“Is that a rule that cuts both ways?” he asked, smiling just as wickedly back.
“Not at all, my dear. You’ll just make me cry. Is that what you want?” Her eyes rounded and moistened, and her chin trembled slightly.
David laughed. “No, never,” he said, and kissed her.
“Good boy,” she purred. “Astra, did Cee tell you Jeremy was coming?”
“Jeremy who?”
“Oh dear, I’ve spoiled the surprise. Jeremy Harris. You remember him: horrid little boy who used to come over to Wotting Park to play with David and ruin our tea parties.”
“We did no such thing!” David protested.
“You did, and worse!” Joyce insisted. “And now you’ll be making up for it for the rest of your life. Ha!”
“I don’t remember him,” I replied. I had vague flashes of a blond boy playing at war with David and kidnapping one of Cee’s dolls, but that was all.
“You’ll remember him now, I promise,” said Joyce. “He’s back from a stint in the navy and is quite the spectacular specimen of a man. I’ve half a mind to divorce David and take Jem for myself, but I’ve decided to be generous and leave him for you.”
“How thoughtful,” I said drily.
“Well, divorce is expensive and a bother, and the Bradburys don’t need another scandal, do they?” She squeezed David’s arm without looking up at him, and so failed to notice that he was not amused by the turn the conversation had taken.
“If he’s such an ideal man, I’m sure I’ll have stiff competition,” I noted as we wound down the staircase.
“Oh, don’t be silly, you’d certainly outshine all these silly geese, and you’d make a marvelous countess. He’s an earl, by the way—did I tell you that? Very grand,” Joyce whispered with a slight roll of her eyes. “Not much money, but that’s all right: when you look like he does and have a title to boot, that sort of thing tends to fix itself. I’ll set it all up for you. I need a new project anyway.”
“Please don’t, Joyce,” I begged.
“It’s not just for me, darling—you could use the distraction, surely. After the year you’ve had …” She clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry again we couldn’t get back earlier.”
“It’s all right. I wouldn’t have wanted you to interrupt something as nice as your honeymoon for something as sad as a funeral.”
They’d been in California that week. Part of the around-the-world honeymoon Joyce had planned down to the last detail. But she had kept up a steady stream of telegraphs and sent a bouquet so massive it had nearly dwarfed the caskets.
“Well, most of it was nice,” Joyce allowed. “Spending those few days with Laura was a terrible mistake. She kept coming to wake us up at dawn to run rings around Central Park. Did I tell you she’s going to be some sort of fitness instructor?”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Anyway, after three days we had to go to the Waldorf. And even then she kept coming by and trying to ring our room. It’s almost as if she doesn’t know what a honeymoon’s for. And if anyone should know that sort of thing, it’s her.”
I cleared my throat, noticing David looking uncomfortable, and asked, “Well, aside from that, I’m glad it was a good trip. Did you see everything you wanted to?”
“And then some.” She exchanged looks with her husband. “I took loads of films with the camera Daddy gave us. I’ll show them to you on your next visit.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, feeling uneasy for some reason. “Speaking of your father, I saw he came along this weekend.”
“Of course he did. You know Daddy can never resist a shooting weekend. It’s just so perfectly British. He went and got new tweeds and everything, even though I’ve told him time and again that nobody gets new tweeds. Even David tried to convince him that old tweeds are a badge of honor, but of course Daddy doesn’t listen to David.” She huffed as David briefly scowled. “Poor Daddy,” Joyce sighed. “He tries so hard but never manages to get it quite right. And then they all titter behind his back.” Her face darkened.
“Not everyone,” David protested.
“Not you, of course. You’re not allowed,” she said to him.
The poor man practically threw up his arms in defeat.
“Millicent will have something nasty to say about those tweeds,” she said.
I reached over and squeezed her hand, hoping that would calm her “Who cares what Millicent thinks?”
“That’s the spirit!” Joyce agreed, brightening. “I’m declaring here and now that we’re not going to let that cow spoil our first weekend together in a year. We’re going to laugh and gossip, and you, Astra, are going to flirt outrageously with Jeremy, because I’m not going to see him carried off by some wan, overbred daughter of the aristocracy.”
We stepped into the double-cube drawing room, a space that always seemed to be glowing, thanks to the warm golden damask that covered the walls and most of the furnishings. Today, the fireplaces on both ends of the room were blazing away, fighting the damp cold seeping around the French windows that opened onto the formal gardens.
In the far corner, Lord Caddonfoot was presenting Mr. Porter to Lord Hampton and Belinda Avery. Belinda, a sweet chipmunk-cheeked creature, was smiling at Porter as she shook his beefy hand. Her fiancé, Hampton, was grinning adoringly at her. When I stepped into the room, he glanced up and his expression changed to a friendly smile, which I returned.
Porter also looked up and grinned when he saw me, eyes swiftly running me up and down. He stood out in the room, and not in a good way: while the other men wore the country uniform of plain ties and subdued plaids, Porter’s black-and-white checked jacket was just a little too loud, his lemon-yellow waistcoat and tie too bright, his shoes too shiny. He was standing by the fire, and beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. Millicent, making bored small talk with Beckworth by the piano, shot disgusted looks Porter’s way. Beckworth seemed as eager to escape the conversation as she did, and kept looking longingly at the refreshment table just out of reach.
An arm snaked around my waist, and I turned to see Cecilia beaming at me.
“How do you like the gathering, darling? Will they keep you amused?”
“Of course they will, Cee. It’s sweet of you to be so concerned about me.”
“Well, someone has to look after you,” Cecilia said staunchly, guiding me to the tea table. “Come and have some tea—you must be famished.” She began arranging a plate.
Millicent, meanwhile, abandoned Beckworth to speak to someone else, leaving him free to assault the scones. He bounded over with a nervous smile.
“Hello, Ducky,” Cecilia greeted him brightly. “You must be famished too.”
“Oh yes, yes quite,” he agreed.
“Well, let’s fix that. Cream? Jam? Oh dear, Millicent’s glaring at me, I’d better see what she wants.” She handed me my plate and flitted off.
Beckworth smiled anxiously as he loaded a scone with so much cream and jam he nearly doubled its size. I smiled back. He has the sort of face that invites smiles: imploring, round puppy-dog eyes and a generally pleasant look, though he is, perhaps, a little weak-chinned.
“So nice to see you again, Miss Davies,” he said.
“And you, Lord Beckworth. And quite a surprise.”
“Yes, yes, a surprise for me too. Lady Cecilia was nice enough to invite me. Awfully kind of her: I was starting to get a bit lonely rattling around the house. It’s just me now that Mother’s gone to France to work on her paintings. She does … abstract something or other. Lots of shapes. I don’t really pretend to understand it. Probably too clever by half for me.” He laughed almost apologetically. “Anyway, just me. Very quiet.”
“You poor thing,” I said, softening. “But I suppose there’s always your club.”
“Yes, yes, there is that. And the chaps there are always very nice about inviting me to join in their card games, even though I’m a really terrible player.” He laughed again, and the hand that was hol
ding his plate of food jerked. The scone went sailing, flew apart, and landed on the carpet. Jam-side down, of course. Ivanhoe leapt on it.
“Oh, Lord Beckworth, you’ve lost your scone!” Cecilia cried. She rushed over and knelt to move the dog aside as Beckworth bent to retrieve the scone, apologizing.
“So sorry! Now look what I’ve done, I’ve spoiled your carpet—”
“It’s nothing, no trouble at all—Ivey, let go! Let’s get you another one …”
I stood there awkwardly, looking down at the tops of their heads and wondering if they’d even notice if I wandered off. I decided to chance it and turned to leave, only to nearly run straight into Joyce’s father.
Like his daughter, Porter had small, gunmetal-blue eyes and a long, straight nose; what was left of his hair was black (dyed, I guessed, noting the unnatural uniformity of the color). That hair seemed to be easing its way down his head, leaving a shining dome on top and an increasingly luxuriant beard below. He smelled of Macassar oil and a touch too much eau de cologne.
“Good afternoon, Miss Davies,” he greeted me, his eyes once again taking me in from crown to heel. “You’re looking so … tall.”
“Thank you, Mr. Porter,” I answered uncertainly. “You seem well.”
“Oh yes, I’ve been traveling,” he explained, puffing out his chest slightly. “It always … invigorates me.”
“Oh?” The way he was looking at me, I suddenly had an inkling what it was like to be Red Riding Hood in those last few moments before she and her granny were devoured.
Vandemark Rubber, I reminded myself. Hensley.
I simpered and giggled and said, “Well, we should all take a page out of your book, sir. Though you have been very much missed while you were away.”
“Not nearly as missed as I’m sure you were,” he responded.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Porter.”
“Ahh, hello there, Mr. Porter,” said Beckworth, climbing to his feet with the now lopsided scone back on his plate. “How’s business?”
Porter’s smile and eyes hardened. “Hardly a subject for mixed company, lad.”
“Oh.” Beckworth deflated. “Yes, yes, of course. So sorry to have interrupted.”
“Ducky, let’s get you another scone, shall we?” Cecilia said, gently tugging Beckworth toward the table.
I sighed inwardly. So much for talking up Vandemark with Porter this weekend.
“You must be happy to have Joyce back again,” I commented in an effort to steer the conversation in a more cheerful direction. “She and David have been gone so long.”
“Indeed.” His eyes flickered to his daughter and her husband. They were standing beneath a portrait of the first marchioness, who didn’t seem to approve of whatever they were talking about. “It’s nice to have Joyce back. I think she’s finding being a wife something of an adjustment, though. She was always quite headstrong.”
“I’m sure she’ll adapt soon enough,” I said. “She just needs a new project to keep her mind occupied.”
“I thought of putting her in charge of my New Year’s Eve party,” he confided.
“I’m sure she’d love that.”
“I do hope we’ll see you there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Something about the leering look he gave me made me shudder, and I covered it by taking a step closer to the fire and sipping my tea.
“This damp cold,” I murmured.
“Do you need something to warm you?” he asked.
Cecilia paused on her way to Belinda. “Do you need a shawl, Astra? I’ll get you one.” She bounded out of the room before I could answer.
“I hope we’ll be seeing much more of you,” Porter said. “Joyce hopes, I mean. She’s missed you terribly.”
“She’s such a dear to be concerned about me.”
“We were all concerned. Terrible thing. But you seem to have gathered yourself quite well. It’s one of the things I love most about the English: they do soldier on.”
“Yes, we do that, don’t we?” I responded tightly as the backs of my eyes prickled.
“And you couldn’t stay locked up forever, pretty little lady like you.” He grinned again and chucked me under the chin. The gesture was so shockingly intimate I instinctively took a step away from him. His smile disappeared. He blinked in confusion.
“Here you are,” Cee sang, reappearing and draping me in a thick tartan shawl. “Nice and toasty warm.”
“You’re a darling, Cee.” I drew it around me, welcoming the extra layers in between myself and Porter. It made me feel safer, and I regained my composure.
“Are you keeping her cheered, Mr. Porter?” Cecilia asked him, waggling her finger in the man’s direction. “No long faces here.”
“He’s doing a marvelous job, Cecilia. I doubt even you could do better.”
Porter seemed to relax.
“Oh, Astra, do come look at Belinda’s ring. I’ve never seen a lovelier one. You don’t mind if I steal her, sir, do you?”
“Not at all.” Porter answered. “I hope we have a chance to speak again, Miss Davies.”
“I’m sure we will, sir,” I answered with a smile. “We have the whole weekend.”
Chapter Three
First night dinner—now the real test begins. The arrival tea is nothing: we’re greeting fellow guests and getting the lay of the land. Meanwhile, below stairs, the maids and valets are hard at work on our behalf. Whispering secrets and trading information. The clever ones give little but gain much. We all want those to be our servants.
As soon as we scurry back to our rooms, we’re provided with the tittle-tattle we need to make snap judgments over the cocktails, begin judging harshly by the fish course, and retire into hissing gossip circles over the brandy and coffee.
“Will it be a quiet weekend, do you think?” I asked Reilly (oh, these little codes we spoke in). “Or should we expect some trouble and strife?”
She took her time answering, concentrating instead on tugging my blue charmeuse dress into place.
“This seems to be a peaceful and well-run household, miss. I’m sure it will be an enjoyable weekend for everyone.”
I studied her face as she fussed with my neckline, wondering if she was concealing things from me. Holding on to some shiny little nugget of information for such a time as it might be useful. If so, she gave no sign of it. Perhaps we were just a dully respectable lot. Or maybe people were better at hiding things nowadays than they were in our parents’ time, when delicious scandals abounded. Or perhaps Reilly wasn’t one of those clever servants. Whatever it was, I was being sent downstairs unarmed and vulnerable. A shell-less turtle in a fox’s den.
But you can’t show weakness. I pasted on a brilliant smile, put my shoulders back, and processed into the drawing room, hoping I exuded the confidence of a princess.
As soon as I appeared, Cecilia hopped to, snatched a drink from a footman’s tray, and descended on me.
“Lovely dress, darling. Is it from Vionnet’s new collection?” she asked, handing the drink over.
“Why, yes it is,” I lied. It was an old dress of mine, cleverly made over by Reilly.
“I thought so.” Cecilia turned me this way and that to have a look. “You should really try Schiaparelli—you’ve got the perfect figure for her gowns. Millicent and I were talking about going to Paris soon to see the new designs; you should come. It feels like such a long time since we were there last.”
“I’ll think about it, Cee.” How long did I have before people wondered why I always excused myself from these pricey jaunts?
“I heard Joyce completely ruined my surprise and told you about Lord Dunreaven coming.” Cecilia pouted. “He arrived very late, the naughty thing. I thought Millicent was going to have a stroke. I half suspect he’s the reason she planned this party in the first place. We’ve been seeing a lot of him during the country rounds. I mentioned you when we were at the Wetherbys last month, and he seemed very interested.”
/> “Did he indeed? I don’t see why.”
“Men always like a pretty woman with money,” Joyce explained, coming up behind us. “I should know.”
“Joyce, what a terrible thing to say! David didn’t marry you because of that,” Cecilia protested.
Joyce shrugged and sipped her drink. “I’m sure it didn’t hurt. Nor would it with Jeremy.”
“Oh, Joyce,” Cee said, rolling her eyes, “he’s not so very poor. Come on, let’s go talk to Belinda. I don’t want her feeling neglected.”
Belinda had her fiancé at her beck and call and didn’t seem neglected in the least, but she was only too eager to recount the story of how she became engaged. (“He gave me a wee kitten, and the ring was tied around its neck with a pink satin ribbon!”
“Oh,” Cee gushed, “so romantic!”
“Yes, yes, very,” Beckworth agreed, nodding energetically and sloshing part of his drink.
The meaningless murmur of our chat was abruptly strangled when Millicent, positioned right next to the door, unexpectedly shrieked, “Dunny!”
Poor Beckworth jumped, losing the rest of his martini. The rest of us swiveled toward the doorway.
There stood perhaps the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
The Earl of Dunreaven was perfectly proportioned: tall, but not gangly, with strong shoulders and a tapering waist. He had wavy, champagne-colored hair, a firm jaw, and full lips that were now forming a polite smile, though I sensed Millicent’s greeting had startled him as much as it had Beckworth. His skin was just a touch darker than that of the other men. I imagined it was the result of years spent walking the decks of ships patrolling the warmer corners of the Empire.
Still a naval man in bearing, if not by profession, he held himself perfectly straight, but not stiffly. If he found it awkward to be made the center of attention, he didn’t show it. He returned our stares with a pleasant—if not particularly warm—smile as his eyes flickered over everyone in the room, swiftly taking us all in. Was it my imagination, or did his gaze seem to linger slightly longer on me?
A Bright Young Thing Page 4