Danger on the Downs Page 3

  The maid curtsied. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke.”

  “Hello,” Cora said. “What’s your name?”

  “Georgie, miss. Mrs. Ivanov thought you might need help.”

  “That’s very kind of her.”

  “Shall I unpack your suitcase?” Georgie asked.

  “Please,” Cora said. “And you can press my evening gown.”

  “Which one?” Georgie asked.

  “The blue one with ruffles,” Cora said. “You’ll spot it.”

  It was also Cora’s only evening gown, but she didn’t want to dwell on that fact now. Evening gowns had been less necessary in Hollywood where she’d worked very often. Here the only entertainment seemed to be around the dining room table.

  “Is my great aunt in the kitchen?” Cora asked.

  The maid nodded. Clearly, Great Aunt Maggie truly had told everyone that she was arriving.

  “I think I’ll visit her,” Cora said.

  “Very well,” Georgie said. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  Cora shook her head with a smile. “The general direction is down. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  Georgie nodded and then picked up Cora’s trunk and moved it onto a stand. Her movements were quick and efficient, and Cora left her in peace.

  Soon Cora strode down the marble hallway. Glamorous modern sculptures lined the walls, positioned beside large canvases splattered with bright shapes. On the paintings where the artist had decided to depict more than shapes and tints, the images were always macabre. People were distorted, and they managed to look alternatively desperate or garish.

  Cora found the stairs and then found her way to the main floor. She remembered the narrow stairs that had led from there to the kitchen and walked down them. The kitchen lacked the innovative designs prevalent in the rest of the house, and Cora felt at home. Dim light came in through from small windows at the top of the walls.

  She found Aunt Maggie easily, hearing her voice. Aunt Maggie was in a small room off the kitchen, speaking with Mr. Mitu. Archibald lay at their feet. No doubt he was happy to be in the warmth again.

  “Cora dear!” Aunt Maggie’s eyes shone when she spotted her. “How are you enjoying the upstairs?”

  “It’s nice,” Cora said, certain Mrs. Ivanov would not want her to share the exact reason for the invitation.

  They chatted for a while, and then Cora took Archibald for a walk. The rain was less violent now, and Cora ambled toward the English Channel. Long grass, speckled with wildflowers, clung to her boots and dress, and the ground was soft underneath her feet. In the distance, some sheep grazed in a field, no doubt content that the rain had lessened. The gray ocean spread before her, continuing its incessant task of crashing into the shore. Tall chalky cliffs loomed over the channel, the fragile rock still managing to serve as an effective barrier against the relentless waves.

  Happiness fluttered through Cora. It didn’t matter that the sky and ocean were gray. It didn’t matter that it still drizzled. She was in Sussex, far from the trials of Hollywood. She had a great aunt and she had Archibald.

  When Cora and Archibald returned, the maid had already laid out her evening gown, and Cora slipped into it. She hadn’t had a maid in Hollywood, and the dress was easy to slip into, though she was grateful for Georgie’s help in doing her hair and makeup. Perhaps the other houseguests wouldn’t notice that the cut of her dress was from 1936. The huge puff sleeves and generous collar had a tendency to appear old-fashioned.

  Archibald curled up onto a comfortable looking oriental rug, and Cora strode down the marble stairs toward the sound of voices and big band music, determined to discover who might have murderous intent.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sun may have set, but the chandeliers and sconces sparkled valiantly to replace the lack of natural light. Cora entered the drawing room and surveyed the people about her, pondering who might have nefarious inclinations. Most of them seemed consumed with the efforts to eat the cook’s delicious canapes while holding champagne flutes.

  “Miss Clarke!” Mrs. Ivanov moved quickly toward her despite her floor-length dress, and feathers fluttered at the hem of her capelet. “You look divine. Isn’t Georgie positively magical?”

  “Rather. You look beautiful as well.”

  Mrs. Ivanov flushed and smoothed her emerald gown and capelet. “You are sweet. I’m so happy to have you here.” Mrs. Ivanov slipped a silk-gloved hand into Cora’s. “You’ve met my husband of course. Mr. Rosenfeld is visiting from London with his lady friend, though they’re not down yet.” Mrs. Ivanov gestured to an elegant woman with dark hair. “That’s my dear husband’s sister. Everyone adores her. And Mr. and Mrs. Badger are here too. Mr. Badger is my accountant.” Mrs. Ivanov lowered her voice. “It’s important to keep a man like that happy.”

  Cora nodded politely, pondering just what Mrs. Ivanov thought necessary in her efforts to keep him happy.

  “My nephew is also visiting,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “One day this will be all his. I don’t expect Mr. Ivanov and I will have children.”

  Cora wondered whether she detected a note of wistfulness, but in the next moment Mr. Ivanov approached them, and Mrs. Ivanov flashed him a wide smile.

  “How do you like England?” Mr. Ivanov asked her.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cora murmured.

  She’d been skeptical in the winter. When the ground hadn’t been covered in snow, which she knew might unreliably indicate the shape of the terrain, it had seemed composed solely of long stretches of mud. But now spring was arriving, and green dotted the ground. Sheep and cows wandered the fields and even ran and leaped, displaying an athleticism and seeming joy for life that those in California had never seemed to show. Cora resolved to enjoy this house party.

  “Why don’t you chat and then introduce Miss Clarke to the other guests?” Mrs. Ivanov suggested.

  “I would be happy to do so,” Mr. Ivanov said, and Mrs. Ivanov departed.

  Mr. Ivanov led her toward the other guests. Modern art filled this room as well, and Cora was glad she’d left Archibald upstairs. She would be nervous of him destroying Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov’s white furniture or fluffy white rugs, which seemed to have been chosen to better emphasize the vibrancy of the artwork. Cora turned her attention to the handsome Bulgarian. “Do you have many parties here?”

  “Naturally,” Mr. Ivanov murmured. “There is much in life to celebrate.”

  “Such as—?”

  “Being alive. That is the finest thing there is.” Mr. Ivanov’s lips spread into a wide smile, embellished with two dimples.

  Perhaps Mr. Ivanov’s drive in his faulty Jaguar had rattled him more than he might care to admit to his wife.

  “I heard you had an accident recently,” she said. “How terrifying.”

  “Life in the country,” his tone was nonchalant, and he dipped his shoulders into a shrug that didn’t appear forced. You must have heard from my wife. It was a mechanical error.”

  “But it could have been fatal,” she pointed out, wondering if he was as unconcerned as his wife indicated.

  “The incident was easily resolved by turning the car into a field. A few hours’ inconvenience is hardly heart throttling, is it?” His words were silky, and she thought, perhaps practiced.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “My cousins experience real fear. There are real men, real anarchists, who would like to see them dead. This hardly compares with that.”

  Cora nodded. “I suppose I never appreciated how safe I was in California.”

  “People have a tendency to muse about what they do not have. I suppose it fosters ambition.”

  “Self-congratulation might lead to stagnation.”

  “And that, my dear Miss Clarke, would be a mistake.”

  She mused over his words, curious just what he did to avoid the stagnation he seemed to abhor.

  Mr. Ivanov paused before a middle-aged couple, introducing them as Mr. and Mrs. Badger.

 
“This is Miss Clarke, the American actress,” Mr. Ivanov said.

  “Goodness me,” Mrs. Badger said. “How exciting.”

  They gazed warily at her. At first, Cora thought them rude, but then she suspected that they felt as out of place here as she did. Mrs. Badger seemed squeezed into a too-tight scarlet dress, made more unflattering by the unforgiving satin fabric that seemed designed to bequeath curves to women who did not have them. Most likely the tightness could be attributed to not having seen a tailor or bought a new dress recently than because of any desire to allure. Despite her generous cleavage, Mrs. Badger stood rigidly, and she avoided eye contact with Mr. Ivanov.

  It was a party, and Mrs. Badger shouldn’t have been nervous, but Cora felt similarly.

  “Mr. Badger is my wife’s accountant,” Mr. Ivanov said.

  “Yes. I make certain that everything is in order.” Mr. Badger’s tone seemed rather sterner than the occasion warranted, and Mrs. Badger’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink.

  Mrs. Badger’s attention, though, seemed focused on the outside window, even though the sky had long seemed dark, and the slight slivers of foamy waves that appeared under the moonlight could hardly be described as novel.

  A handsome young man approached them. His dark hair shone in the flickering candlelight of Mrs. Ivanov’s parlor, aided by some form of wax most men had abandoned. He wore a foppish velvet tuxedo jacket. “Miss Clarke is it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “This is Mr. Elliot Fawcett,” Mr. Ivanov said, and Mr. and Mrs. Badger silently moved away from them.

  “I’m the nephew.” Mr. Fawcett flashed a smile, and Cora thought he might just be very popular with ladies. He didn’t have the rugged appeal of Randolph, but his features were elegant, and he spoke using the rounded vowels that tended to denote both an expensive education and a belonging to the highest class.

  “One day, this will be his,” Mr. Ivanov remarked dramatically, sweeping his arm over the marble floor, modern paintings and majestic views.

  “No day soon,” Mr. Fawcett said easily. “Not that there will be much left anyway.”

  “We do appreciate good art,” Mr. Ivanov said.

  “So do I,” Mr. Fawcett said, “though I don’t see any of that sort here.”

  Mr. Ivanov gave a bland smile, obviously unrattled by Mr. Fawcett’s barb.

  “Yes. Personally, I think art is a great con,” Mr. Fawcett said. “How do people convince others to spend money on it? And there’s no risk of jail either. Quite impressive.”

  Cora glanced at the collection of art. The sculptures had sleek shapes that differed from those past sculptors had occupied themselves with capturing, and the vibrant expressionist paintings displayed a harsh worldview she did not desire to linger on.

  Mr. Ivanov’s smile tightened, and she suspected Mrs. Ivanov’s husband took a less pessimistic view on art.

  “The pieces do make one think,” she said diplomatically.

  “A much overrated state of being.”

  “Perhaps some might succumb to that error,” Mr. Ivanov said.

  “I hear you are famous across the pond,” Mr. Fawcett said to Cora, changing the subject if not rescuing the conversation.

  “And here,” Mr. Ivanov said gallantly.

  “I am afraid I’m not one for moving pictures,” Mr. Fawcett said with a smile Cora wondered if she should construe as apologetic or simply self-deprecating. If Mr. Fawcett intended either of the two possibilities, he did not achieve it. He seemed distinctly condescending.

  “Mr. Fawcett writes hardboiled crime.” Mr. Ivanov clapped his hand on Mr. Fawcett’s back.

  “Well, one does have to do something,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  “I’m introducing Miss Clarke to everyone,” Mr. Ivanov said to Mr. Fawcett. Offering his arm, Mr. Ivanov told Cora, “You can meet my sister Natalia next. She’s far more pleasant.”

  Cora smiled, and Mr. Ivanov led her to a woman who stood near the gramophone. Cora realized that she must be responsible for the loud music.

  She was pretty, though she didn’t share her brother’s height. Her features were softer, and she had a round face that reminded Cora of Claudette Colbert. Her gown was a basic black, and any cleavage was covered by a modest halter neck. Still, even her brother seemed to look approvingly at the gown.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ivanov,” Cora said politely. “This is the actress,” Mr. Ivanov explained to his sister instead of a proper introduction.

  “An American...” The woman extended her hand. “This is a pleasure. Please, call me Natalia.” Her voice was musical, and Cora almost wondered whether she received her intonations from the upbeat music of which she was obviously fond. The woman slipped a hand through Cora’s arm. “We will become just the best of friends.”

  The skin about Mr. Ivanov’s eyes crinkled. “I told you I had a good sister.”

  Natalia laughed. She was only about Cora’s height, and yet her voice seemed to fill the room. The black dress Mr. Ivanov’s sister wore should have been conservative. It lacked vibrancy, though the gown’s deep open back that ended in decorative draped panels and its short train yielded it a certain sophistication. The dress hugged her curves, and the dark color matched her hair. Mrs. Ivanov’s floor-length emerald number seemed fussy in contrast.

  “We have another actress here, don’t we Mr. Ivanov?” Natalia asked.

  “Ah, yes.” Mr. Ivanov looked around the room. “Where is she?” Mr. Ivanov leaned closer to her. “She’s a bit harder to handle. Just as a warning.”

  “But she is American,” Natalia said. “You must know her. She’s ever so famous. It’s quite exciting to have her.”

  Cora frowned. She did know many famous American Hollywood actresses. But she certainly did not expect to find any here. The only American actress Cora knew here was Veronica James, her very dearest friend from her child star days, but surely her friend couldn’t be here.

  It’s probably someone else.

  “There she is now,” Mr. Ivanov remarked.

  Cora turned her head and saw a glamorous woman in a lilac silk and feather gown that surely couldn’t fulfill the requirements for half-mourning. Her rather less stunning companion handed Veronica a champagne flute. In the other hand, she held a feathered fan. A sapphire and diamond bracelet that Cora recognized glimmered from her wrist.

  It was Veronica.

  Her dear friend.

  Her dear friend who was not supposed to be here.

  Cora hurried toward her, feeling her eyes widen as surprise moved through her. “Veronica, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I’m so happy to see you, my darling,” Veronica crooned, and even though Cora was surrounded by many strangers, she finally felt at ease.

  “It is nice to see you,” Cora said. “Even if it is unexpected.”

  “Honey, what are you doing with that delicious Bulgarian? You do know he is married?”

  “Veronica,” Cora said, conscious that Mr. Ivanov was hardly out of earshot. “You mustn’t say those things.”

  “Well, what are you doing here, honey?”

  “My great aunt lives here.”

  “Oh?” Veronica looked around. “Well, she has done quite well for herself, darling. Rather makes you wonder why your parents felt compelled to immigrate.” Veronica stroked Cora’s cheek. “No doubt, they had a suspicion that you would turn into an actress.”

  “She works here,” Cora said.

  “We’re at that place? How lovely. Mr. Rosenfeld brought me down here.”

  “Oh?”

  For the first time, Cora directed her attention at the portly man beside Veronica.

  “Mr. Rosenfeld is quite an important director on the West End,” Veronica whispered, and suddenly Cora understood why Veronica was here.

  Veronica had triumphed in Hollywood, and she’d long expressed an interest to act in England. Cora suspected that her friend wasn’t quite ready to return to Los Angeles after leaving the indus
try some months ago to marry a duke.

  Veronica had never been fond of people’s pity, and Cora suspected her friend had not found a new desire for it. Veronica’s duke had proved to be rather unideal after all.

  “I didn’t know we were coming here, honey,” Veronica drawled. “Mr. Rosenfeld just said we were going south to a house party.”

  “Ah, you are the famous Miss Clarke.” Mr. Rosenfeld scrutinized Cora for a moment, but he soon returned his attention to Veronica, as most men did when observing both of them.

  Mrs. Ivanov approached them. “Do you two know each other?”

  “Cora and I used to sing and dance together when we were children,” Veronica said.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes sparkled. “Then perhaps you should perform for us after dinner.”

  “We couldn’t,” Cora said.

  At the same time, Veronica said, “That would be divine.”

  “You truly want to?” Cora asked Veronica.

  “Honey, when there is an important audience, of course I want to.”

  Mr. Rosenfeld beamed, recognizing that he belonged in the “important audience” category.

  The party music swelled into a merry crescendo.

  “Dinner is served,” the butler said in a regal voice.

  Mr. Fawcett offered Cora his arm, and they entered the dining room.

  Mrs. Ivanov was wrong. Having met all the other guests, Cora couldn’t imagine any of them attempting to murder someone. No doubt Mrs. Ivanov was simply in a state of heightened anxiety. Cora certainly was. The papers talked about a war with greater frequency, and she couldn’t be the only person who looked at the sea and imagined German battleships barreling toward them, and she couldn’t be the only person who imagined more than birds flitting across the sky.

  People were digging air raid shelters in London, and this was far closer to Germany. Suddenly she didn’t want her great aunt to work here anymore.

  CHAPTER FIVE