me get a dog.”

  “You know the reason,” the duchess said.

  The duke jerked his finger in the direction of Lord Holt. “The boy can’t even abide dogs. That’s why we don’t have any.”

  “I do not,” Lord Holt practically pouted, and Veronica gave Cora an embarrassed smile.

  Perhaps children had a tendency to grow less mature in the presence of their parents, no matter how yellow their birth certificates had become.

  “What sort of Englishman doesn’t like dogs?” the duke mused. “No wonder he married an American.”

  Veronica’s smile wobbled.

  “I should have a dog here,” the duke continued. “Two hounds. Maybe three.”

  Lord Holt took a long swallow of wine. “Get some revolting beasts if you want, Father.”

  There was a slight emphasis on the last word, and Cora’s eyes narrowed.

  No one else seemed to have noticed. What had it meant? Was it possible that the duke was not Lord Holt’s father?

  Cora shook her head. The thought was ridiculous. Naturally the duke had fathered Mr. Ardingley. Besides, Lord Holt resembled the duke: their noses curved down in the same fashion.

  Perhaps nose shapes are not the most effective method of determining paternity.

  But then, the duchess had seemed very close to Signor Palombi...

  “So you are an actress as well?” the duke asked Cora

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Ha. I’m not sure when we began to allow such fiddle-faddle into our ranks. Is it true that anyone can be an actress in Hollywood?”

  “I suppose so, though it is a difficult profession.”

  She would need to try approaching other studios when she returned.

  “It’s much coveted,” Veronica said. “It’s incredibly difficult.”

  “Ah-ha. So you must have studied at some educational establishment? A dramatic academy?” He sniffed, as if education were something merely for the masses who desired to pretend that by reading about events, they knew something about them.

  The duke was actually involved in shaping the world. Veronica had mentioned his frequent excursions abroad, to various sand-covered countries in the Middle East related to some mysterious money matters.

  “I never actually studied acting,” Cora admitted.

  “And your parents approve of you doing this? It seems like such an absurd thing to do. Acting.”

  “They were the ones who suggested it,” Cora said.

  “I suppose there are people who would rather pretend to be someone they are not.” He gave a definite glance to Veronica, who flushed.

  “I warrant her parents always wanted her to be a star,” Signor Palombi said. “Some people desire that. They spend so much time with their children and begin to imagine all manner of talents in them.”

  “It’s due to lack of exposure to proper arts and athletic endeavors,” Mrs. Ardingley said.

  “I never gave Edmund any such encouragement,” the duke said.

  “Indeed you did not,” the duchess concurred. “None whatsoever.”

  The duke glared at his wife.

  “Tell us more about your path to stardom, Miss Clarke,” Signor Palombi said.

  “It is odd to think back about it,” Cora said. “We were living in Vegas at the time—”

  “How shocking.” Mrs. Ardingley’s hand fluttered to her chest.

  “My father came back, and he told me he needed me to audition. My mother laughed him off, but he convinced me. Then they drove me to Los Angeles and I did the audition that afternoon.”

  “And you received the part?” Veronica asked

  Cora nodded. “I don’t think I had studied that much.”

  “Then you must be quite gifted,” the duke declared.

  “Yes,” Veronica agreed, somewhat uncertainly. “Indeed.”

  The rest of the dinner continued to be strained.

  “Let’s meet in the drawing room for drinks,” Lord Holt declared.

  Some people murmured agreement, but Cora made her apologies and left.

  Dinner had been a brutal affair.

  Chapter Five

  Cora had no desire to make strained conversation in the drawing room and she headed toward her room. The floorboards might only be fifty years old, but they creaked beneath her, as if warning others of her path.

  Or perhaps...perhaps some creaks derived from another person?

  Yes.

  Someone was following her, and she inched instinctively closer to the wall. She’d experienced sufficient forced chit chat at dinner, and she was not in the mood for further awkwardness. She darted between two marble busts, perched on similarly grand columns. Thank goodness for art. The statues must be of Victorian ancestors of the duke: Cora was certain that no Roman god would have been depicted wi
th sideburns and a balding head.

  She almost smiled.

  If Mr. Bellomo were here, he would have adored to be portrayed in such carefully chiseled stone and would have taken to hiring sculptors instead of actors.

  The footsteps sounded nearer, and she shrank farther back. Her back touched the ledge of the window. The glass was icy and wet, and she shivered.

  The footsteps continued to patter against the floor, and Cora turned her head. The marble gentleman beside her, despite his significant facial hair, did not succeed entirely in blocking her view.

  It was Signor Palombi.

  And Archibald.

  Well. Cora’s shoulders relaxed.

  Signor Palombi was at least pleasant.

  She was being silly. She couldn’t expect to successfully hide her presence.

  Given the thick condensation on the windows, she couldn’t even claim to be admiring the view. Her lips twitched.

  Besides, she wouldn’t mind interacting with Archibald. The dog was adorable.

  She stepped onto the carpet and glanced down the corridor, prepared to greet them.

  No one was there.

  Where had they gone? The bedrooms weren’t on this level. The only room on this floor was the duke’s library. Surely Signor Palombi wouldn’t have ventured there.

  The duke couldn’t desire a man he had such contempt for to have access to his private sanctuary and any papers within.

  Perhaps Signor Palombi was lost?

  Cora approached the library door.

  It would be natural to call out his name. But a shiver coursed through her, and she hesitated.

  The air in England had felt harsh ever since she’d landed. The icy wind seemed to rush toward her with a never-ending force, whipping against her skin. It wouldn’t be long before her skin was dry and weathered. Her hair already felt less silky away from the Californian climate.

  But the air in the manor house felt different still. It seemed heavy, as if the statues and paintings, gilded furniture and suits of armor might weigh down on her. Unease prickled through her spine.