by Shéa MacLeod
There was the estate up north, of course. It had been entailed to one of Felix’s cousins—along with the title. Unfortunately, the cousin, known as Bucktooth Binky to all and sundry, wasn’t exactly speaking to me at the moment. He was rather sore over the fact that while he got a title and a great hulking monstrosity that was falling to ruin out in the wilds of Yorkshire, I got heaps and heaps of money, along with the London townhouse and the French villa. I suppose I could understand his petulance, but it meant I couldn’t exactly drive up and ask to stay the summer.
“How did you meet this deVane person again?” I asked, digging through my handbag for a tin of fruit drops. It was nearly empty, but perhaps it would take the edge off my hunger. I popped one in my mouth and savored the sweet tart burst of lemon on my tongue.
“Oh, you know how it is,” Aunt Butty said airily.
“A party?” I guessed.
“In Paris. What a marvelous time. The Belle Époque. So delicious.” She sighed dramatically. “He was playing the piano—he does you know. Play that is. When it suits him, which it rarely does. Some woman or other was making a hash of singing along. Naturally I had to show her how to do it properly.”
“Naturally,” I said dryly. Aunt Butty was not one to stand in the shadows when she could do it better. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Aunt Butty couldn’t help herself. She simply had to shine. She had too much charisma for her own good. “And did you and Mr. deVane, er...” How to put this tactfully?
“You want to know if we ever made whoopee?”
I almost choked on a boiled sweet. Leave it to Aunt Butty to get down to brass tacks. “Well, we are in the man’s house and I want to know if there’s going to be any awkwardness.”
“There may have been some shenanigans back in the day, but we were young then. And possibly pickled. Now we are just good friends and Harry has varied and interesting tastes.” But the sly look she gave me told me that while she may not be young anymore, she wasn’t above getting pickled and getting Harry deVane into bed again.
There was a knock at the door, and a footman arrived with a laden tray which he thunked down on the small table beneath the window. Without a word, he stomped to the pile of empty luggage, scooped it up, and stomped out. The door swung shut with a bang behind him.
“Well, I never...” Aunt Butty blinked at the closed door.
“Perhaps you should talk to your Original friend about his Original servants,” I said dryly as I inspected the tea service. At least the tea was properly brewed and there was plenty of cream and sugar. Though the two scanty biscuits were less than impressive. “If this tea is any indication of what we’re going to be fed, I’m bound to waste away to nothing.”
Which, while the current fashion, wasn’t my natural state. I tended to be rather on the curvy side.
“Harry deVane and I have a lot to talk about.” From Aunt Butty’s tone, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be pleasant for poor deVane.
I AWOKE AT HALF SEVEN that evening. Aunt Butty had gone off to her room after downing a cup of tea, leaving me to my own devices. Oppressive heat and an early morning had finally caught up with me and I’d nodded off at last, only to be woken by Maddie just in time to get myself together for dinner.
A good thing, too. I was hungry enough to storm the kitchen. Not the done thing at all.
With hair and makeup repaired, and dressed in a royal blue silk evening dress and a simple sapphire necklace, I exited my room and headed for the stairs. I got a bit turned around for a moment and ended up in some other wing of the manor. Instead of grim ancestors, there were rather bawdy paintings of lushly bottomed ladies lounging in ponds.
I had just turned around to retrace my steps when a door behind me opened. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Merry Widow.”
I turned around in surprise. I’d know that slurring voice anywhere. “Well, well,” I echoed. “If it isn’t Bucktooth Binky. What the devil are you doing here?”
Chapter 2
“I could ask you the same,” Binky said sharply, stiffening at the detested nickname. There was certainly a reason for it. With his narrow and oversized teeth, he looked exactly like a rodent.
“I was invited,” I said calmly.
“As was I.” He gave me a bland, if slightly smug smile, smoothing back his mouse brown hair which was thinning rather alarmingly on top. He looked nothing like his cousin, who had still been quite handsome for a man in his sixties and with a full head of silver hair.
“I’m surprised you get invited anywhere.”
His rat-like face flushed crimson. “You little trollop.”
“Careful, Binky. Remember, I’m Felix’s widow and I could buy and sell you ten times over.” Rubbing his face in it probably wasn’t the smartest thing, but I loathed him so. And, frankly, he deserved it. Calling me a trollop. He was one to talk.
If my late husband had one regret, it was that he had no proper heir to pass on the title. Instead, it would go to Alphonse Flanders—Bucktooth Binky—a distant cousin who’d been banking on the inheritance his entire life. Instead of doing anything useful, he’d spent that life in dissolution, partying and womanizing, getting himself into an atrocious amount of debt at gaming tables across Europe, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Felix had hated him, but there’d been nothing he could do. Except to leave his unentailed money and properties, which Binky had expected to inherit along with the entailed property, to me instead. The only thing Binky got was a drafty mansion in the middle of nowhere and a pile of debt he couldn’t pay. I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him.
Binky’s face flushed crimson, which clashed rather awfully with his claret colored double-breasted dinner jacket. He clearly wanted to say something—likely something off-colored and rude—but he managed to hold his tongue. Possibly because Aunt Butty took the opportunity to make her appearance.
We’d reached the head of the stairs when she came swanning down the hall. She wore a bronze lamé dinner dress that had a high square neck which entirely failed to hide her impressive bosom. She was sans hat, with her iron-gray hair neatly tucked in rolls and waves about her handsome face and pinned back with a gold hair pin shaped like a giant scarab beetle. She wore the most audacious orange topaz dangle earrings which matched the large, oval pin on her dress and the enormous cocktail ring she sported on her left hand.
“Ophelia, why ever are you dawdling on the stairs? We shall surely miss supper. Oh, hello, Binky.” Her tone was cool, and her gaze passed over him, unimpressed.
Binky flushed a deeper crimson but remained silent. Which was well for him. Aunt Butty could have a barbed tongue when she wanted to. And she loathed the newest Lord Rample with the heat of a thousand suns. My late husband had been a favorite of hers.
I bit back my amusement as we descended the stairs. Binky was used to people fawning over him. While he was a bit weak-chinned and wispy haired, he wasn’t unhandsome. And with a title to his name, there were plenty of women willing to overlook his lack of funds. To have two women singularly unimpressed by his charms was enough to give him an apoplectic fit. The minute we hit the bottom of the stairs, he strode away without a backward glance.
My dearest friend, Charles Raynott, met us as we entered the drawing room. “Ladies, you look stunning.”
“Chaz, darling, fancy seeing you here,” I said, giving him a proper kiss on the cheek. Those ridiculous air kisses women of my station were so fond of giving were beyond me. “You’re looking rather delicious yourself.”
And he was. The man could give Clark Gable a run for his money. He was perfectly turned out in a black evening suit which set off his broad shoulders rather well and his hair had been brushed and oiled to perfection.
“Aunt Butty wrangled me an invitation at the last minute. Hello, ducks.” He swooped to give her a hug. “Good thing, too. I was positively wasting away in that loathsome heat. You know I detest London in summer.”
Aunt Butty patted his cheek. “Aren’t you a doll. Now I must
go and greet our host.” She toddled off toward a tall, white haired gentleman who was dressed head to toe in black.
“Scrummy, isn’t he?” Chaz murmured.
“If you like that sort.”
“What’s not to like? He’s handsome, rich, and highly entertaining. Plus, his house isn’t bad.” He glanced around at the drawing room which was done in the height of modernist fashion with simple, curving lines and a great deal of glass and mirrors. The predominant color was lime green. Rather startling in large quantities, and out of place in the historical home. “Although it could use an expert touch.”
“I thought you were off to the Continent,” I said blandly, switching subjects. Recently. he’d met some French gentleman with more money than sense and had promptly disappeared, leaving me to my own devices.
Chaz waved languidly. “Old news, darling. He was too, too stuffy. And not nearly rich enough.”
“Spun you a good story, did he?” Poor Chaz. Always falling for the wrong men.
“Dreadful liar. Should be shot.”
I knew there was more to it, but he clearly didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t push. Instead, we wandered over to a brass and glass hostess cart which was loaded up with martini glasses filled with violet blue liquid and garnished with dark red maraschino cherries imported from Italy.
“Aviation cocktails, lovely!” Chaz exclaimed, claiming a glass for each of us. “I know it’s got gin, darling, but do try it.”
I was generally not a huge fan of gin, the highball being my poison of choice. But the sweet, floral chill of the creme de violette was astonishingly delicious. It tasted of sky and magic and summer nights. I downed mine rather too quickly and snagged a second. Divine. I made a mental note to send Maddie for the ingredients the minute we were back in London.
Aunt Butty beckoned and we were introduced to our host, the tall white-haired gentleman, Harry deVane. He insisted we call him Harry. I’d met him briefly when my Felix was alive. Some party or other, now a blur in my memory. He greeted us heartily and pressed Chaz’s hand rather longer than necessary. I exchanged a knowing look with Aunt Butty. Apparently, Harry deVane appreciated beauty regardless of form.
“I do apologize about Binky,” he said in a warm, rumbly voice. “Business, you know. I simply had to invite him. I hadn’t realized...”
“I told him about our Binky issues,” Aunt Butty said. “The little pipsqueak better be on his best behavior.”
“No worries,” I assured Harry. “I have no issues with him other than his attitude.”
Harry seemed surprised at my bluntness, then laughed. “Refreshing. I do love a woman who speaks her mind.”
No wonder he adored my aunt. The woman had elevated speaking her mind to an art form.
“Nice little gathering you’ve got here, Harry,” Chaz said, taking a sip of his violet drink and edging closer to our handsome host.
“Isn’t it, though? You know Bucktooth Binky, of course.” Harry smirked. “What a delightful nickname. I must remember to use it. The couple hovering by the drinks cart is Maude and Mathew Breverman. Met them on a cruise down the Nile. Interesting couple. American. He’s in textiles. Worth more than I am. Can you believe? Trying to convince me to go into business with him.”
Maude was a plump, middle-aged woman with frightfully frizzy blonde hair done up in a semblance of the current fashion. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t stay put and ended up looking like cotton wool stuck on her head. Mathew was equally plump and looked a veritable penguin in his black tuxedo. He had a thin moustache dusting his upper lip, and squinty little eyes that were altogether too shrewd.
“Who are the two women near the fire?” I asked.
The first woman, tall and spare with a long, horse-like face, appeared to be in, perhaps, her fifties. The second, short and plump with quick, bird-like movements and large cow eyes, was somewhat younger. They were both dressed in evening gowns that were at least fifteen or twenty years out of date with loose waists and an inordinate number of ruffles. The persimmon and rose-colored fabrics clashed wildly with the room’s décor and their wearers’ complexions.
“Those are the Sisters Kettington,” Harry explained. “The tall one is Ethel, and the other, Amelia. Neighbors of mine. Their family was once quite wealthy but has since fallen on hard times. Very proper sorts of ladies. I thought they might enjoy some time away from their little cottage.”
That was kind of him. I hadn’t expected a man like Harry to think of his impoverished neighbors, even if they were proper sorts.
“The woman lounging on the divan is one Miss Semple,” Harry continued. “She’s been after me for yonks. Father is some kind of landed gentry. You can imagine what she’s after.”
The woman was about my age—middle thirties—with neatly waved dark hair, carefully penciled arched brows, and perfectly painted coral lips. Her skin was milk white and there was plenty of it on display thanks to her backless, sleeveless green silk gown. She caught us staring and fluttered her ridiculously oversized lashes. I was fairly certain they were fake.
“Why did you invite her if she’s such a trial?” Aunt Butty asked.
Harry chuckled. “It amused me.”
My estimation of Harry went down a notch. He had no intention of being ensnared by Miss Semple, but he was fine toying with her. Like a cat with a mouse. It was a most unattractive quality.
“What an odd assortment of people,” Chaz mused, sipping his cocktail.
“Aren’t they just,” Harry agreed. “I think it’s terribly dull having the same sort of people around all the time, don’t you? In fact, we’ll have a few extras at dinner tonight. The more the merrier, eh?”
At that moment, the door swung open and in walked Lord Peter Varant. My heart gave an irrational flutter as he turned to me and a small smile pulled at his handsome, saturnine features. He was impeccably turned out. Thick, chestnut hair swept back from a high forehead and high cheekbones. Every inch of him perfectly manicured.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Chaz muttered. “Do I need to protect your honor?”
I ignored him. Sometimes it was the only thing one could do. I hadn’t seen Varant since the shenanigans at the Astoria Club a few months ago. Oh, sure, we’d tried to get together a couple of times, but it never seemed to work out. He was either being called away by some issue on one of his properties or dashing off to attend to some matter of state—he did something with the government, though I wasn’t sure what. It was all terribly hush hush. Meanwhile I had been trying to make up for lost time after Felix’s death. The never-ending whirlwind of parties and dinners and galas had left me exhausted. This holiday was a welcome one.
It didn’t surprise me that Varant knew Harry. Varant knew pretty much everyone. It did surprise me a little to see him at this party. I hadn’t expected it. It didn’t seem his type of thing. Then again, I wasn’t sure what his type of thing was. Though I’d been acquainted with him for awhile now, since before Felix died, I really didn’t know him that well. He liked to play things close to the vest.
“By jove. Look who’s with Varant,” Chaz muttered.
The man was slender, gray haired, with a bristly moustache. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
“It’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Neville Chamberlain. What’s he doing here? It’s not exactly his scene.” Chaz frowned. “Isn’t he supposed to be busy putting the economy back together?”
Harry strode toward the newcomers, arms outstretched. “Neville, old bean!”
The two men shook each other’s hands and did that back patting thing that men do. Harry greeted Varant the same way, though Varant was less enthusiastic about it than Chamberlain had been.
“Harry was at Mason College with Chamberlain,” Aunt Butty confided. “I think he issued an invitation to our little soiree in hopes the two of them could speak about business matters. Harry has interests in several foreign companies.”
I frowned. “Why would our host w
ant to speak to Chamberlain? It’s not like he’s going to change the man’s mind about tariffs and import duties.”
“No, but he likely thinks he can convince Chamberlain to give him special consideration,” Chaz said. “I doubt it will work what with the debt repayment to America. And then there’s the German issue. That could go wonky.”
“German issue?” I asked.
“Hitler,” Aunt Butty said dryly, polishing off her cocktail. “Harry is not thrilled about the situation.”
“You mean that smug little man in Germany?” I asked.
“The same.”
“But he lost the election,” I pointed out.
“Still, his party won a lot of power. There are those who feel Hitler is dangerous and they are very concerned. Chamberlain doesn’t think so. He believes he can handle Hitler. Very short-sighted if you ask me.” Aunt Butty’s entire body quivered with outrage. “The man is an undeniable racist.”
“Chamberlain?” I asked.
“No. Well, I don’t know. But I meant Hitler. Insufferable man.” Aunt Butty liberated another drink from the hostess cart and downed it in one go. “I read that dreadful book of his. Appalling. Filled with racist nonsense. Mark my words, no good will come of this!”
Just then, Jarvis appeared and rang the gong for dinner. We all filed into the dining room, which was decorated like a medieval banquet hall. The walls were plastered stone, the floors flagstone, the table a massive oak monstrosity, and the chairs upholstered in red velvet. In one corner stood an actual suit of armor complete with broadsword. Colorful pendants hung from the ceiling, and there was a fireplace large enough to roast an entire cow.
“Ghastly,” Aunt Butty whispered. “And I thought the drawing room was bad. The man has no sense of taste.”
Which was rather rich coming from a woman who wore entire birds on her head. I wish I were joking, but alas, I am not. Aunt Butty had the most atrocious taste in hats.
We were all seated around the table, Harry at the head with Chamberlain on his right and Aunt Butty—being the oldest and the highest-ranking woman—at the foot acting as hostess. Which tickled her no end. She forgave Harry his taste in decor immediately.