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"Penny for the Guy, Miss?"
I stared down at the small, slightly ragged child with some startlement. He’d a smudge of what I could only assume was soot across a chubby cheek. "Good gosh! Is it Bonfire Night already?" Where had the days gone?
Bonfire Night—or Guy Fawkes Night—was a celebration of Guy Fawkes’s failure to blow up Parliament back in 1605. Children ran around with effigies, begging for money while the adults lit bonfires and fireworks and drank too much. It was a truly bizarre reason for a celebration, one which I didn’t particularly understand. But any excuse for a cocktail, I always say!
"Yes, Miss." The child held out his metal bucket which already had at least a dozen coins. Behind him, two chums held what I could only assume was an effigy of Guy Fawkes between them. It was a ghastly thing made of burlap stuffed with straw, a face painted on in boot black. Impatient, the child rattled his bucket. "Penny for the Guy?"
His angelic expression undid me. I'm not usually so soft, but what is one to do when a chubby-cheeked cherub begs one for a penny?
I fished around in my gray felt handbag until I found a copper and tossed it in his bucket. "There you go. Now get on with you."
The three children scampered off giggling, dragging their effigy behind them. A few stray wisps of straw scattered in their wake. I repressed a shudder—personally, I do not approve of Bonfire Night, though I do enjoy the food and drink that goes with it—and marched on.
It was early November—the fifth, to be precise—and the air had turned crisp with the autumnal chill of oncoming winter. A rusty oak leaf floated from a nearby branch and landed light as a feather on the pavement in front of me. Had it truly been less than a month since I'd been basking in the golden sun of the south of France?
I buttoned the top button of my claret merino wool coat. It was full length with the perfect sable collar, the height of fashion for the winter of 1932. I'd found it at Harrods shortly after my return to London and had to have it immediately. I refused to consider that my need for shopping was in any way connected with the loss of my paramour, Hale Davis. Ridiculous nonsense. I was an independent woman and not the sort to mourn the loss of any man.
Or so I told myself.
Speaking of Harrods, I was currently bound there on a mission to meet my aunt who had just returned from Paris. She'd rung me the previous night to inform me that she had a "Marvelous Idea." I repressed another shudder. Aunt Butty and her ideas were a dangerous combination.
My name is Ophelia, Lady Rample. I am not what you call “to the manor born,” but rather married into it. My late husband Felix—God rest his soul—left me with a title and an enormous amount of wealth. For which I am forever grateful. It's amazing what one can get away with in life if one has money. It gave me a great deal of amusement to stick it in the faces of the aristocracy who liked to turn their collective noses up at anyone they deemed less than themselves. Which would be me, except I could probably buy most of them, so they let me be.
Harrods loomed ahead with its elaborate terra cotta facade. The Queen Anne Revival architecture was something to behold. And it ought to be. The royal family shopped there, though I’d never come across them. I imagine they had everything delivered. Personally, I like the hands-on approach to shopping.
Just before I passed through the doors, the blast of a motor horn startled me. Not that it was an unusual occurrence, even in the rarified air of Knightsbridge, but something tickled at my senses. Almost an impending sense of doom, I suppose. I turned and scanned the street, remembering with alarming clarity how I’d very nearly been run down on a similar street not that long ago. Fortunately, the police had captured the culprit with a little help from yours truly.
On the other side of Brompton Road stood a man dressed in an olive trench, battered fedora pulled low over his eyes. Though I couldn’t see much of his face, there was something about his form, the way he stood, that jogged something far back in the recesses of my mind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but my unease grew.
Was he watching me?
Surely not. This was a busy street filled with people bustling about. One lone man standing several paces away meant nothing.
Turning purposefully, I nodded to the uniformed doorman and passed through to the inner sanctum. My low heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way toward the escalator. As it worked its way upward, I found myself surrounded by marvelous Art Deco artwork in the Egyptian style. A bit over the top for my taste, but right up Aunt Butty’s alley. I was surprised she hadn’t turned her flat’s sitting room into an Egyptian temple.
The escalator arrived eventually at the fourth floor, spilling out onto a wide marble foyer directly opposite the tea room which was situated under a massive stained-glass window set in the ceiling. A string quartet played a soothing number while diners nibbled on tea cakes and murmured in appropriately low voices.
"Ophelia!" A buxom woman with waved, gray hair and a garishly orange cloche hat from a decade ago half stood and waved wildly, her ample bosoms nearly diving into her tea. "Yoo-hoo! Over here!"
The maître d' flushed crimson as he scampered to my side. I couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. Frankly it could go either way. Aunt Butty had that effect on people.
"I see my aunt," I murmured softly to him, as he helped me out of my overcoat. "I'll just make my way over."
The maître d' sketched a bow, his pencil moustache twitching ever so slightly. He seemed most grateful as he hurried off to hang up my coat.
I made my way between the tables toward Aunt Butty. I was dying for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Who was I kidding? Half a dozen biscuits.
I barely had time to sit down before Aunt Butty was upon me. "Ophelia, I have had the most Marvelous Idea." She gazed at me expectantly.
"So you said." A waiter leapt to help me into my seat.
"Christmas."
I lifted an eyebrow. "What about it?" I went about pouring my tea and helping myself to a handful of biscuits from the tiered tray. It appeared there were spiced ones and lemon ones. Lemon were my favorite, but spice would do just as well in a pinch. If only there were chocolate.
As if reading my mind, the waiter disappeared, only to reappear with a second tea tier loaded with chocolate biscuits, scones, and little cakes covered in icing. Glorious!
"I fancy a proper old-fashioned English Christmas this year," Aunt Butty informed me as we tucked into our treats. "You know the sort. Cozy cottage in the countryside. Smoke curling from the chimney. A proper Christmas tree and all the trimmings..."
"Yes, yes. I know what a proper Christmas looks like.” I had, after all, grown up in the tiny country village of Chipping Poggs. Proper English country Christmases abounded in my youth. That didn't mean I enjoyed them. "What's the point?"
"The point is, I have rented a cottage." She beamed at me as if she’d just done something spectacular.
"A cottage?" It wasn't exactly Aunt Butty’s style. She was more likely to take over Buckingham Palace than a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. "Where exactly have you taken this cottage?"
Her smile grew wider. "In this marvelous little village called Sheepswick Hill. Doesn’t it sound delightful?"
“Delightful.” I set down my tea cup with a clatter. "Where precisely is this village located?”
"It’s in the Cotswolds," she admitted. "But it’s nowhere near Chipping Poggs. I assure you. I have it all planned. Mr. Singh has his marching orders. You will be there."
I sighed and took a fortifying bite of lemon biscuit. "You know how I feel about the country." And the Cotswolds in particular.
She sipped her tea beatifically. "Yes, I know. And it's high time to put that to rest. You will be at Christmas at Sheepswick Hill at my rented cottage and we shall have the most marvelous country Christmas ever." She said it was such finality as if she would pull it from the very ether.
I took a sip of my own tea, wishing it was something very much stronger. "And what if I say no?"
I'd no idea her smile could get any slyer, but somehow, she managed it. "Oh, you won’t. For someone special is going to be there."
I felt a little quiver of anticipation. Had she managed to talk Hale into joining us? Surely not. By now he was married and probably a father. There was no way that Hale Davis would be there for Christmas. Which meant that I didn't feel much like celebrating this year.
“I’m afraid I’ll be busy, Aunt.” Surely, I could come up with something to do. At the very least, I could enjoy a bit of quiet time at home. I shuddered at the thought.
“I’ll cut you out of my will.”
I snorted. “I don’t need your money.”
“I shall never speak to you again.”
“Hardly likely.”
Her jaw hardened. “You will go because I want you to.”
“No,” I said stubbornly.
“Please, Ophelia,” she wheedled. “It would mean the world to me.” She placed the back of her hand dramatically against her forehead. “I’m getting on in years, you know. Who knows how many Christmases I have left.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re stubborn enough to outlive us all. Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Delightful!” She clapped her hands, advanced age forgotten. “Let’s plan the menu.”
“I don’t care what we have as long as there’s Christmas pudding and booze.”
Aunt Butty pulled a piece of paper and pencil nub from her handbag, perched a pair of reading glasses on the end of her nose, and scrawled “Booze” across the top of the paper.
I took another biscuit. This was going to be a long afternoon.
––––––––
THAT NIGHT WAS THE Pennyfather’s party. Louise Pennyfather was my aunt’s dearest friend, and every year she and her husband threw a big soiree for Bonfire Night. Fancy dress, cocktails, dancing, the complete works.
Naturally I was invited, as was my best friend, Charles “Chaz” Raynott. Apparently, Louise had forgiven us for getting her involved in a somewhat murderous mystery—and the kidnapping of her beloved dog, Peaches—on the French Riviera.
Chaz picked me up in his new sports car, a slinky, black Invicta four-seater. He was dressed all in black from head to toe but more than 100 years out-of-date in Regency formalwear, complete with greatcoat which billowed behind him in proper Mr. Darcy fashion.
"Whatever are you supposed to be?" I asked, eyeing him up and down.
"Beau Brummel, darling," he said. "Who else?"
Who else, indeed. Naturally Chaz would choose the most celebrated arbiter of men’s fashion. Historically speaking, of course.
Chaz Raynott was not only my best friend, but also my sounding board and partner in crime. In fact, he would've made an excellent second husband except for the small problem of my being the wrong gender. A secret I kept close to my chest. After all, it was illegal. Which I thought nonsense, but there wasn’t much I could do about that, society being what it was.
"Smashing gown, old thing," he said, giving me the once over. "Take it out of mothballs?"
I laughed. "I got it out of Aunt Butty's closet. Had to take in a few nips and tucks." Not as many as I would've liked. I was a couple inches taller and a few pounds lighter than my aunt, but our figures were overwhelmingly similar. With curves in all the wrong places for the current fashion.
The particular gown I'd liberated from Aunt Butty's closet was from sometime in the Edwardian era. It was the precise shade and color of a pumpkin. I paired it with long strands of jet beads and a matching jet masquerade mask. I suppose I could've gone all out and bought a proper costume. But why do that when I could simply rummage in Aunt Butty's wardrobe? I swear the woman never threw anything away.
Inside the elegant Georgian townhouse, a crush of the upper crust wandered from room to room, clutching cocktails and vol-au-vent, no doubt prepared by Louise’s French cook. The party goers had gone all out on their costumes with everything from Little Bo Peep complete with a live sheep to a frightening-looking mummy trailing bandage tails behind him.
Louise Pennyfather herself greeted me with a tray of cocktails. She was wearing a rather garish Egyptian costume which did not particularly show off her gaunt frame to advantage. Based on the black wig, eyes rimmed in kohl, and elaborate gold headpiece, I assumed she was Cleopatra.
“Try this, Ophelia,” she said, thrusting a cocktail glass in my direction. “It’s a Corpse Reviver #2. Found it in an American cocktail book my husband brought back from his travels. Tell me what you think.”
I took a sip. It was surprisingly delicious, but not as sweet as I would have expected. “It would be better without the absinthe,” I admitted.
She sighed. “So I told Mr. Pennyfather, but he insisted on mixing exactly as ordered. The man has no sense of adventure. Go on and enjoy the party.”
As we strolled through the crush, I linked arms with Chaz. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
He took a sip of his cocktail. “I imagine I’ll have dinner at the club or some such.” He wasn’t particularly close to his family, for obvious reasons.
“Why don’t you join Aunt Butty and me? She insists on renting a cottage out in some ghastly village and having a proper, old fashioned Christmas. You must come.”
“Misery loves company?”
I grinned. “You know me so well.”
“Very well. If I must.” But I could tell he was thrilled to be invited.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. There was dancing, a ridiculous apple bob in which Aunt Butty nearly drowned herself trying to win and, as the herd thinned, a game of charades. I escaped out onto the terrace to enjoy a bit of the fresh night air.
As I sipped at cocktail number three—or was it four? —I stared up at the nearly full moon. A rustling caught my ear and I glanced toward the bushes that marked the property line between the Pennyfather’s back garden and their neighbor's. My heart rate kicked up as I remembered the man outside Harrods. Was he here? Spying on me?
I told myself not to be ridiculous. There was no way he could know I was at this party. And while I may have found him vaguely familiar, he was likely just another of many faces in the crowd.
But as the moon slid behind a cloud and the shadows grew thick, I hurried back inside. No use tempting fate.