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“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 want 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.
I was seated across from Chaz and between Mathew Breverman and Miss Semple. I would have preferred to be seated next to Chaz or Varant. Better yet, both. I could flirt with Varant and snark with Chaz about the other guests.
Over a first course of celery soup, I turned to Mathew Breverman. “I understand you and your wife met our host on a Nile cruise. That sounds rather exciting. I’ve never been to Egypt.”
“Frightful place. Hot as hell and flies everywhere. But Harry is a good guy. We played poker. Won a buck or two off him.” He chuckled. “Not a bad, player, though.”
Then I made the mistake of asking him about his work in textiles.
His eyes lit up immediately. “No one understands how dam—er, doggone hard it is in textiles these days, Lady R.”
I winced at the familiarity. “Lady Rample.” I wasn’t one to care much for formality or proper titles. I’d been raised a vicar’s daughter, after all. But Breverman was one of those sorts that one had to stand up to or be plowed under.
He barreled on, ignoring me. So much for standing. “It’s a rough job these days, what with the newfangled machines and the price of cotton. Not to mention that Chamberlain fellow trying to weasel out of the debts you people owe from the Great War.”
You people? Had he really just said that? I had a good mind to stab him in the leg with my fork. He didn’t notice my rising ire but rambled on. I tuned him out, occasionally smiling and nodding. I simply couldn’t embarrass Aunt Butty by getting blood all over Harry’s white tablecloth. Though she would definitely have understood. Even applauded.
Every now and then I caught Varant glancing my way from up the table. His expression was unreadable, but was that a smolder in his eye? It was hard to say, but I liked to think it was.
Over the main dish—savory roast chicken in rich cream with noodles and fresh green vegetables—I was finally able to turn to Miss Semple. I found her a more entertaining dinner companion.
She amused me with tales of herself and her older sister. “No boys, you see. Father was most disappointed. All that cost coming out and Annabella only managed to bag a mere Mister. Did you have a coming out, Lady Rample?”
“Of a sort.” Aunt Butty, after rescuing me from being locked in my room and having my sins prayed over, had whisked me off to London. She hadn’t bothered with any of that coming out nonsense. “Waste of time and money,” she used to say. Instead she introduced me to interesting people, regardless of rank or wealth. “But I was a bit of an old maid when I married.”
She laughed. “That’s what my father calls me. Says I’m nothing but an expense.” She eyed Harry deVane. “I’ll show him.”
I had no doubt that Miss Semple was a determined young woman, but she was barking up the wrong tree there. I did, however, hope she did show her father one way or another. I knew what it was like having an overbearing father.
We finished off the meal with paradise pudding dripping with fresh berries followed by a cheese plate. I managed to avoid further conversation with Mathew Breverman by the sheer fact that Ethel Kettington monopolized his time. She should know better, but I wasn’t offended. In fact, I was relieved.
When I wasn’t speaking with Miss Semple, I snuck glances down the table at Varant who now barely seemed to notice me. I was a bit put out. After all, on previous meetings he’d behaved as if he had some interest of the romantic variety. In fact, earlier this evening he’d been all smoldering glances, and here he was acting as if I didn’t exist!
At last dinner was over and the women retreated to the drawing room while the men remained at table to puff on their smelly cigars, drink port, and ramble about politics. Meanwhile, we women were to sit and gossip politely over coffee. Which I found unutterably dull.
Once again, Ethel dominated the conversation. “This used to be our home once, didn’t it Amelia? Yes, we grew up here,” she barreled on without waiting for her sister to answer. “The décor was more tasteful, of course. My mother had exquisite taste.”
“Did Mr. deVane buy it from you?” Maude Breverman asked somewhat gauchely.
Ethel stiffened. “Indeed not. My father sold the manor many years ago to another gentleman. We don’t mind. We much prefer our little cottage. Very comfortable.” She droned on, but I had tuned her out.
As soon as it was possible to excuse myself, I slipped out of the drawing room, ostensibly to powder my nose. In reality, I just wanted away from the inanity.
I decided a walk outside and a bit of fresh air would do me some good, so I wandered toward the nearest exit. As I passed the dining room, I noticed the door was open a crack and men’s voices rumbled through the hall. I paused a moment, curious. What did men talk about when we ladies weren’t present?
Quietly as possible, I tiptoed toward the open door, pausing just out of sight. Mostly it was boring political talk, as I suspected. But just as I gave up and started to move down the hall, one word caught my attention.
“—spies.”
I froze. Spies? Here in Devon? Surely not. Who would spy down here? And on what? Or whom?
Indistinct male voices made sounds of protestation.
“I know you find it hard to believe, Neville,” Harry boomed, “but I assure you, there’s no doubt of it.”
“I simply cannot fathom it, Harry.” I assumed that was Neville Chamberlain answering. “It just isn’t...” The rest of his words were indistinguishable.
I listened a bit longer, but nothing else of interest was said. The sound of wood scraping on stone jarred me.
Then came Harry’s voice again. “Gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?”
Hurrying as quickly as I could, I darted around a corner before one of the men could catch me eavesdropping. My mind was a whirl, curiosity driving me to near madness. A spy. How curious. If only I knew what all this was about.
I determined to ask Chaz the moment I could get him alone.