that we could put in her way?”
“We’ll have to think about it. If we can come up with a few possibilities, we can get them together at an At Home, as we did with Millicent and Anonymous.”
“We could always suggest she moderate her necklines and be a little less flamboyant with the perfume and the diamonds,” Chastity suggested. “We could make it sound as if it were the sort of general advice we give all our clients.”
“We’ll leave that to you, Chas. Tactful advice is right up your street. One thing we do know: Dotty can afford the finder’s fee.” Prudence turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Jenkins opened the door. “Mr. Ensor is with Lord Duncan, ladies. They would like you to join them in the drawing room for champagne.”
“Thank you. We’ll be down straightaway.” Constance examined her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, tucking a loose strand into her elaborately piled mass of rich russet hair.
“It’s not like you to check your appearance, Con,” Prudence said with a mischievous grin. “Marriage has certainly worked some changes.”
“There’s quite a wind blowing,” Constance declared with an air of mock dignity. “It was gusting as I left the motor.”
Laughing, they went downstairs. Lord Duncan’s raised voice reached them as they crossed the hall to the drawing room. They exchanged comprehending glances. His lordship was expounding with great fervor his indignation at the libel of his friend. Judging by the speed of the monologue, his son-in-law was making no attempt to respond.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Constance. “He’s bound to have shown Max the article and I haven’t even had a chance to prepare him.” She swallowed slightly, stiffened her shoulders, and opened the drawing room door. “You’re early, Max. You said two hours. Did you see the Prime Minister?” Her eyes darted to the table that stood between the two men. Both the
Pall Mall Gazette
and
The Mayfair Lady
lay there, their pages turned to the incriminating articles.
Max followed her gaze, then regarded her with a less than loverlike air. “I saw him,” he said shortly. He greeted his sisters-in-law with rather more warmth, although there was a certain hint of reserve that was not normally present in his dealings with them.
“I’ve just been telling Ensor about this disgrace,” Lord Duncan thundered, gesturing to the papers on the table. “If I ever discover who wrote that first piece of trash, I’ll take a horsewhip to him. Thrash him to within an inch of his life.”
“I can’t say I’d blame you, sir,” Max said aridly, casting another glance at his wife. Constance met his gaze.
“Well, enough of that for the moment. Ah, Jenkins, you’ve brought the champagne. Why the Taittinger? I specifically asked for the vintage Veuve Clicquot.” His lordship frowned fiercely at the bottle’s label as if it offended him.
“There is no more of the Clicquot, your lordship,” Jenkins said placidly. “Harpers are unable to lay in any more supplies of that vintage.”
Lord Duncan harrumphed. “Seems they’re always running short of supplies these days. I shall complain to Harper himself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenkins eased off the cork and poured the straw-colored liquid into five crystal glasses. He handed them around, and if he was aware of the tension that connected the sisters like a taut rope, he gave no sign. He bowed and left the drawing room.
The next half hour was for the sisters excruciating, for their father a pleasantry, and for Max Ensor a period of tightly reined annoyance. At last, after the minute details of the Nile river trip had been discussed with Lord Duncan, Max set down his glass.
“Constance, we should not neglect to visit my sister,” he said. “She would feel slighted if we failed her on our first day home.”
“Of course,” Constance said readily. “Father, I hope you’ll dine with us soon.”
He received her kiss with a smile. “Yes,
“We’ll have to think about it. If we can come up with a few possibilities, we can get them together at an At Home, as we did with Millicent and Anonymous.”
“We could always suggest she moderate her necklines and be a little less flamboyant with the perfume and the diamonds,” Chastity suggested. “We could make it sound as if it were the sort of general advice we give all our clients.”
“We’ll leave that to you, Chas. Tactful advice is right up your street. One thing we do know: Dotty can afford the finder’s fee.” Prudence turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Jenkins opened the door. “Mr. Ensor is with Lord Duncan, ladies. They would like you to join them in the drawing room for champagne.”
“Thank you. We’ll be down straightaway.” Constance examined her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, tucking a loose strand into her elaborately piled mass of rich russet hair.
“It’s not like you to check your appearance, Con,” Prudence said with a mischievous grin. “Marriage has certainly worked some changes.”
“There’s quite a wind blowing,” Constance declared with an air of mock dignity. “It was gusting as I left the motor.”
Laughing, they went downstairs. Lord Duncan’s raised voice reached them as they crossed the hall to the drawing room. They exchanged comprehending glances. His lordship was expounding with great fervor his indignation at the libel of his friend. Judging by the speed of the monologue, his son-in-law was making no attempt to respond.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Constance. “He’s bound to have shown Max the article and I haven’t even had a chance to prepare him.” She swallowed slightly, stiffened her shoulders, and opened the drawing room door. “You’re early, Max. You said two hours. Did you see the Prime Minister?” Her eyes darted to the table that stood between the two men. Both the
Pall Mall Gazette
and
The Mayfair Lady
lay there, their pages turned to the incriminating articles.
Max followed her gaze, then regarded her with a less than loverlike air. “I saw him,” he said shortly. He greeted his sisters-in-law with rather more warmth, although there was a certain hint of reserve that was not normally present in his dealings with them.
“I’ve just been telling Ensor about this disgrace,” Lord Duncan thundered, gesturing to the papers on the table. “If I ever discover who wrote that first piece of trash, I’ll take a horsewhip to him. Thrash him to within an inch of his life.”
“I can’t say I’d blame you, sir,” Max said aridly, casting another glance at his wife. Constance met his gaze.
“Well, enough of that for the moment. Ah, Jenkins, you’ve brought the champagne. Why the Taittinger? I specifically asked for the vintage Veuve Clicquot.” His lordship frowned fiercely at the bottle’s label as if it offended him.
“There is no more of the Clicquot, your lordship,” Jenkins said placidly. “Harpers are unable to lay in any more supplies of that vintage.”
Lord Duncan harrumphed. “Seems they’re always running short of supplies these days. I shall complain to Harper himself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenkins eased off the cork and poured the straw-colored liquid into five crystal glasses. He handed them around, and if he was aware of the tension that connected the sisters like a taut rope, he gave no sign. He bowed and left the drawing room.
The next half hour was for the sisters excruciating, for their father a pleasantry, and for Max Ensor a period of tightly reined annoyance. At last, after the minute details of the Nile river trip had been discussed with Lord Duncan, Max set down his glass.
“Constance, we should not neglect to visit my sister,” he said. “She would feel slighted if we failed her on our first day home.”
“Of course,” Constance said readily. “Father, I hope you’ll dine with us soon.”
He received her kiss with a smile. “Yes,
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