From across the room, Rosemary Lillywhite appeared to be having the time of her life: cheeks flushed pink, cornflower eyes bright with excitement, a smile painted scarlet across her face. Lovely, in a word, thought her admirer—lovely, indeed.
He snaked his way through the densely packed throng of partygoers to hover near his quarry and wait, patiently, in hopes her attention might turn in his direction.
It didn’t take long before her gaze caught his, and the look in her eye at once both dropped his stomach to the floor and sent his heart soaring.
“Max!” the vision in silk slipped her arm through his own and reached up—not far, given the height of her heels—and kissed him on the cheek. “I thought perhaps you’d been kidnapped by one of Vera’s actress friends. You all but disappeared into a cloud of taffeta!”
Rosemary’s mouth turned down into a pout she knew to be induced by heightened emotions and an excess of gin, but which she was, however, powerless to suppress. Moreover, she couldn’t presume to impose any sort of limitation on Max, considering she planned to leave him in two days’ time. If he wanted taffeta, she’d no right to object.
Of course, deep down, Rosemary knew Chief Inspector Maximilian Whittington had eyes only for her—a feeling that was, despite her impending departure, entirely reciprocated.
“None of those ladies hold a candle to you,” Max replied smoothly, though Rosemary noticed a flicker of emotion cross his face. She turned a blind eye, determined not to let it interfere with the gallant mood, but allowed herself the pleasure of his reassurance for a few moments until they were pounced on by two more of her traveling companions.
“Rosie, darling,” Vera Woolridge, Rosemary’s best friend and newly named sister-in-law, drawled, “would you please inform your peasant of a brother that under no circumstances will either you or I deign to participate in simulated horse riding! I’ve seen photographs, and it looks positively lewd!”
Once upon a time, Rosemary might have refrained from tossing back a tart remark, but she’d discovered that becoming embroiled in murder investigation after murder investigation significantly lowered one’s inhibitions. Furthermore, it gave her no end of pleasure to speak the words she knew would light Vera up hotter than a gas lamp.
“That sounds exactly like something my mother would say,” Rosemary replied, sending her brother, Frederick, into near-hysterical laughter that launched a fine spray of gin into the air. To compare one’s wife to one’s mother was a gaffe he had unwisely made on more than one occasion.
Below a raven-sweep of hair cut sharply across her forehead, her eyes narrowed, but Vera maintained her composure. “You’re quite lucky you missed me, husband dear,” she retorted as Frederick sputtered, “or you would have been forced to buy me a replacement dress—and shoes, as well!”
Frederick stopped laughing quite so hard and grimaced, “I’m certain I’ll have bought you half the dresses in America before we return from this holiday. In fact, we may need to travel home on a much larger ship!”
“Oh, Freddie, you foolish man,” Vera purred. “Today’s ocean liners have been fitted with the most spacious cargo holds; I could bring a Rolls Royce back from the States and still have room for at least fifteen trunks! That ought to be enough to lift the doldrums, don’t you think?”
It was true, Vera could use a pick-me-up. Once touted as the next big hit, her latest play had run for two nights before being shut down over a copyright dispute between the two cowriters. She’d been intent on stardom, and the whole incident had come as quite a blow. With her hopes dashed, Vera had set her sights on convincing Rosemary to come along to the States. Besides considering Rosemary’s relationship with Max, it hadn’t been a hard sell.
Taking pity on Vera, Rosemary weighed in against her brother and added, “I’m positive the onboard shops sell a variety of luggage, just in case one happens to arrive at the port with more to carry than when one departed.”
The comment earned her a glare that didn’t hold much ire given its accompanying smirk. “If the advert posters are correct, I’m certain this trip will cost nearly as much as Father hoped to spend on the American expansion project,” Frederick said jovially and downed the rest of his G&T in one swallow. He had ingeniously managed to turn a leisure trip into a fact-finding mission backed by their father in hopes of taking Woolridge & Sons across the pond. The way his life and luck had been going lately, he’d succeed with flying colors. “It’s all glitz and glamour—at least for the ladies. Us gents only need one trunk apiece, isn’t that right, Des?”
“Speak for yourself,” the fifth member of the traveling party replied, mock-seriously. “I’m simply dying over the summer lines, you know.” Desmond Cooper’s joke elicited the desired titter of laughter, which in turn lit his own handsome face with a smile.
The man had an easy way that drew women to him like a flower drew bees. In fact, Rosemary had fancied Desmond since before she’d begun to understand the concept of romance. It had started with the innocence of children; as a girl, she’d been attracted to his good looks, sense of humor, and charisma.
But he’d been Frederick’s chum, old enough to leave her feeling immature and insignificant. When the boys went off to university, she had laid the idea of Desmond to rest. Then, she’d fallen so head-over-heels for Andrew Lillywhite that all other men ceased to exist. Every other one had paled in comparison.
He’d shined so brightly in her eyes that when, after a few short years of marriage, Andrew died, Rosemary had thought she’d never, ever love again. For over a year, she’d wallowed and, when she’d finally emerged, found herself fielding more suitors than expected. During their last—and somewhat ill-fated—holiday, Desmond had made the move she had been waiting most of her life for him to make, and she had discovered, quite unexpectedly, that it wasn’t his lips she craved after all!
It seemed a cruel twist of fate for Maximilian Whittington to have been the next to capture her heart; after all, he had been Andrew’s closest friend. The rumor mill, if given half a chance, would chew them up and spit them out. Throw in Rosemary’s penchant for involving herself in Max’s murder investigations, and well, it was a miracle they hadn’t yet been publicly roasted. While Rosemary couldn’t give a fig about the opinions of strangers, her family’s—and Max’s— reputations were another story.
“Tell us more about your travel plans,” one of Frederick’s workmates urged, bringing Rosemary out of her reverie with a snap. “Which ship did you choose?”
As her brother puffed up his chest and prepared to answer, Desmond interrupted.
“That’s what they call a loaded question,” he replied, sending an elbow jab towards Frederick’s chest that distracted his friend long enough to allow Desmond center stage. “We’ve spent more time deciding on a vessel than we’ll spend on board! Old Freddie wanted to cruise with the Americans until he realized it’s not just the last three miles you can’t drink—it’s the whole way across! Dry ships, indeed. What fun would that be?”
Frederick elbowed Desmond back for real, harder than he might have under normal circumstances but certainly not as hard as he ever had during their lifelong friendship, and made a correction. “In point of fact, I ultimately came down on the side of the French. Their newest liners are touted as the most luxurious: fit for a queen such as my gorgeous wife!”
The comment softened Vera’s face into the indulgent smile she wore whenever Frederick’s eyes were on her, the subtle shift surprising Rosemary even though she ought to have been used to it. Her brother and dear friend had fought their attraction to one another for so long that sometimes she was still shocked they’d finally admitted it, much less taken marriage vows!
“However, I was outvoted,” Frederick complained. “The ladies are, evidently, highly patriotic and insisted upon the Cunard Line. To merry old England!” He lifted his glass and toasted the room, the joviality falling flat for one man—a man whose hopes and plans were being dashed like waves against a rocky shore: a fitting, if clichéd metaphor for one who couldn’t bear the thought of his beloved sailing away without the promise she’d return feeling the same way about him as she seemed to do now.
“If the Ile de France were finished,” Vera retorted, “we might have agreed with you, darling. She might have been worth the trouble.”
Max’s brow furrowed, so Rosemary stepped in to explain. “The French liners are beautifully decorated, and they have the best dining, but we’ve been warned the staff is let’s simply say less accommodating than that of the British ships.”
“Which, of course, precludes the American option,” Frederick joked. “They’ve already proved they don’t take kindly to taking orders from us Brits!”
While Desmond laughed heartily, Vera raised an eyebrow and said dryly, “They’re sure to adore you in the States, darling, with that attitude.”
“I predict he’ll be banished back to London within a fortnight.” Desmond got in one last jab.
Frederick merely smiled and replied, “Not so, old boy. I predict a rousing success; in fact, this holiday could, theoretically, extend for quite some time.”
The man in waiting—the one who couldn’t stop thinking about what he had to lose, started. He’d been under the impression this holiday would last a fortnight or a month at most—the phrase “extend for quite some time” sent an icy shiver up his spine. How long might it take for his love to find herself fancying another?
“So, the day after tomorrow, we—myself, Vera, Rosemary, and Desmond,” Frederick continued, “will set sail from Southampton, en route to New York City aboard the RMS—”
Having finally summoned his nerves, the nervous man made a snap decision, his voice rising above the din and surprising himself along with the rest of the room. “Excuse me,” Constable Morris Clayton interrupted, tapping his cuff link against his glass until someone lowered the music’s volume. He ignored his inspector’s curiously cocked eyebrow (Max had no idea what Clayton was up to; one could never tell with that lad!) and forged on, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve something of an announcement to make—or, rather, a question to ask.”
The constable was a young chap whose eagerness to please grated on Max’s nerves daily, yet who had earned himself top marks for his ability to stay calm under pressure. Rosemary adored him for recently having helped her out of a painful jam during a murder investigation and also for his gentle treatment of Anna, her sweet young lady’s maid, and the object of his affections.
The object of his attention, now, as well, for his eyes found hers in the crowd and did not waver.
“Anna, I’m well and truly convinced you’re the one for me,” Clayton professed to the stunned young woman. “Before you sail off and are stolen away by some attractive American—will you marry me?” The constable pulled a small box from his coat pocket, proving his question was more than a mere whim, and dropped to one knee.
Anna let out a squeal that made Rosemary’s eyes water and rushed forward into his arms. “Yes! Of course!”
He swept her towards him, but before he had a chance to plant a kiss on her lips, the room went up in a chorus of hurrahs, and he seemed to lose his nerve. Anna’s lips met the distance between them enthusiastically; young Clayton’s cheeks burned ruddy, and with that, they hurried off towards the entrance hall and some much-needed privacy.
“Who would have thought he’d have the nerve?” Frederick commented with admiration.
“He would have been daft to let Anna slip away,” Rosemary replied, receiving a murmur of agreement from Vera and a grunt from Max, who muttered something about consequences if his constable were to ever bring any harm to his new bride.
It was a sentiment echoed by all.
