Death at Daisy's Folly by Robin Paige

toward the stairs, he felt more cheerful than he had since the letter arrived.

9
    The chief folly of those who belonged to the Marlborough
House set was to imagine that pleasure and happiness were
identical.
    â€”FRANCES (DAISY) BROOKE, LADY WARWICK Discretions
    Â 
Think, too, how to beauty
They oft owe their fall,
And what may through vice
Be the fate of you all.
    â€”Anonymous nineteenth-century ballad
    Â 
    Â 
    K ate had been introduced to most of the guests the night before, and she had taken a few minutes before dinner to study the guest list, trying to match names and faces. But as she assumed her place in the line to go in to dinner, she still had to make a deliberate effort to remember which names belonged to which individuals.
    There was no mistaking the Prince, of course, with those exophthalmic eyes that Victoria had passed on to her children, and that clipped graying beard and portly profile. He was about to lead the Countess into the dining hall.
    There was no mistaking the Countess, either. Lady Warwick was dressed in a creamy tulle with ivory velvet ribbons and a froth of lace that gave her a young girl’s air of innocence. It seemed to Kate, however, that beneath Daisy’s lighthearted gaiety was a certain apprehension. Perhaps, she thought, watching the Countess glance from the attentive Prince to her debonair husband, chatting animatedly with Lady Forsythe, it had to do with the awkward situation in which she found herself. It must not be easy to manage both a princely lover and a husband under the same roof, even if the husband obligingly turned the other way when the occasion called for tolerance. But did he always? Or did Lord Warwick sometimes object to his wife’s affairs?
    Lord Warwick himself escorted Lady Lillian, brilliant in sapphire taffeta that rustled richly as she moved. Kate saw her catch Sir Charles’s eye and speak to him in a low voice, with a smile that promised intimacies. They had obviously made an acquaintance, at tea, perhaps. Kate couldn’t help wondering, with a distinct uneasiness, whether Lady Lillian had brought up the subject of bats, and whether Sir Charles had found her remarks interesting.
    As for Sir Charles, unusually elegant but stiff and uncomfortable-looking in his evening wear, Kate found herself torn. She had been hoping that they were to be table partners and was disappointed when he was asked to escort Celia, the coyly self-conscious daughter of Lord and Lady Rochdale, who had only recently come out. On the other hand, she thought it might be better if she and Sir Charles did not have easy opportunities for conversation this weekend. Perhaps she could postpone the day when he might bring up the subject of marriage and she would have to tell him... Tell him what? That she was not interested? It was a lie, but it was better than the truth: that he would not be interested in her if he knew everything about her.
    Behind Lord Warwick and Lady Lillian, third in the procession, came Celia’s parents, Lord and Lady Rochdale. Lord Malcolm was tall and stooped, with a perpetual frown between his too-small eyes, a long nose with a droop at the end, and pale, thin lips. Lady Verena’s low corsage outlined her bosom in layers of lace, emphasizing her plumpness, and she wore a false black chignon with a bunch of fat black curls that dangled coquettishly over her left shoulder, several shades darker than her graying hair. Kate studied her uneasily, but if Lady Verena had received a telegram that gave away Beryl Bardwell’s identity, it was not apparent from her demeanor. Her glance slid past Kate as if she were invisible.
    Nor did Ellie Farley seem to have found her out. Ellie gave her a warm smile and touched her arm. “You’re beautiful tonight, Kate,” she whispered, as she stepped into line behind the Rochdales, on the arm of a handsome young Scots Guards lieutenant whose name, Kate had learned the night before, was Andrew