A Most Novel Revenge (6 page)

“If only I had thought to find a copy of it,” I mused. “It might have proven very useful.”

“Oh, you can read mine, madam,” Winnelda said.

I looked up. “You have a copy with you?”

“Yes. Right here.” She went to where she had been sitting and picked up the book I had seen her reading when I came in.

“Your resourcefulness never ceases to amaze me, Winnelda.”

“Well, when I found out we were coming here to Lyonsgate, I made sure to bring it along. I thought perhaps I could recognize some of the settings. I think, though I'm not entirely sure, that this very bedroom was the inspiration for the scene where…”

“Yes, thank you, Winnelda,” I said.

She dropped a curtsey. “I'm ever so glad to be of help to you, and I do think that you'll enjoy it. There is a scandalous scene where…”

I was spared the details as Milo came into my room from the hall.

“Will you be needing anything else tonight, madam?” Winnelda asked, setting the book on the table.

“No. Thank you, Winnelda. And thank you for the book.”

“You're welcome. Goodnight, madam. Mr. Ames.”

She left and closed the door behind her, and I turned to my husband. “I've been waiting to be alone with you all evening,” I said.

“Words I live for, my love,” he said, pulling me to him.

“That's not what I meant.”

“In any event, I've already told Parks I won't be needing him tonight, and now that you've rid yourself of Winnelda…”

“What did you make of what happened at dinner?”

“Your skin is like ice, darling,” he said, his warm hands moving up and down my arms.

“Yes, it's very cold in this house,” I said absently. “What do you suppose Miss Van Allen means to write about?”

Milo sighed, releasing me. “I haven't the faintest idea. Nor do I care.”

“There must be something Reggie doesn't want people to know. I thought for a moment things might come to blows.”

“And you enjoyed it immensely,” he said, removing his necktie and cuff links. “I could practically feel the glee coming off of you from the other side of the room.”

“What a vulgar thing to say. I was terribly uncomfortable.”

He smiled. “But you found it interesting, nonetheless.”

I was spared having to deny it as Milo went to his room, leaving our adjoining door ajar.

“Isobel's always enjoyed causing a scandal,” he said from inside. “I'd wager she's trying to rake things up in hopes of generating another profitable novel.”

“No, I think it's more than that. I think there's some secret she's been keeping.”

“Your instinct at work again, I suppose.”

I chose to ignore this aspersion cast upon my intuition. Milo could deny it all he liked, but my perceptions had been accurate more than once.

I thought back over the events of the evening. What exactly was it that had made me uneasy? Of course, the entire scene at dinner had been unnerving, but that wasn't what was nagging at me. There was something else, something that had seemed unusual. Then I remembered.

“Mr. Roberts said something very strange tonight,” I said. “He told me he might never go home. What do you suppose made him say that?”

Milo came back into my room, clad in his bedclothes and dressing gown. “Perhaps he supposes Isobel will drink his blood in the night and leave him for dead.”

I smiled. “That's a bit unfair, isn't it?”

“Unfair to vampires, perhaps.”

“I just had the distinct impression that something wasn't right…”

“That may well be true, darling, but I don't see how it's any of our affair.”

I sighed. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I was even looking for trouble where none existed. In any event, there was nothing more to be done about it tonight.

I got into the bed and instantly regretted it.

“One need be a vampire to withstand these sheets,” I said. “They're like ice.”

“Well, then let me warm you,” he said. Discarding his dressing gown, he pulled back the blankets and slipped into bed beside me.

He pulled me against him, and I was soon very warm indeed.

 

5

I AWOKE EARLY
and found myself unable to go back to sleep. The room was very cold, and, though I was reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed, I couldn't help feeling that there were things to be done. For one thing, I had not had a chance to discuss last night's events with Laurel. For another, I was terribly curious to see what would happen at breakfast.

I considered waking Milo, who sleeps like the dead, but decided against it. There was no reason he should have to rise early just because I did. I bathed and dressed as quickly as possible since the bathroom was frigid and chose one of my warmest ensembles, a smart gray wool suit with a fitted jacket and pleated skirt.

Then I went downstairs, prepared to meet the day.

Everything was laid out on the sideboard in the breakfast room, and I was a bit surprised to find it empty, save for Miss Van Allen.

She was seated at the table, a cup of coffee before her, making notes in a notebook. There was a strange expression on her face, a curious combination of concentrated intensity and something like wistfulness.

She looked up as I hovered in the doorway, and it was too late to retreat.

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Ames.”

I would not have taken Isobel Van Allen for an early riser. She seemed to me the type of woman who would enjoy lounging about in her negligee until noon, but perhaps it was unfair of me to assume such things. She certainly was well turned out this morning. She wore a black, exquisitely cut suit, and her makeup was flawless. Her hair, too, was perfectly done. Eschewing the more current short styles, she wore it in a low chignon at the back of her neck. The sleek elegance of it suited her.

“Good morning, Miss Van Allen.”

I went to the sideboard. There were a great many dishes from which to choose. I settled on eggs, toast, and fruit, and poured myself a cup of coffee from the silver pot.

“I see we have beaten the others to breakfast,” I said, taking a seat at the table.

“I developed the habit of rising early in Kenya,” she replied. “I loved the sunrise. It was unlike anything on earth, I think, that bright orange globe setting everything it touched ablaze.”

There was a faraway expression in her eyes as she spoke and a note of tenderness in her voice. It was almost like the expression of a woman in love. Clearly, her adopted homeland had won her heart. I wondered once again what had really brought her back to England.

“You're wondering why I came back, I suppose,” she said, with somewhat uncanny accuracy.

I smiled. “Perhaps it's true that no place compares to home.”

She laughed, though there was more bitterness than humor in it. “Not at all, Mrs. Ames. England has no great appeal for me, not anymore. Especially in winter. I hate it.”

It was, at least, one thing that she and Desmond Roberts had in common.

“Then what brought you back? Surely you needn't have come to Lyonsgate to write your novel.” I was almost surprised to hear myself ask the question, but Miss Van Allen was a plainspoken woman, and I didn't suppose there was any reason that I shouldn't be the same.

She looked as though she was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she smiled. “I would much rather have stayed away, but one can't always follow one's heart, can one? Of course,” she went on, artfully shifting the subject, “you seem to have been lucky in that respect, Mrs. Ames. Milo seems very devoted to you.”

Since she had been out of the country for years, I didn't think this was meant as a spiteful reference to Milo's less-than-sterling reputation and our well-publicized marital troubles.

“We're very happy,” I said, and I meant it. These past few months had been some of the happiest of our marriage, and, for the first time in years, I felt that I had found my footing where Milo was concerned.

“Yes, I can see that you are. I've always thought it would take an extraordinary woman indeed to secure Milo Ames. I compliment you for having succeeded.”

It was an odd sort of accolade, but seemed to be a sincere one. I smiled. “Thank you.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “There was a time when I had hoped to find such happiness, but life often takes us in unexpected directions.” Her tone was not bitter, nor did it ask for pity. In fact, I was certain she would have despised the idea that she might elicit compassion.

This conversation was not going the way I had expected. Everything I had seen of her thus far had prepared me to dislike Isobel Van Allen completely. Now I felt the tug of some other emotion. It wasn't sympathy, exactly; she was not a woman who would require it. Yet I felt that she had revealed something of herself to me that was normally kept hidden beneath the flawless exterior. “It's never too late for happiness, surely,” I said lightly.

She looked at me, her gaze curiously intense. “Do you think it's necessary for people to pay for their sins, Mrs. Ames?” she asked.

I hesitated. “I believe redemption is possible,” I said at last.

Something flickered across her face. I might have mistaken it for contempt had I not been sure that there was a deep sadness in her eyes.

“I wish I could believe that,” she said, rising from her seat. “Sadly, I think sometimes it is too late, and all one can do is prepare to make the payment. Good day, Mrs. Ames.”

She walked from the room before I could formulate a reply, and I was left wondering just who it was that Isobel Van Allen thought had a debt to pay.

*   *   *

DULY NOURISHED, I
decided to pay a visit to Laurel's room before rousting my husband from bed.

I found my cousin wrapped in a robe of marigold-colored silk and drinking a cup of coffee near the fire, a tray of half-eaten breakfast on the table beside her.

“I couldn't bear to come down,” she said when I had seated myself across from her. “Not after what happened last night. I hadn't the stomach for it this morning. Was it as awful as one might suppose?”

“Apparently, nearly everyone felt the same as you did. It was only Miss Van Allen and me at breakfast.”

“Poor Amory. It was cruel of us to leave you alone with her. I'll attend lunch, I promise. Was she unbearable?”

“Not at all. She's a very interesting woman,” I said thoughtfully. “Laurel, will you tell me what happened that night?”

She didn't ask what night I meant. She was quiet for a moment, and then she set down her cup and saucer and pulled her robe more tightly around herself.

“I don't really know,” she said at last. “That's the dreadful thing. Not really knowing what happened, how things might have been different if we had behaved differently.”

Her voice trailed off for a moment, and I waited, giving her time to gather her recollections.

“It was after one of the long weekend parties. Almost everyone had gone back to London, and there was only the small group of us remaining. It was after dinner, quite late, but we were all in high spirits and in the mood for a bit of adventure. Someone—I don't remember who—had the idea that we might go out on the lake in the boats and we all seemed to think this was a grand idea. But we found the water was too frozen along the shore, and so we went into the summerhouse. Someone started a fire and there was a phonograph. It was Isobel's, I believe. There was a little desk in the summerhouse, and she would go there to write, even then. We were dancing, laughing. There had been a great deal of drinking, and other things.”

“Drugs.”

“Yes. You know I've never been interested in that sort of thing. In truth, the weekend was rather more excessive than I had expected. I'd had only a glass or two of wine at dinner, and I decided after a while to go back to the house. I went to my room and fell asleep. It wasn't until morning that I knew anything was amiss. I had just come down for breakfast when I heard Freida outside, running up from the summerhouse. She was screaming. Sometimes I still have nightmares about her screams.”

So it had been Freida Collins, the final guest who would arrive tomorrow with her husband, Phillip, who had discovered the body. Freida was the only one of the group, aside from Laurel, with whom I was acquainted. We had been at school together, but I had not spoken to her since before the tragedy. I wondered absently what she had been doing walking outside early on a cold morning after a wild night.

“We all ran outside to see what had happened,” Laurel continued, “all of us from different parts of the house, as if her shrieking was some sort of siren's song. Freida was hysterical, pointing in the direction of the summerhouse. We all ran down there and…”

She stopped, and I waited for her to collect her thoughts.

“And then we found him dead in the snow,” she said softly. “It was dreadful, Amory. He was so very white. And his eyes were open, staring. Such a ghastly expression on his face.”

She shuddered. She was clearly still deeply affected by what had happened.

“I'm sorry, dear. If you don't want to say anything more…”

She shook her head. “It's been a long time. Perhaps I should have talked about it before now.”

“What happened then?” I asked.

“It was Gareth who called the doctor. He called the police as well, I think. He was the only one of us who seemed to have any sense.”

I thought it surprising that the dreamy-eyed Mr. Winters should have been the one with enough presence of mind to send for the authorities.

“Was everyone there when they found him?”

“I … I think so. Freida had collapsed up at the house and didn't go back with us, and Phillip went back to look after her. I remember Bradford walked away and was sick. It was Beatrice who got a blanket from the summerhouse and covered Edwin. The rest of us just stood there until the doctor came.”