“Just about the time you came to England, Mrs. Langtry’s jewels-forty thousand pounds’ worth-were taken from the vault at the Union Bank. The thief presented a note bearing her name. The signature subsequently proved to be copied from the Pearl Soap advertisement that carries her personal endorsement. It wasn’t even a very good forgery, as it turned out.”
“Then why in the world,” Kate exclaimed, “would she have anything to do with ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma’? It’s a story of course, a fiction-but some people might take it for truth and believe that she took the jewels herself!”
“Why would she want to stage it?” Charles shrugged. “Perhaps because she wants to profit from her own notoriety.”
“Well, there’s certainly plenty of that,” Kate said in an ironic tone. “The woman is featured in the newspapers almost every week. A few years ago, there were all those reports about her American divorce, and then there was Mr. Langtry’s mysterious death.” She looked back at the note, her pretty face drawn into a frown. “Why do you suppose she’s interested in my story?”
“Who knows?” Charles said. “As Oscar Wilde says, ‘we live in an age where people use art as a form of autobiography.’ ” He knew his wife, and he knew that she didn’t seek public attention. “Do you want her to stage the story?”
“I’m not at all sure I like the idea,” Kate said thoughtfully. “But now that I’ve heard about the theft of her jewels, I must admit to being curious about Mrs. Langtry and her interest in ‘The Duchess.’ Perhaps I’ll accept her invitation after all. I’ve just been asked to write an article for The Strand, and she would make a fascinating subject. If she’ll allow me to write about her, that is.”
“Allow you to write about her? I’m sure she’ll be thrilled at the prospect of seeing herself in print one more time, especially with Beryl Bardwell’s name on the piece.” Charles raised an eyebrow. “But you and Beryl should perhaps be a little careful, Kate. Mrs. Langtry’s sporting friends are not quite as well-mannered as she. I suggest that you take Amelia. She might keep you from getting into trouble.”
He had meant the remark as a joke, but Kate took it seriously. “I shall certainly ask Amelia to go with me,” she said, “and I’ll write to Mrs. Langtry and ask if she will give me an interview for publication.” She slanted him a look. “I hope you don’t mind that I go.”
Charles grinned wryly. “Would it do me any good?” Then, seeing her face, he added hastily, “I don’t mind in the slightest, my dear. I myself must go to Newmarket, on the racing business I told you about. I shouldn’t like to intrude on your stay with Mrs. Langtry, but at least I’ll be in the vicinity, if you need-” Charles broke off at the sound of a motorcar clattering up the drive.
Kate turned her head, listening. “That must be Bradford and his friend, come to luncheon.” She stood up and went to the parapet as Bradford Marsden’s new yellow Panhard pulled into view. “I wonder what she looks like.”
Smiling at his wife’s curiosity, Charles laid his newspaper aside and joined her at the parapet, watching as the Panhard jolted to a stop and its passengers began to disembark. “She’s a little dusty,” he said critically. “Could do with a wash. And that front left headlamp-”
Kate swatted his arm. “Not the motorcar-the girl, silly. Bradford ’s fiancée. Her name is Edith Hill.”
“Oh, that one,” Charles said. He peered over Kate’s shoulder. “Looks like a regular girl to me. Not too much hat, I’m pleased to-” He stopped, staring intently. “Is that an ankle I see? By Jove, it’s an ankle!”
“It is!” Kate exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Bradford Marsden has engaged himself to a woman who wears rational dress!”
“So he has,” Charles muttered with rueful irony, shaking his head. “And we all know what comes of rational dress. Women earning their way in the world, insisting on managing their own property, and-heaven help us-claiming a right to the vote.”
Kate smiled archly. “Well, I’ve achieved two of the three, and the franchise will come, like it or not. There are some things, my dearest love, that you shall simply have to get used to.” She smiled to show that she was teasing and tugged at his sleeve. “Now, come away from the parapet. We’ll have plenty of time for inspection during luncheon.”
Affectionately, Charles watched Kate return to her chair, admiring the shining russet hair pinned in loose twists around her head, her firm-featured face, the confident lift of her chin, the frank, open smile whose radiance invariably dazzled him. She was a lovely woman, he thought, grown even more lovely now that she was past thirty. But what he most admired about her could not be seen at first glance: her literary talent, of course, which never ceased to amaze him; but also her stubborn Irish-American desire for independence, so at odds with the English woman’s acceptance of her place; and her zealous determination to help other women achieve what independence they could. And, not least, her ability to tolerate the unhappy situation his mother’s bitter intolerance had created.
The thought of the dowager Lady Somersworth made Charles sigh heavily. He had recently made one of his regular visits to the family estate in Norwich, where his mother lived-or rather, where she was dying of a cancer in her breast. Having outlived a husband and elder son, the third and fourth barons of Somersworth, she emphatically reminded the fifth baron each time she saw him that she did not intend to die until he had produced an heir. During the last visit, Charles had finally told her the truth: that Kate’s first pregnancy had also been her last. There would be no children.
At this, Lady Somersworth set her mouth. “Well,” she said bitterly, “what did you expect? She’s Irish, and the Irish are always sickly. No constitution at all.”
“Mother-” Charles began, in a warning tone.
“I’m not disappointed,” Lady Somersworth snapped. “Ever since I learned that hers is the pen behind those dreadful Bardwell fictions, I’ve been too humiliated to hold up my head in Society. If you take my advice, Charles, you will seek an immediate divorce from this person, whatever the cost.”
“Divorce?” Charles tried for a joking tone. “But think of the scandal, Mother.”
“Scandal?” Lady Somersworth’s laugh was bitter. “The scandal of divorce is pale as a ghost in comparison to the scandal of your marriage, Charles. Free yourself from her and choose a woman of your own class. Then you can pass Somersworth to sons who are not part”-her nostrils flared and she turned her head aside, as if from a disagreeable odor-“Irish.”
At that, Charles had stalked out and taken the next train home to Bishop’s Keep. The bitter old woman could die alone, as far as he was concerned, and the Somersworth title with her. And when she was gone, he had an entirely new plan for the family estates-one that would send his dowager mother spinning in her grave.
The French doors opened, and Hodge, the butler, stepped onto the terrace. “Lord Bradford Marsden,” he announced, “and Miss Edith Hill.”
CHAPTER EIGHT