Christmas with Death / first chapter and links

 Christmas with Death

Christmas is for Miracles, Merriment, and Murder.

Christmas 1919 should be a joyful celebration. The Great War is over, and Isabella is at home with her friends Cecilia Arkwright and the brothers Madoc and Gawen Tarrant. They expect a lean Christmas, however, until an invitation to the country manor of Emberley arrives.

Sir Reginald and the Malvaise family fill their grand house with friends, acquaintances, and business associates. With money tight, Isabella and her friends enjoy the rich meals, hot fires, and comfortable rooms. Yet rumors of affaires and drug addiction as well as accusations of blackmail sour the holiday atmosphere.

They plan to leave before New Year’s Eve, then Isabella discovers the body of a fellow visitor, shot dead in an ice-skimmed pond.

With multiple motives and suspects, will Scotland Yard solve the crime before Isabella is the murderer’s next target? Will an imperfect murder be impossible to solve?

Chapter One :: December 1919

Gawen Tarrant dropped the rope-tied box before the sofa. Madoc promptly propped his feet on it.

Isabella shut the flat’s door then maneuvered around Gawen’s tall form. “Cecilia is not going to be pleased.”

“They told me to clear out her husband’s office.”  He dropped onto the chintz chair then tossed the silk pillow with its embroidered brown and pink tulips to his brother. Madoc flipped it to the other end of the sofa.

“Nigel is no longer—Cecilia is not collecting this things. She’s trying to divorce him.”

“A crate of books will come after the Christmas freight traffic is over.”

“She will definitely not like that. After she closed out their Mayfair flat, the shipping cost to send his possessions to his parents emptied her bank account. She recovered a little of her money when she sold their furniture, but then she sent half of that to his parents as well. Now you bring her another cost.”

He shrugged. “She’ll have to swallow the expense or store Arkwright’s things here.”  Gawen loosened his tie and collar then propped his feet on the box. “Any tea going?”

Isabella didn’t complain or sigh, just slipped into the tiny kitchen. Rain slicked the square window to the fire escape. As she set the kettle to boil, she heard the brothers talking. She didn’t try to listen; Madoc would tell her what she needed to know. She stared out the window, peering past the ironwork to the distant lights twinkling in the darkness. Then she shrugged off her gloom and began setting out the tea things. Gawen may have come when he thought Cecilia would be away, but Isabella expected her back soon. Fresh biscuits and Mrs. Kittner’s meat pasties covered a white plate. The kettle whistled as she stuffed the tea ball with fresh leaves.

She bore the tea tray into the sitting room and aimed it for the box. The men hastily removed their boots then grabbed for the meat pasties. Isabella sat beside Madoc and poured three cups.

Gawen eyed the empty fourth cup. He said nothing, just dropped two biscuits onto the saucer and scooped up another pasty. “These are good.”

Isabella watched his huge bite that took off one crimped corner. “Mrs. Kittner in the third floor flat. She gives us a daily dozen to earn extra cash. I do wish you hadn’t brought more of Nigel’s things, Gawen. I hoped Cecilia would cheer up over the holidays.”

“What’s the matter?”

Madoc brushed crumbs off his cardigan. “Bad news from her solicitor.”

“About the divorce? Her husband’s in a Greek gaol for conspiring to commit murder. He’s obviously not a worthy husband. What’s holding the decree up?”

“Nigel refuses to admit to any adultery while on the archaeological dig, and her solicitor says that’s the only reason for which the marriage can be dissolved. His or hers.”

The ginger biscuit cracked. Half fell into Gawen’s teacup. “Not her adultery,” he snapped. “Her reputation should be kept intact. I can’t believe Arkwright is so lost to honor.”

“That’s the reason she was crying yesterday,” and Isabella didn’t mistake his wince. “Today she’s off lunching with friends in the hopes they’ll help her forget for a few hours.”

Madoc snared a fourth pasty. “We can give depositions, Bella, you and I.”

“I could—.”

“No, not you.”  Madoc shut down his brother’s offer. “Not if you intend to have any relationship with her after the divorce is granted. We might enlist Professor Standings and his wife.”

“They’ll talk about her flirtation with me,” Gawen growled.

“Flirtation only. As long as you two aren’t seen as a couple until after the divorce. Castlereagh and Matthews can give depositions as well. They won’t talk about her flirtation with you. Matthews probably didn’t even notice.”

Gawen still hadn’t eaten his third pasty. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come today.”

“You are her husband’s colleague,” Isabella pointed out. “You’re delivering his possessions. And you are the brother of Madoc who is seeing me.”

Madoc squeezed her shoulders. “More than seeing you, Bella. I’m going to put a ring on your finger.”

Happiness glimmered in her pale blue eyes.

Gawen set his saucer down and stood up. “Cecilia needs to give her solicitor options. You need to tell her what we’ve said.”

“Tell her yourself,” for they heard light footsteps hurrying up the third flight of stairs to the fourth-floor flat.

The door opened then shut quickly. Cecilia stepped into Isabella’s view when she hung her umbrella on the four wall hooks. “Goodness, it’s wet. Rain every day for a week.”

She gave her hat a shake then placed it on the glass-topped Demilune table that had once graced the marble-floored entry in the Mayfair flat she had shared with her estranged husband. She shed her raincoat then paused as she reached to hang it on another hook. She bit her lip then hung her coat over the dripping umbrella. Her heels clacked on the bare wood floor as she came into the flat.

Cecilia stopped when she saw Gawen. “I didn’t know you were expected.”  Then her gaze fastened on the rope-tied box that Madoc’s feet had reclaimed as an ottoman. She glanced at Isabella, who started to explain the arrival of Nigel’s things only to be interrupted by Gawen.

“I came to pick up a box that Madoc brought me.”  His boot nudged the box while his bright green eyes challenged his brother and Isabella to contradict his lie.

“Do sit down. Have some—more tea,” she added when she saw the cup he’d abandoned. “Mrs. Kittner’s meat pasties are very good.”

“They are indeed,” Madoc said and reached for another.

Isabella pushed his hand away. “You’ve had four. Gawen’s had three. Leave some for Cecilia.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m still stuffed from that luncheon.”  She towed over one of the straight-backed chairs from the drop-leaf table that they used for dining. Then she bent her head over the steam from the teacup and closed her eyes briefly before she sipped. “Ah. Good and still hot. Sit down, Gawen,” she repeated.

He resumed his seat but sat on the edge. When pressed, he took another pasty then held out his cup for more tea. “I thought we could dine at Guiseppi’s around the corner, the place you told me about, Madoc, when you rang about this box.”  He frowned at his brother.

They discussed dinner while Cecilia had a pasty and a second cup of tea. Then she interrupted. “I don’t believe this is a box that Madoc brought. What’s in it, Gawen? More of Nigel’s things?”

Honesty battled with his lie and won. “Out of his office. The dean required that it be cleared before the New Year.”

“He had more than that box in his office at St. George’s.”

“The books are coming after Christmas—but if you’ll give me his parents’ address, I will have it routed straight to them. The University will pay the freight. That is where you are sending his things? I can send this box there for you.”

“No. Leave it. I want to sort through his journals. His parents shouldn’t see—.”

“I purged anything that looked nefarious.”

“That’s good of you, but I would still like to go through the box. Knowing me, I will pull out one or two things. Besides, I like that box. We can put an old shawl on it, Isabella, and keep it right there as a coffee table.”

“A great idea,” she agreed promptly. “Now, I expected you back an hour ago. What delayed you?”

“A lucky meeting and a most fortunate invitation. Fortunate for all of us.”

“How fortunate?” Madoc asked. He finished his tea and held his cup for more.

“Do you have plans for the next fortnight?”

He nudged Isabella. “Just being here.”

“Will you want to go to your grandparents?”  This time she looked at Gawen.

“Not until mid-January, when they want us to come for Grandmother’s birthday. They’re planning a quiet Christmas and New Year.”

“That works,” Madoc said.

“Will you want to see your Grandfather Chadwick over the holidays?”

“I’m still persona non grata, I think, because I refused his job in the shipping office. Gawen may go,” but his brother grunted a negative.

“Then the invitation is fortunate for all of us.”

“What are you talking about, Cecilia?”

“Do you remember Greta Ffoulkes? Tall woman. Lovely clothes but wrong color palette, I think you said. With a nose. You met her at Tony Carstair’s gallery.”

“Brunette? All dramatic in gold when she should have been in silver?”

“That’s the one. She was at Tilda’s.”

“I thought you went to Chelsea, not Mayfair.”

“I needed a fitting. Greta was there, picking up a new frock. She wanted to hear about my adventurous autumn, but she had no time. So, she has invited me and my friends—since I said I couldn’t abandon my flat-mate alone in London, so dreary—and we are to drive down on Christmas Eve to her family’s home.”

“Drive where?”

“Emberley, the Malvaise estate. It’s in Cumbria. We are invited for the fortnight of Christmas to Epiphany.”

“Who is we? Who did she invite?” Madoc asked.

“My flat-mate and her fiancé. And I hoped Gawen would drive us in his automobile. She said four of us would be fine.”

“Not I,” Gawen quickly refused.

“But you’ll be alone at Christmas.”

“We want you with us,” Isabella coaxed.

“You boxed yourself in, brother,” Madoc added and nudged the tea tray table.

His mouth twisted, but it wasn’t a grimace. “I think I am boxed in.”

“Perfect,” Cecilia smiled, smug that her plan had come together. “We’ll have a late breakfast on Wednesday then leave before 11 o’clock.”

“Pasties from Mrs. Kittner?” Madoc asked. When he opened his blue eyes wide, Isabella could see him as a little boy, eager for a kitchen treat.

Cess laughed. “Of course. Breakfast, then we’re on the road. We should reach Emberley by tea. Greta said the family will attend a late Christmas Eve service at the parish church, and we are expected to attend that, so be prepared.”

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Yawning, Isabella came back into the flat to see Cecilia reach deep into the box Gawen had carried in hours earlier. “Cess!  You said you would leave that for tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning I am off to my solicitor with Madoc’s idea for depositions to prove Nigel’s adultery. I’ll leave this box on the landing, and contact the local carrier on my way.”

“I’ll help you repack it.”  Isabella tied her wrapper before she knelt.

“Sweet of you, but don’t you have to be up early to go to the theatre?”

“Early for Mr. Adderholt is 1 p.m.”  She looked at the items spread around the box: files, journals, a portfolio, and the sundry paraphernalia that people somehow accumulated. “Did you find what you were looking for? What is it?”

“A framed photograph of me. From before our marriage. I inscribed it ‘All my love,’ more fool me. I was such a starry-eyed innocent. Nigel kept it on a narrow table at the window. He said the sun wouldn’t fade my photo, but I think he liked to keep his back turned to me.”

How do I answer that? She looked at the neatly stacked items. “I don’t see a photo.”

“Because it’s not here. I know it was in his office before we left for Crete. I moved it out of the sunlight. Perhaps Gawen overlooked it.”  She returned the manila folders to the box.

“Maybe Gawen kept it.”

Cecilia paused then shook her head so hard that her dark hair slipped free of the silk ribbon tied at her nape. “Don’t get my hopes up, Bella. If he kept it, he would be interested in me. If he were interested, he wouldn’t ignore me most of the night.”

“He would if he wanted to guard your reputation. Before you came in, he did say how necessary that was.”

“Did he? No. I would still prefer that you not raise my hopes. He certainly didn’t want to spend a fortnight in my company. He was still protesting our Christmas at Emberley as we walked back from the restaurant.”

“Look at the obstacles before him, Cess. He wants you, but you’re still married. He has to wait on your divorce before he can court you. If he doesn’t, your reputation suffers. And he’s a university professor, still bound by the Old Guard’s traditions and censures. I think he stole your photograph to keep for himself. To give himself hope.”

“Hope? Any way that we can come together would need a miracle. I don’t think Gawen took the photograph. I think the maid broke it and swept the bits into the dustbin.”

“Choose to be optimistic, Cecilia.”

“I could be if Gawen did not persist in a ‘merry war’ between us.”  She closed the lid and tied the ropes. “Help me push this onto the landing.”

They pushed, slippers sliding on the bare wood. By the time they pushed the box against the balusters, out of the way of the landing and the corkscrew steps climbing to the attic, they were out of breath and giggling.

Isabella straightened and tugged her wrapper back to decency. “I thought we wanted to keep this box.”

“Bother. We were. That’s what four glasses of wine at Guiseppi’s will do.”  She linked her arm with Isabella’s. “We’ll get a crate from the attic and pack his things in it. Has Madoc heard from that engineer?”

“He’s to come in after the New Year and get his orders.”

“Is he worried?”

“He hasn’t said so, but I think he is.”  She locked the flat door, even though they trusted their neighbors and the house doors front and back were kept locked. She always locked up at night. “He needs to work, and managing a crew of men is something he does well.”

“Nigel’s recommendation about his work on the dig would be useless even if we could wrestle a recommendation from him. I think he wants to rot in that cell.”

“Madoc doesn’t need his recommendation. He has Professor Standings and Gawen’s, and Mr. Tredennit saw him direct men that he didn’t even know to finish a job in a few short hours. I think that may be more helpful than any recommendation.”

“He tells you nothing of this, though, does he? Our close-mouthed men.”

“You are just as close-mouthed. You said nothing all evening about Greta Ffoulkes. I thought you would regale us with information over dinner.”

Cecilia primmed her mouth. “There’s very little to tell.”

“Greta Ffoulkes. From an old family. An old estate. You must know more than that.”

“She is willing to invite a soon-to-be-divorced woman with a husband gaoled in Greece to her family gathering over the holidays. She wants someone there with greater gossip potential than her own affairs. That’s all I need to know, Bella.”

Put like that, Isabella realized that was all she wanted to know about Greta Ffoulkes.

 

Chapter 2 ~ Christmas Eve

After a long afternoon of winding roads and narrow village streets and flocks of sheep, they reached the red-bricked stout columns of Emberley, two miles beyond the village of the same name. Gawen turned through the open gateway. The Crossley automobile puttered along the drive through the trees for several more minutes. Then the woodland ended, and the manor confronted them at the top of a long, straight drive. Isabella gaped at the massive façade, twice as large as any Federalist-built house in America, five stories and too many chimneys to count dotting the roofline. She’d seen several such manors in England, many of them much larger, but finally, finally was her chance to stay with the true British upper-crust. The idea excited her.

Gawen swept the Crossley up the drive and rolled slowly over the gravel to the forecourt.

From the backseat, Isabella offered, “She could have just been trying to fill the house.”

“Meet people before you give them the best motives,” Cecilia cautioned.

Madoc turned to look at them, blanketed but still cold in the open back seat. “What are you two on about?”

“What have you gotten us into, Cecilia?” his brother asked.

“It’s an old family is all. I met the dowager Malvaise only once, in London, just after Nigel was appointed General Linley’s aide at the War Office. She cut me dead.”

“She may not have recognized you.”

“Greta had just introduced me to her. Old witch. She’ll be here—if she’s not dead. And Sir Reginald with his new bride. He lost three sons in the War. There’s a fourth, but he’ll be after a spare for the heir.”

Gawen braked with a jerk that spewed gravel before the grand entrance. “I thought these people were friends.”

“Free meals for fourteen days and thirteen nights. Warm rooms. Soft beds,” Cecilia said cheerfully as Gawen helped her from the backseat. “That I would like to see the old witch roasted with the chestnuts is neither here nor there.”

“Marron glacé,” Isabella murmured. She gazed at the bricked edifice and hoped the chef would serve up the dish at least once during the holidays. “Sugared chestnuts. Then she’s roasted and served up sweet.”

They were laughing as the door opened. A dark-suited butler emerged, somehow looking formidable even though the black-lacquered door dwarfed him. He was followed by two footmen in a griege livery with darker grey edging on collars and cuffs. Someone—not Greta, certainly—had a dapper eye.

“Mrs. Arkwright?” the butler intoned.

“And my guests,” Cecilia said promptly, “as Mrs. Ffoulkes agreed. Miss Isabella Newcombe and the Tarrant brothers.”

“Very good, madame. I am Thompson. Mrs. Ffoulkes and several friends have journeyed to the village, but the dowager and Lady Malvaise remain in the conservatory off the blue sitting room. I am instructed to inquire if you would wish to join them or remain in your rooms until tea.”

“When is tea?”

“Five o’clock, madame.”

“I think we shall beard the lioness in her den before retreating to our rooms, Thompson.”

“Cess!” Isabella hissed, but her friend merely smiled. The butler remained dour.

After driving in an open auto for hours, Isabella wanted to fix her hair and freshen up, remove her hat and renew her lipstick, but she had to follow them into the house. Once inside, she forgot what she wanted to do, caught up by the grandeur.

The entrance hall had the classic paneled walls and waxed floor. A large marble-topped table, graced with a tall Ming jar, centered the hall. Ancestors marched up the staircase, but Thompson led them beyond the entrance, turning down a side hall just past the staircase.

The side hall ran the length of the wing, ending in a dark-paneled door. Before they reached it, the butler stopped and opened a door. He led them into a room with blue wallpaper and blue upholstery and blue-toned carpets, gilded mirrors and golden pulls on painted furniture and polished brass fittings at the fireplace. Thompson carried on without pausing to a glazed wall with a single glassed door. Through the windows Isabella could see greenery, ferns and acacia palms. He opened the door to the glass-encased room beyond. “Mrs. Arkwright and her guests,” he droned.

Before he finished his piece, Cecilia had drawn a cool mantle about her, assuming a haughty guise that would have repelled Isabella had she ever encountered it. Several women and men were seated around the plant-filled room, but Cecilia stepped down onto the black-and-white tiles and crossed to the women seated at the center of the winter paradise.

“Lady Malvaise,” she addressed the stiff-backed woman in heavy tweeds. “We met in London, back in ’15, I believe. May I introduce Miss Isabella Newcombe, an artist and—.”

The dowager held up a long-fingered hand, so pale the blue veins were prominent and so thin it looked like bone covered only by skin. “You will only have to introduce these people at tea and then at dinner. We are not all gathered.”

“It pleases me to introduce my friends. As I was saying, this is Miss Newcombe, an artist. Her fiancé Madoc Tarrant. His brother Gawen Tarrant, a professor at St. George’s University. He is also an archaeologist.”

Her dark eyes flickered over the men. “Like your husband?”

“No, he is much more honorable than my soon-to-be-ex-husband.”

“You are divorcing that husband of yours? First intelligent thing I’ve known you to do. Going back to your maiden name? Hetheridge, wasn’t it?”

“I believe the accepted form of address will be Mrs. Cecilia Arkwright.”

The dowager’s dark gaze flashed over Gawen. “You won’t style yourself that way for long. This is my daughter-in-law Lady Loretta Malvaise. She was a Halliwell.”

She looked to be mid-twenties, like Cecilia, but any resemblance ended there. The younger Lady Malvaise held her body in a slight lean, her head slightly turned, her cigarette holder inches from her mouth, both painted a vermilion, stark against her skin and the grey wool dress and cardigan she wore. Her dark hair was in a smooth chignon that an older woman would prefer. It was a studied portrait, and Isabella wondered how often Lady Malvaise was so deliberate in her clothing and poses. The dowager, looking ancient beside her daughter-in-law, still appeared more alive with her glittering eyes and commanding presence.

“How do you do?” the young woman said, with rounded vowels that spoke of an equally deliberate education.

“You and your friends are not our last arrivals,” the dowager said. “Has Thompson shown you to your rooms yet?”

“No, my lady.”

“I see. Mrs. Arkwright, you may be acquainted with my son Cleveland. His wife Milly. She is an American. Philadelphia. Godfrey Hunsted.”  Each person nodded as the dowager introduced them. “His wife accompanied my granddaughters and their friends to the village. And Wyatt Williamson. Your artist should speak with him.”

In a far corner, almost hidden by lush ferns, a newspaper lowered, and the man said, “Not another artist. I am on holiday. Tori promised.”

Wyatt Williamson the noted art critic could skyrocket new artists and skewer the poseurs. Yet at this depressive tone, Isabella’s flutter of anticipation dropped to the floor.

“We will have yet another artist soon,” the dowager informed him, “and you will have to acknowledge that this one is a true artist. He is quite celebrated. St. John Lamont.”

The man groaned. “Already we have Dadaism, and now you bring Cubism. God forbid. You don’t paint the ugly, do you, Miss Newcombe?”

She could barely see him for the green fronds. “At the moment I am to paint the backdrop at the Chelsea Garden Theatre for a new production of The Tempest. ‘O brave new world that has such people in it.’”

He leaned forward. Frizzy white hair straggled over his collar and shoulders. His grey flannel suit looked too large for his shoulders. A narrow chin and a hooked nose completed his picture. Yet he smiled. “Refreshingly honest. You and I must talk.”  Then he leaned back and put up his newspaper.

And Madoc squeezed her hand.

The dowager’s lips curled upward then flattened. “We are to be thirty for dinner. Thirty-two tomorrow. The vicar and his wife will join us for Christmas dinner. Their presence, I daresay, will not improve the tone of the conversation. Now, I believe you will wish to freshen up before tea. Promptly at five, if you please.”

They trooped to the hallway. As they returned to the entrance hall, Cecilia whispered, “I never know where I am with that woman. She makes me feel nine years old.”

“Seven,” Gawen said, “with muddy knees to my trousers.”

“And a frog in my pocket,” Madoc added.

The brothers grinned at a childhood memory.

Thompson stood at the base of the staircase. He cleared his throat. “If the ladies will be so good, your rooms are on the second floor, to the left. The gentlemen are on the third, also to the left. You will be met.”  Then he pursed his lips and waited, a black-clad statue until they reached the first landing and continued on to the second flight.

“A tightly controlled household,” Isabella whispered.

“And we’re as controlled as automatons,” Madoc returned. “Not certain I care for that.”

“Free meals. Warm rooms. Soft beds,” she reminded, and he chuckled.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

A footman directed them to the expansive drawing room for tea. Maids stood with several teapots at the ready. The dowager Malvaise poured and handed out the teacups, giving each taker a direct look. Isabella arrived behind the others. At first she felt like the automaton Madoc had named. Upon seeing the available pastries, both sweet and savory, tartlets and petit-fours, Isabella found it difficult to begrudge her obedience.

A woman crossed to greet the four of them, and Isabella tore her attention from the upcoming food. She recognized Greta Ffoulkes, exactly as she had remembered her. The woman wore an unfortunate dress of slime green that reflected on her skin. Isabella’s simple periwinkle jumper and brown flannel skirt might be plain, but it flattered where that green jersey dress did not. The deep brown cardigan tossed over her shoulders could not mitigate the slimey color.

Remembering Greta’s gold dress at the gallery show, the artist in Isabella wanted to draw her aside and create a more flattering palette.

“Cecilia!”  She opened her arms wide as she neared them then drew in her wings and merely brushed cheeks. “Grandmother told me that you had arrived.”  She opened her eyes wide as she surveyed them. “Now, which of these is your flat-mate?”

“Miss Isabella Newcombe.”

She stepped forward and offered a hand. “Mrs. Ffoulkes—.”

“You must call me ‘Greta’. I hear one of these handsome men is your fiancé.”

Madoc gave a little bow.

“Are you the professor?”

“I am. Gawen Tarrant,” and he stuck his hand out.

She had ignored Isabella’s offered hand, but she took Gawen’s then slid her own up his jacketed arm. “Quite handsome. I do love green eyes. I will steal you away.”  She waved, and a couple separated from the group beside the windows. “Phyllida!”

A young woman seated beside the dowager looked around.

Greta gestured for her to come. “My cousin Phyllida. Very sweet. Out last year. Don’t let her scowl put you off. Stop frowning, Filly;  you’ll have wrinkles before you’re 30. This is Madoc Tarrant. Introduce him around, dear. And Cecilia, I give you to my little sister Alexa,” a darker brunette than her sister and with green eyes Greta must envy, but equally slim, equally pale, equally assured of her world. “Alexa is not out. Miss Newcombe, Isabella, I think you will go charmingly with Captain Portman.”

And she bore Gawen off.

Madoc and Cecilia were towed away.

Captain Portman drew on his cigarette as he scanned her. Isabella tilted up her chin and gave him an equal scrutiny. His build was square, his chin was square, his haircut was square. His handkerchief in his pocket was folded to make three neat triangles. “Miss Newcombe. Or may I call you Isabella? I’m Jack.”

“Hello. Greta said captain. Army or Navy?”

“Army. American?”

She had thought her accent faded. “Yes. You have sharp ears. Have you known Greta long?”

“We were close once upon a time, when the world was still green.”

She knew better than to ask of his recent past, but that comment was designed to provoke a remark. She obeyed the provocation. “You don’t look like a doomed romantic.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “I like you. Shall we walk about, as the Australians say, and introduce you? You won’t remember many names, but Greta likes to think her methods are the best ones, and it’s easier to give in.”

“Do you know everyone here?”

“I know the Malvaise tribe and their current attachments. A few others. We’ll muddle our way through, and you can introduce me to your friends. I already know Cess.”

“From when the world was still green?”

He shot her a quick glance. “Just so.”  He stopped at the dowager, who handed him tea that he passed on to Isabella. He also let her choose a tartlet and a petit four for the edge of her saucer before taking a cup of tea for himself. “Now,” a hand on the small of her back, he guided her away, “where were we?”

“You know Cess.”

“Exactly right. Have you known her long?”

“We met in October. On Crete. At the dig.”

“The ill-fated dig.”

“If by ill-fated, you mean that it was plagued with a thief who didn’t hesitate to commit murder, then yes.”

“Her husband’s in gaol there. Theft and accomplice to murder, I hear.”

“You are well informed.”

They stopped at the first group. His quiet “Tori” commanded attention, and a young woman close to Isabella’s age broke off her chatter. She wore a red day-dress with a persimmon and gold shawl flung over her shoulders. Dangling carnelian earrings matched the carnelian combs holding back her pale hair.

“Jack. Is this Greta’s invitation to our holidays?”

“One of them. Victoria, may I present Miss Isabella Newcombe?”

Once more she  repressed the urge to curtsey. The young woman had her grandmother’s presence. She had missed the nose by a fortunate circumstance, and Isabella had to refrain from looking for Greta to compare noses.

Portman continued his introductions. “Attached to Tori is her fiancé Tommy Gresham. Currently a playwright.”

“Currently?”  Overly thin, even to his moustache, the young man drew on his cigarette. “What are you?”

“Artist.”

“Artist?”  The man to his right leaned forward as if to see her better. “Oil or watercolor?”

“Both. Primarily watercolor.”

“Women do seem afraid to work in oils,” he chuckled, and she didn’t like him from that point. “Anything in a gallery?”

“At Tony Carstairs, in Soho.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to check that out when I return to London.”

“So will I,” Jack Portman said, and she flashed him a smile.

“I’m Stephen Pettigrew. My work is in several galleries.”  He placed a flat-fingered hand on the man beside him. “This is Calum Eliot. He likes acting, don’t you, Cal?”

Mr. Eliot winced then offered his hand. His gaze flickered briefly to Portman.

“Are you on stage?” she asked.

“I don’t have a role yet. I’ve been auditioning, and the directors claim to like my readings, but—.”

“I’ve told him not to worry. Everyone’s flooding onto the stage now. And Tommy’s writing the perfect part for you. It will elevate you above the masses.”

“Trust Tommy, Calum,” Tori urged and gave a pat on his other arm.

“And we’re off,” her escort said. He steered her to another group. Older people this time. He pressed hard to push her into insinuating into the tight circle. When he crowded in beside her, the silver-streaked blond on his left had to give ground.

Their arrival had killed the conversation.

“Sir Reginald,” Portman said, indicating the silver-haired man with piercing green eyes he had gifted to only one daughter and the Malvaise nose he had cursed another daughter with. “May I introduce Miss Isabella Newcombe, a friend of Mrs. Cecilia Arkwright?”

The battery of eyes never ceased. Isabella gave a brief curtsey.

“Lady Malvaise,” he named.

Side-by-side with her husband, the wife’s youth was glaringly apparent, yet she spoke with the ease of a seasoned hostess. “We met earlier, didn’t we, Miss Newcombe? Did you have an opportunity to look from your window?”

“The garden must be glorious in spring and summer, Lady Malvaise.”

“Mr. Malvaise,” Portman continued around the circle, “and his wife. Filly is their daughter.”

The couple nodded. He did not have his brother’s silver, but he sported last decade’s whiskers along with baggy corduroys and a leather-patched cardigan. His silver-streaked wife was expensively-dressed and bejeweled, ears and neck and wrists and fingers.

“The Ryders, Douglas and Rosamunde. And this is Godfrey Hunstead.”

The couple murmured greetings. The stocky man smiled. Liking his cheery eyes above his ruddy cheeks, Isabella smiled back.

“My wife’s taking tea upstairs.”

“By which Hunstead means,” Portman said in her ear as he steered her to the third group, “that his wife’s upstairs with a different tipple.”

They were headed for the far end of the room where three sofas boxed the hearth. Madoc stood at the edge of a sofa, with his escort lingering at his elbow. He had his arms folded, his legs braced apart, his posture when he confronted something or someone he didn’t like.

The girl—Filly—tugged on his arm. He allowed himself to be turned back to the room. When he saw Isabella, he smiled, but then he saw Portman’s hand on her. He slowed, but Filly towed him relentlessly back to the elder Lady Malvaise.

And Isabella focused on new group. Which one of them had kindled Madoc’s temper? Two older men and two older women sat on sofa across from each other while two younger persons sat at either end of the third sofa.

Portman launched into his introductions. “I’ll start with Mr. Buxton,” an angular man in grey silk. He offered no smile with his nod, just an assessing survey. “This is Miss Isabella Newcombe, Philip. And his wife Maureen,” a bone-thin woman who didn’t look up from her jangling bracelets. “Their son Anthony.”

The young man’s grin warmed up the angular features he’d inherited. And he stood up, showing manners. “Tony, please. Mr. Tarrant, Madoc Tarrant, just informed us that you are his fiancée.”

Portman’s hand shifted, but he didn’t remove it. Isabella wondered what he was thinking. “Yes, we are betrothed.”

“No ring,” Mr. Buxton judged.

“I don’t need a ring to feel engaged to Madoc.”

“I understand you two didn’t meet until October, when he was off on that dig with his brother instead of working for his grandfather.”

A comment like that would have sparked Madoc’s anger. She tilted her head and continued to smile. “I think dire circumstances must strip away the social veneer and give us the true person. I certainly may not know everything of my fiancé’s past, but I know he is honorable and reliable, strong of mind and steady of character.”

“Strong? Steady? He doesn’t have a job. I understand he rejected his grandfather’s offer of a position in the main office.”

This was the man. Isabella did not like to fight battles, but she wouldn’t back down from this one. “Yes, he refused that offer. He was de-mobbed in June, and he did not want to chain himself immediately to a windowless office. He does have a job, though, Mr. Buxton. He reports there after the New Year.”

“You surprise me.”

She opened her eyes wide. “How so, Mr. Buxton?”

“Your defense of him—.”

“Oh, come, Philip,” the other older woman said, “leave the young lady alone. She’s not been here more than a couple of hours. I’m Lottie Crittenden, Reggie’s sister. I publish Modern Woman. You may have read it. We’re at all the London newsstands. And this,” she pointed at the young woman sharing the sofa with Tony, “is my assistant, Alicia Osterley.”

Miss Osterley removed her black-framed glasses and smiled with a squint as she polished the lenses using the hem of her skirt.

“Which leaves Wyatt Williamson,” and Portman indicated the straggle-haired art critic.

“Last but not least,” Williamson said, neither cheerfully nor mordantly. “I have recalled your work, Miss Newcombe.”

Her eyes opened wide again, this time without false innocence. “You have?”

“You have a watercolor I found interesting in Tony Carstairs’ gallery. He sold it, unfortunately.”

“Fortunately for me, Mr. Williamson. Was it the mountains in Crete with the foothills covered in dittany?”

“A shoreline. And I’m glad to hear you’ve sold more than one but disappointed that I missed this other painting.”

“I delivered two more canvasses to Mr. Carstairs just yesterday, sir. A small oil and a watercolor of the size of the shoreline.”

“Then I must visit Carstairs again. I would be pleased to have one of your works in my collection.”

Her heart pounded at the praise. “Thank you, Mr. Williamson.”

Portman made their apologies and led her away, back to the dowager and her tea tray, where her friends waited.

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