She Shoots to Conquer by Dorothy Cannell Page A

magnificent six foot three, also might not have been there. The same could be said of Mrs. Malloy, who had stood up in acknowledgment of Lord Belfrey’s general greeting. Preen though she might, she was a shadow on the wall. I was in shock: Cary Grant . . . Carson Grant! Down to that entrancing cleft in the chin. Was I in a movie or a book? “Forgive me if Mrs. Foot forced one of her abominable cups of tea on you. She considers brewing up her main mission in life.”
    His voice enhanced his every other charm; it was deeptimbred, with a slight blurring around the edges. I shifted to a more upright position on the sofa, the better to bask in his smile, which so engagingly crinkled the skin around his eyes. He had a wonderful mouth . . . perfect teeth, particularly remarkable fora man in his fifties. Poor Mrs. Foot, with that sizable gap. I regretted every unkind thought about her.
    “Really,” I insisted, “there’s nothing wrong with me but a tension headache. It was nerve-wracking driving in the fog, and I haven’t eaten in ages because we couldn’t find a restaurant. That must have been what caused me to faint.”
    “A sandwich and a glass of brandy would have been helpful.” Ben sounded none too friendly, especially it seemed to me when adding, “Your lordship.”
    “Of course. Although I’m not sure anything prepared by Mrs. Foot would have made you feel any better.” A wry and utterly beguiling smile. “Georges LeBois, who is here for the filming, is refusing to eat. And regrettably I don’t keep alcohol in the house on account of Plunket having a weakness for anything that isn’t orange juice”—again the kindness came through—“but if my cousin Tommy, here”—placing a hand on the doctor’s shoulder—“prescribes a medicinal dose of brandy, or better yet cognac, for Mrs. Haskell, it will be fetched. A relation of ours lives within walking distance and she keeps an excellent cellar.”
    “Quite right.” The doctor nodded his head vigorously. He had the round, guileless face of a schoolboy, his brown eyes shining with goodwill and his white hair fringing his forehead. His upper teeth (I was really noticing teeth or the lack thereof at Mucklesfeld) gave him endearingly goofy looks and a slight lisp. “I’m a teetotaler myself, for no reason other than I prefer lemonade, but it will be no trouble for me to walk over to Witch Haven, Celia’s house.”
    “She’s the daughter of our cousin Giles, who was at Mucklesfeld before me,” explained his lordship.
    “Interesting,” said Ben.
    “I’m also a Belfrey, or should be,” the doctor chimed in cheerfully, “but my father chose to adopt my mother’s maiden name. He was estranged from the family, believing he’d never been fairly treated as the third son. Silly, these family feuds. Now, if you donot object, Mrs. Haskell, I will take a quick look at you.” He was opening his bag with great importance, encouraged by his wearing his big-boy suit instead of his play clothes. I pictured his mother agreeing on the condition that he didn’t play in the dirt.
    “What sort of a look?” I asked uneasily.
    “Nothing that will require any undressing. Just an examination of your head and eyes. It’s entirely possible,” he continued cheerfully, “that you fractured your skull or suffered a concussion in that fall.”
    “It wasn’t a fall,” I protested. “It was a . . . slide. And please,” feeling a ridiculous desire to be made one of the family, “do call me Ellie.”
    “Short for Eleanor?” Did Lord Belfrey frequently display that knack of indicating a vital interest in something of minor importance?
    “Giselle.” Mrs. Malloy assumed the role of speaking for me, given that the balance of my mind was disturbed. “Her husband is Ben,” no appreciative smile from that quarter, “and my name’s Roxie.”
    Lord Belfrey acknowledged this information with a smile that puffed up Mrs. Malloy’s bosom under her taffeta ensemble and