Death Wears a Mask (2 page)

“Yes, I'm sure it is. I'm sometimes of a mind to get a flat myself. So much less space to look after. Well, if you'll come this way, I'll introduce you to the others.”

The drawing room was a large, lovely room with dark paneled walls, high molded ceilings, and parquet floors covered with very good rugs. There were several pieces of quality furniture scattered about, many of them occupied by our dinner companions.

“Delighted to see you again, Mrs. Ames,” said Mr. Lloyd Barrington, rising to greet us. He was a stout, mustachioed gentleman with graying dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a winning smile. There was something calm and steady about him that complemented his wife's exuberance.

Mrs. Barrington introduced other guests in turn. They were Mr. Douglas-Hughes and his American wife, whose names were familiar due to the sensation their marriage had caused the previous year; the tennis star, Mr. Nigel Foster; Mrs. Barrington's nephew, James Harker; pretty blond sisters, Marjorie and Felicity Echols; and a stunning, dark-eyed woman named Mrs. Vivian Garmond, whose name I had heard in some capacity I couldn't quite recall.

In my head I counted off the guests and realized that we were still short one gentleman. I was only vaguely curious who it might be, which made the answer all that more surprising.

“Mrs. Barrington, I must insist that you introduce me at once to this lovely stranger in our midst.” These words were spoken in a low, pleasant tone by a gentleman who had just come in from the foyer.

“Oh, Lord Dunmore,” said Mrs. Barrington, and something in the way she said it made me feel as though his sudden presence was not quite a pleasant surprise. “I didn't know you had arrived.”

Lord Dunmore. The name was very familiar. The increasingly outlandish exploits of Alexander Warrington, the Viscount Dunmore, were currently an excessively popular topic of London gossip, proving a welcome distraction from my own little scandal. A recent string of lavish parties had resulted in some particularly sordid rumors. I didn't pay much heed to the details, so I was not certain of all the social improprieties of which he had been accused. I knew enough, however, to be slightly surprised at his presence.

“Only just, Mrs. Barrington, but I see I've come at the right time.” He walked to where Milo and I stood with our hostess.

His gaze flickered over the gathering, encompassing the other guests, and I took a moment to appraise him. He was indeed handsome, though there was nothing in particular that made him so. It was just an overall attractiveness, a combination of well-formed features, a rather nice figure, and an unmistakable air of confidence. His dark brown hair was neatly parted and fashionably slicked. Eyes of a pale blue that might have tended toward coolness were warmed by a pleasant expression. I could see at once why he was successful with women.

“Lord Dunmore, allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Ames.”

“Mr. Ames and I know each other. How are you, Ames?” Lord Dunmore answered, glancing at Milo by way of greeting before coming back to me. “But Mrs. Ames and I”—he took my hand in his—“have not yet had the pleasure.”

“How do you do, Lord Dunmore.”

His eyes stayed on mine for a fraction longer than was customary, and his hand had not yet released mine when Mrs. Barrington spoke.

“I suppose now that everyone is here, we may as well go in to dinner.”

“You have assembled the usual group, I see,” Lord Dunmore observed, relinquishing his hold on me to cast his gaze around the room once more. He seemed to be looking at one person in particular, but when I turned to follow his gaze I could not determine on whom it had rested.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” Mrs. Barrington said absently. “Shall we?”

Everyone began rising from their chairs, preparing for the migration to the dining room. As a general hubbub ensued, Mrs. Barrington suddenly clutched my arm, pulling me slightly aside, and leaned to whisper in my ear. “Watch my guests, Mrs. Ames. I should like your opinion of them.”

I looked at her, my surprise and confusion apparent on my face.

“It's a delicate matter. I'll explain later,” she whispered as Lord Dunmore approached to escort her into the dining room.

I glanced at Milo to see if he had witnessed that rather strange interaction, but he was talking to one of the Miss Echols and didn't seem to have noticed.

I took Mr. Barrington's proffered arm somewhat distractedly. Very much perplexed by my hostess's mysterious appeal, I cast a look around at my fellow guests, feeling vaguely uneasy as we all went in to dinner.

 

2

SEATED AT THE
table and pondering Mrs. Barrington's strange request, I found myself, despite my reservations, trying to detect within the dinner guests any hints of illicit conduct. I really couldn't imagine what it was I was meant to observe, for the company was excellent.

Mr. Nigel Foster sat to my right. As befitted an athlete of his caliber, he was fit and trim. Wavy dark hair and bright blue eyes resulted in the boyish good looks that his legions of female fans adored, and the quickness of his movements gave the impression that he contained a great welling of energy just below the surface.

“I'm a bit starstruck to be sitting beside you,” I told him. “I've seen you play many times and have always greatly admired your tennis game.” That was an understatement. His skill on the court was exceptional, and, despite an unfortunate loss at Wimbledon the year before, his name was usually mentioned among the greats of the sport.

He offered me a ready smile as he waved away the compliment. “I play because I love the game,” he said. “It has afforded me the opportunity to travel a great deal, another of my passions. I have been fortunate in that respect.”

“You've been on a tour, I believe?”

“Yes. And afterward I had a rather long holiday in Greece and then Italy. I haven't set foot in England for nearly a year, so it's been nice to be home.”

“It's been rather a long time since I've been to Greece,” I told him.

“I've always longed to go there,” Felicity Echols told me quietly.

“I'm sure you'd enjoy it,” Mr. Foster said with a smile.

“Felicity and I both long to travel,” Marjorie, her sister, added. “We've never been outside England, but one day soon we shall see the world.”

Though they were similar in appearance, it had not taken me long to distinguish between the Echols sisters. Felicity was a sweet, somewhat vague young woman with wide green eyes and glossy golden hair. There was something bolder, sharper about Marjorie. She had clear blue eyes and a quick, lively manner that I expected could turn boisterous given the right occasion. Her words were spoken with a decisive air that was in marked contrast to her sister's soft, somewhat breathy voice.

“I wouldn't care to go to Greece just now,” said Mr. Barrington, “what with the political situation there.”

“Oh, Lloyd. Let's not talk politics.” Mrs. Barrington sighed.

“Well, Mr. Douglas-Hughes will agree with me, I'm sure.”

“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.”