“Rather. You look beautiful as well.”
Mrs. Ivanov flushed and smoothed her emerald gown and capelet. “You are sweet. I’m so happy to have you here.” Mrs. Ivanov slipped a silk-gloved hand into Cora’s. “You’ve met my husband of course. Mr. Rosenfeld is visiting from London with his lady friend, though they’re not down yet.” Mrs. Ivanov gestured to an elegant woman with dark hair. “That’s my dear husband’s sister. Everyone adores her. And Mr. and Mrs. Badger are here too. Mr. Badger is my accountant.” Mrs. Ivanov lowered her voice. “It’s important to keep a man like that happy.”
Cora nodded politely, pondering just what Mrs. Ivanov thought necessary in her efforts to keep him happy.
“My nephew is also visiting,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “One day this will be all his. I don’t expect Mr. Ivanov and I will have children.”
Cora wondered whether she detected a note of wistfulness, but in the next moment Mr. Ivanov approached them, and Mrs. Ivanov flashed him a wide smile.
“How do you like England?” Mr. Ivanov asked her.
“It’s beautiful,” Cora murmured.
She’d been skeptical in the winter. When the ground hadn’t been covered in snow, which she knew might unreliably indicate the shape of the terrain, it had seemed composed solely of long stretches of mud. But now spring was arriving, and green dotted the ground. Sheep and cows wandered the fields and even ran and leaped, displaying an athleticism and seeming joy for life that those in California had never seemed to show. Cora resolved to enjoy this house party.
“Why don’t you chat and then introduce Miss Clarke to the other guests?” Mrs. Ivanov suggested.
“I would be happy to do so,” Mr. Ivanov said, and Mrs. Ivanov departed.
Mr. Ivanov led her toward the other guests. Modern art filled this room as well, and Cora was glad she’d left Archibald upstairs. She would be nervous of him destroying Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov’s white furniture or fluffy white rugs, which seemed to have been chosen to better emphasize the vibrancy of the artwork. Cora turned her attention to the handsome Bulgarian. “Do you have many parties here?”
“Naturally,” Mr. Ivanov murmured. “There is much in life to celebrate.”
“Such as—?”
“Being alive. That is the finest thing there is.” Mr. Ivanov’s lips spread into a wide smile, embellished with two dimples.
Perhaps Mr. Ivanov’s drive in his faulty Jaguar had rattled him more than he might care to admit to his wife if his vigor for simply being alive was so high.
“I heard you had an accident recently,” she said. “How terrifying.”
“Life in the country,” his tone was nonchalant, and he dipped his shoulders into a shrug that didn’t appear forced. You must have heard from my wife. It was a mechanical error.”
“But it could have been fatal,” she pointed out, wondering if he was as unconcerned as his wife indicated.
“The incident was easily resolved by turning the car into a field. A few hours’ inconvenience is hardly heart throttling, is it?” His words were silky, and she thought, perhaps practiced.
“No,” she admitted.
“My cousins experience real fear. There are real men, real anarchists, who would like to see them dead. This hardly compares with that.”
Cora nodded. “I suppose I never appreciated how safe I was in California.”
“People have a tendency to muse about what they do not have. I suppose it fosters ambition.”
“Self-congratulation might lead to stagnation.”
“And that, my dear Miss Clarke, would be a mistake.”
She mused over his words, curious just what he did to avoid the stagnation he seemed to abhor.
Mr. Ivanov paused before a middle-aged couple, introducing them as Mr. and Mrs. Badger.
“This is Miss Clarke, the American actress,” Mr. Ivanov said.
“Goodness me,” Mrs. Badger said. “How exciting.”
They gazed warily at her. At first, Cora thought them rude, but then she suspected that they felt as out of place here as she did. Mrs. Badger seemed squeezed into a too-tight scarlet dress, made more unflattering by the unforgiving satin fabric that seemed designed to bequeath curves to women who did not have them. Most likely the tightness could be attributed to not having seen a tailor or bought a new dress recently than because of any desire to allure. Despite her generous cleavage, Mrs. Badger stood rigidly, and she avoided eye contact with Mr. Ivanov.
It was a party, and Mrs. Badger shouldn’t have been nervous, but Cora felt similarly.
“Mr. Badger is my wife’s accountant,” Mr. Ivanov said.
“Yes. I make certain that everything is in order.” Mr. Badger’s tone seemed rather sterner than the occasion warranted, and Mrs. Badger’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink.
Mrs.Badger’s attention, though, seemed focused on the outside window, even though the sky had long seemed dark, and the slight slivers of foamy waves that appeared under the moonlight could hardly be described as novel.
A handsome young man approached them. His dark hair shone in the flickering candlelight of Mrs. Ivanov’s parlor, aided by some form of wax most men had abandoned. He wore a foppish velvet tuxedo jacket. “Miss Clarke is it?”
“Indeed.”
“This is Mr. Elliot Fawcett,” Mr. Ivanov said, and Mr. and Mrs. Badger silently moved away from them.
“I’m the nephew.” Mr. Fawcett flashed a smile, and Cora thought he might just be very popular with ladies. He didn’t have the rugged appeal of Randolph, but his features were elegant, and he spoke using the rounded vowels that tended to denote both an expensive education and a belonging to the highest class.
“One day, this will be his,” Mr. Ivanov remarked dramatically, sweeping his arm over the marble floor, modern paintings and majestic views.
“No day soon,” Mr. Fawcett said easily. “Not that there will be much left anyway.”
“We do appreciate good art,” Mr. Ivanov said.
“So do I,” Mr. Fawcett said, “though I don’t see any of that sort here.”
Mr. Ivanov gave a bland smile, obviously unrattled by Mr. Fawcett’s barb.
“Yes. Personally, I think art is a great con,” Mr. Fawcett said. “How do people convince others to spend money on it? And there’s no risk of jail either. Quite impressive.”
Cora glanced at the collection of art. The sculptures had sleek shapes that differed from those past sculptors had occupied themselves with capturing, and the vibrant expressionist paintings displayed a harsh worldview she did not desire to linger on.
Mr. Ivanov’s smile tightened, and she suspected Mrs. Ivanov’s husband took a less pessimistic view on art.
“The pieces do make one think,” she said diplomatically.
“A much overrated state of being.”
“Perhaps some might succumb to that error,” Mr. Ivanov said.
“I hear you are famous across the pond,” Mr. Fawcett said to Cora, changing the subject if not rescuing the conversation.
“And here,” Mr. Ivanov said gallantly.
“I am afraid I’m not one for moving pictures,” Mr. Fawcett said with a smile Cora wondered if she should construe as apologetic or simply self-deprecating. If Mr. Fawcett intended either of the two possibilities, he did not achieve it. He seemed distinctly condescending.
“Mr. Fawcett writes hardboiled crime.” Mr. Ivanov clapped his hand on Mr. Fawcett’s back.
“Well, one does have to do something,” Mr. Fawcett said.
“I’m introducing Miss Clarke to everyone,” Mr. Ivanov said to Mr. Fawcett. Offering his arm, Mr. Ivanov told Cora, “You can meet my sister Natalia next. She’s far more pleasant.”
Cora smiled, and Mr. Ivanov led her to a woman who stood near the gramophone. Cora realized that she must be responsible for the loud music.
She was pretty, though she didn’t share her brother’s height. Her features were softer, and she had a round face that reminded Cora of Claudette Colbert. Her go
wn was a basic black, and any cleavage was covered by a modest halter neck. Still, even her brother seemed to look approvingly at the gown.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ivanov,” Cora said politely. “This is the actress,” Mr. Ivanov explained to his sister instead of a proper introduction.
“An American...” The woman extended her hand. “This is a pleasure. Please, call me Natalia.” Her voice was musical, and Cora almost wondered whether she received her intonations from the upbeat music of which she was obviously fond. The woman slipped a hand through Cora’s arm. “We will become just the best of friends.”
The skin about Mr. Ivanov’s eyes crinkled. “I told you I had a good sister.”
Natalia laughed. She was only about Cora’s height, and yet her voice seemed to fill the room. The black dress Mr. Ivanov’s sister wore should have been conservative. It lacked vibrancy, though the gown’s deep open back that ended in decorative draped panels and its short train yielded it a certain sophistication. The dress hugged her curves, and the dark color matched her hair. Mrs. Ivanov’s floor-length emerald number seemed fussy in contrast.
“We have another actress here, don’t we Mr. Ivanov?” Natalia asked.
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Ivanov looked around the room. “Where is she?” Mr. Ivanov leaned closer to her. “She’s a bit harder to handle. Just as a warning.”
“But she is American,” Natalia said. “You must know her. She’s ever so famous. It’s quite exciting to have her.”
Cora frowned. She did know many famous American Hollywood actresses. But she certainly did not expect to find any here. The only American actress Cora knew here was Veronica James, her very dearest friend from her child star days, but surely her friend couldn’t be here.
It’s probably someone else.
“There she is now,” Mr. Ivanov remarked.
Cora turned her head and saw a glamorous woman in a lilac silk and feather gown that surely couldn’t fulfill the requirements for half-mourning. Her rather less stunning companion handed Veronica a champagne flute. In the other hand, she held a feathered fan. A sapphire and diamond bracelet that Cora recognized glimmered from her wrist.
It was Veronica.
Her dear friend.
Her dear friend who was not supposed to be here.
Cora hurried toward her, feeling her eyes widen as surprise moved through her. “Veronica, what on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m so happy to see you, my darling,” Veronica crooned, and even though Cora was surrounded by many strangers, she finally felt at ease.
“It is nice to see you,” Cora said. “Even if it is unexpected.”
“Honey, what are you doing with that delicious Bulgarian? You do know he is married?”
“Veronica,” Cora said, conscious that Mr. Ivanov was hardly out of earshot. “You mustn’t say those things.”
“Well, what are you doing here, honey?”
“My great aunt lives here.”
“Oh?” Veronica looked around. “Well, she has done quite well for herself, darling. Rather makes you wonder why your parents felt compelled to immigrate.” Veronica stroked Cora’s cheek. “No doubt, they had a suspicion that you would turn into an actress.”
“She works here,” Cora said.
“We’re at that place? How lovely. Mr. Rosenfeld brought me down here.”
“Oh?”
For the first time, Cora directed her attention at the portly man beside Veronica.
“Mr. Rosenfeld is quite an important director on the West End,” Veronica whispered, and suddenly Cora understood why Veronica was here.
Veronica had triumphed in Hollywood, and she’d long expressed an interest to act in England. Cora suspected that her friend wasn’t quite ready to return to Los Angeles after leaving the industry some months ago to marry a duke.
Veronica had never been fond of people’s pity, and Cora suspected her friend had not found a new desire for it. Veronica’s duke had proved to be rather unideal after all.
“I didn’t know we were coming here, honey,” Veronica drawled. “Mr. Rosenfeld just said we were going south to a house party.”
“Ah, you are the famous Miss Clarke.” Mr. Rosenfeld scrutinized Cora for a moment, but he soon returned his attention to Veronica, as most men did when observing both of them.
Mrs. Ivanov approached them. “Do you two know each other?”
“Cora and I used to sing and dance together when we were children together,” Veronica said.
“Oh?” Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes sparkled. “Then perhaps you should perform for us after dinner.”
“We couldn’t,” Cora said.
At the same time, Veronica said, “That would be divine.”
“You truly want to?” Cora asked Veronica.
“Honey, when there is an important audience, of course I want to.”
Mr. Rosenfeld beamed, recognizing that he belonged in the “important audience” category.
The party music swelled into a merry crescendo.
“Dinner is served,” the butler said in a regal voice.
Mr. Fawcett offered Cora his arm, and they entered the dining room.
Mrs. Ivanov was wrong. Having met all the other guests, Cora couldn’t imagine any of them attempting to murder someone. No doubt Mrs. Ivanov was simply in a state of heightened anxiety. Cora certainly was. The papers talked about a war with greater frequency, and she couldn’t be the only person who looked at the sea and imagined German battleships barreling toward them, and she couldn’t be the only person who imagined more than birds flitting across the sky.
People were digging air raid shelters in London, and this was far closer to Germany. Suddenly she didn’t want her great aunt to work here anymore.
Chapter Five
The dinner was delicious. A crab bisque soup had been followed with a Stilton soufflé. The centerpiece of the meal was a roast grouse, though the French petit-fours and crème brûlée before them now nearly surpassed it.
Most of the guests limited their conversation to praising the food. Mrs. Badger seemed nervous, jumping whenever a footman attempted to take away a plate, no matter how subtle every other guest seemed to find them. No doubt, she was intimidated by the surroundings.
Mr. Fawcett continued to make derogatory comments about art and architecture and his aunt’s ability to spend money, and Mr. and Mrs. Badger continued to be quiet.
“Well, I have no regrets about moving here,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “It is so nice to be by the English Channel itself.”
“You don’t find the blustery wind bad for your health?” Mr. Fawcett asked.
Mrs. Ivanov frowned and busied herself with cutting through the sugary surface of the crème brûlée with her spoon. “My health is fine.”
“I, for one, cannot abide the seaside,” Mr. Fawcett continued.
“Then why do I sometimes see you taking walks by the cliffs?” Mr. Ivanov asked.
“I’m plotting a murder there,” Mr. Fawcett said. “For my book. I needed something...appalling.”
Mr. Ivanov took another sip of his drink, and Cora suspected the haste with which he did it was to hide a broadening smile.
“I’m staging a performance of Cleopatra,” Mr. Rosenfeld announced after Mr. Mitu poured the after dinner liqueurs.
“What a magnificent role,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “It almost makes me wish I were back on the stage.”
“We all know you were glad to be rescued from the bright lights,” Mr. Fawcett said.
Mrs. Ivanov clutched her glass of brandy with rather more force than the delicate stem, lavishly embellished with gold, required.
“I thought it might be a role for Veronica James,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
Veronica clapped on cue, and excitement lit up her face. “I would adore to be Cleopatra on the stage.”
“The West End will adore you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, kissing her hand.
“I will not be triumphed over,” Veronica said, quoting Cleopatra, and Mr.
Rosenfeld’s smile wobbled and he drew back. “Nothing is definite. We will of course require a worthy patron.”
“Ticket sales won’t suffice?” Mr. Fawcett asked, giving an innocent smile.
“Every good play requires patrons,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, evidently not striving to keep condescension from his voice, for his tone rather dripped with it. “The costumes alone will be magnificent. Replicas of what they had in Egypt.”
“And how will that ever be determined?” Mr. Fawcett asked.
“They will be befitting a queen,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
“We wish you the best of luck on your venture,” Mr. Ivanov said.
“You don’t mean to invest?” Mr. Rosenfeld’s eyebrows rose.
“Not this time,” Mr. Ivanov said casually, signaling for Mr. Mitu to pour him more port.
“But I thought, given our past...” Mr. Rosenfeld gritted his teeth, and this time Mr. Fawcett’s face appeared to become rather more jovial. Mr. Rosenfeld inhaled. “Veronica James is a tremendous actress.”
“And it is an honor to have her here,” Mr. Ivanov said smoothly.
“We can discuss it later,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Only if you do not have any reservations against wasting time,” Mr. Ivanov said, and Mr. Rosenfeld’s face darkened again.
Mr. Mitu brought out the brandy and a selection of cheeses. Cora had almost forgotten that she’d agreed to perform with Veronica, but Mrs. Ivanov expressed excitement for the performance and asked Mr. Mitu to prepare the adjoining room.
Veronica and Cora left the table, as Mr. Badger heaped his plate with a selection of Camembert and brie. They chose a set they had performed many times before at various birthday parties of famous Hollywood actors and then practiced it.
Soon, they invited the other guests to watch. There was a flurry of movement as the guests settled in chairs that faced the front of the room. Mr. Ivanov’s sister rose to put on the gramophone, then Mr. Mitu turned off the lights, and Cora and Veronica began to dance to a fast song. The sound blasted through the room. Veronica and she had done the number many times before, and Cora felt herself relax. Dancing was something she’d always enjoyed.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 22