Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [78]
“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