Death at Daisy's Folly by Robin Paige Page B

glinted off the crystal goblets and rich gold plate. A tableau of social perfection. The picture of elegant and unceasing pleasure, of well-bred sophistication, of happiness.
    But glancing from face to face, Kate suddenly saw the scene as if it were a still life. The guests, frozen in various postures of eating and drinking, seemed to wear their countenances like smiling masks that covered the avaricious expressions of unhappy pleasure-seekers with nothing to do but indulge their insatiable appetites for fine food, fine houses, fine horses, and each other. And as Kate looked up and caught sight of Daisy Warwick, her face decorated with a strained, set smile, there suddenly seemed something quite false and entirely sinister about the scene, and she shivered.
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    At the head of the table, Daisy caught Bertie’s lovingly proprietary glance and returned it. But her accustomed smile covered a surge of cold panic. How was she to tell him that she had mislaid one of his letters—one of his foolish, fatuous, extraordinarily indiscreet love letters? Would he accuse her to her face of carelessness? Would he—?
    No. Bertie, whatever else he might be, was the perfect courtly gentleman. Even if he considered her to be careless and irresponsible, he would not tell her so. He might, however, decide that she was not to be trusted. He might never tell her anything important ever again. Worse, he might—
    And then another thought struck her, and the panic became a tidal wave. What if she had not mislaid the letter, but it had been stolen? She did not deceive herself: her personal maids, like everyone else, could be bought. And on the blackmail market, such an indiscreet document would be worth thousands of pounds. The panic closed over her head like a dark wave, leaving her gasping for air. Who could have done such a thing?
    Her glance went down the table to one face, sullen and jealous, and she felt a sudden cold surge of anger. Reginald Wallace would not have stolen the letter himself, but he was not above arranging its theft. And if that were true, if he had it, she might persuade him to give it back. Of course, she had no money to give him. She already owed him thousands of pounds, exactly how much, she had forgotten. But he wanted something else from her, something that would cost her nothing. She took a deep breath, raised her chin, and smiled at him.
    But now the Prince was speaking to her, and she had to retrieve her smile, silence her thoughts, and answer him with a witty charm. As the Royal mistresses before her had learned to their cost, His Highness must never become bored.
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    Midway down the table, Sir Reginald Wallace caught Daisy’s smile. What was it the woman wanted now? His forgiveness for her fickleness? His acceptance of a situation over which, at bottom, neither of them had had any control? It was damned late for either the one or the other now, though. She wanted something more tangible, money, most likely. Her estates, her income—they were nothing compared with the fortune that went for clothing and jewelry and entertainment. Yes, by God, he recognized that glance! Later tonight, he’d receive a note from her, asking him to meet her at the Folly, where she would plead with him for another loan.
    The idea of it—of being with her again privately, of perhaps even touching her face, her hair—raised a sudden heat within him, and he lowered his head lest his hunger show in his face. For all his disapproval of her actions and her dangerous affiliations, those were external matters, and not the woman herself. His feelings for her had never changed, not even in those dreadful months after Margaret had died and everyone was whispering that he had killed her. He looked up and saw Sir Thomas glowering at him around the fruit-filled epergne, flushed deeply, and looked away, forcing his thoughts back to Daisy.
    She was going down a perilous road. Her Socialist fellow travelers were