Well, no, not Beatrice Hyde-Clare.
Beatrice, Duchess of Kesgrave.
Was that a twitch? she wondered, feeling a disquieting spasm in her left eye. Had her flinch become an unwelcome convulsion?
Determinedly, she pushed the thought to the corner of her mind, a feat whose futility she realized a moment later when she was compelled to introduce herself. At once, her eyelid began to flutter and she ignored the unsettling contraction of the muscles by sheer force of will.
“Good afternoon, I am the Duchess of Kesgrave,” she said.
But the twitch was not the only thing for which she had failed to account. The magnitude of that fateful first utterance had escaped her, and she spoke with a curious breathlessness.
The footman, who could have no awareness of the moment’s significance, watched her with steady light brown eyes the same color as his closely cropped hair, waiting, it seemed, for her to say something more.
Belatedly, she realized she had neglected to identify her purpose. “I am here to see Mr. Mayhew.”
He accepted her statement with equanimity, then paused in subtle expectation for a brief moment before asking for her card.
Her card!
Good God, yes, her calling card!
What duchess went to visit the neighbors without bringing with her a little packet of embossed cards?
And not just duchesses, she thought contemptuously, any member of society. Placing one’s calling card on the salver was the standard protocol for the most basic social interactions.
How could she be so thoughtless?
Poor Aunt Vera, whose only interest in her had been to ensure she behaved with a modicum of propriety!
An uncontrollable urge to laugh threatened to overcome her as she thought about all those years her relative had spent teaching her etiquette.
Her life’s work squandered on a wastrel of a niece who was ultimately no better than she ought to be.
Bea’s amusement was further spurred by the realization that this was the first time in any of her investigations that someone questioned her identity. Of all the absurd personas she had assumed over the past few months—French maid, law clerk, museum administrator—the hardest one to believe was the only one was that was true.
The reality of her was more difficult to conceive than the fiction.
It was too much for any human being to resist, especially one with such a highly developed sense of the ridiculousness as Bea, and she giggled. Not immoderately. Not excessively. Not even noticeably. It was more like Marlow’s odd sound, a peepish squeak so slight the listener could not be sure it had actually been uttered.
But Bea felt it and the familiarity of the sensation soothed her. Her eye stopped twitching, and she smiled so brightly the expression transformed her whole face. “Yes, of course you want my calling card, and I am a dreadful creature for not being able to supply it. What an appalling lack of conduct! The trouble is, my good man,” she said, striving for an avuncular tone even though the servant looked to be a few years older than she, “I am just wed and have not had an opportunity to secure them yet. I fear the oversight presents us with quite a quandary, but I am confident that if we put our heads together, we will arrive at an equitable solution. Shall I dash back to Kesgrave House to fetch my marriage lines? I am sure it won’t take me more than a dozen minutes.”
It was an insincere offer, of course, for she had no idea where the certificate was kept and she certainly was not going to interrupt Kesgrave’s business with his steward to ask. She made the proposal only in hopes of embarrassing him with its extravagance.
No footman worthy of his position would allow a duchess to scuttle around Berkeley Square at his bidding.
As if following the script she had supplied, he assured her such lengths were not necessary. Then, however, he diverged from the play by promising to convey her esteem to Mr. Mayhew. “And the next time you pay a call, you may leave your card.”
He did not end his short oration by bidding her good day, but the finality was implied.
Contemplating how to respond to the dismissal, Bea decided there was neither need nor cause for subtlety. She could, yes, wriggle her way into the house through sly or deceptive means, but as soon as she gained a foothold, she would have to say the word decapitation or the phrase severed head, undoing all her fine machinations.
She might as well start as she meant to continue.
To that end, she said with straightforward simplicity, “Your reluctance to admit me is understandable, given the tragic events of early this morning. If you are a sensible person—and by all appearances you are—you are either worried that I am a determined scandalmonger hoping to discover salacious details about Monsieur Alphonse’s death or that my delicate sensibilities will be overcome by the horrific nature of it. Please let me ease your mind on both accounts: I find gossiping to be deeply abhorrent, and my sensibilities are of a quite hardy stock. I am here regarding the chef’s murder. I am an investigator of some note and have recently solved several murders. Perhaps you are familiar with my nom de l’enquêteur, Beatrice Hyde-Clare. I am happy to supply references if necessary. Simply ask anyone who was at Lord Stirling’s ball a week ago about my skill.”
The footman tried with admirable determination to keep his expression polite, but her remarkable speech provided too much provocation. The eyes that flickered with mild concern at her first reference to the chef’s fate were goggling in baffled astonishment by the time she
