Heirs of the Body by Carola Dunn Page B

wet and dirty this morning. I left him in the stables for Truscott to deal with. Sorry.”
    “No matter, no matter. I’ll have Ernest fetch him.” He dashed off towards the conservatory, a Victorian excrescence that disfigured the south façade of the original Tudor house. There he kept his collections. Lord Dalrymple was not among those lepidopterists who slaughter their prey and pin it to a board. He liked to collect eggs and caterpillars and observe their transformation into moths or butterflies, then free them to fly off and produce another generation.
    A few minutes later, he came round the corner of the house, binoculars round his neck and his collecting satchel slung over his shoulder. He’d had no need to change his clothes as he was wearing a faded blazer, a barely discernable school crest on the breast pocket, over ancient cricket whites. They watched his broad-brimmed straw hat recede between two marble fauns, beneath the dangling seedpods of the pleached wisteria alley. Pepper trotted after him.
    Enervated by the heat, Daisy and Geraldine stayed on the terrace, chatting in a desultory way about Edgar’s birthday house party and wondering how best to entertain such a disparate group as it seemed destined to be.
    “But will all of them be coming if the heir has been identified by then?” Daisy asked.
    “I’m afraid so. Edgar says they’re all family and must all be invited, however many ‘all’ turns out to be. He doesn’t often put his foot down, but when he does, he can be extremely obstinate.”
    “And is everyone invited for the whole week—ten days, really, with both weekends—as we are?”
    “He wants the family to have a chance to get to know one another. Of course, some of them may not be able to come, for the entire time or at all. I shan’t send invitations until Mr. Pearson is able to tell me who are the actual relatives.”
    “Everything seems a bit vague so far. I hope he finds out in time for Cousin Edgar’s birthday celebration, at least.”
    “It might be better not to know who the heir is until afterwards. Otherwise the majority are going to be resentful the entire time. Yes, Lowecroft? What is it?”
    “The dowager viscountess has called, my lady.”
    “Oh dear!” Geraldine ineffectually patted her hair, which was as always perfectly neat. “You’d better show her into the drawing room. I’ll be with her in a minute.” She waited as the butler bowed and left. “Daisy…?”
    “I won’t desert you. Don’t worry, Mother just wants to meet Cousin Raymond. Like the rest of us, she’s dying of curiosity.”
    “Oh dear! This interview is going to be difficult enough without—Sorry, dear, I don’t mean to imply … But it is awkward! I wonder whether Edgar will put in an appearance?”
    Daisy had no answer. “I’m sorry I mentioned the Camberwell Beauty.”
    “For pity’s sake don’t mention it to your mother! I’d hate her to get the impression that Edgar is chasing after a lady of doubtful virtue from South London!”
    They went into the house through a door in the north wing, a Regency addition with Strawberry Hill Gothic pretensions, including a hexagonal turret. It was much cooler inside. Geraldine hurried to the cloakroom to check her appearance. Daisy couldn’t decide whether it was more proper to wait for her or to go straight in to greet her mother—the minutiae of etiquette had always bemused and bored her, one reason she was the “unsatisfactory” daughter. Violet had always been the good girl.
    Before she made up her mind, Geraldine reappeared. Daisy let her lead the way into the drawing room.
    The Dowager Lady Dalrymple was standing at the French window on the far side, silhouetted against the comparative brightness, looking over the terrace, the lawn, and the gardens. Daisy hoped she hadn’t got there soon enough to see them sneaking round by the side door.
    The dowager turned on hearing their footsteps. “Good afternoon, Geraldine.”
    “Good