The Cavendon Women

  “There is indeed. Those pieces of jewelry do not belong to my mother. They are the property of the Ingham Estate, and are only on loan to whomever is the current countess.” Daphne shook her head and grimaced. “My mother had no right to take those pieces with her when she left Cavendon.”

  “Did she know that?” Olive asked, and then exclaimed, “How stupid I am, of course she would know. Every titled woman has knowledge of the family’s rules.”

  “That’s correct, and I have to get them back, and as soon as possible. My mother won’t want to let go of them, or any of the other pieces she has. But there is no alternative.”

  “Perhaps not, although Lady Felicity has always been a reasonable person. It’s only lately she’s been difficult, and that’s because she’s never really well—”

  “Does he hurt her?” Daphne interrupted, giving Wilson a pointed look. “Mr. Pierce, I’m talking about.”

  “Not physically, if that’s what you’re getting at, Lady Daphne. But he can be mean, plays games with her, hints that there are other women—” Olive broke off, and whispered, “It’s kind of mental torture, that’s what I think.”

  “That’s horrible. I can’t imagine why she doesn’t kick him out!” Daphne exclaimed, sudden anger surfacing.

  “Oh, he’s got a hold over her all right, that I’m sure of. Also, she loves him to death.”

  Daphne was silent, looked thoughtful, then said, “When she’s better, I will come to tea, and I will ask her nicely for the jewelry, point out that she must give it back to the estate as an honorable woman.”

  “What if she won’t? If she refuses?” Olive wondered out loud.

  “I have two alternatives. I can take the matter to my father’s solicitor, and have him start legal proceedings—”

  “She won’t like that!” Olive cut in. “And she’ll deny she has the jewels.”

  “Or I can steal them.”

  “Lady Daphne! You wouldn’t dare!” Olive sounded horrified.

  “Yes, I would. And you can help me.”

  Olive Wilson turned pale. “I couldn’t do that!” she cried.

  “I realize you’re reluctant. But you could show me the cupboard, or wherever it is all kept. And possibly get me the key?” Daphne raised a brow.

  “She would never give it to me, m’lady, and I don’t know where she keeps that key, honestly I don’t.” Olive now sounded calmer but she was still pale.

  Daphne nodded, and after a moment a little ripple of laughter crossed her mouth. Leaning toward Wilson again, she said, sotto voce, “Eric Swann knows all sorts of people. Some nice, some not so nice. I shall ask him to find me a thief, and I’ll take the fellow over to Charles Street and he can pick the lock of the cupboard. I aim to get our property back.”

  Olive had no words. She sat staring at Daphne, looking totally flabbergasted.

  Daphne had the good grace to laugh, and exclaimed, “But I don’t think it will come to that, Wilson, so don’t look so shocked. Oh my goodness, James Brentwood, the actor, is sitting over there, and he’s staring at you, Olive. Why, he’s smiling at you. Do you know him?”

  “Not exactly, my lady. He’s a friend of your mother and Mr. Pierce. He’s seen me at the house. Oh heavens, I hope he doesn’t tell them he’s seen us together … that would seem very strange to Lady Felicity.”

  “You can’t use her title anymore, Wilson. She’s Mrs. Pierce now. I keep on telling you that.”

  “I know, m’lady. But old habits die hard.”

  “I think I had better go over and speak to Mr. Brentwood. I shall ask him to keep our secret,” Daphne announced, and immediately stood up.

  “No, no, my lady, you can’t go over and speak to him just like that. It’s not proper for a lady like you,” Wilson exclaimed, sounding nervous.

  Daphne gave her a wide smile. “Of course I can, Olive. I can do anything I want. After all, I’m a married woman, and that gives me quite a lot of leeway.”

  * * *

  Felix Lambert had just spread clotted cream on his scone when out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of apricot fabric, and the lovely blond woman from across the room walking directly toward them.

  He exclaimed in a low voice, “There’s the most gorgeous female heading right for you, James, my lad. You’d better stand up, and so should I.”

  Taken aback for a moment, James stared at Felix and saw him rising, and knew he was not joking. As he pushed himself to his feet, the beautiful blonde came to a standstill in front of them.

  “I’m so sorry to intrude,” Daphne said. “But I do need to have a word with you, Mr. Brentwood.” She thrust her hand out. “I’m Daphne Ingham Stanton, and I believe you know my mother, Mrs. Pierce.”

  James took hold of her hand, shook it. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Daphne, and I do know your mother. May I introduce Felix Lambert.”

  “How do you do?” Daphne said, taking Felix’s outstretched hand.

  Felix smiled at her, appreciating her beauty. “I am honored, Lady Daphne.”

  “Please, do join us,” James said, and guided her to a chair. Once they were all seated, he said, “How can I be of help?”

  “Olive Wilson, my mother’s lady’s maid, realized you had recognized her. She is nervous about being seen with me because my mother and I are estranged. Wilson thinks my mother will be angry with her if she discovers we meet from time to time. You see, Wilson keeps me informed about my mother’s well-being. So may I ask for your discretion, Mr. Brentwood?”

  “Of course, Lady Daphne,” James answered. “I’m not likely to be seeing Mr. and Mrs. Pierce. I’m working most of the time. However, I would never mention seeing Miss Wilson with you.”

  “I know that, actually,” Daphne said, smiling at him. “But I did want to reassure Wilson, and approaching you was the only way to convince her.”

  James thought she was the most lovely woman he had seen in a very long time. The bloom is on the rose, he thought, a happy woman in her prime.

  Lady Daphne now said, “Congratulations on your Critics’ Award, Mr. Brentwood. As it happens, my husband and I are coming to see you in Hamlet next week. We are really looking forward to it.”

  “Please do come backstage after the play,” James said warmly, then asked, “What night are you coming next week?”

  “On Tuesday, and thank you so much for the invitation.” Daphne stood up, and so did the two men. She shook hands with them again, and returned to her table at the other side of the room.

  Both men watched her glide across the floor, and then sat down and stared at each other. James said, “What a beauty, and a charming woman.”

  “And married,” Felix thought to point out.

  “All the good ones are,” James said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

  * * *

  “He won’t say a word,” Daphne told Olive Wilson when she returned to the table. “I didn’t think he would, but I do believe I was right to ask for his discretion.”

  “Thank you, Lady Daphne,” Wilson said. “And I apologize for putting you to all this trouble … going over to speak to Mr. Brentwood, I mean.”

  “Please do be at ease, Olive.” Daphne then went on, “Please explain to me where the cupboard is actually located in Charles Street.”

  Olive did so, and after she had finished, she looked at Daphne, to whom she was devoted, and said, “My lady, I do hope you didn’t mean it when you said you might employ a burglar to help you.”

  Daphne smiled at her reassuringly. “Of course not, Wilson! I was just teasing you, the way I did when I was a little girl.”

  Olive sat back, filled with relief.

  Daphne thought: I must speak to Eric Swann the moment I get home. I feel sure he knows someone who can pick a lock.

  Twenty-three

  Miles experienced an unexpected sense of unease as he approached the house. The time he had spent there with Clarissa had not been happy, and he had never really liked the architecture and interiors of t
he house. It was not his style. But she had hankered after it, and so his father had finally bought it for them as a wedding present, but he had always held the deeds himself.

  The door was opened by Mrs. Kennet, the gloomy-faced housekeeper, Clarissa’s other choice, but a woman he had disliked on sight. And still did.

  As he stepped into the front hall, he said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kennet.”

  “Afternoon, sir,” she said in a curt voice, and endeavored to usher him toward the drawing room. Walking around her swiftly, he said, “I’m going to the library, and don’t bother to accompany me, Mrs. Kennet. I know the way. In case you’ve forgotten, this is my house.”

  The woman glared at him before turning on her heels, heading toward the kitchen without uttering a word.

  So much for the warm welcome, he thought, striding into the pine-paneled library, a room which his sister Daphne had helped him decorate.

  It was the one room in the house he had enjoyed, when he had lived there, his own small private haven, with its fir-green leather Chesterfield sofa, matching green velvet armchairs and draperies, and the colorful red-and-gold Oriental rug underfoot.

  As had been his habit, Miles now strolled over to the bookshelves surrounding the bay window, and stood looking at his collection of history books. He had loved history since his school days and was well versed in this subject. His eyes caught his favorite leather-bound books on the life of Julius Caesar, and he took one off the shelf. It was a much-loved book, familiar, and he held it for a moment before putting it back.

  One thing he was certain of was the decision he had come to last week. He had finally made up his mind to have his books and every personal possession packed by the Inghams’ London butler, Eric Swann, who would take them to his father’s house in Grosvenor Square, which Eric ran.

  It was a relief to know that Eric would take care of everything. He had worked for the family for thirty years, since he was sixteen, and he was the most dependable man. He had been trained by Hanson at Cavendon, and was, in fact, Hanson’s younger version.

  Hearing footsteps, Miles walked out into the corridor, and recoiled in shock when he saw Clarissa coming toward him. She looked unkempt, and she had put on weight.

  Dismay lodged in his stomach. What man would even look at this blowsy, bedraggled young woman, never mind marry her? Instantly he reminded himself that she had a wealthy father, no doubt quite an inducement for some fellow to turn a blind eye to the way she looked.

  Without greeting him by name, Clarissa said, “I have arranged for Mrs. Kennet to serve afternoon tea in the drawing room, so let us proceed there, shall we?”

  “That’s fine, and hello, Clarissa. How are you?” he asked, as always, a gentleman.

  “Perfectly well, thank you,” she answered, and went on ahead of him.

  Walking behind her, Miles couldn’t help thinking she had become the size of a London bus, at least the back of it. All that weight, he thought, how will she ever get it off? Sadly, his hope that his estranged wife would have a romantic encounter with an eligible man, and want to remarry, instantly fled. He also felt sorry for her, because at heart he was a kind man, and once she had been quite pretty.

  Seating herself on the chintz-covered sofa, Clarissa arranged her floral-silk afternoon dress and sat back, regarding Miles intently.

  Absently, Miles wondered why she had chosen that particular dress. It matched the sofa. He stifled the sudden urge to talk to her about her weight; that was not the reason he was here, so he refrained. He also reminded himself that although she was stupid in so many ways, she had a certain shrewdness. He cautioned himself to be wary of her, on the alert at all times.

  “I was surprised you were in London,” Clarissa said, speaking at last. “I know how devoted you are to Cavendon. Your trip to town must be something of a novelty.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. And yes, I am caught up in the running of the estate in Yorkshire. Especially at the moment, since Papa is abroad.”

  “Oh, yes. Indeed. He got married. I don’t suppose it was a very fancy affair, under the circumstances. I mean the circumstances of his new wife, and her background.”

  “You don’t have to qualify that rather rude remark, Clarissa,” Miles shot back swiftly. “I know exactly what you mean, and you will not speak ill of my stepmother, who is now the Countess of Mowbray. And by the way, Papa is in marvelous health. So I won’t be inheriting his title for a very long time, I can assure you of that.”

  “And I won’t agree to a divorce, I can assure you of that!” she exclaimed.

  Ever since he had arrived, Miles had been expecting this announcement. He said quietly, “I don’t understand why not. We are living apart. There is no possible chance of a reconciliation, and you don’t want that either. Be honest, Clarissa.”

  Leaning forward slightly, he added, “I have spoken to our solicitor and he will work out a very favorable settlement with you, and your solicitor.”

  “I don’t want a divorce, so don’t bother telling me about the settlement,” she responded coldly.

  “I can’t fathom you out. What have you to gain by being so obdurate? Living in this big house alone, leading a somewhat circumscribed social life, passing the time with your women friends, going to lunches, going shopping. It seems like a pointless existence to me.” Miles stared at her. He looked puzzled.

  “I’m happy. So you don’t have to concern yourself with me, or try to fathom me out, as you call it,” she snapped.

  “I know my father will give you the deeds to this house, Clarissa, and I will pay you suitable alimony until you remarry, which I’m sure you will.”

  She gaped at him, then laughed hysterically and exclaimed in somewhat shrill tones, “What man will even look at me? Haven’t you noticed I’ve put on weight, Miles? Surely you’re not blind.”

  “I had noticed, but you’re a young woman. You can take off the weight, if you commit yourself to a regime.”

  She opened her mouth, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, then stopped. At that moment Mrs. Kennet came in with the parlormaid, who was pushing the tea trolley.

  Wisely, Clarissa remained silent until they had poured the tea and passed around plates of sandwiches.

  Once they were alone, she said in an icy voice, “There’s not much more to discuss about the divorce, Miles. I won’t agree to one. I don’t care about this house, or alimony, since my father is a very, very rich man. He will always take care of me. As he did before I was married to you.”

  “I’m aware there aren’t many financial inducements to make you change your mind,” he remarked. Miles fell silent immediately and sat back, lifted his cup, took several swallows of his tea, and put the cup back in the saucer with a clatter. He said, “I’m not your enemy, and I presume you’re not mine. It seems to me that we can have an amicable divorce, and then get on with our own lives as single individuals. We’re both young enough to start over.”

  She remained silent, staring at the sponge cake oozing thick cream, salivating, longing to devour it. That was her main occupation these days. Eating. And eating more. And wallowing orgiastically in the rich food Mrs. Kennet made. Delicious, comforting food.

  Miles, noticing her preoccupation with the cake, cleared his throat several times.

  Clarissa finally looked across at him. “Would you like a piece of the cream cake? Or would you prefer a tart? A cherry tart, actually.”

  He shook his head, frowning slightly, noting something odd in her tone of voice.

  “Of course you don’t want this tart. You’ve already got your own, and you gobbled her cherry years ago,” she announced. “In fact, you’ve never stopped gobbling her cherry; you were doing it before we were married, and continued after. You’re still doing it now.”

  Astonishment crossed his face. He glared at her, immediately understanding the innuendo.

  Before he could answer her, Clarissa rushed on, “Long before you began to court me, when I was being eyed by a variety of el
igible young men, my father warned me about the likes of your lot. He said I must never forget that aristocratic men preferred working-class girls because they were juicy tarts.” Sitting up straighter on the sofa, she gasped, “And it was always your tart you loved. Not me!”

  Miles was on his feet and leaving the drawing room before she could catch her breath and utter another ugly word.

  Once he was outside, he rushed down the street, wanting to put distance between himself and that house, but mostly its disturbed occupant. Because there was no doubt in his mind that she was disturbed. He was filled with anger and disgust, and he never wanted to set eyes on Clarissa again.

  Eventually, he slowed down, leaned against a brick wall, and managed to calm himself. He had been accused of something that was untrue. This had infuriated him, especially when he thought of the last six years, his lack of contact with Cecily, his loneliness and pain. And he understood what everything was about now. It was called Clarissa’s Revenge. How she had changed, and in several ways. She had been rather lovely six years ago; fine features, large luminous eyes, and soft brown hair framing a pretty face. She had not been mean. In fact, she had been humorous.

  * * *

  As Miles Ingham made his way back to his father’s house, Detective Inspector Howard Pinkerton, the husband of Dorothy Swann, was crossing Piccadilly, heading in the direction of Berkeley Square. The lovely, leafy park in the center of the square was a favorite spot of his, an oasis of calm in the middle of Mayfair.

  The park was empty except for a courting couple wrapped in each other’s arms, sitting on the other side, and he smiled as he lowered himself onto a bench. He hoped they would be as lucky in love as he had been. He had found the love of his life when he met Dorothy. They had both been twenty, and had married within three months. Not long ago they had celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and were still in love.

  A little rush of warmth enveloped him when he thought of his wife. On Sunday they were going out in their brand-new motorcar, making a long overdue trip to Bath, to visit his cousin Patsy. It was a huge improvement on their first motorcar, and they were excited about this particular purchase.