Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (59 page)

“Stock? His name is Stock?”

“Do you have anything suitable to wear?” Linda asked, ignoring the commentary.

“To see your stepmother? Of course not. I have wool slacks and pullovers and you’re wearing that slinky thing.”

“Then we’ll go upstairs and get you dressed. We can’t have Margaret thinking I dragged you in off the street.”

They left the study and ascended a central curved staircase to a long hall on the second floor. An Oriental runner covered the washed pine floorboards, and every five feet or so a round window set with colored panes shed streams of filtered light across the opposite wall.

“Nice little shack you got here, Lin,” Karen commented dryly.

“Oh, hush,” Linda said. “It’s not mine anyway, belongs to the family trust.”

“I’m impressed just the same.”

Linda opened a six-paneled door at the end of the passage. “We’ll see if we can’t find you something in here.”

“Here” was an entire room that looked like one big closet.

“What is this?” Karen asked, awed by the racks of clothes, the clear plastic drawers of shoes and hose.

“My dressing room.”

“And where’s the bedroom?”

“Through there.” She pointed to a door in one wall.

“I can’t believe you left this to live in three rooms on Almeria.”

“I was happier there,” Linda said, in such a desolate tone that Karen knew she was telling the truth.

“I can’t choose from so much,” Karen said, overwhelmed.

“I’ll do it. This suite was my mother’s before she died,” Linda said quietly. “When my father remarried he moved into the other wing with Margaret, and I took these rooms.”

“Does Margaret have children?” Karen asked.

Linda shook her head. “Which leaves all of her considerable time free to work on improving me,” she said sourly. “It’s her favorite hobby, next to cultivating her country house roses for the county prize and doing good works for the charity bazaars.”

Karen was staring at one of the racks, obviously not listening. Linda put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s tough. He’ll get through it in splendid shape.”

Karen nodded.

“I’m going to keep you so busy you won’t have a minute to think about it.”

Karen smiled. That would be busy, indeed.

Linda found Karen something to wear and then took her to meet the formidable Margaret, a perfectly coiffed and made up glacial blonde who looked as if she emerged, encased in plastic, from a doll box every morning. She barely tolerated Linda, although she was so exquisitely polite and deferential to the younger woman that only Linda’s reaction gave her away. Karen began to see that her presence in the house would provide Linda with a welcome ally, and she felt a little better about descending on her the way she had.

* * * *

Linda was as good as her word. For the next three weeks Karen joined in the whirl of social engagements that occupied Linda’s days, and at the end of it she had to dispute the term “idle rich.” These people were rich but they certainly were not idle. They spent most of their time working for charities, as if in expiation for their inherited wealth, and literally exhausted themselves with luncheons and teas and auctions to raise money for everything from the Kensington Orphans’ Home to the British War Veterans. Karen fell into bed at night dead tired and slept, but her first thought upon waking was always of Colter.

Karen had wired her sister Grace to let her know where she was, but as time went on she began to feel guilty about imposing on Linda’s hospitality. Linda, for her part, said that she wished the present arrangement could continue indefinitely. She had even taken to waving to the watchdog in the car across the street every time they went out of the house. After two weeks, sheepishly, he began to wave back.

From Colter, and of him, they had heard nothing.

At 7:30 one evening they were in Linda’s bedroom, dressing for a dinner party that Margaret was hosting. Linda’s father was away on government business but his wife was entertaining some of their friends in his absence. Linda was expected to put in an appearance, and Karen, as usual, had been pressed into service to accompany her.

“Linda, I don’t think I look right in this dress,” Karen observed, glancing at herself critically in her friend’s cheval mirror.

“Don’t be silly, darling. That Japanese style suits you perfectly.” Linda stepped into her shoes, turning from side to side on the Kirman rug to study the effect in the glass.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” Karen murmured. She sat on the edge of the ice blue quilted silk spread and began to brush her hair.

“Very intelligent of you to select it. If the English did calisthenics at lunchtime in the factories, perhaps we too could make microchips and beaded kimonos.”

“I’m too tall for it.”

“Nonsense. You’ re hardly a lumberjack.”

“But this is supposed to be a geisha type outfit.”

“So? You have little feet. That’s all you need. Nobody wears the white makeup anymore.”

Karen signed and looked away.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Linda said warningly.

Karen glanced back at her reflection. “The top is too bare.”

“All the better to expose those lovely shoulders. Some of these undersecretaries coming tonight are decidedly libidinous, despite their scholarly appearance. They may not be able to talk about anything but the Labour Party and the Falklands War but their instincts are still in the right place.”

Karen didn’t answer.

Linda’s eyes met Karen’s in the mirror. “I perceive that I’m not amusing you.”

“I’m sorry, Lin. It’s just... it’s been three weeks.”

“If you say that once more, I’m going to make you stand in a corner and face the wall. You keep announcing ‘It’s been three weeks’ like the town crier giving the time. Along with ‘I should go home’ and ‘I have to get a job.’ It’s boring, darling.”

“I’m worried.”

“I know, and I’m as concerned as you are. But you know very well that you’re trapped here as long as Colter is on this mission. If you tried to leave that person watching this house would have something to say about it, and we don’t want to arouse his interest, do we? So you might as well relax and wait it out and try to enjoy yourself in the meantime.”

“How can I enjoy myself when Colter is... I don’t know what he is, or where.”

“And that’s exactly my point. Why fret about something over which you have no control?” Linda tugged at the bodice of her strapless gown. “This thing is killing me already; I’ll never last the evening. Oh well, no matter, maybe it’ll give me an excuse to bow out early. I’ll say my underwire is coming undone.” She chuckled, turning her head to admire an earring.

“I keep thinking every day that something will happen soon,” Karen said unhappily.

Linda shrugged. “Springing people out of jail takes time. He can’t just march up to the gates and say, ‘Release your prisoner immediately; Karen is waiting for me.’” She went to the window and peered out across the lawn. “Maybe we should ask our friend the spy to the party.”

“What if something’s gone wrong?” Karen asked, still pursuing the same line of conversation.

“Then our watchdog friend wouldn’t still be with us,” Linda replied logically. “He’s waiting too, just like we are. Right?”

“Right,” Karen agreed resignedly.

“So cheer up and help me get through this. It’s time we went downstairs and faced the gathering of ghouls Margaret has assembled. Wait until you meet Peter Mainwaring.”

“What’s his story?” Karen asked, following Linda out of the bedroom and into the hall.

“He has none. That’s why I can’t wait for you to meet him. The man does nothing but mumble and stare into his sherry glass like a zombie. Which he could easily be mistaken for, incidentally, except for the rise and fall of his chest, indicating breathing and forcing me to conclude that he is, in fact, alive.”

“I suppose Margaret has seated you next to him.”

“No, darling, she’s seated
you
next to him,” Linda informed her, with obvious enjoyment. “Let it be a challenge to you. I have heard that he can occasionally be drawn out on the subject of horses, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.” They walked down the staircase and heard the sound of chatter floating toward them from the salon on the first floor.

“Linda, I know nothing about horses.”

“That should make you a good match for him since he knows nothing at all.”

“He can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, I assure you, he is. This is really a choice group, a definite coup for Margaret, who has in her time been known to orchestrate the most deadly assemblies since the Montague boys attended the Capulet ball.”

“Nobody interesting will be here?”

“Interesting? Well, George Mortimer’s mother shot his father about ten years ago, if you call that interesting. Of course, no one discusses such an unfortunate incident—very bad form, you understand.”

“Is that really true?” Karen asked, momentarily nonplussed.

“Certainly. There’s also the matter of Lucy Forrester’s insane husband, but again, don’t bring it up over the savory.”

“‘Insane husband’?” Karen said faintly. They had paused in the front hall and were conversing in hushed tones.

“Crackers, darling, absolutely mad as a hatter. Locked up in one of those expensive loony bins lined with cotton wool and hidden behind a stand of Lombardy poplars. I hear he still thinks it’s World War II, and every time a fire siren goes off he crawls under the bed to hide during the air raid.”

Karen bit her lip.

“Oh, you may well laugh at our little eccentricities. If you think that’s funny, I won’t tell you about Margaret’s brother, the painter, who moved to Paris when he was twenty and has been painting the Louvre ever since.”

“His painting is in the Louvre?”

“No, dear, just what I said. He’s been painting the exterior of it, great beastly canvases filled with acrylic gobs that no one can stand to look at, much less buy.”

“But how does he live?”

“On his trust fund, of course—how does anyone live? Just don’t mention him to Margaret. He’s a sore spot in a family that has quite a few of them, take my word for it. Her parents, who comprise another subject I won’t get into, managed to raise the most amazing goblin brood you ever saw in your life. Margaret is a brick by comparison with the rest of them. Stick to the weather and the food and the shocking conditions of our British rail system. That should exhaust her mentally in no time and let you off the hook, as you Americans say.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Karen murmured.

“Of course you are. If I can stand it so can you. They all look harmless; you’d never guess what was going on if you judged by appearances. Just make polite chat, like the well bred young lady you are, and they’ll all be wild for you.” She tugged on Karen’s hand and managed to hustle her along the hall.

Karen had to agree that Linda’s assessment of the situation was correct. Margaret’s guests were perfectly behaved and said the right things, and if Karen hadn’t heard the gossip in advance she never would have guessed the truth. Peter Mainwaring
was
a bore, but all she had to do was nod enthusiastically when he made an infrequent comment in an accent she could barely decipher and he seemed satisfied. Karen knew so little about British politics, “the Royals,” or the races, which were the main topics of conversation, that she was forced into the role of agreeable dummy, seconding everything anyone said. Her jaw ached from smiling. She was taking a break, standing by the ormolu clock in the front hall while the after dinner drinks were served, when Linda found her.

“Ah-ha,” Linda said. “Just as I suspected. You managed to tear yourself away from Peter, you clever girl.”

“Please don’t make me go back in there yet. I’m ready to do a tap dance down the center of the table to give them something new to talk about.”

“I take it you’ve already covered the trompe l’oeil Zuber wallpaper and the Turkish carpet,” Linda said sarcastically.

“I can give you chapter and verse on the wallpaper. It depicts India during the sixth century, was made from the original blocks cut during the early nineteen hundreds, and was hidden in a cave during the blitz, which explains the moss stains on the seams.”

“My, you have been listening. Margaret is very proud of that paper, outbid a couple of old crones from the historical society to get it, though I can’t think why. It seems a moldy depiction of a child’s nightmare to me. Even the bananas look wrong, like yellow balloons.”

“I’ll see it in my dreams tonight,” Karen sighed.

“Psst, they’ve found us,” Linda hissed dramatically as Margaret, wearing her nailed on smile, appeared in the doorway of the dining room and gestured for them to join her.

They went back in to the party. Karen accepted a glass of sherry, taking a sip while Linda, wearing a numbed expression, listened to a Mrs. Merriwether tell her about her daughter’s special school. Karen was certain that it was a wonderful school, perfectly suited to the child’s exceptional abilities, but didn’t stay to hear about it. She wandered off to a corner to occupy herself by licking the top layer off a selection of petits fours. There she was joined by George Mortimer, who proceeded to inform her of the evils of refined sugar while she was wolfing down the fondant icing. She put the last confection on a tray and smiled at him weakly.