Heiress in Red Silk by Hunter, Madeline (best mystery novels of all time TXT) 📗

Nicholas but be so . . . bland. These were the most words Douglas had spoken in Kevin’s hearing in over a year. Even when the family reacted vociferously to the news of Uncle Frederick’s will, Douglas had not joined in. His wife, Claudine, had spoken for them, as was her wont.

Now Douglas’s impassive expression actually brightened a little. “She is a comely woman.”

“She is at that.”

“Rather startlingly so.”

Kevin had to smile at this evidence that Douglas was not dead yet.

“So I was thinking,” Douglas said.

Kevin waited. Who could guess that Douglas ever thought about anything?

“I expect that you will marry her. More famous scenes then, eh?”

“Excuse me?”

“It is understandable because it is the only way to ensure she doesn’t sell out on you,” he said. “And in terms of, well, you know—you could do worse. Far worse.”

A ten count passed while Kevin accommodated that anyone had suggested such a thing, let alone Douglas of all people.

“Is this your wife’s idea?”

“Goodness no. She will be appalled by it. Miss Jameson is little more than a peasant in her view.” A smile barely formed. “I daresay Claudine would be apoplectic.”

Everyone would be. His father. His aunts. Maybe Nicholas. Quite likely Miss Jameson herself.

“Thank you for thinking,” Kevin said. “Of me, I mean. I have no plans of that nature, but I’ll ponder your suggestion.”

Bland as ever, Douglas rose.

“If you are joining the others, move the other port decanter away from Philip,” Kevin said. “He can barely sit up straight.”

Chapter Nine

Dolores had removed herself not only from the dining room but from the evening, so Rosamund did not have to suffer her presence in the drawing room. She soon learned that did not mean she would be spared other probes into her life and character, however.

No sooner had they all settled themselves than Lady Agnes leaned forward and peered her way. “Did you make that headdress you are wearing tonight?”

“I did.”

“Attractive. Perhaps a bit bold with your coloring. Why didn’t you use a lighter-hued purple for the ribbons? Ones that matched your dress?”

“Because if they were lighter, they would not be bold.”

Agnes veered back, as if astonished by any kind of boldness.

“It is what makes it distinctive, Agnes,” Minerva said. “If the ribbons matched the dress, it would be predictable and bland. And, at the risk of speaking of the obvious, that hue of ribbon brings out the color of her eyes so nicely.”

“I. See.” Agnes resettled herself on the divan, finding a queenlier pose. “From where did you say you hail, Miss Jameson? Oxfordshire?”

“Yes.”

“I have many friends in that county. Perhaps I have heard of your family.”

“That is unlikely.”

“One never knows.”

“I doubt my family had any contact with your friends, or your circle. As I said, my father was a farmer.”

Agnes chortled. “See how wrong you might be, Miss Jameson. In the country it is not unheard of for members of good society to associate with neighbor yeoman farmers and their families. There are many county events where they might be introduced.”

There was something to be said for getting this part out of the way.

“He was a tenant, Lady Agnes. I don’t think they rubbed shoulders much.”

Silence. Glances all around.

Rather suddenly, other conversations broke out. Walter’s wife, Felicity, addressed Minerva, launching into a description of some dress she had seen at the theater. Lady Agnes made it a point to talk to Douglas’s wife, Claudine. Rosamund got the sense that everyone was embarrassed. Whether for her, or about her, she couldn’t tell.

Minerva extracted herself from Felicity and came over to sit near Rosamund. “When they are all well engaged, we can slip out to the terrace. I have something to tell you.”

Whatever it was would have to wait, because Felicity followed Minerva over and also sat close by for some private conversation.

“I expect Dolores’s outburst at dinner surprised you,” she said. “I did warn you.”

“I knew there was unhappiness about the will. It is understandable.”

“Not that part.” Felicity lowered her voice. “The part about the last duke’s death. He was pushed. Everyone thinks so, no matter what the official determination was. Someone . . .” She left the sentence unfinished and lowered her eyes, as if the words could not be spoken.

Minerva had been pretending not to hear, but now she turned in her chair so she could join them. “It is none of her concern, Felicity. Nor has that been proven.”

“No thanks to Chase. He was supposed to prove it one way or another. With some of his discreet inquiries. Only he didn’t. Even after I went to him and Nicholas and told them—”

“Enough of that nonsense,” Minerva said through a firm smile. “Your revelation wasn’t proof of anything.”

“He wasn’t in France as he said. Walter is shocked more inquiries were not made about that. One might think that perhaps . . .” Again, she stopped in the middle of a sentence. She pointed at Rosamund. “She has a right to know, if she is going to be—”

“Miss Jameson, if you desire to learn any more about this subject, please tell me and I’ll have Chase explain it all,” Minerva said pointedly. “It is hardly a topic for a dinner party.”

Felicity gave Minerva a slit-eyed, belligerent glare. She rose. “I will leave it at that, except to say this, Miss Jameson. Whatever you do, do not make Kevin Radnor an heir to your new fortune.” She strolled away, straight and proud.

“It was kind of you to interrupt and save me, Minerva. Although now I will have to ask for further explanations, won’t I?”

“At least they will be accurate ones,” Minerva said. “Come, let us take a turn on the terrace and speak of more interesting things.”

* * *

The night air felt wonderfully refreshing. Nor did Rosamund mind leaving the Radnor women behind for a while.

She and Minerva strolled along the terrace balustrade, looking down on the small but neat garden. When they reached a spot as far from the drawing room doors as possible, Minerva stopped. “I have learned