Death at the Dance: An addictive historical cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 2)

by Verity Bright

  ‘Whatever are you waffling about, Harold?’

  ‘Nothing, flower of my life. Just congratulating you on not giving Eleanor too much of a roasting for being so unforgivably tardy, eh?’

  He clicked his fingers at a footman and grabbed three flutes of champagne. Passing one to Eleanor he whispered, ‘Have some bubbles, it will make everything run so much more smoothly.’

  Eleanor suppressed her giggles and took the offered glass. ‘You know, it must be such a task arranging an event like this.’

  Lady Langham’s eyebrows shot up to meet her hairline. ‘Well, strictly between you and me, my dear, I’ve had the most awful nightmare trying to pull this show off. You wouldn’t believe the list of disasters I’ve averted since four o’clock this afternoon.’

  Lord Langham nodded. ‘Isn’t she the most marvellous duck?’

  Eleanor struggled to know where to look. ‘Forgive me, “duck”, Harold?’

  ‘Yes. Serene, perfectly poised on the surface. But below the dress, she’s paddling like billy-oh! That’s why her skirt is so simply enormous!’ He roared with laughter at his joke and plopped an arm round his wife’s shoulders.

  To Eleanor’s relief, Lady Langham tutted good-humouredly and patted her husband’s portly stomach. ‘Do go and find Lancelot, dear. Tell him Eleanor’s arrived… finally.’

  ‘Good plan, Augusta, old fruit. Boy’s been skulking in and out for the best part of an hour pretending he’s not looking for you, Eleanor, my dear.’ Before he could set off in search of Lancelot, he caught sight of Colonel Puddifoot-Barton. ‘Pudders! Your glass is empty, man, shame on you! Still, best lay off the champagne. At your age, too many bubbles will be the death of you. Let’s get you a brandy…’

  The elderly, balding colonel saluted him and, catching Eleanor’s eye, pursed his lips and nodded stiffly from a distance.

  She returned the less than cordial greeting and turned back to Lady Langham, who took her arm.

  ‘Don’t worry about the colonel, my dear. He’s simply had military drills coursing through his veins for forty years and no good lady wife to soften him up. Harold really is most fond of him… for some reason. Oh, look there’s Viscount and Viscountess Littleton. You remember them, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ Eleanor said more enthusiastically than she felt, they being the couple she had slated to Clifford as the henpecked husband and his rude, fashion-obsessed American wife.

  ‘Lady Swift, if indeed it is you under your mask.’ Viscount Littleton strode up and took her hand.

  Viscountess Littleton trailed behind her husband. ‘Cuthbert, you chowderhead, you can’t say that to everyone. Your joke’s flatter than a tyre nailed to a wall.’ Mangling most words to end in ‘uh’ or ‘aw’, her Bostonian accent caused Lady Fenwick-Langham to stiffen.

  Eleanor laughed. ‘It seems I’ll have to wear more than a mask to disguise myself, Viscount Littleton. Maybe I should have come in full costume?’

  At this moment, Lady Langham caught the frantic eye of a servant and jumped into martyr mode. ‘I do apologise. It seems I need to save us from another crisis. Must dash.’

  Left with the viscount and viscountess, Eleanor tried to make polite conversation. ‘How are you both?’

  ‘All fine, quite marvellous,’ the Viscount said. ‘Delia’s patience is perhaps a little blunter than when we last met and her allergy of all things countryside has escalated I fear, poor thing, but otherwise quite alright.’

  He winced at the slap to his arm.

  ‘Ignore Cuthbert, Lady Swift. He really was a fine catch in every regard except his manners,’ his wife said.

  Eleanor peered round the room, desperate for a lifeline. ‘Would you excuse me for just a moment, I need to… say hello to the colonel. He’ll think me frightfully off if I don’t.’

  Viscountess Littleton sniffed. ‘That old goat thinks everything and everyone is off. Do you know I have never actually seen him smile?’

  ‘Delia, please!’ Her husband shook his head.

  ‘What? He’s like soured halibut. Stiff as a corpse.’

  At that moment the colonel himself appeared. Lord Langham followed, humming loudly while balancing two generously filled glasses of brandy. The colonel was scowling.

  ‘Disgraceful, this country is in significant trouble. Men mincing about in costumes and feathers. How’s that going to look when the Boche gets up to his old tricks again?’

  Feathers? Maybe that’s Lancelot! She wondered about asking the colonel where he saw the feathered guest, but changed her mind. If she told him she was looking for Lancelot, the whole world would know by the end of the next dance.

  Lord Langham chuckled. ‘Used to be worse, old boy. What about that Regency mob? All that dandifying themselves with face paint and high heels… What do you think, Sandford?’

  Eleanor started. The Langham’s butler had the art all butlers seemed to have of materialising exactly when they were required and appearing as if they’d been there all along.

  Lord Langham continued. ‘You butlers, after all, are the arbitrators of fashion downstairs, what?’ He chuckled as he took a large swig from one of the glasses and then spluttered as most of it came out of his nose.

  Lady Langham appeared at his side, looking flustered. ‘What are you all doing skulking around here, Harold? Sandford?’

  Lord Langham waved his glass. ‘Let the man reply, Augusta. We’re having a most diverting conversation about male fashion. Sandford is about to enlighten us.’

  Sandford cleared his throat. ‘Well, with respect, my lord, as you have asked, I believe that those in the Regency period were in fact trying to simplify and refine men’s fashion after the excesses of the Macaronis.’

  ‘The confounded Maca-whats?’ Lord Langham stuttered. ‘That’s a type of pasta, what?’

  ‘Macaronis, my lord. A group of gentlemen who frequented the streets of Mayfair in four-inch scarlet heels, sporting two-foot wigs, multiple diamonds and such accessories as muffs and fans.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ cried the colonel. He turned a disapproving rheumatic eye on Sandford and then back to Eleanor. ‘Can’t stand such prissy affectation, ponsing about in decorations like that.’

  ‘How does one reconcile that with military costumes and decorations, Colonel?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Ostrich plumed helmets and such?’

  The colonel snorted. ‘Completely different!’

  Lady Langham gestured vehemently behind the colonel’s back for her husband to remove his old pal to a far corner of the ballroom.

  ‘Good evening, by the way, Colonel.’ Eleanor smiled sweetly. ‘I do believe we forgot to greet each other properly.’

  ‘Harrumph! Evening.’

  Lord Langham swung the colonel around and shoved him forward with a loud, ‘Oh spiffing, look there’s Barty and his new wife. Smile, Pudders, it’s a party, old boy.’

  Eleanor took her chance. ‘I say, Sandford, do you by any chance know where Lance… young Lord Fenwick-Langham is?’ Lancelot was the only son of Lord and Lady Langham. Even though he wouldn’t inherit the title until after his father’s death, as was customary he had the cursory title of ‘Lord’.

  Sandford looked down at his gloves. ‘Young Master Lancelot retired to the garden, along with Lady Coco and Lady Millicent Childs, Mr Seaton, Mr Singh and Mr Appleby. It may, however, be a little difficult to recognise him, my lady. Like a few of the other guests, he has come in full costume.’

  ‘Typical Lancelot, but that should make him all the easier to spot.’

  ‘Indeed, although several other guests have taken the same approach and attired themselves in the same full regalia, as it were.’

  ‘Golly! Good job they’re not women, that would be a disgraceful faux pas. What sort of costume is it?’

  ‘I believe it is some sort of pirate. The most prominent feature being a cutlass. And strangely, feathers.’

  Ah, feathers, Ellie!

  ‘Now, shall we?’ Lady Langham gestured at the ballroom. ‘There
are your old acquaintances, the Dowager Countess of Goldsworthy and her niece, the delightful Cora Wynne. Let’s go say hello and then I have some other guests to introduce you to.’

  Eleanor followed her hostess, looking out for one particular young gentleman. One adorned with feathers and brandishing a cutlass.

  Three

  Outside, the threatened rain had arrived. Big, fat drops fell lazily onto the ballroom’s rows of floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the music swirled, the dancers whirled and Eleanor’s eyes blurred with the myriad faces Lady Langham passed in front of her. But then, in working round the room, her hostess stopped at a group of young people, several of whom were in full costume. ‘And these are Lancelot’s… friends from Oxford. Good evening, everyone, enjoying yourselves?’ Lady Langham forced a smile.

  ‘Rather!’ a Harlequin said.

  ‘Absolutely spiffing,’ an elegant Cleopatra replied.

  ‘It’s simply sublime, so kind of you to invite us,’ an exotic bird of paradise cooed as she stroked her headdress.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Lady Fenwick-Langham. I’m quite inspired by the colours of this spectacle to write a poem.’ This came from a homespun costume to the bird of paradise’s left.

  Lady Langham smiled weakly. ‘Everyone, this is Lady Eleanor Swift.’

  A wave of hands met the introduction.

  ‘Oh, we’ve heard about you, of course.’ Cleopatra stepped forward. She laughed in a manner that Eleanor wasn’t sure was good-natured.

  ‘Sis, don’t be mean!’ the bird of paradise hissed.

  Lady Langham patted Eleanor’s arm. ‘I’ll return for you in a moment, dear. Duty calls.’

  As Lady Langham vanished into the crowd, Eleanor was left feeling conspicuous. Lancelot had obviously told his friends about her, but what had he said?

  ‘Speaking of making an entrance,’ she said, which nobody had been, ‘have you seen Lancelot? I rather expected him to come roaring through in his plane or balancing on the rear wheel of his motorbike.’

  The Harlequin nodded. ‘Oh, that would be so typical of Lance. Always up for a caper. By the way, I’m Johnny, Cleopatra here is Millie and the exquisite bird of paradise is Coco, her sister.’

  Eleanor smiled at them.

  ‘Oh dash, sorry, Albie old chum.’ Johnny nodded at the unintroduced member of the group. ‘And this is Albie, or Albert if you catch him in a particularly poetic mood. We’ve got a wager on what exactly he’s come as.’

  Millie leant against the wall and folded her arms. ‘I had him pegged as a vagabond.’

  ‘Millie!’ her sister hissed. ‘Why do you have to pack your claws every time? Albie, I told you I think you look great. I guess you’ve come as a cleric of some sort?’

  Johnny shook his head. ‘Honestly, Albie, it beats me. I’ve plumped for Lord Mayor of London… whilst at the barbers, munching on a snack.’ He pointed to the apple hanging from Albert’s wrist.

  Eleanor had to stifle her giggles.

  ‘Philistine!’ Albert said. ‘Actually, I’m Raphael’s Young Man with an Apple.’

  ‘I think it’s brilliant! Very original,’ Eleanor said.

  Millie slapped him on the back. ‘Brilliantly stupid, Albie, but don’t worry about it. No one else has noticed.’

  Eleanor turned back to Coco. ‘Did you all come over from Oxford tonight?’

  Coco nodded. ‘Yes, although you just missed Lucas, the last of our number. He had to leave a few moments ago.’

  Millie leaned forward. ‘It’s Prince Lucas, actually.’

  ‘Leave it alone, Millie,’ Johnny said. ‘What’s the point of him being in good old Blighty if he’s still shackled by all the expectations of his title? He prefers plain “Lucas Singh”.’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘And how do you prefer to be addressed?’

  She laughed. ‘Just plain Eleanor is fine.’

  ‘Plain indeed,’ Millie muttered.

  Coco slapped her sister’s arm. ‘Stop it!’

  Millie yawned affectedly. ‘Yes, I never got a dance with him because old Lady Fenwick-Langham wouldn’t let anyone start until you had finally arrived.’

  Coco moved her mask and glared at her sister.

  Eleanor decided to ignore Millie. ‘Oh, so I won’t meet Lucas then?’

  Millie waved at a servant and took another flute of champagne. ‘No. What a shame. He particularly wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Meet me?’

  Millie downed her champagne without replying.

  Bored of Millie’s sniping, Eleanor glanced round and caught sight of a pirate, replete with cutlass, winding his way through the revellers.

  ‘Excuse me a moment, won’t you?’ She gathered up her skirt and hurried after her quarry, but by the time she’d reached the other side of the ballroom, he’d vanished. She spent the next few minutes hunting everywhere. As she was about to give up, she spun round, forgetting about the train on her gown, and fell flat on her face.

  ‘Oh, bother!’ she said to the polished marble flooring.

  Lord Langham, who was waltzing past, stopped and bent to help her up. ‘Nice work, old girl. You’ve obviously got stuck in on the champagne. That’s the spirit!’

  Viscount Littleton hurried up. ‘Are you alright, Lady Swift?’ He kept a firm grip on her elbow as she stood up. His wife appeared, her face betraying her horror at such a public embarrassment.

  The dowager countess then appeared with Cora in tow. Cora, eyes wide, echoed the Viscount’s concern. ‘Are you alright, Lady Swift?’

  Eleanor smiled at the ring of concerned, and not so concerned, faces. ‘Oh gracious, I’m really quite alright. Just a little bruised dignity, no harm done.’

  The men laughed and discreetly rolled their eyes.

  She brushed down her dress and thanked Viscount Littleton for retrieving her headband. She placed it back on her head and straightened up. Eleanor saw Sandford watching from the side of the hall. He caught her eye and moved across the floor to meet her. ‘Do you require a poultice, my lady? I shall call on Cook immediately.’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘No, really, I’m fine, thank you. Unless Cook has a cure for mortifying embarrassment?’

  ‘I fear not, my lady.’

  Lady Langham appeared and took her arm. ‘Now, my dear, I came to check you weren’t in tears?’

  ‘Tears? Thank you, but why would I be in tears?’

  ‘Well, you fell.’

  ‘Oh that, it was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing!’ Lady Langham bent towards her and whispered, ‘My dear girl, the whole party saw you fall!’

  ‘Yes, well, not my finest moment, I agree.’

  ‘Mortifyingly embarrassing, I’d say.’

  Eleanor wondered if Lady Langham was referring to her own feelings. It was then she became aware that the music had stopped and the entire ballroom was staring at her. She coughed and announced to the onlookers, ‘It’s called a Parisian pancake. Really, all the ladies are doing it.’

  She told her hostess that she needed to fix her make-up, and made her escape. A movement caught her eye. A pair of striped trousers replete with cutlass was disappearing round the sweeping bend of the side stairs. She smiled. She’d have to tell Lancelot tight trousers really didn’t flatter his legs. He’d be devastated.

  With her skirt held high, she skipped up the remaining stairs realising she had no plan when, and if, she did catch Lancelot. Oh well, Ellie, you can’t make any more of a fool of yourself tonight than you already have.

  At the top step, she paused and looked left and right. ‘Dash it!’ No striped trousers. No cutlass. No tousled blond hair and blue-grey eyes. Randomly she turned right and started down the corridor.

  A few minutes later and she had to admit she was lost. The place was a labyrinth compared to Henley Hall. How did the servants ever find their way around? She imagined being found weeks later in a far-off wing of the house, living off dead flies and brackish radiator water.

  A small crash further down the hallway made her jump. She t
iptoed forward, listening intently. A sharp cry rang out, ‘Oh bally heck, no!’

  Was that Lancelot?

  Pushing open the panelled oak door to her right, she saw the pirate she had followed up the stairs. He was hunched over someone lying at a peculiar angle on the floor of what appeared to be a study. Eleanor just had time to take in the walls covered in books.

  ‘Lancelot?’

  The figure turned round, a large silver candlestick in his right hand.

  ‘Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here? You should leave. Now!’ The masked man spoke in an urgent whisper.

  ‘But what…? Who…?’ She started as she recognised the crumpled figure at the pirate’s feet.

  The double doors at the far end burst open, the handles smacking against the wood panelling. They both spun round and froze as half a dozen policemen ran in and surrounded them. A broad-shouldered man then strode in, accompanied by two more policemen.

  Eleanor gasped. ‘Inspector! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Lady Swift!’ For a moment they stood staring at each other. Then he looked across at the masked man. ‘Stand aside, please.’

  He turned to the two policemen on his left. ‘Cuff him, Brice. Peters, check the casualty.’

  Once Lancelot was handcuffed, Detective Chief Inspector Seldon stepped forward and pulled the mask off the man’s face.

  ‘You!’

  Unmasked, Lancelot stared coolly at DCI Seldon.

  Eleanor’s mind was racing. ‘Inspector? Lancelot? What…?’

  DCI Seldon walked around Eleanor to the far wall. Mounted in the wall was a safe, its door wide open. Up to that moment, Eleanor hadn’t noticed it. DCI Seldon looked inside. ‘Empty!’ He turned back to Lancelot. ‘Lord Fenwick-Langham, you are under arrest for the theft of Lady Fenwick-Langham’s necklace and on suspicion of being responsible for a series of related burglaries.’

  Eleanor felt as if she was in a bad dream.

  ‘Now wait a bally moment,’ Lancelot finally spoke. ‘I’m being arrested for stealing my own mother’s necklace? That’s rich!’