All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3)

by Watts, Beverley

  Charles Shackleford opened his mouth to speak, then nodded his head slowly. ‘You’re right Jimmy lad,’ he muttered eventually, ‘But it’s a right cake and arse party all the same.’ He heaved a big sigh.

  ‘It’s my biggest downfall Jimmy. I’m just too bloody kind and sympathetic for my own good…

  ~*~

  Since my lunch date with Jason, I can’t deny I’ve been on cloud nine. I’ve seen another side to Captain Buchannan, and despite my fear of getting involved with such a complex man, I’m eager for more. The knowledge that Aunt Flo has invited him to her murder mystery bash feels like a warm promise of things to come.

  There are going to be ten of us around the dinner table this coming Saturday and we’ve all received our character outlines, together with instructions for what to wear. The setting is supposed to be Casablanca during the second world war.

  My character is a Russian aristocrat fallen on hard times, but I have no idea about anyone else. We’ve all had instructions to keep the details of our roles under our hats – although I have a pretty good idea about Freddy’s persona. He’s been doing his starving artist routine for the last week.

  Anyway, I’ve found a spare five minutes to pop to a local charity shop to see if I can pick up some satin and faux fur. It’s all very exciting and an opportunity for everyone to step back from the pre-wedding frenzy and chill out. Even Noah, who could be excused for thinking the whole thing a bit lame, is getting into the spirit of things. He’s obviously taking the part of a British toff because he keeps going round saying, ‘Golly gosh,’ and calling everyone, ‘Old bean.’

  I, on the other hand, have been very sneaky - only practicing my Russian accent in the shower.

  I’m just about to head into the shop when my mobile phone rings. Digging it out from the depths of my handbag, I see Tory’s name on the screen. Smiling, I swipe to connect. ‘Well hello mother of my soon to be godchild, how are things over on the dark side?’

  ‘I’m a bit worried Kitty Kat,’ she responds in a serious tone, and, with an internal groan, I wonder what could have gone wrong since our last potential crisis. We’re getting on average at least one possible disaster every other day.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask cautiously, knowing that Tory’s hormones are currently encouraging her to worry about anything from the colour of the chair ties, to world extinction.

  ‘I think there’s something wrong with my father,’ she says anxiously. ‘He’s been far too considerate lately. He even apologized to me yesterday, and Kit, he actually sounded contrite – that’s unheard of. He’s definitely got something up his sleeve. I know my old man, he’s many things, but humble and solicitous is not one of them.’

  I can’t help but agree with her. The Admiral acting out of character is not good – no matter which way you look at it. I think back to my earlier instincts and his furtive movements outside my flat window. Maybe she has got something to be concerned about.

  ‘Have you said anything to him?’ My heart is sinking faster than the Titanic, and my voice comes out a little sharper than I intend. Luckily Tory’s so focused on her parental concerns that she doesn’t pick up on it.

  ‘I haven’t had chance,’ she retorts brusquely. ‘When he’s not being solicitous, he’s avoiding me like the plague. I thought at first that maybe he’d guessed about the baby, but after he had a large glass of wine and nibbles waiting for me when I came down to start clearing out my stuff, I realized he couldn’t possibly know. And the only time he offers me alcohol is when he’s got something nasty to share.’ She pauses, sighing loudly.

  ‘When I asked him what the occasion was, he actually kissed me on the cheek Kit. I think the last time he did that was just before he broke the news that he’d mistakenly left Dotty in Torquay.

  ‘And then he wanted to know why it was so difficult to understand a father wanting to spoil his only daughter.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I mutter, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘And then he told me how lovely I looked,’ she continues, her voice going slightly hysterical. ‘Kit, you know what he’s like. He never pays compliments. I mean, come on, you know my father – he can always be trusted to tell a woman she looks a bloody sight instead of a vision. I’m telling you he’s up to something.’

  She almost shouts the last bit, and there and then, I reluctantly make the decision to postpone my charity shop rummaging and head over to see my best friend – hopefully to get to the bottom of things, and administer the metaphorical smelling salts. ‘Are you at the Admiralty now?’ I ask quickly to head off any more histrionics.

  ‘Yes I’m in my old room,’ she answers with a slight sniff.

  ‘Okay, I’m on my way,’ I say briskly. ‘And don’t get rid of the glass of wine, you can give it to me. After all, we don’t want him to suspect we’re on to him…’

  It takes me half an hour to get over the river to the Admiralty. Tory’s father has apparently gone shopping with Mabel.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Tory shouts when she informs me of this little gem. ‘When was the last time my father went shopping? You’d normally have to administer a sedative. I think even Mabel’s smelling a rat, and Pickles actually growled at him when he kneeled down to give him a fuss. It’s like a bloody alien has inhabited his body’

  I sit down on her bed and absently stroke Dotty, who’s acting like she’s not seen me for months. As Tory hands me the glass of wine and plonks the nibbles between us, Dotty’s apparent devotion becomes crystal clear.

  ‘Where’s Pickles now?’ I ask after taking an appreciative sip. It’s a very good vintage – the Admiral’s guilt is good for one thing at least.

  ‘He’s at Mabel’s house being spoilt by her son Oscar. I think he’s missing Dotty.’

  I toss the little dog a cheesy wotsit which she catches with her usual dexterity. ‘I don’t think it’s mutual,’ I murmur.

  ‘And there’s something else,’ Tory continues, popping a peanut into her mouth. ‘I was here when he and Mabel received your aunt’s invitation. Mabel was thrilled to bits, but you should have seen my dad Kit, he went as white as a ghost. How weird is that? And then I started to think about it. Can you ever remember my father and your aunt being in the same room together? Or even having a telephone conversation?’

  I frown, trying to think back. ‘Well now you come to mention it, no I can’t.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean, we’ve been best friends for absolutely ever, and yet the people who looked after us in our formative years have never even exchanged so much as a phone call.’

  She stares at me, her eyebrows raised in question, and I stare back, wanting to dismiss her disquiet, but somehow not able to. Taking another sip of my wine, I try to recall the important events in our lives. Sixteenth, eighteenth and twenty first birthdays, New Years Eve, Easter, Halloween. And finally our last big one a couple of years ago – when we turned thirty and decided to hold a joint party.

  Tory’s mum had already passed away by then, and of course my parents were half way across the world, but why didn’t my Aunt Flo attend. I struggle to think.

  ‘She came down with a sudden bug,’ I muse out loud. ‘On our thirtieth birthday party,’ I continue by way of explanation. ‘So why didn’t your father come Tory? He didn’t come, did he?’

  ‘He had an unexpected reunion dinner in London,’ Tory whispers after a short pause, ‘Said I didn’t want old codgers like him at my party anyway.’

  ‘They haven’t come to anything where there’s a danger of them bumping into each other,’ I clarify. ‘The question is, why?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Try as we might, Tory and I couldn’t come up with any kind of explanation as to why our respective parents/guardians have apparently ignored each other for decades. I know I was surprised when my aunt invited Tory’s father to her party, but I can’t actually believe we’ve never noticed their complete lack of communication before.

  We weren’t able to qu
estion the Admiral because he decided to stay over at Mabel’s. Although the elderly widow spends most of her time at the Admiralty, her son visiting for a few days has meant she’s been spending half her time back at her little cottage. Apparently the Admiral is missing her.

  Tory’s rude snort down the phone when he told her to lock up on her way out, spoke volumes. In the end, we agreed to watch both of them closely at the party to see if we can come up with any answers.

  So, Saturday’s finally here, and I’m in the process of turning myself into Countess Bogov in preparation for tonight’s entertainment. I managed to pick up an old satin bridesmaid dress which I’ve teamed with some pearls, long gloves and a feather boa. I’m not sure if it’s standard Russian Countess attire, but it fits me in all the right places and I don’t look (much) like a bag lady. If Jason’s going to be there, then that’s my main priority.

  Anyway I’m finally ready, just putting the finishing touches to my makeup – dark red lipstick in true thirties starlet fashion. I feel a bit Greta Garbo-ish…

  I glance down at my watch. Jason is picking me up at seven thirty and it’s now seven twenty five. I know military types hate people who are late, so I quickly grab my coat and head out the door.

  I still haven’t told Tory about our date, so she was understandably surprised when she called to offer me a lift and I had to admit that Jason was taking me. I know it’s a discussion waiting to happen though. Her parting words to me were, ‘We need to talk.’ Freddy’s response to my text telling him I’d meet him at my aunt’s cottage was a rude one…

  I smile as I run down the stairs – an action I seem to be doing a lot lately. I have no doubt my best friend will demand chapter and verse when we’re next alone.

  Jason is already parked over the road by the time I emerge into the street. This is the first time I’ve seen him since our kiss, and I suddenly feel panicky. I don’t know why – I mean it’s not like we’re actually dating or anything. Ruthlessly shoving down my sudden anxiety, I hurry across the road, just as Jason gets out of the car. It’s too dark to see his expression as he walks round to open the passenger door, but I flash a nervous smile at him as I slip into the seat. I watch him as he walks back to the driver’s side looking for any clues to his character, but everything is covered up by a long greatcoat.

  Before doing up his seat belt, he looks over at me with a slight smile, saying, ‘Hi,’ then without waiting for a response, he leans across, and quickly, softly, touches his lips to mine. As he straightens up, I catch my breath slightly, and have to fight the urge to pull his head back to mine for a proper kiss. Instead I blink and shake my head a little as he starts the engine. Get a grip girl, I admonish myself silently, you’re not a bloody teenager.

  ‘You’ll have to give me directions once we get to Stoke Fleming.’ He interrupts my internal monologue as he deftly manoeuvres the car onto the one way system. There’s very little traffic and five minutes later we’re on the coast road leading to Blackpool Sands and my aunt’s cottage.

  ‘How did your trip go,’ I ask, remembering that he had to go back up to London the day after our lunch. I can see him shrug in the darkness. ‘It’s a different world up there,’ he answers after a second. ‘Unfortunately, having been brought up in a dilapidated old house pretty much in the middle of nowhere, big cities don’t really hold much of an attraction for me.’

  I think back to our visit to Bloodstone Tower. Dilapidated pretty much sums it up really. ‘Do you miss it?’ I ask softly, recalling the silent untamed beauty of the loch. He glances over at me in the gloom before giving a small nod.

  ‘When I retire out of the RN, I’ll go back to live there, but right now it’s a bottomless pit as far as money is concerned. He glances over at me again before finishing dryly, ‘As I’m sure you can appreciate.’

  I feel another surge of guilt at my wanton, if unintentional, destruction of the curtains in the Great Hall. Okay so they might have been so moth eaten that the material was simply hanging on by a thread, but they were better than nothing. ‘I thought Tory was intending to replace the curtains,’ I murmur with a wince.

  ‘I informed her that it wasn’t necessary.’ His voice is polite but abrupt, warning me not to pry, and in the same breath reminding me that, in reality, I know very little about this man. However, just as I’m beginning to wish I’d never brought the subject up, he gives a sigh before continuing in a softer tone. ‘It’s always been my dream to restore Bloodstone Tower to its former glory. My father’s done his best, but the estate has been falling into disrepair for years.

  ‘The death duties when my grandfather died were the final straw, and we’ve been playing catch up ever since.’

  I can’t think of an answer, so simply nod my head in understanding and allow the silence to take over.

  Ten minutes later we’re driving through the village of Stoke Fleming and then down towards Blackpool Sands. The sea on our left is almost invisible in the darkness, with only the moon providing scattered patches of light on its inky surface. As the road begins to rise again, I instruct him to slow down, and point to a driveway almost obscured by rhododendron bushes and palm trees.

  ‘Be careful,’ I warn him, ‘The driveway runs along the edge of the cliff for the first few yards.’

  A couple of minutes later we pull into a large turning area, completely lit up with fairy lights hanging from tree to tree around the edge. I give a small gasp of appreciation. It looks magical.

  There are only a couple of cars, indicating that not all the guests have arrived yet. The door to the cottage is open, the hall within lit by warm lamplight and candles, all casting dancing shadows over the entrance.

  ‘Wow,’ we both murmur at the same time as he brings the car to a stop.

  Hearing the car engine, Aunt Flo appears at the open door, resplendent in velvet and lace. Pepé is tucked under her arm wearing an equally splendid bow tie. ‘Dahlings,’ she calls with exaggerated affect, ‘It’s simply too good of you both to come.’

  Let the fun begin…

  Five minutes later we’re walking out onto the terrace overlooking the sea, only the moon and the occasional ship’s light piercing the pitch-black. The whole area is lit up in the same way as the drive, complete with heaters and large candles to ward of the chill. Jason has removed his greatcoat to reveal a white dinner jacket and bow tie.

  ‘Very Cary Grant,’ I murmur looking him up and down.

  ‘Kirk Ransom the second - American, late thirties. Doomed romantic hero nursing a broken heart and owner of Kirk’s African café in downtown Casablanca, at your service ma’am,’ he replies with a slight bow and a very credible American accent.

  I laugh delightedly and turn to say hello to the three other guests, just as aunt Flo arrives with large tray of drinks and nibbles. Edith Piaf is playing in the background adding to the nineteen thirties atmosphere.

  ‘This is my agent Neil.’ She waves her hand to a tall distinguished looking gentleman dressed in a dinner jacket with numerous, very obviously fake, medals decorating the front. ‘His alter ego is Hughes Le Grandbutte, Deputy-Mayor of Casablanca, and my husband.’

  Neil and I have met many times over the years and I step forward to give him a quick hug.

  ‘Hello Neil,’ I smile, ‘Good to see you again.’ I turn to my companion. ‘This is Jason Buchannan. He’s the current captain up at the naval college. However, this evening he is apparently a rich American playboy with the enviable name of Kirk Ransom the second.’

  Laughing, the two men shake hands and Flo turns to the two other guests still hovering in the background. ‘My editor Jacques.’ She tucks her arm into that of the small man dressed in a slightly shabby day-suit, before continuing, ‘Otherwise known as Seamus O’Hack, dissolute Irish journalist.’ She pauses, turning to him with a grin to say, ‘Very appropriate.’

  We shake hands and I eye him carefully. So this is the man that my aunt has lined up for Freddy. Interesting.

  ‘And this is my
good friend and proof-reader Elaine,’ Aunt Flo continues, pulling a small lady to the forefront with her free arm. ‘Without her, my grammar would be non-existent.’ She smiles warmly down at the petite woman who I can now see is dressed in quite a girly manner. The reason why becomes clear as Flo goes on to say, ‘Tonight, however, she has the enviable task of playing my eighteen year old daughter Nicole Le Grandbutte.’

  ‘Dear mama, please don’t embarrass me,’ Elaine murmurs with very convincing bashfulness.

  I’m just about to introduce my character when a sudden commotion comes from the hall indicating the arrival of the other guests – en masse if the noise is anything to go by.

  ‘Was this your idea of having a laugh Florence Davies – forcing me to dress up as a bloody Gastapo officer. It’s a damn insult.’

  I look at Jason and giggle. ‘I think he’d even prefer to be a WAFU, and that’s saying something.’

  ‘What’s a WAFU?’ asks Jacques curiously.

  ‘Stands for wet and flipping useless,’ Jason grins, ‘It’s a slightly less than affectionate term used to describe someone in the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm.’

  We’re interrupted as Dotty and Pepé dash through the terrace doors, followed a couple of seconds later by Tory and Noah.

  Tory poses dramatically, saying huskily, ‘Allo, I am zee famoos sultry, decadent, and exotic French cabaret singer, Cherie Boot. And zees is my companion, Monsieur Oily-Carte who is ze booking agent for Le Moulin Blue nightclub in Paris. He vas educated in England.’

  Noah struts in looking every inch a well heeled Brit. He lifts a small monocle to his eye and murmurs, ‘How do you do,’ with a bored sigh, making it quite clear that he’s looking down his nose at the assembled commoners in front of him. Then he grins, saying, ‘Hey, good to see you all, I’m Noah.’

  I have to say he looks absolutely breathtaking in his full evening dress, and I suddenly remember exactly why he’s lusted after by so many of the world’s females (not to mention quite a few males).