D is for Deception: A Langley & Porter Mystery

8 Summoned

Two days later, I was unsurprised to find an invitation to dinner at the Keene residence left on the bedside table in my apartment. I smiled to myself, thrilled to be moving forward with my plan after two days of inaction, wondering if I had made enough of an impression to warrant an association with one of the most influential families in London. If this latest invitation were any indication, I had.

I got to work on readying myself for the evening meal at once, grateful that Bernard's mail scheme had truly worked as planned. Of course, I could not afford the sort of accommodations that a woman of my pretended class would be staying in, but Harold's sister's apartments were not the sort that the likes of Gwendolyn Marlowe would ever be seen anywhere near. When this issue had arisen, Bernard had thought of an excellent scheme. He had a friend who served at one of the most reputable boarding houses on the West End and who had promised to reroute any mail coming in under my assumed name to the correct address and, as servants were the only ones deemed low enough to do such menial tasks as retrieving the mail, no one would ever know. I owed quite a bit to Bernard for his ruse and I would not forget to thank him properly when this was all over.

For now, I readied myself for dinner, choosing a pale-yellow dress of Elena's for the occasion and doing my hair in the way I had seen her arrange hers hundreds of times. I hoped she wouldn't mind my quite literally pilfering her style. Imitation was, after all, the highest form of flattery. Despite the fact that Elena was the only woman of means that I truly knew.

By evening, I arrived at the Keene residence, prepared to endure whatever passed for a dinner party amongst such villainy. The butler admitted me to the house and led me straight away to the dining room where I found this was no dinner party at all. Just dinner.

The Keene family sat arranged around the table, their chatter halting as I entered, the only outsider among them. Cecily beamed at me as her father greeted me with his booming voice and gestured for me to take the only remaining seat at the table. I did so without a word, surprised to find myself alone with the Keene's. Cecily reached out and gripped my hand, squeezing it in greeting and smiling as George Keene clapped for the first course to be served. Suddenly, a bowl of piping hot soup was in front of me and the family had devolved into groups of individual conversation.

"Cecily," I hissed quietly under my breath. "I thought you said this was a dinner party."

"Oh, no!" she said. "Not a party, just dinner. My brothers went on about my new friend once you had left so father said he'd like to meet you and that I should invite you to dinner at once."

My lips parted slightly as I glanced to George Keene who sat in conversation with his eldest son at the opposite end of the table.

"It's lovely to see you again, Miss Marlowe," someone spoke then, and I turned to see Camden Keene smiling over the table at me. "You look wonderful, as always."

I opened my mouth to retort but was interrupted by Cecily's gasp.

"Oh, Gwen! You just have to come by the shop tomorrow. I've got something I want to show you," she told me, tucking into her soup and positively ignoring the hooded gaze of her brother's focused entirely on me. "And Lorelei and Winifred were asking about you. I told them we could all have lunch soon. So, whenever you aren't busy-"

"Are you very busy, Miss Marlowe?" Camden interjected, curiously.

"She's here to find a suitable property for her brother to purchase in the city," Cecily explained, beaming at me as she did. "And let's hope she can. I'd be thrilled to have a friend so close by."

"Yes," Camden agreed, allowing his gaze to roll slowly over me. "Let's hope she moves much closer."

The entrees were delivered and I busied myself with eating the delectable roasted duck on my plate while listening to Cecily and her brother's wives gossip about the guests at the party they'd hosted just days before. Camden made a comment or two to me here or there but I chose to engage only with the raise of a brow or a witty retort. He enjoyed it each time, smirking in my direction and taking up the challenge to get a rise out of me. More interesting, however, was the conversation taking place at the head of the table. George Keene seemed to be discussing something of a rather serious nature with his eldest two sons, all three of them with their heads bowed together, speaking in low tones unable to be heard from the distance I was at. I strained to hear them and nearly toppled over when George Keene looked suddenly up from his plate, cold steel eyes meeting my own. I held my breath as he held my gaze, wondering if I should smile or if I should speak. Before I could decide, however, he rose from the table, dropping his napkin onto on his plate.