drove through fields where sheep grazed, then under a stable arch and into a circular courtyard.
Looking out at the house, Rose felt a pang of unease. It was a square Georgian building with a porticoed entrance but it was hardly a ducal residence. Was this lady really a duchess? But of course she must be. The Mother Superior knew her and an impostor would hardly give money to a convent.
“Are we arrived?” The duchess straightened her hat, which had fallen over her eyes.
“Is this your home?” asked Rose.
“No, my dear, only a hunting box. My husband is having extensive building repairs done to our home onthe other side of Oxford. I can’t stand hammering and dust, so I fled here. Come along.”
Rose and Daisy stepped down from the motor. Rose decided to leave questions about why the duchess had rescued them until after they had bathed and changed. Her spirits suddenly plunged. She had so gaily assumed this was a rescue. She had believed somehow that Harry had engineered it. But what if the duchess had heard about them from someone in society and as a do-gooder planned only to give them a few days’ holiday? Her father had sworn everyone to secrecy, but servants would gossip. And after Daisy’s outburst, Sister Agnes would be dreaming up some nasty punishment for both of them.
She and Daisy were shown to pleasant high-ceilinged rooms. There was a housekeeper and maids to unpack their luggage and footmen to carry up baths. Oh, the bliss of hot water and scented soap. Hot water for baths had been forbidden in the convent.
Then came an efficient lady’s maid to help them dress and arrange their hair.
Daisy came tripping in and Rose exclaimed in dismay, “You cannot wear that blouse, Daisy. It’s indecent.”
“It’s all the crack,” said Daisy sulkily. “Miss Friendly made it for me.”
“I’m surprised at her. We must make a good impression.”
Daisy was wearing a ‘pneumonia blouse’, a transparent confection of muslin and lace with next to no collar.
Rose summoned the lady’s maid again and Daisy was finally attired in a white lace blouse with a pouched front and a high-boned collar. Rose was wearing a blouse of batiste with a tailored skirt cut on the cross.
She rang the bell and asked the footman who answered its summons to conduct them to the duchess.
As they entered a sunny drawing room, two men got to their feet – Harry and Becket.
“So it
“They didn’t,” said Harry. “Lord and Lady Hadshire are in Monte Carlo. I approached Her Grace and she suggested this visit. We called on you yesterday and were met by a nun called Sister Agnes. She told us you were not allowed any visitors and she was so awful that I decided something must be done.”
“Visit?” said Rose. “Do you mean we’ll have to go back to that awful place?”
“Don’t worry,” said the duchess, who was sitting in a large armchair by the fire. “Stay as long as you like. I get bored without company, and yet society bores me as well. I hardly ever go to London.”
Daisy rushed forward and knelt down by the duchess and seized one of her hands. “Thank you, oh, thank you,” she babbled. “I thought them penguins would be the death of me.”
“There, now,” said the duchess, looking highly amused. “Don’t be too hard on the sisters. They really do good work. But of course, it must be quite frightful if one has not got a vocation. We shall take tea. Please rise, dear girl.”
When tea was served, Rose asked Harry if he had found out who had murdered Dolores Duval.
“Every inquiry came to a dead end,” said Harry. “I am going to Paris. There is only one other lead. A French lawyer volunteered the information to the police that Miss Duval had left everything to a Madame de Peurey.”
“And who is Madame de Peurey?”
“I can tell you that,” said the duchess. “Famous grande coquette at one time. Men falling over her. Must be about sixty now.”
“She must need the money badly,” said Daisy. “I mean, we went once to a home for fallen women run by the convent. Those poor girls!”
“It’s not the same for a grande coquette,” said the duchess. “She was top of the tree in her profession. Before starting any liaison, her lawyers would meet with the prospective lover’s lawyers and a deal would be hammered out. It usually involved a house, servants, carriages and jewels. A clever woman could end up rich.”
“At least they can’t have children to worry about like those poor fallen women,” said Daisy, eyeing the cake stand and wondering if it would be considered greedy if she had yet another.
“But they do. They form a sort of demi-monde dynasty and their children marry the wealthy children of other courtesans.”
“I don’t know what she can tell us, but Miss Duval must have been fond of her and she may be able to tell us more about everyone Miss Duval knew,” said Harry.
“Do take us with you,” said Rose. “I’ve never been to Paris.”
“Out of the question. We are not even engaged any more. It would create a scandal.”
“Not if I were to take them,” said the duchess. “I haven’t been in Paris in years. It would amuse me. We shall all go.” She rang the bell.
When the butler entered, the duchess said, “Kemp, take a telegram.”
The butler went to a writing desk and sat down, pulling a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Let me see; where is Lady Polly?”
“The Palace Hotel in Monte Carlo,” said Rose.
“Very good. The telegram is to go to the Countess of Hadshire. Begin. ‘Dear Polly, I am taking your daughter, Rose, on an extended vacation as the effects of the convent’s discipline have left her with nasty red hands and a spotty face and I do not think you would like to see her looks ruined or her spirits broken besides which she has been consorting with unsuitable company like Fallen Women but do not thank me as it is a pleasure, Yours ever, Effie.’”
The butler scribbled away busily and then said, “If I may be so bold, Your Grace.”
“Bold away.”
“There is no need to send a long telegram. Telegrams should be brief.”
“Indeed. What would you suggest?”
“I am taking your daughter, Rose, on extended vacation. Stop. Convent life ruining looks. Stop. Yours, Effie.”
“Nonsense. Too curt. Send mine.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“Am I spotty?” asked Rose.
“No, my dear. But your hands are red. Quite disgraceful. The captain here has been telling me the whole story of the murder of that tart. Fascinating. Quite like a Sherlock Holmes story. It will do me good to be active again. Warnford is driving me mad with his improvements. I have been covered in plaster dust and awakened at dawn by builders erecting scaffolding. Now, do have some more tea. Captain, your man may take tea in the housekeeper’s room.” Becket rose silently and left. Daisy miserably watched him go. He had not looked at her once.
Holding a thin, fragile china cup and surveying the company with amused eyes, the duchess said, “We shall leave in two days’ time. It would be best if we travel to Claridge’s and then go on from there.” Claridge’s Hotel in London was called the home of the motorocracy, the travelling aristocrats, and also used by society ladies who were tired of the strain of catering for a household of guests and preferred to let the famous hotel cater for them.
“Once we get to Paris,” said the duchess, raising her lorgnette and surveying Rose’s outfit of blouse and skirt, “we must get you some fashionable clothes.”
“I would not like to burden you with the expense,” said Rose. “We were only allowed to wear our plainest clothes at the convent. We do have plenty of fashionable items in our luggage.”
“Nothing is more fashionable than a Paris gown,” retorted the duchess. “Besides, I shall charge anything we buy to your father. My dear Captain Cathcart, do say something. You have been sitting scowling and brooding ever since the ladies arrived. Are you in love with Lady Rose?”
“We are no longer engaged,” said Harry.
“That was not the question. Never mind. I must retire for a nap. Come, Lady Rose, you must be chaperoned
