“The political situation has certainly been a bit unstable as of late,” answered the gentleman in question cautiously. “What the elections will bring remains to be seen. If Venizélos is not reelected, it is difficult to say what the effect will be.”
Connected to the Foreign Office, Mr. Sanderson Douglas-Hughes was quite well-informed on political matters, I was sure. However, it was not solely in that capacity that his name was familiar to me. I had been interested to meet him and his wife because we shared the unfortunate distinction of having our marriages publicly picked apart by society columnists. Mr. Douglas-Hughes came from a very old and wealthy family, and I well recalled the sensation it had caused when he had married an American dancer named Mamie Allen.
The gossips had played up her occupation as a dancer, lending it sordid undertones as if to imply she had spent her nights dancing the hoochie-coochie in some New York burlesque, but I had heard that she had, in fact, been a ballroom dancer on Broadway. She was tall and extremely thin, and there was a calm gracefulness about her that I was sure must have pleased even the stoutest defenders of the Douglas-Hughes legacy. She was a lovely woman, pale with a halo of striking red hair that could only have been a natural hue. There was something very warm and open about her, and I found myself liking her at once.
“There are so few places Sandy will take me for fear of sudden rebellions or uprisings,” she teased. “I am really beginning to believe that ignorance is bliss.”
It took me a moment to realize that she was referring to her husband. It amused me to learn that the elegant Mr. Sanderson Douglas-Hughes had been given the pet name “Sandy” by his wife.
“Bliss is being married to you, my love,” he returned with a smile, “which is why I find it prudent to be cautious.”
As his wife had done, Mr. Douglas-Hughes impressed me favorably. In addition to his obvious affection for her, there was an easy friendliness in his manner, a sense of calm that matched her quiet poise. I imagined a pleasant demeanor and a cool head were assets in the Foreign Office.
“Mr. Ames, I understand you’re acquainted with Helene Renault. A friend of mine said he’d seen you together last weekend. She’s a lovely woman. I’ve never met a film star. What’s she like?”
This abrupt and rather startling speech came from Mr. James Harker, Mrs. Barrington’s nephew. Like his aunt, Mr. Harker was also robust and lively of manner. He had a round, pleasant face that lit up when he smiled, which he seemed to do often. He had reminded me of a happy and amiable child upon introduction, and the impression was strengthened now as he waited with apparent guilelessness for the answer to his question.
It seemed to me that conversation faltered a bit as those around me tried to listen without appearing to do so. I had no knowledge of Milo’s acquaintance with the French actress, so I was as curious as anyone to hear what his answer would be.
Schooling my features into polite disinterest had become habit when discussing Milo’s behavior with strangers, so I fancy there was no expression on my face as my eyes rose slowly from my plate to look at my husband across the table. His gaze was awaiting mine, and I could read no sign of discomfort in it.
“I don’t know her at all well,” Milo answered with a perfect ease. “We’ve met once or twice at social events.”
“I was certain someone told me that the two of you were quite good friends.”
An awkward silence descended like a veil over the table, and I felt suddenly cold. A sad sort of sinking feeling that I had not experienced as of late seemed to hit me squarely in my chest.
It seemed Mr. Harker was the only one at this dinner unaware of the fact that this entire conversation was extremely uncomfortable for everyone, excepting perhaps Milo, who remained completely unruffled in the face of Mr. Harker’s clumsy interrogation.
“I’m afraid you were misinformed,” he replied smoothly.
“Yes, but…”
“This crème anglaise is quite delicious,” Mrs. Vivian Garmond said suddenly. It was almost the first word I had heard her speak at the dinner table. So calm and natural was her delivery, however, that her deflection seemed the normal course of conversation.
“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Mrs. Douglas-Hughes put in. “The entire meal has been lovely.”
Conversation ensued again as the guests sent their compliments to Mrs. Barrington’s chef, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief. I had no wish to air out the difficulties of my marriage before a room full of strangers.
Everyone went on as though nothing had happened, though I saw Lord Dunmore looking in my direction, a vague expression of amusement on his features.
Mrs. Garmond was sitting directly across from me, and when she looked at me I thought I detected something like understanding in her expression.
I was curious about Mrs. Garmond, for she did not seem to be on particularly friendly terms with any of our fellow guests, let alone our hostess. If anything, it seemed that Mrs. Barrington had avoided her throughout the evening. I had noticed, however, the way her dark eyes followed Lord Dunmore when he wasn’t looking. I could not help but wonder if there was some sort of connection between the two, although I had also noticed that the viscount had not glanced at her more than once or twice throughout the course of the meal.
What Milo thought about the incident with Mr. Harker I didn’t know, for I studiously avoided his gaze. Though he was not technically responsible for my current embarrassment, it was not the first time his conduct had subjected me to a dreadfully uncomfortable moment, and I felt no inclination to be gracious in the face of Mr. Harker’s implications. I was all too aware of the plausibility of the story.
As to the question of the true nature of his acquaintance with Mademoiselle Renault, that was something I didn’t care to ponder at the moment. There would be time enough for that particular discussion in the privacy of our home.
I forced the issue from my mind, determined to think instead of Mrs. Barrington’s puzzling request that I observe her guests. As I wondered what could be so mysteriously noteworthy about someone seated at the dinner table, I had no way of knowing that Milo would soon be the least of my worries.
* * *
THE LAST COURSE finished, we stood to move back to the drawing room for coffee. Mrs. Barrington came to me as we entered the room, distress evident on her features, and spoke in a low voice. “You must forgive James his faux pas, Mrs. Ames. He’s always saying the wrong things.”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Barrington. You needn’t apologize.” The less said about it the better, in fact.
She shook her head. “He doesn’t think before he speaks. It’s always been an unfortunate habit of his. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s a sweet boy, but so gauche at times. I’m sure he didn’t mean to imply that … I’m sure your husband isn’t … well, most of the time, James doesn’t even realize that he’s said anything offensive.”
“Milo knows rather a lot of interesting people,” I replied vaguely. “I was not at all offended. Truly.”
“It’s good of you to say so, dear.” She was frowning, looking not at me but at her nephew, who was talking animatedly to his uncle. “And yet … I worry sometimes that his tongue will get him into trouble.” Still looking preoccupied, she moved away to see to the coffee.
People naturally fell into little groups for conversation, and I took a seat on a burgundy-upholstered divan near the fire with my cup and saucer in hand. I would do my societal duty and mingle in a moment, but I needed a bit of fortification first. The incident at dinner had thrown me a bit more than I liked to admit. I had been certain my marriage was improving these past two months, but perhaps I had been mistaken. I had been wrong before.
I hazarded a glance in Milo’s direction. He was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Barrington, who was no doubt repeating her apologies. He laughed at something she said, touching her arm in a reassuring manner, and she smiled, clearly relieved. There was no sign of discomfiture in his demeanor, and I found his
imperturbability to be highly irritating.
“Are you by nature a solitary soul, Mrs. Ames?” I looked up, surprised to see Lord Dunmore standing before me, drink in hand. I hadn’t noticed him approaching.
I could hardly deny it, as he had caught me in an isolated reverie. “I do find myself enjoying solitude upon occasion, my lord.”
“Perhaps that explains why I’ve never had the pleasure of your company before this. I’m surprised we haven’t had more mutual engagements. But perhaps you are often abroad with your husband.” He indicated the divan. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He took a seat beside me. It was not a very large piece of furniture, and I felt his nearness at once. There was nothing at all improper in his manner, but there was a certain sort of pull about him, a confidence that I suspected stemmed from his rumored popularity with women.
“I was delighted to meet you this evening, Mrs. Ames. Had I known that you and your husband were friends of the Barringtons, I should have urged them to invite you long before now.”
“Oh, are you an old friend of the Barringtons?”
“Yes. My father and Mr. Barrington were at school together. They’d meet up for drinks or to go the races, and my father would sometimes bring me along. Mrs. Barrington sends along the odd invitation when she’s in need of another gentleman.”
“I should hardly call you merely ‘another gentleman,’ Lord Dunmore. I imagine your attendance at dinner is something of a social coup.”
He smiled. “You flatter me, Mrs. Ames. I am not intriguing as all that. Besides, I rather like Mr. and Mrs. Barrington. Dinner with old friends is often so much less tiresome than dinner with a group of strangers. Although, I will say that the Barrington dinner parties usually include many of the same people, so I was delighted to see fresh faces this evening … your fresh face, in particular. I suspected the wife of Milo Ames was likely to be a beauty, but you surpassed even my high expectations.”
It seemed the viscount’s reputation for excessive charm had not been exaggerated.
“Now it is you who are flattering me, Lord Dunmore,” I said.
“Not at all.” His eyes flickered over my face, and he smiled. “One cannot flatter with the truth, after all.”
“Mrs. Barrington was kind to invite us this evening,” I went on, trying to divert the conversation back along a more suitable course. “She and my mother are quite old friends. I am not much familiar with any of the others, however. Are you very well acquainted with them?”
“I know them all in one way or another.” His gaze traveled around the room as he detailed his connections to our fellow guests. “Like your husband, Mr. Douglas-Hughes belongs to my club. We cross paths occasionally. He’s a very proper gentleman.” I suspected that, coming from the viscount, this remark was meant to be disparaging.
“James Harker and I were at school together,” he continued. “The man’s a thorough dolt, though I suppose you’ve realized as much. Even at school, he was a snoop and a talebearer. Mrs. Barrington adores him, of course, but he’s always in one awkward scrape or another.”
I digested this bit of information without comment.
“And Mr. Foster?”
He hesitated ever so slightly. “Mr. Foster I don’t know well, though I’ve long been an admirer of his tennis game. We’re often thrown into society events together. I believe he and Mr. Barrington have bonded over a love of sport.”
I noticed that the viscount made no mention of the ladies present. Given his reputation, I wondered if he knew any of them better than he let on. It was a wicked thing for me to think, but it did cross my mind.
I looked to where Felicity and Marjorie Echols seemed to be inquiring of Mrs. Garmond about her dressmaker. They were examining her gown and motioning to it occasionally, in deep conversation. Mr. Harker sat a short distance off, watching the conversation with apparent interest. I wondered if perhaps one of the ladies had caught his eye.
Mr. Foster appeared to be surveying the scene with amusement before he moved to Mrs. Garmond and struck up a conversation.
“Are the two of you conspiring?” asked Mrs. Barrington as she approached us.
“I certainly was,” said Lord Dunmore, rising until Serena Barrington had seated herself in a nearby chair. “I was just about to ask Mrs. Ames to come to my masked ball and was trying to think of sufficient inducement for her to accept.”
Mrs. Barrington smiled. “Oh, yes. The masked ball! You should certainly come, Mrs. Ames. It’s going to be quite an event. We’ve been talking of it constantly.”
I was surprised at the urging from Mrs. Barrington. From what I had heard, Lord Dunmore’s parties were not the type of thing I would expect her to attend, let alone enjoy. Then again, I was well aware of how gossip and gross exaggeration went hand in hand. Perhaps there was nothing so very wrong in his parties after all.
“You see, Mrs. Ames?” he asked, turning to me, his eyes alight with amusement. “Mrs. Barrington insists. Do you enjoy masked balls?”
“It’s been ages since I’ve been to one,” I replied, “but I very much enjoyed them in my youth.”
“Come now, Mrs. Ames. You still seem very much in the full bloom of youth to me,” he replied, in a voice that was just low enough not to be heard distinctly by Mrs. Barrington. It was not so much the compliment that was inappropriate but the intimacy he ascribed to it.
“You seem rather young and carefree yourself,” I answered tonelessly.
He smiled. “Perhaps too much so. I expect you’ve heard rumors about me.”
It seemed there was a vague challenge behind the words, as though he knew that I was thinking of what I had heard about his parties. “I don’t listen to gossip, Lord Dunmore. I find there are so many more worthy things to occupy my time.”
He lifted his glass. “Well said, Mrs. Ames…”
Mrs. Barrington had watched our exchange with apparent interest, and some other emotion I could not name.
“I can see we shall get on splendidly. You’ll come to my ball, won’t you?”
“When is it?” I asked, not entirely certain I cared to encourage him.
“Tomorrow night, in fact. But you needn’t wear fancy dress. Many of us wear evening clothes with our masks. I can recommend my costumier at Friedrich’s. Bertelli is his name. Many of us use him. He can make you a mask in no time.”
“I’ll speak to my husband about it.”
“I expect he’ll agree if you want to go.”
“Perhaps.” I wasn’t certain, however, that I did want to go.
“It’s short notice, I suppose. If you can’t make it, I plan to have another party in two weeks. If you’re like me, however, short notice is much better. I hate waiting for things.” He smiled as his eyes came to mine. “I find that lengthy anticipation is highly overrated.”
Before I could formulate any sort of response, he had risen to his feet. “If you charming ladies will excuse me now, I’ll just go have a word with Mr. Barrington.”
Her eyes on his retreating form, Mrs. Barrington leaned toward me. “Have you encountered him before tonight?” I thought it an odd choice of words, but I supposed “encounter” was an apt enough description.
“No. Tonight was the first time I have met him.”
“He’s handsome, don’t you think?”
I was not at all sure what this was leading up to, so I ventured a hesitant agreement. “Yes, I suppose he is.”
“Of course, you’d do well to have little to do with him.” Under other circumstances such words might have caused offense, but I had the feeling Mrs. Barrington was merely trying to offer a friendly warning. From what I had seen of Lord Dunmore, it was probably warranted.
“We haven’t crossed paths before now, so I doubt we shall see much of one another in the future,” I replied.
Her gaze came back to me. “You think not? I’m afraid you don’t know how persistent he can be. I’ve seen him look that way before,” she said vaguely.
> “You spoke earlier tonight of my watching your guests, Mrs. Barrington. What was it I was to watch for?” It was something of a non sequitur, perhaps, but I was very curious and our secluded seat by the fire presented the perfect opportunity for quiet conversation.
This captured her attention. She leaned closer. “I will speak plainly to you, Mrs. Ames: someone has been stealing from me.”
I was at a loss as to how to reply to this bit of information, and I could not immediately perceive why it was that she should choose to share it with me. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“I knew at once, of course, that you were just the person to help me.” Her gaze met mine expectantly. “I want you to find out who it is.”
3
I DID MY best to hide my considerable surprise.
“Mrs. Barrington,” I said carefully, “I don’t know how I could possibly…”
“You investigated that murder business on the coast; theft should be quite a simple matter.”
So there it was. I was taken aback that she should choose to connect the two crimes, if indeed this was a case of theft.
“That was a very different situation. One I undertook out of necessity. If someone has stolen something from you, you should contact the police.”
“I don’t want the police here,” she said quickly. “I … I rather think this needs to be kept quiet.”
“I really don’t think…” I tried again.
“Let me tell you the facts before you say no. If you cannot or will not help me, I will accept it.”
“Very well.” I had to admit that I was faintly curious. It could do no harm to listen to what she had to say, after all.
She looked around, as though making sure we wouldn’t be overheard, and then began speaking in a low, unhurried voice. “My husband has always been fond of giving me extravagant gifts, though he knows perfectly well that it isn’t necessary. He does spoil me so, the dear. As a result, I have rather a good collection of jewelry. It’s only the last few months that I’ve begun to notice that things are missing.”
“Missing?”
Death Wears a Mask Page 2