“Certainly,” said Harry coldly.
Rose danced past in the arms of a handsome guardsman. She saw him and her eyes widened.
Harry turned on his heel and walked back down the stairs. He should never have come. His leg was hurting. It looked as if it was going to be a bad winter. He would go somewhere warm and decide what to do with his life.
A footman was helping him into his fur coat when Daisy appeared at his side. “Why, Daisy,” said Harry, “how are you?”
“I’m all right,” said Daisy, “but my mistress is not the same. She’s so sad and quiet. Where’s Becket?” she asked eagerly, looking around.
“Becket is in Chelsea. I will tell him I saw you.”
“Are you doing any more detective work, sir?”
“No. In fact I have just decided I have had enough of London weather. I crave some sunshine. I think I will take myself off to Nice.”
“Where’s that?”
“The south of France, Daisy.”
“And will you take Becket with you?”
“Of course. We could both do with some good weather.”
“Tell Mr. Becket I wish him well,” said Daisy and trailed off.
♦
The ball finished early because of the dreadful weather. As Rose and her parents stood on the steps waiting for the carriage to be brought round, snow began to fall through the filthy fog, great lacy flakes.
The earl let out a rattling cough. “My dear, your chest!” exclaimed Lady Polly. “Pull your scarf up round your throat. Thank goodness. Here’s our carriage.”
Rose sat silently in her corner of the carriage. Why hadn’t Harry spoken to her? It would have only been polite. They had been through so much together. She felt jaded and weary and a large tear rolled down her cheek.
Lady Polly saw that tear in the dim light of the carriage lamp and let out a squawk of dismay. “You are never crying, Rose. You were such a success.”
“I am not feeling very well,” lied Rose.
♦
Lady Polly fussed over her daughter while Daisy prepared her for bed. Then she told the maid to come with her.
Daisy followed Lady Polly’s sturdy little figure to the countess’s sitting-room.
“Is my daughter really ill?” demanded Lady Polly. “Should we send for the doctor?”
“I think Lady Rose is suffering from delayed shock,” said Daisy. A bright idea dawned in her head.
“I think what Lady Rose, and, if I may be so bold, the master need is some sunshine.”
“We are due to leave for Stacey next week,” said Lady Polly impatiently, “and there isn’t any sunshine there.”
“I was thinking of Nice, my lady. That’s in the south of France.”
“I know where it is. My old friend, Gertie Robbald, lives permanently in the Imperial Hotel.”
“Sea air and sunshine,” cooed Daisy, “would do Lady Rose the world of good.”
“You may be right. But we always have Christmas at Stacey.”
The earl came in at that moment, coughing and wheezing. “It’s too bad,” he said. “Brum tells me the factor phoned and two of the pipes have burst at Stacey and the drawing-room is flooded.”
“Run along,” Lady Polly ordered Daisy.
Daisy went outside the door and pressed her ear to the panels.
“I have had an idea,” said Lady Polly. “We don’t want to go back to a freezing, flooded house. I am worried about your chest and about poor Rose being so frail. Why don’t we go to Nice? Gertie’s there, at the Imperial. We could get some sunshine and sea air.”
“Be funny not celebrating Christmas in England,” said the earl.
“It would be awful celebrating Christmas in this filthy weather. Oh, do say yes. Only think of poor Rose.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. I’ll get my secretary to make the arrangements.”
Daisy darted back up the stairs to Rose’s bedchamber. Rose was lying in bed, reading a book.
“We’re going to Nice!” said Daisy, pirouetting around the room.
“What? When?”
“As soon as possible. Just think! Sunshine and adventures.”
Rose smiled at her maid’s enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re happy. Why should they decide on Nice?”
Daisy looked at her. If she told Rose about Captain Cathcart, Rose might tell her mother and then they wouldn’t go.
“Dunno,” she said.