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BOOTS CLOMPED IN THE hallway. Voices grew louder, and a pleased smile appeared on Mrs. Ivanov’s face. “They’re back.”
“Darling! There you are.” A rich baritone voice soared through the room, and Cora turned her head toward the sound.
This was the man who was going to die.
Mrs. Ivanov was correct. The man was handsome. His chin managed to neither recede nor protrude, and the rest of his face behaved in an equally suitable manner. He was tall, but not so tall that he needed to go about the house remembering to bow at every doorway. His skin was pale, but instead of appearing sickly, his pallor only gave him an artistic look. His hair curled, but his waves were tousled rather than unruly. He adhered to all the rules of handsomeness. The quality of his attire was excellent, and its cuts just unusual enough to indicate lavishness.
Well.
Mrs. Ivanov had declared her husband attractive, but Cora hadn’t believed it until now. Mrs. Ivanov’s locks’ strong honey color gave the appearance of someone anxious to cover gray hairs, and Cora knew the handsomeness of a man was often directly correlated with the size of the man’s bank account. Rows of zeroes somehow impacted the breadth of the man’s shoulders, his height, and the regularity of his facial features. That was why certain producers and directors were referred to in the same breathless manner as top actors, and why some actors, who hadn’t yet reached the success they’d expected ever since being crowned King of the Cornfield in some obscure country fair, were dismissed.
The cousin to a prince might not be the same as a wealthy producer, but Cora would have bet such a familial relationship would also have a favorable effect on the description of his appearance. Mrs. Ivanov’s description had been highly flattering.
Surprisingly, this cousin to a Bulgarian prince lived up to all of them. The man had a face that surely caused women to swoon, and a figure that would inspire even the most cynical producer to leap with glee and proclaim him “discovered.”
“Ah, you must be Miss Clarke. My wife told me last week she was eager to have you join our festivities. Enchantée,” the man murmured in a rich baritone that seemed designed to cause hearts to melt. He swooped into an elegant bow and kissed her hand. “The child actress. But you are no child anymore.”
The man had a wicked gleam in his eye that should have made her giggle, but which, apparently, only made her heartbeat quicken, even though she would have expected her heart to be inoculated from such obvious flattery somewhere around her fiftieth Hollywood party.
“It is an honor to have you here,” Mr. Ivanov continued.
“Miss Clarke, the famous Hollywood actress, was visiting a relative in the servants’ quarters.” Mrs. Ivanov gave a smug look, as if even her servants were of such interest that famous people visited them, and that one might only imagine Mrs. Ivanov’s comparable importance.
“My wife was most excited,” Mr. Ivanov said. “She said something about fate.”
“Kismet, darling.” Mrs. Ivanov strolled toward Mr. Ivanov and then pressed ruby lips against his cheek.
Mrs. Ivanov’s fears for her husband’s safety might have seemed excessive, but Cora understood them. The man did rather radiate perfection. He was an Adonis, one who somehow managed to not be a sculpture created centuries ago, whose days were occupied with having his photo snapped by gawking tourists and his nights occupied only with a security guard. Of course, Mrs. Ivanov cared about her spouse’s safety. Cora was surprised to find she cared about his safety too, even if she thought it most unlikely that anyone might desire to murder him.
Mr. Ivanov was not an old and wizened man who threatened to disinherit his relations. He was neither cranky nor mean. He didn’t come with money—that belonged to his wife, and Mrs. Ivanov and he had no children. His death wouldn’t benefit anyone.
And yet if his car had truly been tampered with... Her heart squeezed.
A servant led Cora to a room upstairs. It overlooked the English Channel, and Cora settled into an armchair that faced the view. The crashing of waves was almost hypnotic, and she watched as the sun descended into the horizon, casting tangerine and lilac light over the once gray waves that danced upon the English Channel below.
Other guests spoke in the adjoining rooms, and she wished she’d gotten the chance to ask Mrs. Ivanov more about them. Did any of them have connections to Bulgaria?
Mr. Ivanov’s sister possessed them, of course, but she doubted his sister was plotting to murder him, even if childhood slights had a tendency to grow larger over the years, casting every encounter into doubt. Would someone intent on murdering make such a distinction between people who possessed their same blood or not? Murder was already a breach of every etiquette.
Cora tapped her fingers over the armrest, allowing them to sink into the sumptuous velvet material as a wave of longing for her home swept over her.
Mrs. Ivanov and her husband had everything. They were wealthy, still relatively young, and seemed to have maintained friendships. Perhaps Mrs. Ivanov had imagined the severity of the accidents. When one had so much, one must worry at the prospect of losing it.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and a maid entered the room. Cora recognized her from the staff she’d briefly seen downstairs. The maid had dark hair and a pale face. Even though Cora suspected they were the same age, it seemed the maid emitted respectability. Her hair was tied into a tight bun, and her face lacked make-up.
The maid curtsied. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke.”
“Hello,” Cora said. “What’s your name?”
“Georgie, miss. Mrs. Ivanov thought you might need help.”
“That’s very kind of her.”
“Shall I unpack your suitcase?” Georgie asked.
“Please,” Cora said. “And you can press my evening gown.”
“Which one?” Georgie asked.
“The blue one with ruffles,” Cora said. “You’ll spot it.”
It was also Cora’s only evening gown, but she didn’t want to dwell on that fact now. Evening gowns had been less necessary in Hollywood where she’d worked very often. Here the only entertainment seemed to be around the dining room table.
“Is my great aunt in the kitchen?” Cora asked.
The maid nodded. Clearly, Great Aunt Maggie truly had told everyone that she was arriving.
“I think I’ll visit her,” Cora said.
“Very well,” Georgie said. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
Cora shook her head with a smile. “The general direction is down. I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Georgie nodded and then picked up Cora’s trunk and moved it onto a stand. Her movements were quick and efficient, and Cora left her in peace.
Soon Cora strode down the marble hallway. Glamorous modern sculptures lined the walls, positioned beside large canvases splattered with bright shapes. On the paintings where the artist had decided to depict more than shapes and tints, the images were always macabre. People were distorted, and they managed to look alternatively desperate or garish.
Cora found the stairs and then found her way to the main floor. She remembered the narrow stairs that had led from there to the kitchen and walked down them. The kitchen lacked the innovative designs prevalent in the rest of the house, and Cora felt at home. Dim light came in through from small windows at the top of the walls.
She found Aunt Maggie easily, hearing her voice. Aunt Maggie was in a small room off the kitchen, speaking with Mr. Mitu. Archibald lay at their feet. No doubt he was happy to be in the warmth again.
“Cora dear!” Aunt Maggie’s eyes shone when she spotted her. “How are you enjoying the upstairs?”
“It’s nice,” Cora said, certain Mrs. Ivanov would not want her to share the exact reason for the invitation.
They chatted for a while, and then Cora took Archibald for a walk. The rain was less violent now, and Cora ambled toward the English Channel. Long grass, speckled with wildflowers, clung to her boots and dress, and the ground was soft underneath her feet. In the distance, some sheep grazed in a field, no doubt content that the rain had lessened. The gray ocean spread before her, continuing its incessant task of crashing into the shore. Tall chalky cliffs loomed over the channel, the fragile rock still managing to serve as an effective barrier against the relentless waves.
Happiness fluttered through Cora. It didn’t matter that the sky and ocean were gray. It didn’t matter that it still drizzled. She was in Sussex, far from the trials of Hollywood. She had a great aunt and she had Archibald.
When Cora and Archibald returned, the maid had already laid out her evening gown, and Cora slipped into it. She hadn’t had a maid in Hollywood, and the dress was easy to slip into, though she was grateful for Georgie’s help in doing her hair and makeup. Perhaps the other houseguests wouldn’t notice that the cut of her dress was from 1936. The huge puff sleeves and generous collar had a tendency to appear old-fashioned.
Archibald curled up onto a comfortable looking oriental rug, and Cora strode down the marble stairs toward the sound of voices and big band music, determined to discover who might have murderous intent.