by Shéa MacLeod
He grinned and rocked back on his heels, tucking his hands into the pockets of his high-waisted white trousers. He was dressed all in white which stood out against his dark skin and made him seem equal parts dapper and dangerous. “Man said there was a party and he wanted music. So, here I am.”
“Mr. deVane hired you? When did you get back from France?” And why hadn’t he contacted me?
“Couple days. Don’t worry, I was going to look you up.” He had the audacity to smolder at me.
“Who said I was worried?” I said archly.
He gave me a knowing look that was somewhat cheeky, although he did have me pegged. He knew exactly how he affected me. I wasn’t used to someone else having the upper hand. I wasn’t sure I cared for it.
One could say my former husband Felix had been the one with the upper hand. Older, wealthier, and worldlier, while I was hardly more than a girl from an impoverished, albeit somewhat aristocratic, background. Well, if I were honest, I wasn’t exactly “hardly more than a girl.” I’d been in my late twenties. On the shelf, as it were. But the truth of the matter was that Felix and I had been equals. He’d been quite the feminist. Surprising for a man of his age and station.
“Are you here for long?” I asked Hale, hoping he would say that he was.
He wrapped an arm around me and guided me to a bench built into the wall and half hidden beneath a weeping willow. “Through the weekend. My new band is joining me for the big shindig at the end.”
The costume party and dance Harry had promised. I had been rather blasé about it before, but now it held a new level of excitement. I reminded myself that this was never going to go anywhere and that Varant was a more suitable suitor, but apparently, I wasn’t listening to myself. For all his sex appeal, Varant never gave me goose pimples.
“Good,” I said awkwardly. “Why didn’t you write?” I instantly cursed myself for being a simpering idiot. I hadn’t meant to sound so...needy.
Hale shrugged. “We had a great time, but it was...brief. I didn’t think I’d ever be back here. Seemed right that I should let you move on. Find someone...more like that Lord you were spending time with.”
“Varant. He’s here, you know.” I figured I might as well warn him. Avoid any awkwardness.
“Yes. I heard.” Hale’s tone was dry, but his face gave no indication one way or the other how he felt about Varant.
“I don’t plan on marrying again,” I blurted. “I like my freedom. Sorry, I don’t know why I told you that. But it’s true. I had one husband and that was enough.”
“Did you love him that much? That you would stay true to him?”
“Who? Felix?” I laughed softly. “Felix was a dear and I adored him, but it wasn’t the grand passion you imagine. We enjoyed each other’s company, supported each other’s endeavors, and cared for each other, but we weren’t madly in love or anything. No, I plan to remain unmarried because I prefer my freedom.”
“How does Varant feel about that?”
“No idea. Don’t particularly care, either. But I imagine it would make me much less desirable to him.” Which might explain his coolness. Perhaps he realized I would never want anything permanent from him. He really should marry a biddable girl who would give him oodles of heirs.
“Not sure he sees it that way,” Hale warned.
“Yes, well...” How had we gotten on the subject? “In any case, it’s very noble of you to shove me off onto some other man, but I assure you, it was entirely unnecessary. And rather cheeky, if I do say so. What makes you think I needed to ‘move on’ as you say?”
The look he gave me made my stomach flutter. As he leaned in the flutters moved lower.
“Let me show you.”
Oh, my.
Chapter 8
I had just finished breakfast the next morning and was making my way toward the library when Miss Semple accosted me. She wore cream colored trousers with a matching cream halter top which left her impossibly pale shoulders bare. She held a floppy cream and navy hat in one hand and a pair of large, round sunglasses in the other.
“Aren’t you coming?” She eyed me from beneath heavily kohled eyelids. Her face was rather too narrow and her nose too long for true beauty, but she had an interesting face.
“Coming where?” I asked.
“To the fete in Stickleberry. It’s not really my thing, you know, but it’s so deadly dull around here that I am willing to do simply anything.”
“I see. I hadn’t realized there was a fete.” And I was surprised that Harry, as a local landowner, didn’t have something to do with it. Generally, such a personage as Harry would be roped into opening the thing at the very least. Possibly even judging who had the largest pig or who had baked the best spice cake.
“Down in the village. Church thing, I imagine.” She yawned. “So, are you coming? Binky is going to drive us down.”
I wondered if she’d given up on Harry and had set her hat for Binky. If so, she was going to have an unpleasant surprise. Other than the manor house up north—which was entailed—poor Binky didn’t have a proverbial pot to piss in.
“Actually, it’s a beautiful day, so I think I’ll walk to Sickleberry.”
She shrugged, pursing her crimson lips. “Suit yourself.”
I watched as she toddled out the open front door on rather perilous heels. Not exactly suitable footwear for a country church fete.
A shiny red convertible pulled up, and Binky honked the horn. Where did he get a posh car like that? There was no way the estate produced enough money for that sort of thing. It barely sustained itself.
I narrowed my gaze in thought. Could he have something to do with the break-in? Perhaps he’d resorted to a life of crime in order to get his hands on the sort of funds needed for the lifestyle he felt he deserved.
Pushing that thought aside—Binky hadn’t the brains for such machinations—I went off to find my aunt.
“Dear girl,” she said when I asked if she wanted to accompany me to the fete, “I would rather have my liver eaten by buzzards.”
“That seems rather drastic,” I said dryly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you want to go? I’d have thought you’d have enough of such affairs to last a lifetime.”
She was right. My father was the village vicar in the town of Chipping Poggs. I’d attended many a church fete in my time. One of the few enjoyments I was allowed growing up.
“It seems something to do. Besides, it might give me a chance to ask around about the break-in.”
“You’re back on that, are you?”
“Nothing else to do.”
She gave me a knowing look. “Harry told me he hired a musician for the rest of the week. I believe you know him.”
“Yes, I saw him last night.”
“I see.” Her eyes twinkled.
I must have blushed fiery red. “Do you?”
“Those Americans...such enthusiastic lovers, don’t you think?”
“Aunt!” I gasped.
She cackled merrily and shooed me from her rooms. “Have fun. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
That left an awfully lot of room for shenanigans.
Since I couldn’t find Chaz, I decided to walk to the fete on my own. It would give me a chance to process my thoughts. I had planned to give up my investigation of the break-in, but honestly, something was niggling at me. I just wasn’t sure what. In the back of my mind I kept seeing that piece of burned paper. What did it mean?
The path to the church wound through the manor house grounds, keeping mostly beneath the trees, making for a pleasant, shady walk. I strolled slowly enjoying the hum of bees, the lowing of cows, the green scent of hot sun on grass, and the light breeze on my skin.
Footsteps sounded behind me on the path, startling me out of my reverie and sending a shiver of apprehension through me. I whirled to find a familiar figure striding toward me.
“Hale.” It came out a little more breathless that I intended.
&
nbsp; “Ophelia.” He swooped down and planted one on me, leaving me even more breathless. “I thought I might join you on your walk. If you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.”
He offered his arm and I took it. It felt right to be walking beside him like this, heart racing, mind buzzing, body thrumming.
I heard the off-key cacophony of the village brass band floating across the meadow as we neared the church, its spire poking up above the trees like a spindle through green wool. “Oh, dear, someone really should tell them they sound dreadful,” I mused.
Hale chuckled. “Let them have their fun.”
“That’s awfully magnanimous coming from a professional.”
“We all had to start somewhere,” he said.
I started when he gently dropped my arm and stepped away. I glanced at him, askance, wondering what was wrong.
“You go ahead. We shouldn’t be seen together.”
I frowned. For a moment I felt the sting of rejection and wondered daftly if it was because of the investigation. Or perhaps Varant. Surely, Hale hadn’t gone off me already. Then I realized. In London, such things were—if not completely approved of—regular. After the Great War, there were few single, young, white men left. So English women found love where they could, regardless of race. But this was a small village. There would be those who wouldn’t approve of our closeness, and they’d take it out not on me—someone who could defend myself not perhaps with muscles, but with money and friends in high places. No, they’d take it out on Hale, a stranger in a strange land and a black man to boot.
I sighed. “I wish things were different.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. “I do, too. Maybe someday they will be.”
I nodded, wondering if there were something I could do. Perhaps Aunt Butty would have an idea. She knew so many people and had been so many places, she always had excellent ideas.
“Alright then. I’ll go on alone. For now.” I gave him a saucy wink, and sashayed off, no doubt his gaze was firmly fixed on my rather curvaceous backside. It might not concede to popular fashion, but I’d never had any complaints from the male gender.
The fete was much as I’d imagined. A large sign above the entrance to the churchyard proclaimed the fete was to support a local orphan charity. Tables had been set up manned by the village ladies. Some had goods for sale: homemade jams and jellies, crocheted doilies, knitted socks, pies, biscuits. Others had games—such as tombola—for prizes no doubt donated by parishioners: a bottle of homemade summer wine, tins of peaches, a fresh baked pound cake. A bric-a-brac stall had various used items for sale such as books and gently worn clothes.
Off to the side was the white tea tent where one could purchase a cuppa and a slice of homemade cake. Across from it was the temporary bandstand where every local villager who owned a musical instrument had gathered to show off their talents—such as they were. I winced at a particularly vile-sounding note.
Next to the tambola stand was a tent draped in colorful cloth. A hand painted sign out front read: Madame Mystic’s Palm Reading—2p.
I grinned. Perhaps Madame Mystic would have some useful information to impart.
I ducked inside to find the standard round table covered in cheap, velvet cloth behind which sat a middle-aged woman. Her hair had been done up in a purple turban and she wore what looked like a cape made of old curtains.
“Please, sit,” she said in a fake accent, probably meant to mimic the Romany.
I took the chair across from her and laid a couple coins on the table. She inspected them closely and nodded.
“Give me your hand.”
I held out my hand, palm up, and she took it in a surprisingly strong grip. Yanking it closer she inspected my hand, grunting a little now and then.
“Well?” I asked lightly. “What do you see?”
She curved a jagged nail along a line in my palm. “Long life, you see.”
“Ah, yes. How interesting.”
“And this...children. Three. No four.”
I held back a snort. Not likely. “Hmmm.”
Then she let out a small gasp. “Be careful milady. Very careful.”
I lifted a brow. “Do you see danger?”
“Of the heart.” She gave me a shrewd look. “Juggling two men can be dangerous business.”
I smiled tightly. Wondering how she knew. “I’ll take that under advisement. Anything else?”
Her nose was almost to my palm when she suddenly reared back. “Beware the masked woman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged and dropped my hand. “No idea. I just read the palms, I don’t interpret them. That’s all. You can go.”
Amused, I exited the tent and caught sight of Miss Semple and Binky in the tea-tent. I immediately turned the other way and ducked into the bric-a-brac stall. I wouldn’t mind having a chat with Miss Semple, but I would prefer to avoid my cousin-in-law.
I was eyeballing a worn paperback of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I glanced toward the church—a medieval stone monstrosity—and saw a man slip around the corner out of sight. I frowned.
It wasn’t so much the man himself who’d caught my attention. It was his furtiveness. He’d glanced around as if trying to escape notice. How odd. And then there was the fact he’d been wearing a bowler hat. Which didn’t mean anything, of course. Lot’s of men wore bowler hats, but I couldn’t help but recall that the man skulking around the garden the night of the break-in had been wearing such a hat.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, I shoved some money at the lady running the booth, crammed the book into my handbag, and slipped out after the man. Rounding the corner of the church, I found no one in sight.
Letting out a sound of frustration, I hurried down the side of the church. To my left was the stone wall, warm from the sun, unbroken at this level as the window sills were nearly above my head. To the right was a row of trees bobbing slightly in a light summer breeze. A butterfly fluttered a little too close to my face.
There was nowhere for the man to have escaped. No doors for him to duck into. And the way into the wood was barred by a split-rail fence. Granted, he could have hopped over it, but then why duck behind the church? I kept going.
Finally, I came to the end of the wall and turned left. The back door of the church stood open slightly, letting in fresh air and sunlight. I stepped through the doorway, squinting to let my eyes adjust. I found myself standing in a small room that looked like it doubled as a dressing room and storage space. A second door, also open, lead to the sanctuary.
I strode quickly to the open door and peered through. Inside the small sanctuary were about half a dozen or so rows of pews. Sitting to one side, halfway toward the front, was the man I’d seen sneaking around the church. And next to him was a second man, his back to me. They huddled together whispering quietly, expressions intense. I couldn’t make out what they were saying; they spoke too low and the echoing room distorted their voices.
Finally, they finished their discussion and stood to leave. I almost gasped aloud. The second man was Binky! Why would Binky have a secret assignation with a strange man at a church in a village where he’d never been before? Dashed odd, if you ask me.
But something about it seemed very...off. I felt a sudden chill go through me and decided it would be the better part of valor to remove myself from the area immediately.
I had just returned to the fete when dark clouds began together overhead. There was an ominous rumble of thunder. I ducked into the tea tent just as the sky opened up and rain poured down.
Miss Semple sat alone, sipping a cup of tea and picking at a piece of cake. I sat down next to her. “Lovely weather we’re having.”
“Typical English summer. I should have gone to the Riviera.”
“Oh, yes? You have a house there?” I doubted it, based on what I’d heard of her family’s finances.
“I have many friends who would love for m
e to stay with them,” she said a tad tartly. I felt a bit badly for offending her.
“How lovely for you,” I murmured politely, deciding not to mention my own little villa. No doubt Binky had already moaned about it. Possibly why she was a bit sore.
The tea lady arrived with a cup of tea and a slice of cake on neat, if cheap, china. I thanked her and took a sip. The tea was well done, indeed, and the ginger cake a marvel. Moist and sticky, and ever so sweet with just the right amount of vanilla icing. I decided to ask the lady if I could get another slice or two before I left.
“Where’s Binky got to?” I asked Miss Semple, as if I didn’t already know.
“Heaven knows,” she said. “I think he wanted to try his hand at the tambola. Whatever for, I wonder? It’s not like a Lord needs tinned peaches.”
I wondered as well, because I was certain Binky had been nowhere near the tambola. I was becoming increasingly suspicious of my dear cousin-in-law all the time.
“How do you know Harry deVane?” I asked, deciding to learn more about Miss Semple while I had the chance.
That got her going. She launched into a long and overly-dramatic story about how her “dear papa” had met “dear, dear Harry” and how he—Harry—had fallen madly in love with her. I somehow figured it was the other way around, but I wasn’t about to point that out. I didn’t think Miss Semple would take it terribly well. She seemed a bit...mercurial.
“So you’re not interested in Binky?” I asked.
She shrugged one shoulder. “He’d make a good backup. Just in case I can’t get Harry to cooperate.”
Damnation. Well, this was as good a time as any to warn her. “You know he’s dead broke, right?”
For a split second she looked crestfallen. “Dash it. Well, at least I’d be a lady. That’s something.”
“Sure,” I agreed heartily. “Stuck in a crumbling manor house in the far north of England.”
“No townhouse?” She leaned forward, aghast.
“Afraid not.”
She slumped back in her seat. “Well isn’t that just my luck.”