Addie needed to smooth that eyebrow down pronto. She didn’t want to be teased mercilessly by her childhood friend for falling off a horse. “Not a thing. Do fetch me another drink, won’t you?” She hadn’t even swallowed half of what she had, so she drained the glass hurriedly and handed it over.
“You can’t fob me off forever. I’ll find out,” Lucas told her. “I always do.”
“I know,” said Hugh with a broad grin, “all the embarrassing details, but I’ll respect a lady’s wishes.”
“You always do.” Pamela squeezed her husband’s shoulder.
Addie experienced another pang of envy, but perhaps the next sherry would soothe her.
When they went in to dinner, the crystal, china, and sterling on the long polished table sparkled and shimmered even more than the Jordan twins, who came down in matching ice-blue sequined gowns and a considerable number of aquamarines. Addie was still trying to figure out which was Margie and which was Mandy, looking for a freckle or a wayward white-blond curl that might help her. She was fairly sure their cottony bobs owed something to their London hairdresser’s familiarity with bleach but was not about to ask. Addie was certainly not above a little artificial enhancement herself, as Beckett would be proud to affirm.
Interspersed with tall candles, Pamela’s magnificent cream-colored orchids were placed in Canton ware cachepots along the center of the table. Each of the endless courses was delicious and served in seamless style by the Fernalds’ butler, Trim, and his footmen. Wine and conversation flowed generously throughout the evening, and Addie felt a little jealous again. Pamela was the consummate hostess. The last time Addie tried to throw a proper dinner party, her ex-neighbor and her gardener both wound up dead. Truth be told, Addie was afraid to entertain again. Dead bodies depressed one’s appetite.
Once again, she remembered Rupert’s warning, which dimmed her enjoyment of the evening. She tried to relax, studying the fine landscapes and portraits on the walls, but reality kept intruding. Which of the well-dressed, well-fed people around this lavish dinner table would soon meet their Maker? Would it be tonight? Her heart fluttered in distress.
“Are you quite well, Lady Adelaide? You’ve gone a bit pale,” Owen Bradbury asked.
Oh, dear. He spent most of the evening in the clutches of one of the Jordan girls, and Addie was sorry he noticed her now. On her other side, Simon Davies did his best not to let her feel ignored, but he was now deep in conversation with Pamela. Mindful of Beckett’s gossip, Addie didn’t try very hard not to eavesdrop, just in case she heard something to corroborate the prevailing theory.
She attempted a smile. “I’m fine, really. Just warm. This whole month has been intemperate.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you want to discuss the weather like any other proper marquess’s daughter seated next to a stranger. I expect much more of you after Hugh’s singing your praises all these years.”
Addie found herself being charmed. “Oh? And what did he say?”
“That you were a hellion as a girl—the scourge of the neighborhood. You bossed him around, along with your friend Waring, and they loved every minute. I know you had a bad…bit of luck lately. My condolences on the loss of your husband.”
“Thank you. It was very unexpected.” Addie took a sip of the dessert wine. Her throat felt suddenly dry.
“I didn’t know him, but knew of him, of course. Everyone in England did, I wager. That sort of fame, well, it’s tough on a fellow. One feels one must always outdo oneself, if you will. Keep the heart racing. Gosh, that doesn’t sound right. I’m sorry.”
“I think what you’re trying to say is that Rupert missed the thrill of flying. His cars became a substitute, and he certainly raced.” Right into a stone wall.
“That’s it exactly!” Mr. Bradbury looked relieved. “You have a superior understanding, Lady Adelaide. I’m so glad we meet at last.”
He was not as handsome as Rupert—or Inspector Hunter—but Beckett might approve of him too.
Would Addie?
“I know you served with Hugh. Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Bradbury.”
Her mother always advocated this strategy, not that Addie wanted to write Mr. Bradbury’s biography. Like most men, he had no difficulty whatsoever talking about himself and touting his accomplishments. Heir to his cousin, Baron Hurst, who was saddled with six daughters. Great girls, really, but fortunate for him, what? Important job at Coutts. Flat near Kensington Gardens. Addie hoped she looked like she was paying attention. She would have much preferred to listen to Mr. Davies and Pamela, but it was not to be.
At the head of the table, Hugh tapped his spoon against a glass. “Hear ye, hear ye! Welcome to our humble abode!”
“Humble!” Captain Clifford snorted. “Only place better in the kingdom is Windsor. And we’ve seen humble, for our sins.”
“And never want to see it again,” Mr. Bradbury chimed in. “Bloo—uh, blasted trenches. Mildewed tents too. Sorry, ladies.”
“With thanks from our guest of honor and his compatriot,” Hugh chuckled. “All hail the Four Musketeers! Long may they live and love wherever they are and keep out of the bloo—uh, blasted trenches and mildewed tents!”
“Amen!”
“Trim, pour us the Montrachet 1911, the happy year I met my wife. We’ll drink to old friends and new.”
The wine was poured, and more toasts to the Four Musketeers were offered, Bradbury, Clifford, and Hugh becoming more animated with every glass. The twins’ incessant giggling grated on Addie’s already tender nerves, and she admitted to herself she wouldn’t mind if one—or both—got the chop, as Rupert said. Addie wondered if Hugh was counting D’Artagnan as the fourth Musketeer—it had been a long time since she’d read Dumas and she couldn’t recall the plot very well. If she had much more to drink, she’d never care if père or fils authored the tale.
Chapter Three
Sunday afternoon
“Let’s call it a day, Addie, my dear.” Lucas leaped over the net like a damned gazelle and threw his arm around her, nearly knocking her over.
“You could have said that half an hour ago and put us both out of our misery. I’m sorry not to give you much of a challenge, Lucas.”
It was such an uneven match that Hugh gave up watching on the sideline and went back into the house. Addie stopped herself from throwing her expensive racket over the treetops in a fit of pique. She would donate it to the church rummage sale, where someone less fortunate financially and more coordinated might benefit. Experience should have taught her not to take on her old friend, who had a deadly forehand.