A Pretty Deceit Read online

  I heard the metallic squeal of a lorry’s brakes as it rumbled up behind us and then the blast of its klaxon, clearly impatient to be on his way. I suspected that was all that saved us from a blistering rebuke from the fellow in the road. He grasped the woman’s elbow and pulled her from the thoroughfare, and all the while her stream of words never stopped.

  Sidney eased past the couple and their neighbors, who were watching while I struggled to steady my breath. Once we were beyond the village of quaint stone and brick buildings, he increased his speed, but to nothing close to the pace he had been driving before. I looked overhead, noticing his aerial competitor had flown on to wherever his destination was.

  “Sorry about that,” Sidney murmured, shifting gears. “I suppose this isn’t the most ideal place to be putting her through her paces. But on the bright side, at least we now know her brakes are tip-top.”

  I glared at him in mild annoyance that he could be so blasé about the matter.

  His eyes cut to me before returning to the road, and then he reached over to press his hand over mine where it rested in my lap. “I didn’t mean to unsettle you. I shall take more care from here on out.”

  I arched a single eyebrow at him. “Is that out of concern for me, or because you’d rather not see your new Pierce-Arrow come to rack and ruin like the last one?”

  His deep blue eyes flashed with humor. “You, of course.”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied, unconvinced.

  He squeezed my hand before releasing it, gripping the driving wheel with both hands to navigate around a sharp curve. Once the road straightened, a sign on the side of the road proclaimed we were entering Wiltshire.

  “The turn for Littlemote House is just up here,” I directed, pointing off to the right.

  Sidney followed my directives, turning the motorcar onto the rutted single track. Here he kept the roadster at a slow speed, lest the rough, pockmarked lane damage it.

  “So what do you think that row in the road was all about?” he asked, nodding his head back in the direction we’d come as we bumped and trundled down the track. Perhaps using the eastern entrance had not been the wisest choice. I could only hope the main drive farther along the road, leading away from the house to the south, was in better condition.

  “I don’t know. But it seemed obvious she was three sheets to the wind, and I have to wonder if he was at least a trifle zozzled himself. I’m simply glad we didn’t hit them,” I added in a softer voice.

  Soon enough, we caught sight of the squat guard house, which now stood abandoned, ivy and creeping vines overgrowing its pocked stone walls. Beyond this point, the lane widened and, happily, smoothed out, being better maintained than the rest of the approach. Passing a copse of poplar trees, Littlemote House sprang into view, its sprawling flint, limestone ashlar, and brick edifice dominating the highest elevation for miles in either direction. Though not to my taste, my aunt had reason to be proud of the Elizabethan manor, particularly the extensive gardens, which had always been her pride and joy. Though I had to wonder if any of it had been planted over with vegetables when the government had begun urging citizens to utilize any arable land for crops.

  We rounded the circular drive, pulling to a stop at the arched portico standing over the heavy wooden double doors. My eyes scanned the structure for signs of the damage my aunt had eluded to, but other than a broken and patched window, and a general air of unkemptness, I couldn’t say it looked much different from what I remembered. But once I stepped out onto the crushed-stone, I began to note the things I’d missed from a distance. Smashed and broken shrubbery, a few fallen roof tiles, and pits in some of the brick, as if someone had fired a gun at it. The trellised greenery covering the exterior, which had always been so lovingly maintained, and was even now bursting into bright red in the autumn chill, had quite obviously been the victim of some airmen’s prank. Why they had taken it upon themselves to climb the structure, I didn’t know, but it was fortunate the iron brackets fastening it in place had held, otherwise the entire wooden lattice might have come crashing down along with its foliage. As it was, there were broken and splintered rungs, as well as some badly bruised ivy.

  So absorbed was I in taking inventory that I didn’t notice the doors had opened until I heard my aunt’s voice.

  “Oh, Verity, thank heavens you’ve come,” she exclaimed as she hurried across the portico to wrap me in her lavender-scented embrace. “They’ve ruined everything!”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Hullo, Aunt Ernestine,” I replied, hugging her back as she continued to heave aggrieved sighs. “Who’s ruined everything? Our flyboys?”

  “Pack of savages!” she exclaimed with vehemence. “Why on earth Sir James ever allowed them to use Littlemote, I’ll never understand.”

  Her husband likely had no choice, but I refrained from saying so.

  She shook her head. “Oh, I should never have allowed him to convince me to stay in London. I should have insisted on keeping a corner of the manor to myself.” Her dark eyes flashed martially and her spine stiffened. “I should have kept those young men in line.” She sniffed through her dainty nose—the daintiest part of her matronly form swathed in blond silk and tweed wool—and turned toward Sidney, her demeanor softening. “Lovely to see you, Sidney. The family is all quite proud of you, my dear boy.”

  “Thank you, Lady Popham,” he replied, taking her proffered hand as he bowed over it. He’d quickly learned it was the only response he could make. Demurring the honor bestowed upon him and his own actions only seemed to somehow disparage the sacrifices made by other men and their families, so rather than convey an unintentional slight, he simply said very little about it.

  She patted his hand where he held hers. “Please, dear. Call me Aunt Ernestine. We are family, after all.” Then she pulled him forward, lacing her arm through his. “Now, let me show you what else those savages have done.”

  I smiled at my aunt’s ancient butler standing by the doors and then followed in their wake. There was no doubt from whom I’d inherited my figure. All the women in my father’s family, including Aunt Ernestine, were pleasantly rounded, while my mother was whipcord lean. Being young and inclined toward sport, no one could accuse my form of running to fat, but I looked nothing like the thin, boyish figures beginning to grace the covers of the fashion magazines.

  Stepping out of the bright sunlight and into the entry and then through to the great hall, where the majority of the walls were covered in dark wooden paneling, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. But once they did, I recognized what had so dismayed my aunt. The airmen had evidently put the large open space with high ceilings to good use as some sort of recreation area, though what precisely they had been playing, I could not say. There were gouges in the walls and paneling from some sort of ball or other projectile, and a number of window panes in the large latticed windows had been replaced by new glass of uneven quality. Even the flagstone floor sported its share of scuffs, cuts, and dents.

  “You were wise to put the weaponry in storage,” Sidney remarked as he gazed up at one rather impressive broad sword now reaffixed to its position on the wall.

  “I should say so,” my aunt proclaimed, fairly quivering with outrage. “I shudder to think what state this house would have been in had I left them and our best furnishings to those scoundrels’ uses.”

  I tilted my head to study the pair of mismatched wall sconces that had been hung to replace their eighteenth-century predecessors. That they’d been switched rather than repaired indicated the condition they must have been in.

  “We were told officers would be residing here, but that is obviously not the case.” She sniffed. “For I cannot believe gently raised men would treat an ancestral home so shabbily.”

  Sidney’s head turned, his gaze meeting mine in silent communication. Yes, but what is an Elizabethan manor but wood and stone when a man was faced with the very real possibility of his death—and a horrendous fiery one at that—not to mention the deaths
of his friends and the pilots under his command every time he took to the skies for their bombing runs. There was a reason the casualty rate for the Royal Flying Corps, and its successor, the Royal Air Force, was so high.

  “You can’t tell me your brother would have behaved so appallingly.”

  I should have expected it. I should have been prepared for my aunt to invoke Rob’s name and dredge his memory into the matter purely because he had been an airman. But I wasn’t. And it cut me to the quick. As if someone had slipped a stiletto under my rib cage and extracted it before I could even flinch. The pain radiated outward, and it was all I could do simply to draw breath.

  That Sidney’s eyes happened to be locked with mine at that moment was both troubling and reassuring. For I could tell he’d witnessed the hurt I struggled to hide and even deny. Rob had been dead for over four years. I knew this, and yet part of me, perhaps foolishly, still wished to pretend it wasn’t true. That he was merely far away, and next week or month or year I would see him again.

  Sidney measuredly crossed the room toward me as I inhaled a steadying breath and turned to face my aunt. “Is there more damage?”

  “Oh, yes,” she assured me as my husband pressed a supportive hand to the small of my back. Her eyes flickered toward him, observing our allied front. “But for the moment, that can wait. At least until you’ve had some fortification.” She pivoted on her heel, moving toward the entry to the Elizabethan Room, where her butler stood waiting to open the door, having anticipated her wishes.

  In that room, the blue silk wallpaper and gold drapes had largely survived the flyboy invasion intact, save for a few stains, but the paper and plaster chandelier had clearly seen better days. Aunt Ernestine swiveled to face us before the gold chintz settee arranged before a low table, catching my gaze directed at the ceiling. Her mouth pursed into a moue of displeasure. “Yes, needless to say, Lady Elizabeth is not best pleased.”

  As always, when that ancestor was mentioned, the chandelier lightly swayed and trembled. But then it had already been doing so.

  My aunt nodded at it, as if in proof. “See.”

  I smiled tightly and then shook my head at Sidney before he could voice his evident confusion. I had no desire to rehash the sad tale of Lady Elizabeth Popham, or debate whether her ghost roamed Littlemote House, shaking chandeliers to indicate her ire.

  So instead I introduced a subject certain to distract my aunt as we settled on the settee opposite hers. “What of Reg? Will he be joining us?”

  She sighed, her normally indomitable energy deflating. “I think not.” Her eyes dipped to a spot on the bare wooden floor—the carpet being another casualty, I suspected. “Today has not been one of his good days.” Her eyes lifted to meet mine, heavy with grief. “But you may visit him later, if you like. He’s normally out on the terrace, when the weather allows.”

  I nodded in acceptance, intensely curious about the state in which I would find my cousin. Though I had spoken with Reg since he was evacuated home, it had been half a year since my last visit.

  “Father said matters have been a bit chaotic since you reclaimed the house,” I said, turning back to the reason we were there. “That some heirlooms have gone missing.”

  “Not just missing, my dear Verity. I’ve reason to believe a number of our paintings and other objets d’art have been replaced by forgeries.” Her voice was aghast as she sank deeper into the cushions. “Why, I was never so humiliated in all my life than when the appraiser I invited here told me nearly everything of value I’d thought to sell was, in fact, worth almost nothing!”

  Sidney and I shared a look of surprise. “And these were objects that were placed in storage before the airmen arrived?”

  “Of course. I oversaw their removal to the attics myself. The doors were secured, and I gave Miles the keys.” She dipped her head toward the door through which we’d entered and the butler had since slipped away. “But that doesn’t mean some unscrupulous person didn’t pick the locks.” Her hands fluttered before her until she clasped them together in her lap. “It’s all quite distressing.”

  If what Father had said was true, and I could only imagine it was—for my aunt would never have admitted how low their coffers were unless the estate was in dire straits indeed—then Aunt Ernestine must have been relying on those sales to help keep them afloat. Upon reflection, I’d realized their circumstances were not all that surprising. Uncle James had never been the frugal sort, and I had heard Father bemoan his brother-in-law’s horrid choice in investments in the past. Add to that the inflation, income taxes, and heavy death duties owed not only from the passing of Uncle James, but also Thomas, and any estate not on a healthy footing before the war would now be crippled. Sadly, it was an all-too-familiar story among the landed elite, and but another indication of how the world was changing.

  However, the discovery that a number of heirlooms had not just been stolen, as my father had indicated, but replaced with forgeries, was troubling in a different way. Such maneuvering required a level of calculation and prolonged access to the house that I had not expected. Particularly when one considered that some of the objects were paintings, and possibly large ones at that.

  “Can you show us later which heirlooms are forgeries?” I asked.

  “Of course. After our tea.”

  As if awaiting just such a pronouncement, Miles slipped into the room, carrying the tea tray. That he was waiting on us thusly told me more than I’m sure my aunt wished, for in the past she’d always been quite the stickler about the separation of duties, and carrying the tea tray was not the butler’s job. Which could only mean that my aunt was short of staff. I didn’t know whether that was because she couldn’t pay them, or they simply weren’t available. Since the war, there was a shortage of people willing to go into or return to service, particularly young women. I suspected it was a bit of both.

  Once we were settled with our tea and the dry biscuits my aunt preferred—for her digestion—Sidney took it upon himself to broach another crisis my father had mentioned. “I understand you’ve also had a servant go missing?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s quite vexing. The girl apparently packed her bags and took off for parts unknown,” she declared with a bob of her head as she lifted her teacup. “For her family in the village has no knowledge of her whereabouts either. But they were certain to collect her owed wages.”

  I frowned. “I doubt that whatever the maid’s motive was, it was to inconvenience you, Aunt Ernestine. How long ago was this? Has no one seen her since?”

  Her eyebrows snapped together. “About two weeks, and I honestly wouldn’t know. My mind has been preoccupied by more pressing matters, Verity, than an absent maid.”

  “Then why mention her to Father?”

  She huffed in annoyance. “Because I didn’t know then that her absence wasn’t truly troubling. Her family isn’t worried about her, so why should I be?”

  She had a fair point. Surely if there was some cause for concern, her family would be the ones to raise it. Maybe they knew more than they were saying. In any case, whatever she’d told my father and mother, she evidently wasn’t anxious about the maid’s fate, merely the loss of a staff member. She’d probably mentioned it only as additional evidence of her strife to elicit sympathy from my parents.

  I set my cup and the mostly uneaten biscuit on its saucer on the low table. “Father said you were keen to have us visit when he suggested it. But what is it you wish us to do?”

  Her gaze slid toward Sidney, her next words confirming precisely what we’d surmised. “Well, with your husband’s recent honors, your father thought he might know the right people to apply to in order to have the damage to my house rectified. And to see to it that this matter of theft and forgery is properly investigated.”

  Having been put on the spot, there was nothing for it but for him to nod and assure her, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Though Sidney didn’t display any uneasiness with t
his request, I knew him well enough to recognize he was not comfortable with it either. Consequently, I was irritated on his behalf. He was already struggling with guilt over his survival when so many millions of other soldiers had died, and the added weight of being given a medal for his valor in doing what he believed simply to be his duty. He didn’t need an extra helping of expectations heaped upon him. Particularly when my aunt had a son, who while blinded by the war, was still perfectly capable of petitioning the government about these issues himself. In any case, we had other matters of more pressing importance, and we’d already interrupted our pursuit of them to assist her.

  Eager to view her evidence and whatever else she intended us to see so that we might move on in the morning, I pushed to my feet the moment my aunt set her cup aside. “Shall we examine these forgeries, then?”

  My aunt rose somewhat reluctantly to begin her tour of the “devastated country,” as she called it with a wry chuckle. Sidney and I, having both spent time in the war-ravaged regions of Belgium and northeastern France, which had earned that sobriquet, did not find this comment to be particularly amusing. Wine-stained drapes and a charred section of the rug in the library could hardly be compared with the utter destruction of the Western Front and the swathe of country burned and ravaged by the invading Germans. However, once my aunt gained her momentum, she could not be stopped. Each room we entered was narrated by a long list of even the minutest of damages.

  In truth, after a time, I stopped listening, knowing I would never remember it all, nor did I wish to. I was far more interested in the paintings and objects she pointed out as being forgeries, or in a few instances the patches of faded wallpaper indicating where a portrait used to hang or tables devoid of decor. In most cases, the forgeries were skillfully done, so much so that I couldn’t tell. But I trusted the appraiser was correct. My aunt hired only the best.

  Nonetheless, I did note one curiosity. Most of the forged items were large, cumbersome, or intricate; but without fail, the items that were missing altogether were small and compact. In a word, portable. Had the thief thought the smaller items would not be noticed if they went missing? Or were we dealing with two different culprits?