by Michelle Cox
Clive held up his pipe.
“Ah,” Foley said and took one out for himself. “I forgot you preferred a pipe,” he said as he struck a match and lit a cigarette. He quickly inhaled and then removed it, considering it, as he gathered some stray tobacco bits from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “Congratulations are in order, of course,” he smiled at Clive. “She’s lovely.”
“Thank you, Foley,” Clive said graciously. “I can’t believe it sometimes, you know.”
“Doubtless, old boy. But you give us all hope.”
There was a moment of silence before Clive spoke again. “What have you gotten yourself up to, then, since the war, that is? You’re looking well. Stayed in the ranks, I see.”
“Well,” Captain Foley said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Seemed the thing to do. Didn’t know what else to put my hand to. Not a bad life, really, now that there aren’t any Krauts firing at us, though who knows for how long.” He gave Clive a strained sideways look as he deeply inhaled, his eyes squinting slightly, and then looked absently out into the dark grounds.
“Never thought to settle down yourself?” Clive asked pleasantly.
“Well, that’s just it, old boy,” he said, looking over at him again. “I just shared my secret with your wife.”
“Oh?”
“As a matter of fact, I am to be married, very shortly, as it turns out.”
“You don’t say!” Clive said, his pipe clenched in his teeth as he reached out with both hands to shake Foley’s. “Congratulations, old dog.”
“It hasn’t been announced yet, so, you know, keep it under wraps.”
“Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Rosalyn Edwards. She’s a younger daughter of the Earl of Huntington.”
Clive raised his eyebrows.
“Not a lot of money, of course, which I’m sure is why they’re allowing her to marry a mere officer in his majesty’s. Still, not a bad match.”
“Well done, Bertram,” Clive said. “Let’s have a drink to celebrate.” Clive made a move to open the conservatory door, but Captain Foley put his arm out to stop him.
“In a moment,” he said hurriedly and then smiled crookedly in what seemed to be an attempt to counter his sudden movement. “I was hoping for a word, actually.”
“About?” Clive asked as he stepped back, puzzled.
“It’s damned, awkward, old boy, but I find I’m a bit short these days, and I, well, I was hoping you might lend a hand, as it were.” Foley had the decency to look Clive in the eye as he asked, but Clive could read the anxiety there.
Rationally, Clive recoiled from the suggestion, knowing it would be a bad idea. As a rule, he loathed lending money, but, Foley, after all, had been a fellow brother in arms, and he felt conflicted.
“How much?” Clive asked stiffly.
Captain Foley held his gaze for a few moments before answering, as if trying to predict Clive’s answer or to perhaps work up his courage. “A thousand pounds?”
“A thousand pounds!” Clive exclaimed. “Good God, man. What do you need it for? Surely your tailor’s bill is not that high.”
“No, no!” Foley said hurriedly. “Nothing like that.”
“What is it for, then?”
Foley looked away.
“Gambling?” Clive asked, remembering that Bertram had stayed to play cards below last night after he and Henrietta had retired to their room.
Foley looked back at him with something like relief crossing his face. “Yes, something like that, I’m ashamed to say.”
“Who fleeced you?”
“I’d rather not say, old boy. You understand, don’t you? Not quite the thing to kiss and tell.”
“Quite,” Clive said, rubbing his hand through his hair.
“Listen, if you haven’t got it, I’ll find it somewhere. I would just like to … to go into this marriage with clean hands, if you know what I mean. Free and clear and all that.”
Clive sighed. “Let me see what I can do,” he said, draining his cognac now.
“Thanks, old man,” Foley said, holding out his hand. Clive reluctantly shook it. “I’ll pay you back—on the queen’s life,” he said, a bit too cheerfully for Clive’s liking. And yet, what did he expect? Groveling humility?
“Can we have that drink now?” Clive said wearily.
“You go in,” Foley suggested. “I’m feeling a bit closed in. Need a bit of air, stretch my legs,” he said restively.
Clive merely inclined his head. “All right, then,”
“And, Clive,” he said, calling after him. “Thank you.”
Clive spent the rest of the evening on edge, stewing over Foley’s request and wondering where Wallace had gotten himself off to. Clive hated to give Foley the money, but how could he not? For one thing, he would have to wire the States for it, which would be time-consuming and would cause all kinds of questions, especially from his mother. He would have to ask his father to keep it to himself if possible until he could get home and explain.
And as for Wallace, he did not return, at least to the reception room, so when Clive and Henrietta finally made their way upstairs after the last of the guests had gone, he stopped Stevens and asked if Wallace had somehow returned unnoticed and retired early to his bed. Stevens dutifully reported that indeed Mr. Wallace had not yet returned and would Mr. Howard like to be woken when he did return, though, Stevens took the liberty of adding, it might be quite late.
“He’s done this before, has he, Stevens?” Clive asked.
“Many times, sir. Almost every other day would be a safe assumption,” Stevens said emotionlessly.
“Where on earth does he go?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir. Perhaps you should inquire of Mr. Wallace personally, sir.”
“What about his valet?”
“Compton? I wouldn’t know, sir. Shall I ring for him?” Stevens asked.
“No, not at the moment,” Clive mused.
“Might I bring you anything else, sir?” Stevens asked when it became apparent that Clive had finished his questions.
“No, thank you, Stevens,” Clive said dismissively.
Stevens bowed and left, and Henrietta and Clive resumed their way up the stairs.
“What was that all about?” Henrietta asked, trying to stifle an unladylike yawn.
“I’ll explain upstairs,” Clive answered wearily.
An hour later, when they were both finally in bed, Henrietta lying with her head on his chest, Clive related, at Henrietta’s prompting, his sighting of Wallace again hurrying off somewhere and the exchange he had with Lord Linley earlier that morning in the study.
“Sounds remarkably like someone I once knew,” Henrietta said playfully in reference to Wallace’s apparent disinterest in the estate.
Clive kissed her shoulder. “He’s gone now, that fellow.”
“I see,” Henrietta said. “Well, I have a secret to share. But I’m not supposed to tell.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t, then,” Clive said quietly. His interest was immediately piqued, however, and he raced through the evening’s events in his mind. He remembered then what Foley had said to him out on the terrace: I just shared my secret with your wife. That must be it, he thought with a sigh of relief, but he remained silent, wondering what she would do. He knew it was wrong to test her, especially regarding something so trivial, but he couldn’t help it.
Henrietta raised herself up on her elbow and searched his eyes. She knows, he thought, and felt a surge of love for her. She was really quite good at detecting small nuances. Surprising him further, she gave his chin a quick kiss. “Husbands don’t count, of course,” she said, giving him a little wink.
A deep breath escaped Clive as he pulled her to him. “Let me guess,” he said ruefully. “Captain Foley’s engaged to be married?”
“Clive! You brute! You’ve ruined my surprise,” she said, giving him a little pinch.
“Ow!” he said in mock pain, rubbing his arm. He wrapped
his arms around her, then, and kissed her deeply, happy that there were no secrets between them, though it did not even occur to him to tell her about Foley’s request for money, as, after all, that was a business affair, and a sordid one at that.
Chapter 14
When Clive and Henrietta appeared in the dining room the next morning a bit later than usual, they found Lord Linley already seated and reading the morning paper. Lord Fairfax was also present with his two daughters, as well as Lady Winifred and Lady Linley.
Henrietta helped herself to tea and toast, not feeling quite up to anything heavier. She had drank a bit more champagne than usual last night, and she and Clive had stayed up shamefully late. The last of the guests did not leave until two, and Clive had kept her awake for at least another hour after that. Indeed, the birds were just starting to chirp, though it was still dark, as they finally fell asleep. Clive suggested having breakfast brought up to them as he lay next to her, running his fingers languidly through her hair, but Henrietta thought it horribly indulgent and did not want the servants to be scandalized.
Clive had laughed out loud and said she had better get used to it.
Dutifully, however, he dressed, and they went down.
Henrietta had just been seated when Sara Fairfax leaned across the table and said in an excited, low voice, “Have you heard the news?” Without waiting for an answer she went on. “A man’s been murdered in the village last night!”
“Murdered?” Henrietta asked, looking over at Clive, who had taken a chair next to her, the strict seating arrangement for dinner thankfully not applying to the breakfast table. His face remained unmoved.
“It appears so,” Lord Linley said, lowering his newspaper. “Just up your street, eh, Clive? What luck that we have an inspector with the American police staying with us, wouldn’t you say, Margaret?”
“Former,” Clive reminded him as he reached for his teacup.
“Were you really a detective?” asked Sara, almost worshipfully. Henrietta suppressed a smile.
“Yes, I was,” Clive answered courteously.
“How dreadfully exciting! Don’t you think, Father?”
“Nonsense!” put in Lord Fairfax. “There’s nothing exciting about solving beastly crimes, you daft girl. I suggest you change the subject to something more appropriate for young ladies and allow Mr. Howard to breakfast in peace.”
“Do they know who the victim is?” Clive asked Lord Linley, ignoring Lord Fairfax’s injunction.
“Haven’t heard, old boy. Nothing about it in the paper, of course. Rotters,” he said, giving the paper a shake. “Stevens apparently got the news from the milkman when he delivered this morning.”
“Doubtless the constabulary has it well in hand,” Lady Linley put in in a querulous voice. “No need to disturb young Clive on his honeymoon.”
“No one’s suggesting that he be disturbed, my dear,” Lord Linley said irritably. “He asked a question, and I answered it.”
“Come, let us change the subject!” Lady Linley said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well, Henrietta?” she asked, turning to her.
“I did, yes, Lady Linley, thank you,” Henrietta answered with a polite smile.
Stevens entered the room, then, and approached Lord Linley. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, my lord, but there is a Detective Chief Inspector Hartle at the door. He wishes a private word. Shall I say that you’re at home?”
Lord Linley sighed and tossed his napkin onto the table. “You’d better had, Stevens. I’m finished, anyway, and I daresay this chap might know something of the murder, wouldn’t you say, Clive?”
“Very probable,” Clive answered calmly, though Henrietta could tell that he was keenly interested. She was beginning to know him in a way only time and intimacy could instruct.
“Show him into the study, Stevens.”
“Very good, my lord,” Stevens responded as he bowed before exiting.
“I say, Clive, you might just look in with me, what do you say? After all, this is your field, eh?”
“If you wish it, Uncle, I’d be happy to assist,” Clive answered.
“Montague! Don’t involve the boy! He’s got a young wife to tend to!” Lady Linley decried.
“Asking him to speak to a police detective with me is hardly involving him, Margaret! And I daresay, Henrietta is quite capable of amusing herself for all of ten minutes, am I not right, my dear?” he said, looking at her now.
“Of course, Lord Linley,” Henrietta responded respectfully.
“Oh, well, as you wish, of course,” Lady Linley said in an injured tone and with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Clearly whatever I say has no consequence, whatsoever.”
“I don’t mind at all, Aunt Margaret,” Clive said, addressing Lady Linley. “I’m happy to accompany Uncle Montague, though I doubt very much I’ll be able to add anything of real substance.” He stood up slowly and inclined his head in deference to the ladies present. “Excuse me,” he said to them formally, but before he could move away from the table, Henrietta ventured to say, “Unless you’d like me to go with you, Clive?”
Clive looked down at her and shook his head slightly, his brow furrowed. “I think not, darling,” he said, clearing his throat. “I think Uncle Montague and I can manage.”
“Good heavens, no!” Lady Linley agreed. “Why ever would you want to hear all of the beastly details, my dear? No, indeed. Leave it to the men.”
Clive gave Henrietta a last, hurried look, accompanied by a forced smile, before he strode quickly across the room, Lord Linley already having a head start. If he had meant it to be reassuring, however, it failed miserably. Henrietta slumped back into her chair and tried to keep from looking hurt. She took a sip of her tea and ventured a glance around the table, but no one seemed to have noticed what to her had been Clive’s very obviously slight.
“Do you think he’s come about the murder?” Sara asked her sister.
“Of course he has, you twit! Why else would he be here?” Jane responded.
“But what have we to do with it?” Sara continued.
“Perhaps the murderer is still lurking around, and the inspector’s come to warn us!” Jane suggested, causing Sara to squeal with excitement and a simultaneous loud clatter to be heard at the other end of the table. All eyes turned in that direction, where an embarrassed Lady Winifred, beet red, was attempting to recover her spilled teacup.
“I’m very sorry!” she mumbled as Stevens stepped forward to assist her, having just reentered the room at this particular juncture, this time with a salver of mail to be distributed.
“Girls!” Lord Fairfax said, addressing his daughters as he looked up from his paper, exasperated. “Be silent! You’re upsetting everyone with your absurd theories. I’m sure the police have it quite in hand!”
Stevens took this as his cue to continue his deliveries and, as it happened, placed a letter next to Henrietta’s plate. Still stinging from Clive’s apparent dismissal of her and glad to have somewhere to fix her eyes, Henrietta eagerly glanced at it and saw that it was from Elsie.
“Well, we can hardly help speculating!” Jane muttered in her own defense, and, perhaps sensing another impending rebuke from her father, she stood up. “Very well. Come along, Sara. I have something very particular I wish to say to you. But perhaps we might have a game of badminton after breakfast if the rain holds off. What do you say, Sara?”
“Yes, all right,” Sara begrudgingly agreed.
“Lady Winifred?” she said, looking over at her. “Badminton?”
“No, thank you,” the poor woman said, still not recovered from her faux pas. “I think I’ll just lie down for a bit.”
Henrietta thought she heard Jane sigh. “Mrs. Howard? Surely you’ll play, won’t you?”
Henrietta wanted nothing more but to escape to her room to nurse her bruised feelings and to devour Elsie’s letter, but she knew she shouldn’t be selfish, even if Clive chose to be. “Yes, perhaps later,” she compromised with a small smile
. “I have some correspondence to attend to first, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, glancing toward Lady Linley, who acknowledged her desire to retreat from the room with a preoccupied sort of nod, having already begun to read her own letters that Stevens had just laid beside her teacup.
Henrietta clasped Elsie’s letter, then, and made her way across the room and slipped out. She paused at the foot of the staircase and shot a quick, longing glance down the hall to the study, where she knew Clive was even now discussing the case with Lord Linley and the police. Reluctantly, she turned and hurried up the stairs to her room, trying to console herself with the fact that she would finally be hearing some news of home, as it had almost been a month now since the wedding.
This did little to reassure her, however, as she entered her room and plopped in a rather unladylike way into the chair by the window, though the sky was very gray and did not afford much in the way of illumination. Henrietta had given Elsie the address of Castle Linley before she had left, but she wasn’t sure Elsie would write or that a letter would actually find her here. The last two letters she had received from Elsie while she had been staying at Highbury had contained very bad news, and she desperately hoped that this one would not follow the pattern.
She perused the plain white envelope addressed to Mrs. Clive Howard and thought how strange that looked in print. Quickly she tore it open, then, and began to read:
Dearest Henrietta,
I hope this letter finds you well and happy and that you are enjoying your time with your new husband. (How funny that is to write!) We didn’t have much time to talk either at the wedding or after, but I want you to know how very tremendous I thought it was. You were so very beautiful—as usual!—and Clive was very handsome, too. You made a lovely couple, like something out of a fairy tale. I was watching him while you danced, and it seemed to me that he is very much in love with you, and, oh, Henrietta, how wonderful for you. I pray Clive is as attentive to you as he has always seemed in the past and that your wedding night was not too distressful, or should I say surprising? Likewise, I hope the ship was not too arduous; I would have been terribly afraid, but, then, I am not as adventurous as you.