The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [59]
“All this talk about a writing mentor,” Bledsoe boomed.
The faces below swung toward him.
The critic leaned forward, his massive hands on his railing. “Funny question to ask him, what should she be doing with her life. We all know,” and his deep voice dropped suggestively, “those of us with any sophistication, that old men do enjoy young women. This is a question I pursue in False Face. Subscribe now to make sure you can get your December issue and find out the truth.”
In a clear, ringing shout of outrage, Lady Gwendolyn announced, “Phillpotts had gout!”
The faces below swung toward Lady Gwendolyn.
“That’s in the feet,” Bledsoe replied pointedly.
A titter ran through the crowd.
Lady Gwendolyn enunciated icily, “Double entendres are the product of a second-class mind incapable of producing substance.”
Annie shouted, “Bledsoe’s trying to make something out of nothing.”
The audience swung about and looked toward the diving board.
Annie rattled the flyer. “All of these questions, hinting that there’s more than on the surface. Her first love affair? It certainly wasn’t an affair as we use that word today. Agatha’s first serious suitor was Bolton Fletcher, a colonel in the Seventeenth Lancers, fifteen years older than she. He deluged her with love letters, chocolates, flowers, books, and other gifts. He proposed the third time he came to call at Ashfield, but, fortunately, Agatha’s mother felt this was too much too soon, and proposed a six-month ban on visits or letters. At the end of the six months, the colonel sent a telegram asking if Agatha would marry him. She declined.”
Bledsoe pushed away from the balcony railing and stood to his full height and clapped enthusiastically.
Before Annie could erupt, he trumpeted, “By God, this is a good forum. But there’s a better forum—Mean Streets. Here’s what I propose, Lady Gwendolyn, Mrs. Darling.” He half-bowed toward each. “My chapters in one issue, your responses in the next. I will provide readers with psychological insights into the life of this peculiarly educated, abnormally reclusive woman, and you can respond with the materials so conveniently approved by Christie’s family.”
Bledsoe looked down at the upturned faces and gestured toward the table with the flyers. “There’s the place to sign up. Be a part of the great debate on Christie. I’ll be right down, and I won’t leave until every person in the hotel’s. had a chance to subscribe.”
Annie, goaded past endurance, yelled at his back as he ducked into his suite. “Wait a minute. I won’t do it. This is criminal. I won’t be a party to—”
Too late she realized she was moving forward. She wavered, her arms pumping wildly, trying to regain her balance, then toppled to her right. As she plummeted down, she glimpsed Lady Gwendolyn, eyeing her with distress, but her pink lips twitched with amusement. It was almost a relief to smack into the water.
“So I blew it.” Annie savagely raked the brush through her hair, then threw the brush down on the balcony table.
“It’s not a total disaster, Annie,” Henny soothed.
Annie sneezed. “Lady Gwendolyn obviously thinks I’m a complete incompetent.”
Room service, dispatched at Lady Gwendolyn’s behest, had arrived with tea cosseted in a cosy and a note suggesting Annie take a spot of rest. After all, hypothermia could be so dangerous.
“Annie, that was a thoughtful note!” Laurel exclaimed. “I know she would have dropped by to check on you, but I’m sure she’s busy planning some way to thwart Bledsoe.”
Laurel’s confidence in Lady Gwendolyn—and obvious dismissal of efforts by Annie—rankled. Though Annie certainly had too much pride to reveal her hurt.
Henny, however, was definitely not on her ladyship