Excerpts

One Penelope Parish's mother had told her, when she'd accepted the writer-in-residence position at the Open Book bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England, not to expect to hobnob with the nobility. But here she was doing exactly that. It was the night before the wedding of American romance writer Charlotte Davenport and Arthur Worthington, Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, who, despite being well down the line of succession to the throne, was the red-haired favorite of the queen. The nobility did not wed without a certain amount of pomp and circumstance. In the case of Worthington and Charlotte that consisted of an afternoon polo match where the players graciously allowed Worthington's team to win; a casual dinner buffet that evening; the wedding ceremony itself the following day; the ceremonial carriage ride through town; the wedding breakfast (more lunch than breakfast if truth be told); and finally, that evening, a ball complete with fireworks and a bonfire on the lawn of the castle. Thanks to her acquaintance with fellow writer Charlotte Davenport, Penelope was invited to all the festivities, which caused her no small amount of consternation given that her wardrobe was considerably subpar, consisting mainly of jeans, leggings, and shapeless but comfortable sweaters-hardly the sort of sartorial splendor expected when hobnobbing with said nobility. Charlotte always looked impeccable whether she was wearing a pair of jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt or a priceless designer ball gown, and Worthington's bespoke vestments were all carefully made by a legion of devoted tailors in London. There was nothing for it, Mabel Morris, the proprietor of the Open Book, told Penelope-she was going to have to make a trip to London and do some dreaded shopping. With the help of Lady Fiona Innes-Goldthorpe, aka Figgy, the manager of the Open Book tea shop and Pen's best friend in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, Penelope managed to acquire a wardrobe appropriate to the occasion-or, in this case, occasions. Thus it was that Penelope found herself sitting in the drawing room at Worthington House, dressed in an unaccustomedly elegant gray pencil skirt and black V-neck cashmere sweater, rubbing elbows with the likes of the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, Lord Ethan Dougal, Lord Tobias Winterbourne, and Lady Winterbourne-the former Cissie Emmott and onetime girlfriend of Arthur Worthington. The two had remained friends even after their romantic relationship ended. It was clear that Worthington had a "type." Both Charlotte and Cissie were tall, willowy, and graceful blondes with great style who could almost be mistaken for sisters. The drawing room, while quite large, felt as snug and cozy as a cocoon with a fire burning in the grate and the dark red velvet drapes drawn across the windows, shutting out the chill of the dark night. Worthington was standing in front of the fire, one elbow resting on the mantel and one leg elegantly crossed over the other, a champagne glass in his hand. Tobias, a short, stocky man with a red face and thick black eyebrows, approached Worthington and slapped him on the back. "Good show today, old man. Leading your team on to victory like that." Worthington assumed a modest expression. "You're way too kind. I played miserably. Now, if I'd had my lucky polo mallet . . . Darned if I know what happened to the blasted thing. Last I saw it, it was leaning against the wall in the boot room." Tobias chuckled. "You're being too humble. You played brilliantly. No one can hold a candle to you on the polo field." Worthington, it should be noted, did not demur further. The women were clustered at the opposite end of the room-Penelope; Charlotte; Figgy; Jemima Dougal; Cissie; and Yvette Boucher, a petite, dark-haired French woman with a pixie cut who looked effortlessly elegant in a black jumpsuit and black suede kitten heels. Penelope was perched on the edge of a chintz-covered sofa, attempting to maintain her balance even as its soft, enveloping cushions threatened to swallow her. She had a flute of Mo't & Chandon in one hand and a water biscuit with a dab of potted mushrooms on top in the other and had come to the realization that if she bit the hors d'oeuvre in half, she was likely to wind up with crumbs all over her skirt. Eating the whole thing in one go wasn't an option either-it was far too large for that. Not for the first time in her life, she wished for a third hand with which to deal with the situation. How incredibly convenient it would be to be able to whip one out on occasions such as these. Figgy, who by virtue of being the daughter of an earl had also been invited, was sitting next to Penelope and with a knowing look came to her aid by offering to hold her glass. Penelope ate her canapZ, one hand held underneath to catch the crumbs, and vowed not to accept any more from the butler who was circulating with a silver tray of tempting-looking morsels. "Do give us a hint about your wedding dress," Jemima said to Charlotte in a teasing tone, one hand smoothing down her long plaid skirt. "I'm imagining something regal with a train that goes on forever." Penelope thought that at the moment Charlotte looked as regal as ever in a pair of wide-legged cream-colored trousers and a matching cream-colored ruffled blouse. The spectacular diamond on her left ring finger sparkled in the light of the chandelier above. Cissie, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa, wagged a finger at Jemima. "It's a state secret. You'll find out soon enough." Cissie owned Atelier Classique and had designed Charlotte's wedding gown herself. She'd been born in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke but had moved to London after having been sent down from university due to a singular lack of academic achievement. Her mother had been a sort of royal hanger-on-her great-grandmother having been a lady-in-waiting to the queen mother and claimed a distant relationship to the royal family. Her father had no pretentions-royal or otherwise-and had made a fortune in toilet paper thus earning Cissie the nickname "the Loo Paper Princess" in the British tabloids, where she appeared at least once a week. "Just a tiny clue," Jemima wheedled. "I'm dying of curiosity. Is it satin or taffeta or lace?" She raised her eyebrows. Cissie stretched out her legs in their slim trousers. A gold crest was embroidered on the toes of her black velvet smoking slippers. "It's one of my best designs yet," she said. "I will tell you that." Penelope noticed Yvette shoot Cissie a look that was decidedly ominous. She nudged Figgy and Figgy whispered back. "I saw that, too. I wonder what's eating her." A butler stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. "Dinner is served," he said in solemn tones. "I'm starving," Cissie said, getting to her feet. She patted her stomach. "Mustn't eat too much, though, or I won't fit into my ball gown tomorrow night." She glanced at Charlotte over her shoulder. "And you shouldn't eat too much either. There's no time to alter your gown again. Right, Yvette?" She shot Yvette a look. Yvette gave a small nod. The gentlemen followed them into the dining room, where the table had been set with a fine linen tablecloth and the Worthington china and monogrammed silver. Three ornate silver candelabras marched down the center of the table flanked by flowers clustered in low vases. Food was spread out on the buffet-roast beef, asparagus, silver gravy boats filled with hollandaise sauce, and fondant potatoes. A magnificent chocolate biscuit cake stood on a stand off to one side. Throwing protocol to the wind-the evening was meant to be casual-the men agreed to sit together on one side of the table with the women on the opposite side. Penelope was seated between Yvette and Figgy. She turned to Yvette and introduced herself. "How do you know Charlotte?" Yvette took a sip of her wine. "I work for Atelier Classique. I was part of the team that worked on Charlotte's dress." Penelope couldn't help but notice that her tone was rather bitter and she had rolled her eyes at the word team. "I'm only here in case last-minute adjustments need to be made," Yvette said, picking up her fork. Penelope began chatting with Figgy, and by the time the main course was finished, she felt as stuffed as the Thanksgiving turkey. The butler was serving the dessert when Cissie pushed back her chair and excused herself. "I'll be right back. Don't wait for me," she said, waving a hand at the table. Penelope had her back to the entrance to the dining room, but she was able to hear Cissie talking to someone. "I'm afraid I have no idea who you are," Cissie said in the sort of tone one would use with a recalcitrant child or a servant who had gotten out of line. "What was that all about?" Figgy cocked a head toward the door. "That was quite the put-down." "I have no idea," Penelope said. "But it was certainly curious." Two The day of the wedding the weather cooperated nicely as if by royal decree-not too cold for February with blue skies dotted by a handful of puffy white clouds. Penelope, Figgy, Mabel, and India Culpepper had agreed to meet at the Open Book before the ceremony. Mabel, the owner of the Open Book, had pressed one of her part-time helpers into managing the store in her absence. Fortunately, the young man had agreed-Penelope thought he must be the only person in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke not anxious to get a glimpse of Charlotte in her wedding gown. Mabel had changed from the worn corduroys and warm cable-knit sweaters she normally wore in the shop into a powder blue suit and matching pillbox hat that set off her white hair very nicely. Figgy looked very proper in a burgundy dress and matching coat with an elaborate fascinator perched on her head, and only her black spiky hair and numerous ear piercings giving a glimpse of her true personality. India Culpepper, who was related to Worthington and had a cottage on his estate, was wearing a dress-and-coat ensemble. The coat had a discreet fur color and smelled of mothballs. Penelope guessed it to be circa 1960. India was fidgety with excitement, continually smoothing out the fingers of her gloves. Penelope herself had abandoned her comfortable and familiar uniform of leggings and a sweater in favor of an emerald coat and dress Figgy had urged her to purchase in London at Marks and Spencer. Figgy, who was quite artistic, had also created Penelope's hat-or fascinator as the Brits called them-a rather modest concoction at Penelope's insistence although it still felt odd on top of her head of curly and unruly dark hair. The front door of the shop flew open and Gladys Watkins, who owned the Pig in a Poke butcher shop across the high street from the bookstore, rushed in. She wasn't wearing a coat and her face was flushed with the cold. The apron tied around her ample waist was smeared with blood. "Don't you all look so lovely," she said, clasping her hands together. "You have to promise to remember every detail. If only I could go, but Ralph-that's me help in the shop-had his gallbladder out last week and won't be back for a fortnight. I'm all on me own at the moment." Gladys hadn't been asked to the ceremony itself, but everyone in town had been invited to stand on the grounds of Worthington House and watch as the bride and her attendants arrived. "Do you think the queen will be there?" Gladys asked breathlessly. "It's always been said that Worthington is a favorite of hers despite all of his escapades." India assumed a superior air and looked down her nose at Gladys. "I should doubt it. The queen is getting on in years no matter how well she looks and doesn't need to make unnecessary trips." She frowned. "I do hope that Worthington will have put all that self-indulgent nonsense behind him now that he's getting married." "Not to mention about to turn forty," Gladys said, folding her arms across her chest. "We'd best be going," Mabel said, glancing at her watch. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes glowing. Penelope was surprised-Mabel had been an analyst in MI6 and Penelope would have assumed her to be impervious to the excitement generated by an aristocratic wedding even if it was right in their midst. Figgy had offered to drive, but Mabel had rather firmly refused the offer, claiming there was more room in her car for Pen's and Figgy's suitcases, though Penelope knew it was because Figgy's driving scared them both half to death. Not that Penelope's was any better-she was still getting the hang of driving down the left-hand side of the road. A crowd had already gathered outside Worthington House, bundled into warm coats with hats pulled down over their ears. Some of the women had dressed up-as if they were going to the wedding itself-and a couple of teenaged girls, despite being attired in distressed jeans and puffer jackets, were nonetheless sporting elaborate fascinators in honor of the occasion. An attendant met Mabel's car in the drive and took over parking it for them. A valet followed behind him and removed Pen's and Figgy's suitcases from the trunk. Pen and Mabel were walking toward the Worthington House chapel when they became aware of a disturbance in back of them and turned around. "What's going on?" Mabel said, craning her neck. "Is that someone shouting?" Penelope, at nearly six feet tall, had a slight advantage. "It looks as if some woman is protesting." "Good heavens! Protesting what?" India said. "The wedding, I assume. She's carrying a sign, too." Penelope stood on tiptoe. "It says Yankee Go Home." "I should imagine that's the first time a sign like that has been seen on these shores since World War Two ended," Mabel said. "What's happening now?" "A constable is hustling the woman away." "Dreadful impudence." India sniffed. "Trying to ruin Arthur and Charlotte's wedding day." "Fortunately the bride hasn't arrived yet," Figgy said. "We should probably hurry. We don't want to be late," Mabel said, shepherding them toward the door of the chapel. The chapel was quite large, considering that it had been built only for the use of the members of the Worthington family. Today it was resplendent with all kinds of flowers. Penelope thought it gave the illusion of having walked into a garden. "Most impressive," India said approvingly. She pointed to a vase overflowing with soft yellow flowers. "That's the Charlotte rose. Each blossom has up to one hundred petals. That's what makes them so lovely." Excerpted from A Fatal Footnote by Margaret Loudon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.