The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway
Book Five: The Lord’s Fatal Mistake
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE LORD'S FATAL MISTAKE
First edition. September 14, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Issy Brooke.
Written by Issy Brooke.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
One
Author’s note: this book is written in British English. It has been edited professionally, but the grammar, spelling and vocabulary may be unfamiliar to some readers.
London, December 1893
“No. I shall not go and you cannot make me.” The Dowager Countess Grace stamped her foot and pouted.
Adelia, the Countess of Calaway, burst out laughing at the sight of the elderly lady throwing such a childish fit. She addressed her recalcitrant mother-in-law with fondness and a certain amount of exasperation as she said, “Oh, my dearest Grace, whatever are we to do with you? You are behaving for all the world like a small child who is refusing to come down to the dinner table to say goodnight before bed.”
Grace was unrepentant. She may have been well into her eightieth year but she stood upright and almost straight-backed. She flapped one gnarled hand in the air with disdain. “Lady Purfleet is simply a monster dressed up in paint and lace, though none of you seem able to see it,” she declared. “She deliberately sent the invitation to me so that it would arrive inconsiderately late – in fact, I did not receive it until this morning. This very morning! And she cannot blame the post. You received your invitation two weeks ago. Can you not see the slight? It is deliberate, I tell you. It is an insult.”
The argument was being conducted in the high-ceilinged drawing room of an elegant townhouse in central London. Adelia and her husband Theodore were staying with their daughter Charlotte Lassiter. She was married to Robert Lassiter, heir to the fortunes of the Earl of Mareham. As the good old earl was still stubbornly and heartily living, Robert had only his courtesy titles to decorate his name if he chose, and very few actual occupations or responsibilities to fill his time. Robert and Charlotte – Lottie to her friends – seemed to have spent the first few years of their married life enjoying a ceaseless whirl of parties, holidays, shooting expeditions, balls and soirees.
Indeed, so busy had they been with their high life, Adelia had barely heard from Charlotte in years. She’d encountered her briefly a few months previously but had hardly had a chance to speak to her daughter before Charlotte had disappeared from sight at a party. Therefore Adelia had been shocked to receive a letter inviting her to stay with the Lassiters in London during Christmas and to take part in the social gatherings of the festive season.
“Lady Purfleet is not a monster,” Adelia said. “She is reserved in her ways, I grant you, but I admire her reticence. She is never drawn into gossip and that is to be commended. Aha! That is why you won’t come. You are an unrepentant gossip – you cannot deny it. Whereas she is not so inclined. She provides no fuel for your fires.” Adelia grinned at her mother-in-law. She had already had one festive glass of sherry and perhaps that was a mistake. It had loosened her tongue.
Grace frowned. Before she could issue a retort, the door opened and a few other members of the family came in. Charlotte entered first. She was a glittering vision of youth and elegant frivolity, dripping with jewels and wearing a low-cut dress that seemed to show altogether too much shoulder. Behind her was the dashing Robert, dressed in a quasi-military style for the evening, lacking only a rapier or sabre to complete the effect. Theodore looked almost parochial as he brought up the rear. The cut of his dinner jacket was perfect, the trimming of his beard was precise, but alongside the modern and sophisticated vibrancy of his son-in-law and daughter, he looked like a crumbling ancient relic from the mid-century.
Oh dear, thought Adelia. And what might that suggest of my own appearance? She had been so very busy lately, and had not caught up with fashions or the latest modes. In fact, over the past month, she felt that her world had narrowed to routine and predictability.
But she had no time to sink into self-conscious reflection. Charlotte bounced around with energetic enthusiasm, already deep into her third glass of sherry, and Grace grumbled and moaned and left the house, saying she was going to retire early to bed. Almost instantly, the carriage was announced and soon they were rumbling the short distance through the packed streets to the evening dinner party at Lady Purfleet’s house. It would have been far quicker to have walked there.
But appearances, in London, were absolutely everything.
THERE WERE THIRTY GUESTS that evening, and Adelia noticed immediately that a place had not been set for Grace, the Dowager Countess. So Lady Purfleet had known all along that Grace would not attend even though Grace had not bothered to reply to the invitation. But of course, Grace had known Lady Purfleet’s mother and had seen more of Lady Purfleet herself than Adelia ever had. Perhaps the older lady did know a little more about what lay behind the perfectly placid face of the tall, willowy Lady Purfleet.
Adelia had been seated next to a young man who did not speak to her, as his attention was focused entirely on the beauty to his other side. Her other dining partner was a man of mature years who knew how to behave more properly, and he quickly engaged her in courteous conversation.
“So, are you an art lover like the rest of them here, Lady Calaway?” he asked. “I am aware that your background grants you a great deal of knowledge, but that does not necessarily mean that you must have a love of the subject.”
She smiled. He was politely alluding to her once-great family’s business of galleries which had
