down with a glass of sherry.
He felt almost angry with Rose at having hit on a solution to the murders and nearly getting herself killed. He was the detective. He was the one who should have hit on a solution to the mystery.
He rose and picked up his mail and began to sift through it. There was one from a Mrs. Debenham asking him if he could find her lost poodle. Is this all his intelligence was capable of, while some silly, unfeminine female went around solving murders?
Becket came in carrying his slippers.
“Pour yourself a glass of sherry, Becket, and sit down. I feel like company.” Becket poured a glass and sat down on the other side of the fireplace.
“I don’t think I should go on with this stupid detective business, Becket. What do you think?”
“It is not my place to say, sir.”
“Just this once, make it your place.”
“If I may say so, sir, you were doing very well and we have comforts such as the motor car which we did not have before.”
“I could travel. Find some work in the colonies.”
Then I really won’t see Daisy again, thought Becket.
“You said, sir, that Superintendent Kerridge had suggested you might start a proper detective agency. Should you do that, you would maybe be given more interesting work. The insurance companies, for example, must always be looking for investigators.”
“I feel I, and not Lady Rose, should have hit on the solution to what had been going on at the castle.”
“That was just luck on Lady’s Rose’s part. And just think! Had you not told me to keep guard on Lady Rose, she would be dead.”
Harry brightened slightly. “That’s true.”
“I could look for suitable premises tomorrow,” suggested Becket.
“Let me think about it.”
¦
Just before Christmas, Rose finally agreed to attend a ball at the Cummings’ with her mother. Lady Polly was worried about her daughter. Ever since they had arrived in London from the castle, Rose had appeared tired and listless.
“Cheer up,” said Daisy as she arranged silk flowers in Rose’s hair. “Captain Cathcart might be there and you can talk about old times.”
“Those times are not yet old enough for my comfort. I would like to forget about the whole thing. Do you think this yellow is unflattering?”
Rose was wearing a yellow sateen evening gown embroidered with tiny yellow primroses and with inserts of white lace.
“It’s a pretty gown but you are a bit pale,” said Daisy. “Maybe a touch of rouge?”
“No.”
“What about this idea of us being businesswomen? I read the advertisements every day.”
“Oh, that was a silly idea, Daisy. I would never be allowed to do it. This is my life from now on. I may as well settle for some amiable man and then at least I would have my own establishment.”
Daisy bit back a sigh. She thought it would be wonderful to have a life filled with nothing but balls and parties and pretty dresses. She opened the curtains and looked down into the square. “Fog’s coming down. Going to be nasty. I’d better have that dress shut away when we get back. When it’s a bad one, the fog gets in everywhere.”
By the time Lady Polly had fussed over her daughter’s appearance and made her change her evening bag and gloves several times, they were late leaving, and what Dickens had called a London particular had settled down on the city.
“Thank goodness we haven’t got far to go,” said Lady Polly as the carriage rolled the short distance to Belgrave Square. “I can hardly see a thing out of the windows.”
“I hate knee-breeches,” grumbled the earl. “Silly things. Ought to be confined to court appearances. With my figure, I feel I look like Humpty Dumpty.”
“You look very fine, my dear,” said Lady Polly.
Surely her parents had married for love, thought Rose. Lady Polly never found any fault with her husband. Rose had seen photographs of their wedding day. Her father had been a slim, handsome man then, and she was sure that was how her mother still saw him.
The coach lurched to a stop. Extra footmen hired for the evening lined the entrance. “I wonder how you clean all that gold braid after the fog,” wondered Daisy. “Must ask Beckett Then she remembered there was no Becket to ask and felt quite low.”
In an ante-room reserved for the ladies, Daisy removed Rose’s fur coat and checked that her hair was still in order and that none of the little silk primroses in it had come loose. Bands of fog lay across the ante-room.
Rose mounted the staircase to the ballroom where their hosts appeared at the top through thickening layers of fog.
“So kind of you to come out on such a dreadful night,” murmured Mrs. Cummings.
To Lady Polly’s relief, her daughter’s dance-card was soon filled up. The scandal appeared to have been forgotten.
Rose had given up the idea of trying to engage any of her partners in intelligent conversation and so was a great success.
¦
Harry had decided to attend the ball. He would not admit to himself that he hoped Rose would be there. His white shirt-front well protected against the choking fog, he motored alone to Belgrave Square, having told Becket there was no need to accompany him and failing to notice the look of disappointment on Becket’s face.
He mounted the steps to the ballroom with an unusual feeling of anticipation. As he was late, his hosts had joined their guests. He surveyed the room where the dancers twirled in a waltz and sent the wreaths of fog spiralling about them.
“Captain Cathcart!”
He looked down and found Lady Polly beside him.
“Good evening,” said Harry happily. “I trust your daughter is well.”
“Very well and engaged for every dance. It would be better if you did not approach her. She has not been well in spirit since the dreadful events at the castle. I beg you to leave her alone.”
“Certainly,” said Harry coldly.
Rose danced past in the arms of a handsome guardsman. She saw him and her eyes widened.
Harry turned on his heel and walked back down the stairs. He should never have come. His leg was hurting. It looked as if it was going to be a bad winter. He would go somewhere warm and decide what to do with his life.
A footman was helping him into his fur coat when Daisy appeared at his side. “Why, Daisy,” said Harry, “how are you?”
“I’m all right,” said Daisy, “but my mistress is not the same. She’s so sad and quiet. Where’s Becket?” she asked eagerly, looking around.
“Becket is in Chelsea. I will tell him I saw you.”
“Are you doing any more detective work, sir?”
“No. In fact I have just decided I have had enough of London weather. I crave some sunshine. I think I will take myself off to Nice.”
“Where’s that?”
“The south of France, Daisy.”
“And will you take Becket with you?”
“Of course. We could both do with some good weather.”
“Tell Mr. Becket I wish him well,” said Daisy and trailed off.
¦
The ball finished early because of the dreadful weather. As Rose and her parents stood on the steps waiting
