Femmes Fatal

Praise for the wickedly irresistible novels of
Dorothy Cannell

MUM’S THE WORD

“Witty.”

—
Daily News
, New York

“Offers everything Cannell’s fans have come to expect … a wonderfully dotty cast of characters, an unerring sense of the absurd, and witty dialogue and insights.”

—
The Denver Post

THE WIDOWS CLUB

“A thoroughly entertaining novel.”

—
Cosmopolitan

“Romps along with a judicious blend of suspense, frivolity, and eccentric characters.”

—
Booklist

DOWN THE GARDEN PATH

“Carries on the lovely lunacy in which Dorothy Cannell excels; I had an absolutely marvelous time with it.”

—Elizabeth Peters, author of
The Last Camel Died at Noon
“Sparkling wit and outlandish characters.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

THE THIN WOMAN

“Cannell makes a delicious debut; discriminatory whodunit fans will want more of her inventions.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A likable debut—combining fairy-tale romance, treasure hunts, and a homicidal mania.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

FEMMES FATAL

“Dorothy Cannell has perfected the recipe for an outrageous brew of genteel wit and wicked satire in
Femmes Fatal
. I giggled to the end of this intricate plot of love-starved ladies, exhausted husbands, and discreetly kinky murder.”

—Joan Hess, author of
Maggody in Manhattan

This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition
.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED
.

FEMMES FATAL
A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition/October 1992
Bantam paperback edition/February 1994

All rights reserved
.
Copyright
©
1992 by Dorothy Cannell
.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-10745
.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher
.
For information address: Bantam Books
.

eISBN: 978-0-307-81667-2

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York
.

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Dedication

Other Books by This Author

About the Author

Preview of God Save the Queen!

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He was a dark and stormy knight. A latter-day rake with eyes the colour of emeralds worth a queen’s ransom. His smile promised voyages to the moon. And heaven alone knew how many females lay littered in his wake.

To a rousing burst of Rachmaninoff, he swept into my London flat one January evening and, with the hauteur of his greeting, captured my virgin heart forever and a day.

“Miss Ellie Simons? My car awaits. Shall we splurge on dinner or parking tickets?”

Never mind that he had no intentions honourable or otherwise, my existence as an overweight, underpaid interior designer would never be the same. The man wasn’t just a handsome face. He could do more than raise a dark sardonic eyebrow. He could cook. And not just baked beans on toast! Bentley T. Haskell was a first-class chef.

In the grand tradition of paperback romance, we went from loathing to loving with all unseemly haste. My first two years as Mrs. Haskell were a rapturous journey with all the thrills and spills of white-water rapids. Our lovemaking blew enough fuses that one night all the lights went out. Our quarrels were glorious. The making up marvelous. Could any woman ask for more?

On a glowing April morning, I awoke in my bedroom at Merlin’s Court to the woeful realization that the honeymoon was over. Ellie Haskell was no sultry siren straight from the pages of a bodice-buster romance. I was a thirty-year-old matron, weighing almost as much as when the twins, daughter Abbey and son Tam, were born four and a half months before. Worse, my marriage had turned flabby.

At one time the sight of Ben putting on his socks had been enough to make passion’s flame set my nightie alight; now late-night feedings and stretchmarks that refused to fade with the application of S’Mother Cream had taken their toll.

“Good morning, Sunshine.” Ben stood at the foot of our four-poster bed, clad in a black silk dressing gown that did wonders for his complexion. Tossing a coin in the air, he clapped it down on the back of his hand. “Heads, you cook dinner tonight. Remember, I will be home this evening. We have that meeting of the Hearthside Guild at the vicarage. And I am program chairman of the Full-Time Father Committee.” A woeful glance down at the coin. “You lose, my dear.”

What had become of the man who once refused to let me sully my hands tossing a rasher of bacon in the frying pan? To outward appearances he remained totally adorable. The black hair was tousled, a smile lurked in those jewelled eyes, and the need for a shave hinted at gentleman turned bandit. No one would guess he had
worked until midnight at Abigail’s, his restaurant in the village.

“Full-time father?” I queried.

“Ellie, we are talking about an attitude.” Again Ben spun the coin in the air, this time catching it in his pocket. “Parenting is my number-one occupation. Work is something I do”—he grinned—“to get out of the house when the nappies need washing.”

Smile in place, I tossed back the bedclothes and rose to face the day. As yet there was no clarion call from the nursery. Sunlight darted accusing fingers at the haze of dust on the mahogany furniture. But this remained a proud, handsome room, its copper fireplace giving off the rich glow of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. Merlin’s Court—dear to me as the day I first came here, a podgy child with a chip on my shoulder the size of a tablet from Mount Sinai. The good old days when I hadn’t been expected to lift a finger except to ping the bell for tea.

“Something wrong, Ellie?”

“Just daydreaming.” I whirled to face him, if flannel can be said to whirl.

A hopeful gleam lit his eyes. It had been days, weeks since we had … well, you know …

“Sorry, dear, mornings are off-limits. I have to get the babies up, bathed, and fed before I take a break and fix the washing machine.”

“No need, I rang the plumber.” Typical male, clouding the issue by being helpful.

“Thanks. I’ll have Mr. Fixit cluttering up my kitchen all morning.”