Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  “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.”

  “How thrilling,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I’ve listened to that. 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 Greek architecture. 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. “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.

  “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.”

  The duke tightened his grip around his knife and fork, as if the task suddenly required more force. “My family’s impact on the region was considerable.”

  “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 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 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. Most likely wine connoisseurs would rave about its earthiness, 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 petite European ones.”

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

  “And his breed is suboptimal. White. Fluffy. Not 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 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 became.

  “What sort of Englishman d
oesn’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 narrowed her eyes. Was it possible 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 anyone can be an actress in Hollywood?”

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

  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 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—”

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

  “My father told 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 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 no Roman god would have been depicted with 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.

  Dim light illuminated the hallway, its strength marred by the crystals that adorned the chandeliers. If the crystals were intended to make the light more magnificent, they succeeded only in making it cloudy.

  She poked her head through the door.

  The room seemed empty, and she frowned.

  Could she have imagined Signor Palombi and Archibald’s presence?

  The room was dark, but she could make out shapes: an armchair, most likely leather and luxurious, and a kidney desk that curved on two sides, like Mr. Bellomo’s.

  She walked past the library door, and it was only when she reached the end of the corridor that she remembered she’d wanted to go to her room.

  Voices drifted from the drawing room, and she was just about to turn around when she heard her name.

  “Miss Clarke!” Lord Holt greeted her. “Come join us.”

  “You can call me Cora,” she told him.

  For a moment, he looked uneasy, but he soon smiled. “Splendid. And—er—Lord Holt is unnecessarily formal. Edmund will do just fine.”

  Edmund and his older half-brother were sitting in the drawing room.

  “You can call him, Ed,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “No!” Edmund protested.

  “Eddie?” Cora asked, and Mr. Ardingley’s eyes twinkled.

  A dark rose hue seeped into Edmund’s cheeks. “That’s—er—not preferable either.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cora said.

  It was refreshing to be in the presence of someone who was not suave and convinced of the veracity of his every statement.

  “Have you seen my wife?” Edmund asked.

  “I thought she was planning to join you in the drawing room,” Cora said.

  “Good
.”

  “Should I go find her?”

  “Oh, no,” Edmund said hastily. “Don’t want to make a big deal about it. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Cora hesitated. It would be nice to get to know Veronica’s husband better. “Very well.”

  Perhaps it might distract her from thinking of what exactly Signor Palombi was doing in the duke’s library. She had the faint feeling that the proper etiquette might be to mention the fact to one of the hosts. But she’d found the duke so unappealing that she was reluctant to get Signor Palombi into trouble.

  She picked up a thick book on the coffee table.

  Edmund glanced at the book. “Shakespeare. The only fiction Father permits. Are you a fan?”

  “I haven’t read much,” Cora admitted.

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I don’t believe Father has either. Otherwise he would be sure to disapprove of all the vile jokes and grizzly deaths.”

  Cora widened her eyes, and the brothers laughed.

  “I don’t mean to put you off,” Mr. Ardingley said. “It is entertaining, and since you’re in England...”

  “Perhaps I should read England’s greatest author,” Cora finished.

  “Exactly,” Edmund said. “Though you needn’t start with Macbeth. Shakespeare would have given a much truer depiction of the British Isles if he’d devoted his life to writing on foxhunting and degrees of blusteriness.”

  Cora smiled and flicked to the table of contents, reading titles of plays she’d heard of but never seen. She settled into the armchair. The fire’s orange and red flames danced merrily in the fireplace, and she absorbed some of its warmth.

  She felt foolish for having desired to retire early. She turned to the first page and began to read, losing herself in the elegant language.

  And then a scream sounded.

  A chill stampeded down Cora’s spine and made her heart smash against her ribs.

  Chapter Six

  THE SCREAM SOARED THROUGH the manor house.

  Cora had never heard the sound of terror so clearly.

  But they were alone.

  King Kong hadn’t wandered into the room.

  Cora glanced at Edmund and Mr. Ardingley, as if to confirm the scream had really sounded.