Murder at the Brightwell E-Book

Ashley Weaver

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Amory Ames
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 452

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

1932, Devon. Amory Ames is glamorous, wealthy and unhappily married to notoriously charming playboy Milo. She willingly accepts her former fiancé Gil Trent's plea for help in preventing his sister Emmeline from meeting a similar matrimonial fate. Amory accompanies Gil to The Brightwell, the sprawling seaside resort where Emmeline and her fiancé, the impeccably groomed, disreputable cad Rupert Howe are holidaying, along with the other rich and sumptuously-dressed guests. Champagne flows but the sparkle soon fades as a dark and unresolved history between Gil and Rupert surfaces. After a late night quarrel the luxurious hotel is one guest fewer by morning. When Gil is arrested for murder Amory is determined to defend his innocence. But if she's right, the killer is still in their midst - can she prove it before she, too, becomes a victim? And what of the unexpected arrival of Milo? Extravagance, scoundrels and red-herrings abound as Amory draws closer to discovering the murderer - as well as love.

Leseprobe

MURDER AT THE BRIGHTWELL

ASHLEY WEAVER

To my parents, Dan and DeAnn Weaver, for their unfailing love and support

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorBy Ashley WeaverCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Kent, England 1932

It is an impossibly great trial to be married to a man one loves and hates in equal proportions.

It was late June and I was dining alone in the breakfast room when Milo blew in from the south.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, brushing a light kiss across my cheek. He dropped into the seat beside me and began buttering a piece of toast, as though it had been two hours since I had seen him last, rather than two months.

I took a sip of coffee. ‘Hello, Milo. How good of you to drop in.’

‘You’re looking well, Amory.’

I had thought the same of him. His time on the Riviera had obviously served him well. His skin was smooth and golden, setting off the bright blue of his eyes. He was wearing a dark grey suit, lounging in that casual way he had of looking relaxed and at home in expensive and impeccably tailored clothes.

‘I hadn’t expected to see you back so soon,’ I said. His last letter, an offhanded attempt at keeping me informed of his whereabouts, had arrived three weeks before and hinted at the fact that he should probably not return home until late July.

‘Monte Carlo grew so tedious; I simply had to get away.’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Nothing to replace the dull routine of roulette, champagne, and beautiful women like a rousing jaunt to your country house for toast and coffee with your wife.’

Without really meaning to do so, I had poured a cup of coffee, two sugars, no milk, and handed it to him.

‘You know, I believe I’ve missed you, Amory.’

He looked me in the eyes then and smiled. Despite myself, I nearly caught my breath. He had that habit, of startling, dazzling one with his sudden and complete attention.

Grimes, our butler, appeared at the door just then. ‘Someone to see you in the morning room, Madam.’ He did not acknowledge Milo. Grimes, it had long been apparent, was no great admirer of my husband. He treated him with just enough respect that his obvious distaste should not cross the boundary into impropriety.

‘Thank you, Grimes. I will go to the morning room directly.’

‘Very good, Madam.’ He disappeared as noiselessly as he had come.

The fact that Grimes’ announcement had been so vague as to keep Milo in the dark as to the identity of my visitor was not lost on my husband. He turned to me and smiled as he buttered a second piece of toast. ‘Have I interrupted a tryst with your secret lover by my unexpected arrival?’

I set my napkin down and rose. ‘I have no secrets from you, Milo.’ I turned as I reached the door and flashed his smile back at him. ‘If I had a lover, I would certainly inform you of it.’

On my way to the morning room, I stopped at the large gilt mirror in the hallway to be sure the encounter with my wayward husband had not left me looking as askew as I felt. My reflection looked placidly back at me, grey eyes calm, waved dark hair in place, and I was reassured.

It took time, I had learnt, to prepare myself for Milo. Unfortunately, he did not often oblige me by giving notice of his arrival.

I reached the door to the morning room, wondering who my visitor might be. Grimes’ mysterious announcement was a reflection on my husband’s presence, not the presence of my visitor, so I would not have been surprised to find as commonplace a guest as my cousin Laurel behind the solid oak door. I entered the room and found myself surprised for the second time that morning.

The man seated on the white Louis XVI sofa was not my cousin Laurel. He was, in fact, my former fiancé.

‘Gil.’

‘Hello, Amory.’ He had risen from his seat as I entered and we stared at one another.

Gilmore Trent and I had known each other for years and had been engaged for all of a month when I had met Milo. The two men could not have been more different. Gil was fair; Milo was dark. Gil was calm and reassuring; Milo was reckless and exciting. In comparison to Milo’s charming unpredictability, Gil’s steadiness had seemed dull. Young fool that I had been, I had chosen illusion over substance. Gil had taken it well, wished me happiness in that sincere way of his, and that was the last that I had seen of him. Until now.

‘How have you been?’ I asked, moving forward to take his hand. His grip was warm and firm, familiar.

‘Quite well. And you? You look wonderful. Haven’t changed a bit.’ He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and I felt instantly at ease. He was still the same old Gil.

I motioned to the sofa. ‘Sit down. Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps breakfast?’

‘No, no. Thank you. I realise I have already imposed upon you, dropping in unannounced as I have.’

A pair of blue silk-upholstered chairs sat across from him, and I sank into one, somehow glad Grimes had chosen the intimate morning room over one of the more ostentatious sitting rooms. ‘Nonsense. I’m delighted to see you.’ I realised that I meant it. It was awfully good to see him. Gil had kept out of society and I had wondered, more than once, in the five years since my marriage what had become of him.

‘It’s good to see you too, Amory.’ He was looking at me attentively, trying to determine, I supposed, how the years had changed me. Despite his claim that I was still the same, I knew the woman before him was quite different from the girl he had once known.

Almost without realising it, I had been appraising him as well. Five years seemed to have altered him very little. Gil was very good-looking in a solid and conventional sort of way, not stunning in the same sense as Milo, but very handsome. He had dark blond hair and smooth, pleasant features. His eyes were a light, warm brown, with chocolaty flecks drawn out today by his brown tweed suit.

‘I should have written to you before my visit,’ he went on, ‘but, to tell the truth … I wasn’t sure you would see me.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ I smiled, suddenly happy to be sitting here with an old friend, despite what had passed between us. ‘After all, the bad behaviour was entirely on my part. I am surprised that you would care to see me.’

‘All water under the bridge.’ He leant forward slightly, lending sincerity to his words. ‘I told you at the time, there was no one to blame.’

‘That is kind of you, Gil.’

He spoke lightly, but his lips twitched up at the corners as though his mouth could not quite decide if he was serious, could not quite support a smile. ‘Yes. Well, one can’t stop love, can one?’

‘No.’ My smile faded. ‘One can’t.’

He leant back in his seat then, dismissing the intimacy of the moment. ‘How is Milo?’

‘He’s very well. He returned only this morning from the Riviera.’

‘Yes, I had read something about his being in Monte Carlo in the society columns.’ I could only imagine what it might have been. Within six months of my marriage I had learnt it was better not to know what the society columns said about Milo.

For just a moment the spectre of my husband hung between us in the air.

I picked up the box of cigarettes on the table and offered one to him, knowing he didn’t smoke. To my surprise, he accepted, pulling a lighter from his pocket. He touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘What have you been doing these past few years?’ I asked, immediately wondering if the question was appropriate. It seemed that some shadow of the past tainted nearly every topic. I knew that he had left England for a time after we had parted ways. Perhaps his travel since our parting was not something he wished to discuss. After all, there had been a time when we had travelled together. In the old days, before either of us had ever thought of marriage, our families had often been thrown together on various holidays abroad, and Gil and I had become fast friends and confidants. He had good-naturedly accompanied me in searching out scenic spots or exploring ancient ruins, and our evenings had been occupied by keeping one another company in hotel sitting rooms as our parents frequented foreign nightspots until dawn. Sometimes I still thought fondly of our adventures together and of those long, comfortable conversations before the fire.

He blew out a puff of smoke. ‘I’ve travelled some. Kept busy.’

‘I expect you enjoyed seeing more of the world. Do you remember the time we were in Egypt …’

He sat forward suddenly, grounding out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the table. ‘Look here, Amory. I might as well tell you why I’ve come.’

Years of practise in hiding my thoughts allowed me to keep my features from registering surprise at his sudden change of manner. ‘Certainly.’

He looked me in the eyes. ‘I’ve come to ask a favour.’

‘Of course, Gil. I’d be happy to do anything …’

He held up a hand. ‘Hear me out, before you say yes.’ He was agitated about something, uneasy, so unlike his normally-contained self.

He stood and walked to the window, gazing out into the green lawn that went on and on before ending abruptly at the lake that marked the eastern boundary of the property.

I waited, knowing it would do little good to press him. Gil wouldn’t speak until he was ready. I wondered if perhaps he had come to ask me for money. The Trents were well-off, but the recent economic difficulties had been far-reaching and more than a few of my friends had found themselves in very reduced circumstances. If that was the case, I would be only too happy to help.

‘I don’t need money, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he said, his back still to me.

Despite the tension of the situation, I laughed. ‘Still reading my mind.’

He turned, regarding me with a solemn expression. ‘It’s not so hard to read your mind, but your eyes are harder to read than they used to be.’

‘Concealment comes with practise,’ I replied.

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ He walked back to the sofa and sat down.

When he spoke, his tone had returned to normal. ‘Have you seen anything of Emmeline these past years?’

I wondered briefly if he had decided not to ask me the favour, reverting instead to polite conversation. Emmeline was Gil’s sister. She was younger than me by three years and been away at school in France during much of our acquaintance, but we had been friends. After my engagement to Gil had ended, however, Emmeline and I had drifted apart.

‘Once or twice at London affairs,’ I answered.

‘Was she … do you remember the chap she was with?’

I cast my mind back to the last society dinner at which I had seen Emmeline Trent. There had been a young man, handsome and charming, if I recalled correctly. Something about my memory of him nagged at me, and I tried to recall what it was.

‘I remember him,’ I said. ‘His name was Rupert something-or-other.’

‘Rupert Howe, yes. She plans to marry him.’

I said nothing. There was more to come; that much was certain.

‘He’s not a good sort, Amory. I’m sure of it.’

‘That may be, Gil,’ I said gently, ‘but, after all, Emmeline is a grown woman.’ Emmeline would be twenty-three by now, older than I had been when I married.

‘It’s not like that, Amory. It isn’t just that I don’t like the fellow. It’s that I don’t trust him. There’s something … I don’t know …’ His voice trailed off and he looked up at me. ‘Emmeline has always liked you, looked up to you. I thought that, perhaps …’

Was this why he had come? I had no influence on Emmeline. ‘If she won’t listen to you,’ I said, ‘whatever makes you think she will care what I have to say?’

He paused, and I could see that he was formulating his words, planning out what he would say. Gil had always been like that, careful to think before speaking. ‘There’s a large party going down to the southern coast tomorrow. Emmeline and Rupert, and several other people I’m sure you know. We’ll be staying at the Brightwell Hotel. I came to ask you if you would go, on the pretext of a holiday.’

I was surprised at the invitation. I had not seen Gil in five years and suddenly here he was, asking me to take a trip to the seaside. ‘I still don’t understand. What can I do, Gil? Why come to me?’

‘I … Amory,’ his eyes came up to mine, the brown flecks darker than they had been. ‘I want you to accompany me … to appear to be with me. You understand?’

I did understand him, just as easily as I once had. I saw just what he meant. I was to go with him to the seaside, to give the impression that I had left Milo. That my marriage had been a mistake. Emmeline had seen the society columns, the reports of my husband gallivanting across Europe without me; she would believe it.

I suddenly comprehended that there would be good reason for me to talk to Emmeline, how I would have authority when Gil didn’t.

Gil had said he didn’t trust Rupert Howe. I knew he was right. I knew Gil had seen in Rupert the same thing that had caught my attention when I had met him.

Emmeline’s Rupert had reminded me of Milo.

My decision was almost immediate. ‘I should be delighted to come,’ I said. ‘I should like to keep Emmeline from making a mistake, if I possibly can.’

Gil smiled warmly, relief washing across his features, and I found myself returning the smile. The prospect of a week at the seaside in the company of old friends was not an unappealing one, at that.

Of course, had I known the mayhem that awaited, I may have been a bit more reluctant to offer my services.

CHAPTER TWO

Gil left immediately, declining my offer to stay even for lunch.

I walked him to the door, and there was an easy silence between us, the companionability of shared conspiracy.

He took my hand as we stepped out onto the drive and into the warm morning light. ‘If you don’t want to do this, you have only to say so. I have no right to ask anything of you, Amory. It’s just that I knew at once that you would understand.’ He offered me a slightly unsteady smile as the past resurfaced. ‘And I seem to recall that you were always keen on a bit of adventure.’

I had been once. Gil had teased me for my sense of daring, my daydreams of great exploits. However, life so seldom became what we expected it to be; adventure had been very sparse these past few years.

‘I am happy to do what I can, Gil. Truly.’

He brushed his thumb lightly over my hand. ‘What will you tell your husband?’

‘I don’t know that I’ll tell him anything.’ I smiled weakly. ‘He probably won’t notice I’m gone.’

Gil’s eyes flickered over my shoulder. ‘I’m not so certain of that.’

I didn’t turn around, but instead leant to brush a kiss across his cheek. ‘Goodbye, Gil. I’ll see you soon.’

He released my hand as he turned towards his motorcar, a blue Crossley coupe. ‘Yes, soon.’

I watched his car as it drove down the long driveway; I didn’t turn around even as I sensed Milo behind me.

‘That was Gil Trent, wasn’t it?’

I turned then. Milo was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his pose as casual as his tone had been. He was wearing riding clothes, a white shirt under a black jacket and fawn-coloured trousers tucked into shining black boots. The picture of a country gentleman.

‘Yes. It was.’

One dark brow moved upward, ever so slightly. ‘Well. Did you ask him to stay for lunch?’

‘He didn’t care to.’

He tapped his riding crop against his leg. ‘Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to be here.’

‘Yes, well, you do flit about, darling.’

We looked at one another for a moment. If Milo was waiting for more, he was going to be disappointed. I had no desire to satisfy his curiosity. Let him wonder what I was up to for once.

‘Going riding?’ I asked breezily, moving past him and into the shadowed entryway. His voice followed me into the dimness.

‘Care to join me?’

The invitation stopped me, and I was instantly irritated with myself. I turned. The light behind him in the doorway turned him to shadow, but I could tell he was watching me.

I wanted to go, but I knew that it really mattered very little to Milo if I did or not.

He waited.

‘All right,’ I said at last, weakening. ‘I’ll just run up and change.’

‘I’ll wait for you at the stables.’

I went up to my room, preoccupied by the morning’s strange turn of events. Fancy Gil Trent coming to see me, after all this time. There had been something a bit mysterious in his manner. I wondered if things were as straightforward as he had made them seem. Could there really be something so very wrong with Rupert Howe? I tried again to remember the young man, but could recall only a fleeting impression of suave attractiveness. I hoped that Gil was merely playing the role of overprotective brother, but I knew that he was not inclined to exaggeration, nor would he have judged Rupert Howe harshly without good reason.

Good reason or not, I reflected, it was likely a lost cause. I was not under any illusions that I would somehow be able to deter Emmeline from her course if she had truly determined to wed the man, but I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to try.

However, if I were honest, I had to admit that part of me had urged on my acceptance of Gil’s proposal for motives that were not entirely altruistic. The truth was that I was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the fact that I was terribly unhappy. Perhaps I had not admitted it completely, even to myself, until today.

It was as if Milo’s homecoming, Gil’s arrival, or some combination of the two had ignited within me the sudden realisation that my lifestyle had become dissatisfying as of late. Though I stayed as busy as possible, there was only so much for which involvement in local charities could compensate. London had felt stifling these past few months, but I was still too young to have settled seamlessly into quiet country life. In short, I was unsure what I wanted. Perhaps aiding Gil would help to alleviate my recent malaise, allow me the satisfaction of usefulness, however temporary it might be.

There was, of course, my reputation to be considered. I had agreed to accompany Gil with little thought to any possible consequences, social or otherwise. Now that I had time to reflect, I was perfectly aware of how it would look for me to accompany him to the seaside, no matter how many of our mutual acquaintances would be there. If I wasn’t careful, scandal could quite conceivably ensue. Yet I found suddenly that I didn’t really care. It was no one’s business but my own what I chose to do.

I had changed into my riding costume, ivory-coloured trousers and a dark blue jacket, and I stopped before the full length mirror, noticing the way that the trousers and well-cut jacket outlined my figure, how the colour of the jacket seemed to breathe a bit of blue into my grey eyes. Milo had, in fact, bought these clothes for me. His taste was impeccable, if expensive, and the costume’s overall suitability to my shape and colouring were indicative of his affinity for detail when it came to the fairer sex.

I wondered what Milo would think of my little holiday, but I pushed the thought away. He did as he pleased. There was no reason why I should not do the same.

My mental reservations systematically overruled, I went downstairs to meet my husband for our morning ride.

I arrived at the stables as he was leading out his horse, Xerxes, a huge black Arabian with a notorious temper. Only Milo could ride him, and the horse seemed excited at the prospect of a jaunt with his master, stamping his feet and snorting as he walked into the sunshine.

I watched my husband as he spoke to the horse, patting its sleek neck, the glossy black mane the same colour as Milo’s own coal-dark hair. There was a smile on Milo’s face, and it remained there when he saw me approaching. He was happy to be home again, if only so that he was near the stables. If there was one thing Milo genuinely loved, it was his horses.

Geoffrey, the groom, led my horse Paloma out of the stable behind them. She was a smooth chestnut with white forelegs and face, and she was as sweet as Xerxes was temperamental.

I patted her soft nose as I approached. ‘Hello, old girl. Ready for a ride?’

Milo turned to me. ‘Shall we?’

We mounted up and set off at a brisk trot.

I felt some of the tension of the morning slip away as we rode in comfortable silence. The weather was warm, with a soft breeze, and the sun beamed down, unhindered, save for the presence of the occasional fluffy white cloud. Really, the scene was almost idyllic.

Milo looked at me suddenly and flashed me a grin that I felt in my stomach. ‘I’ll race you to the rise.’

I didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s go, Paloma.’ A slight nudge with my heels was all it took, and she was off, racing across the open field as though she had heard the opening shot at Epsom Downs.

Xerxes took no prodding and we flew, side by side. It had been a long time since we had done this. The rise lay across the field, as the flat land gave way to a set of low, wooded hills. By crossing the field and riding upward, along a path that angled to the north and then westward, like a horseshoe on its side, you came to an outcropping that looked out across the estate. Milo and I had shared many an evening on that rise in the very early days of our marriage. It had been at least a year since I had set foot there.

The race was a close one. Xerxes had brute strength, but Paloma was lithe and sure-footed. Xerxes outpaced us across the field, but the path upward allowed Paloma to pull ahead, and by the time we reached the rise, I was a length or two ahead.

I reined in Paloma as I reached the giant oak, our finish line, just as Xerxes charged up behind us.

‘I’ve won!’ I cried. The exhilaration of it all hit me and I laughed. Milo laughed too, a sound both strange and familiar, like hearing a melody you once loved but had forgotten existed.

‘You’ve won,’ he conceded. ‘You and that blasted docile horse of yours.’

He dismounted in one fluid motion, tossing Xerxes’ lead across the low-hanging branch of a tree. He moved to my side and reached up to help me dismount.

His hands remained for a moment on my waist as my feet hit the ground, and we looked at one another. There was a momentary flicker of heat there, lingering between us, and the uncanny sensation that things were as they once were and we still loved one another.

But, then, I was not sure that Milo had ever loved me at all.

I stepped past him, securing Paloma’s lead, and then began to walk up the slight incline to the tip of the rise. Below me, Thornecrest, the imposing country house and manicured grounds that had been in Milo’s father’s sanctuary, spread out before us. It was a large, grand property, and Milo kept it up beautifully. Whatever qualities he lacked as a husband, he did not show the same neglect to his heritage.

Milo walked up to stand beside me, not quite close enough to touch. Standing here, looking out across the land with my husband at my side brought back memories of times here that I would rather have forgotten. No, that was a lie. I didn’t want to forget. But it hurt to remember.

I was not sure what had brought on this fit of melancholy, but I suspected it had something to do with Gil’s visit. Though I had tried to suppress such thoughts, I had remembered Gil more than once over the past few years and wondered what might have been.

‘A lovely day for riding,’ I said. It was true, but the words sounded flat, and it seemed they hung heavily in the air.

If Milo noticed the strange aloofness that had arisen between us, he gave no sign of it. ‘Yes, though the paths up the rise are a bit overgrown. I’ll speak to Nelson about it.’

I said nothing. For some reason, I could not seem to conjure up my usual equanimity where Milo was concerned. We were usually so easy with one another; even the distance that had grown between us had developed into an artificial joviality. However, I felt there was something different about this moment, as though it was building to some climax of which I was unsure.

I was uneasy, but my disquiet, the way my heartbeat increased in peculiar anticipation, appeared to be lost on Milo. He was never uneasy. He was always so calm, so very sure of himself, and because of this, Gil’s visit had had no impact.

‘The Riviera was beautiful,’ he continued with characteristic nonchalance, plucking a leaf off a nearby tree and examining it disinterestedly before tossing it away, ‘though not as warm as I like. I thought perhaps we might go back in August, when it’s warmed up.’

‘No.’ I said it so suddenly, so forcibly, it took me a moment to realise that I had spoken. And then I knew what else I would say.

Milo turned. ‘No? You don’t want to visit Monte Carlo?’

‘No. Because, you see, I’m taking a trip.’

‘One of your little excursions with Laurel?’ He smiled. ‘Well, I dare say you’ll be back by August.’

‘You don’t understand, Milo,’ I said. I took a breath, smoothed my features, made my voice calm and sure. ‘I’m going away, and I’m not sure when I shall be back.’

We did not dine together that evening.

Milo had been surprised, I think, by my proclamation on the rise, but he had not protested, had not even really questioned me. I had said what I had to say, that I was going away for a time, and then I had mounted Paloma and ridden back to the house alone. He didn’t follow me, and I didn’t know what time he had come back.

I spent most of the day laying out my things for the trip and drawing up a list of details for Grimes to tend to in my absence. Though it gave me something to occupy my time, the list was really unnecessary. Grimes was a treasure. Without my requesting it, he brought me a tray to my room, and, mostly to please him, I ate a little and drank a good deal of strong tea.

It was nearly dark when the knock sounded. I knew instantly that it was Milo. Grimes’ knock was softer, much more deferential. Milo’s confidence came through in his rap at my door, as though it was a mere formality and the door would open with or without my consent.

‘Come in.’ My back was to him, and I continued to pack as he entered and shut the door behind him.

The irony of our being here together in my room was not lost on me. We had not shared a bedroom for several months. He had come back from one of his trips quite late one night and slept in the adjoining room to keep from waking me. Late home the following night as well, he had slept there again. Neither of us said anything about the arrangement, and he had stayed there. We had become adept at not addressing the steadily growing distance between us.

‘Packing, I see,’ he said, when I didn’t acknowledge him.

‘Yes.’ I folded a yellow dress and set it in the suitcase on my bed.

‘You didn’t say where you’re going.’

‘Does it matter?’

He was beside me now, leaning against one of the bedposts, observing my preparations in a disinterested sort of way.

‘How long will you be gone?’ His tone was indicative of total indifference. I was not even sure why he had bothered to come and enquire.

I straightened and turned to look at him. He was closer than I had expected. His eyes were so very blue, even in the poor light of my room. ‘So much concern, so suddenly,’ I said airily. ‘I’m quite grown up, you know. You needn’t worry about me.’

‘Are you sure one suitcase will be enough?’

‘I’ll send for my things if I need them.’

He sat on my bed, beside the suitcase, absurdly handsome as he looked up at me. ‘Look here, Amory. What is this about? Why all the secrecy?’ His tone was light and I wondered briefly if it would even matter to him if I should leave for good.

‘You needn’t overdramatise things,’ I said, deliberately evading his question. ‘You travel about as you please. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘No reason, I suppose. Although, I hadn’t expected you to leave as soon as I arrived home. The house will be rather empty without you.’

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It was typical of Milo to behave as though I were the one who had little interest in our marriage. It was also typical of him to do what he was doing now: inserting himself into my life with the full force of his charm when it was convenient for him and inconvenient for me.

‘I didn’t know you were arriving home,’ I said.

‘Yes, I know.’ His eyes came up to mine. ‘And I don’t think you knew you were leaving either.’

‘Meaning what?’

He picked up a black silk nightgown from my open suitcase, absently rubbing the fabric between his fingers. ‘This has something to do with Trent, doesn’t it? With his visit today.’

‘You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Has he been coming here often?’

‘Not very,’ I answered, only a little ashamed of my purposefully vague answer.

He favoured me with a smirk that somehow managed to be becoming. ‘Whatever you may think of me, my dear, I am not a fool.’ Languid amusement played at the corners of his mouth. ‘So Gilmore Trent rode down here on his steed and swept you off your feet, victorious at last. He took rather a long time about it.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Milo,’ I said, snatching the nightgown from where his fist had closed around it.

He let out a short laugh. ‘For pity’s sake, Amory. You can’t seriously mean to run off with him.’

I shut the suitcase, pressing the clasps into place with a unified click, and looked at Milo. ‘I am not running off with anyone. I am taking a trip.’

He rose from the bed, his features a mask of wry indifference. ‘Leave me if you must, darling. But don’t go crawling back to Trent, of all people. Surely you must have some pride.’

My eyes met his. ‘I have been married to you for five years, Milo. How much pride can I possibly have left?’

CHAPTER THREE

I had our driver drop me at the station early the next morning. I’d had a wire from Gil saying that he would take the morning train from London and meet me when I changed trains at the next stop so we could ride down to the coast together.

I hadn’t expected Milo to see me off, but I was a bit disappointed that I saw nothing of him before I left. Then again, I hadn’t anticipated a fond farewell. My comment about the state in which our ravaged marriage had left my pride had been rude, if true.

Of course, he had taken it in stride. He had laughed and said in that terribly cool and indifferent way of his, ‘Very well, darling. Do as you wish.’ And then he had risen and left the room, and that had been that.

I stopped on my way to the station to bid farewell to my cousin Laurel and to explain to her the reason behind my sudden departure. Laurel and I had grown up together and were the closest of friends. She was the single person in whom I felt I could freely confide.

‘A trip to the seaside with Gil Trent?’ she asked, brows raised as we sat in her parlour. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you, Amory.’

‘I may just surprise us all,’ I answered. ‘Perhaps I have a reckless streak none of us has foreseen.’

We were joking, of course, but her final assessment of the situation was accurate. ‘Helping an old friend or not, this certainly can’t improve things between you and Milo.’

‘I sometimes wonder if anything will,’ I said.

The thought troubled me as I reached the station, but I did not allow myself time for further reflection as the train moved over the landscape. First and foremost, I was to help my friend. Gil was depending on me. My marriage woes had lasted this long; they could wait a bit longer.

I switched to the southbound train at Tonbridge station, and a few moments later Gil found me in my compartment and dropped onto the seat beside me as the train set back into motion.

‘Hello,’ he said. He smiled then, brightly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Amory.’

‘I told you I would come, Gil.’

He removed his hat and tossed it on the empty seat facing us, brushing his fingers through his hair. ‘Yes, I knew you had every intention of coming.’ He spoke ruefully. ‘But one must never underestimate the persuasive powers of Milo Ames.’

‘Let’s not talk about Milo, shall we?’

‘I have no desire to talk about your husband,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you to be hurt. Was he angry with you?’

‘No,’ I answered with a sigh. ‘Milo doesn’t get angry. I don’t think it much matters to him that I’ve gone.’

Gil was silent for a moment. ‘Have you left him?’ he asked at last.

‘I hadn’t realised how inclined to melodrama men are,’ I said. ‘No, I haven’t really left him. Not completely, I suppose. I told him I was taking a trip to the seaside.’

‘Did you tell him you were going with me?’

I picked up the magazine I had been reading and flipped it open to a random page, ready to be done with this conversation. ‘Milo’s very clever, really. He just pretends to be glib because others find it charming. Naturally, he made the connection between your visit and my going away.’

‘And he didn’t try to stop you from coming?’

‘No. He didn’t.’

Gil shook his head and smiled wryly. ‘Then he really isn’t as clever as you believe him to be.’

The train pulled into the station that afternoon, and the weather was lovely. The sun shone brightly, and the warm air smelt of sea and salt. Standing on the platform, I breathed deeply and felt, for just a moment, that sense of wellbeing I had felt as a small child at the seaside, perfect happiness and contentment.

‘Here’s the car.’ Gil led me to the sleek blue automobile that the hotel had sent to collect us. We pulled away from the station and followed a road that led gradually upward, passing through the thriving village as we went.

‘There it is,’ Gil said a moment later, pointing to the top of the hill.

The Brightwell Hotel sat on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was a lovely white building, sprawling, sturdy and somehow elegant at the same time. There was something stately about the place, but welcoming as well. It looked as though it would be equally suited to princes or pirates, the sort of place one could be proud of visiting without been perceived to be too fond of squandering one’s money. These days a good many people frowned upon unnecessary lavishness.

Gil and I emerged from the car and moved together up the walk, stepping through the door into the hotel. The interior was as pleasing to the eye as the exterior had been. The lobby was a large spacious room with a desk directly facing the doors. The floors were of gleaming white marble, and light filtered in through the numerous windows, bouncing off the yellow walls, infusing the room with a warm glow. There was a good deal of furniture in white and various shades of blue, scattered artfully about, with very deliberate carelessness. A potted plant or two, strategically placed, added to the overall effect.

As Gil collected our room keys, I felt I could spend quite a happy week in this place.

‘Why, if it isn’t Amory Ames!’ A high, almost shrill voice called out across the lobby. I turned and saw a woman in an outrageous hat and brightly-coloured clothes soaring towards me like a parrot in flight.

‘Oh dear,’ said Gil and I in unison.

Yvonne Roland, terror of London society, descended upon us.

‘Amory, Amory darling!’ she clutched my arms and brushed kisses an inch away from each of my cheeks, the scent of talcum powder and roses enveloping me. ‘It’s been ages … Since before my last husband died, I think … or maybe just before … Poor dear Harold … And how are you, dearest?’

She didn’t wait for me to answer before turning on Gil. ‘And Gilmore Trent! How delightful to see you. But you’ve come together.’ She turned to me, grabbing my hand. ‘How delightful.’

A thought suddenly seemed to strike her. Her eyes narrowed and darted from me to Gil and back again. ‘But, my dear, I thought you had married … what was that fellow’s name … the wickedly good-looking one?’

‘I’ve just come to visit the seaside with some friends,’ I said vaguely.

A rather sly smile crossed her face. ‘Ah! I see. Well, you can count on me as the soul of discretion … If you only knew the secrets I’ve kept … never revealed I knew all about Ida Kent, even after she’d run off with that butcher.’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘Sordid business … but you and Gil? I’m delighted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking tea on the terrace. I’ll be seeing you both later.’ She winked ostentatiously and was gone.

‘Good heavens,’ Gil breathed.

I nodded. Mrs Roland was a wealthy widow who flittered about society like a flamboyant and overly-chirpy bird. She had been widowed three times, accumulating successively more wealth as each husband faded beneath her bright and tiresome exuberance. I was inclined to believe her husbands had gone to the grave for the sheer peace of it. Still, she was harmless enough.

‘At least things won’t be dull at the seaside,’ I said with a smile. ‘Mrs Roland may not exactly be with us, but she will certainly be among us.’

‘Well, then,’ he said, lightly touching my elbow, ‘I suppose we may as well go up and prepare ourselves to join Mrs Roland and the others for tea on the terrace.’

I followed him to the lift, which sat to the left of the front desk. We rode up in silence to the first floor, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

As we stepped out of the lift, Gil turned to me and handed me the key to my room. As his hand brushed mine, I suddenly felt that there was something rather clandestine about all of this. Separate rooms or no, we had just checked into a hotel together, and I felt a bit unsettled about the fact.

We looked at one another. I wondered if the thought had occurred to him as well.

‘My room’s just three doors down,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you here in a quarter of an hour?’

‘All right.’

He left me and I entered my room. It was good-sized and decorated in an understatedly-elegant manner: gleaming wooden floors with thick rugs, silk flocked wallpaper, and smooth, heavy bed linens, all in pale, tasteful colours. The sitting area had a fashionably modern sofa and two silk-upholstered chairs. A writing desk sat against the wall. As in the lobby, the furnishings seemed to say: ‘Don’t mind us. We will just sit here and be expensive.’

I took off my hat and gloves, dropping them on one of the chairs, and went to the window. My room faced the sea, and I pushed aside the filmy, ivory curtain, admiring for a moment the smooth expanse of blue. It was a decidedly romantic view and, coupled with the vague feeling of wrongdoing I had experienced in the hallway, I began to wonder if I had made the right choice in coming. I quickly pushed the doubts away; there was nothing wrong in it, after all.

I changed from my tailored dove grey travelling suit into a flowing white and red flower-printed chiffon dress with a soft belt that tied in a loose bow at my side. I then went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on my face, reapplied what little make-up I had worn, and combed my hair, smoothing the dark waves which were a little mussed from the journey. Putting on a white, lightweight cloth hat with a jaunty brim and red grosgrain ribbon, I was ready to take tea with Gil’s sister and whoever else was in the party.

The sudden realisation that I had very little idea who exactly was sharing our holiday made me feel a bit silly. Undoubtedly, I had rushed into this seaside trip with very little forethought, but I supposed it was too late to do much about it now.

Gil met me in the hallway at the designated time. He had freshened up as well, and we made a handsome pair walking down the long, golden hallway together. For a briefest of instants, I wondered what life might have been like had I married Gil. Would we have been happy? It was impossible to know.

‘I would rather have had a good nap,’ he said as we entered the lift. ‘But I suppose tea is as good a time as any to make our entrance.’

‘Indeed,’ I answered. ‘It will give the scandal time to build until dinner.’

He smiled, but I could sense his hesitation. ‘You don’t mind a bit of scandal, do you, Amory?’

The last of my doubts dissipated and I returned his smile. ‘What’s a little scandal? One only lives once, after all.’

We exited the lift and walked across the gleaming lobby, through a comfortable sitting area, to French doors on the west side of the building. Stepping out into the bright light, I admired the spacious terrace. Gil explained that it extended all along this side of the building, wrapped around across the south side, overlooking the sea, and then continued around the east side. There was another terrace, he told me, a short way down the cliff, accessible by a winding flight of white wooden stairs. ‘It’s rather a scenic spot, but the wind is high today,’ he said. ‘I expect most of the guests will have tea on the main terrace.’

‘Gil!’ We looked to see Emmeline Trent waving to us from a bit farther down. With Gil’s hand at my elbow, we made our way to where she had risen from her seat to greet us.

Emmeline hugged her brother then turned to me. Like Gil, Emmeline seemed to have changed very little since I had seen her last. A thin, pretty girl, she shared her brother’s colouring, the dark blonde hair and warm brown eyes. She smiled brightly as she extended her hand to squeeze mine affectionately. ‘Dearest Amory. I’m so happy to see you again. I didn’t know you would be here. How delightful.’

‘It was something of a last minute decision. It’s lovely to see you, Emmeline.’

She turned then, her eyes alight with happiness and pride, stretching out her hand to the gentlemen beside her. ‘You’ve met, I think? You remember my fiancé, Rupert Howe. Rupert, Amory Ames.’

The young man standing by her side was as I remembered him: tall, handsome, and impeccably groomed, with dark brown hair and eyes to match. Bright teeth formed what seemed a practised, too-polite smile. There was no warmth in his eyes, not for me, and certainly not for Gil.

‘Charmed, Mrs Ames,’ he said.

I was not at all charmed. I could tell at once that he was too polished, too aware of his own appeal. Perhaps he did not remind me of Milo so very much, after all.

As if our thoughts had taken different routes to the same location, Emmeline asked, ‘Is your husband here?’

I paused, allowing a slightly awkward silence to settle in our midst. ‘No,’ I said at last. ‘No, Milo and I are … well, I’ve come at the invitation of your brother.’

Emmeline coloured. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She gave her brother a rap on the arm. ‘You didn’t tell me, Gil! Do forgive me, Amory. I didn’t realise …’

‘Think nothing of it,’ I said lightly, ‘all water under the bridge.’

I noticed then that Rupert Howe watched me speculatively. I had not time to guess what he was thinking before a voice spoke from behind us.

‘It’s too windy to take tea out of doors.’

We turned to see Olive Henderson, a young woman I had known for many years more than I cared to. She was the daughter of a well-known banker, and we had frequently come into contact with one another at social occasions, though we really weren’t well acquainted. I had always taken her for a thorough little snob, though she was pretty when her smile warmed her green eyes and softened her naturally petulant expression.

‘It would have been much better in the indoor sitting room, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had my hair waved.’

‘Calm down, old girl,’ said Rupert. ‘It won’t blow you away.’

She looked at him through narrowed eyes as she patted at her perfectly-coiffed dark hair, but said nothing further. I was prepared to greet her, but she shot a glance at Gil and I before she sat down without speaking to us.

Slowly the party began to collect, and I found that the Trents’ friends were none of the same group with which we had often associated five years before. I supposed I couldn’t have expected that things would remain the same, but I still found that I was vaguely disappointed.

‘Amory, meet Mr and Mrs Edward Rodgers,’ Gil said, introducing me to a couple that just reached our table. They greeted me, and I was struck by the contrast between them, which was, visually, something akin to a cinema star on the arm of a parish priest.

‘How do you do?’ Mr Rodgers said unenthusiastically. He was young and solemn, a solicitor by trade I would later learn. His brown eyes scanned me in a cursory way, and he appeared to have found little to interest him, for he soon seated himself and poured his tea.

Anne Rodgers was a platinum blonde, and though her features were somewhat plain, she possessed a way of moving that had attracted the attention of every man in the vicinity when she had walked out onto the terrace in a clinging dress of rose-coloured silk.

She greeted me warmly, her eyes moving over me in an appraising yet not unfriendly manner.

‘I adore your dress. Schiaparelli, isn’t it?’ she said, sinking down into a chair beside her husband and stirring four sugars into the cup he set before her. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she told him, reaching to pat his hand, and he smiled warmly at her. They seemed something of an odd pair, but I was far from an expert on what made a happy marriage.

Next to arrive at the terrace were Nelson Hamilton and his wife, Larissa. They walked directly to where Gil and I stood, Mr Hamilton’s quick strides leaving his wife behind. As Gil made the introductions, I tried but failed to recall ever having seen them at any events in London.

‘Pleasure, Mrs Ames,’ Mr Hamilton said, grasping my hand in his very warm one. He gave me a thorough going over with his eyes, and I felt justified in examining him in turn. He was older than the others of our party, perhaps in his mid-forties, with greying dark hair, a ruddy face, and a well-groomed moustache. He was the jovial sort, I perceived immediately, with a ready smile and an easy, almost too-friendly way of talking to people. He was, I thought, the sort of person one liked at once, but for whom the fondness fades after a short time.

‘My wife, Larissa,’ he said gesturing perfunctorily to the woman who stood a bit behind him. That introduction deemed sufficient, he moved off to engage Rupert in an earnest conversation about some business deal, the particulars of which soon became lost in the jumble of conversation. Mrs Hamilton’s gaze followed him for just a moment before returning to me.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Hamilton.’

‘And I you,’ she replied.

As so often happens, Mr Hamilton’s vibrant personality had attracted a partner without his effusive joie de vivre. Larissa Hamilton was quiet and soft-spoken. She was at least fifteen years younger than her husband and attractive in an unassuming way, pretty without realising that she was. There was something forlorn about her, and I was unaccountably reminded of one of Waterhouse’s Ophelia paintings. She had a nice smile that warmed her expression but not, it seemed, a great deal of confidence. She was, if I judged correctly, thoroughly cowed by her husband. More than once, I saw her start when his hearty laughter broke out behind us.

Another gentleman approached our cluster of tables, and I recognised him at once as Lionel Blake, a rising star of the British stage. His Hamlet had caused quite a stir and was perhaps the most talked-about interpretation of the character since John Barrymore had come over from New York to play the role a few years before. He was very good-looking, with dark hair and piercing eyes that were an unusual shade of green.

‘I’ve long planned on attending one of your performances,’ I told him when we had been introduced. ‘I’ve heard you’re marvellous.’

‘You’re too kind, Mrs Ames,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid the reports may be exaggerated.’

He pulled out my chair for me, and I sat. There was an easy grace in his movements that I would imagine translated well to the stage, and I noticed that he spoke carefully, as if pronouncing lines.

The last to arrive was Veronica Carter, a woman I knew by reputation, if not by actual acquaintance. She was the daughter of a well-known industrialist and, despite rumours of cracks in the family’s financial empire, my impression of her was that she fed on her father’s wealth and had no further aim in life than her own amusement. A vibrant redhead, she was dressed flashily and excessively made up, over-emphasising a beauty that would have been more striking had it not been so heavily accentuated. She made a name for herself in the gossip columns, the most recent scandal, so the story went, involving a very married member of Parliament. Nothing I had heard of her gave me any incentive for liking her.

She did not take long in cementing my initial impression. As we all settled down to drink our tea, she fastened me in her cold blue eyes that matched the china of her teacup. ‘Miss Ames, is it? Your name is familiar. Have we met before?’

‘Mrs Ames,’ I corrected. ‘And no, Miss Carter. I don’t believe we have.’

She bit her scarlet lip artfully, as if in contemplation. ‘Where have I heard that name? Let me think. I’m sure I … Ah, yes. I met a gentleman called Ames only last month. On the Riviera. A deliciously handsome gentleman.’

‘My husband, Milo.’ If my tone sounded bored it was because I truly was. It was embarrassingly obvious that she was attempting to create some sort of awkward scene, as though I would be surprised to learn Milo had been behaving badly.

‘Oh,’ she said, a thin, pencilled brow arching, her features conveying mock surprise. ‘Excuse me. I didn’t realise he was married.’

I smiled coolly. ‘You mustn’t feel bad; he sometimes forgets it himself.’

There was a moment of silence. Veronica Carter looked genuinely astonished at my flippancy. No doubt she had expected a harsh reply from a jealous wife. Gil cleared his throat uneasily, and Lionel Blake openly smiled.