Free Drury Lane Darling by Joan Smith Page A

it’s pouring rain. I hope she wore her pelisse at least.”
    Breslau strode to the study door and disappeared beyond it, into the night.
    “Do you recognize this handkerchief?” Pamela asked, and handed the wet cloth to Nigel.
    He fingered it forlornly and nodded. “A French needlewoman makes them for her. She always carries one.”
    “At least she’s not dead, Nigel,” Pamela comforted him. “I expect she felt weak and went out for air. She must have tripped. You’d best go and help Breslau bring her back.”
    Nigel went out, and Pamela looked around the room for evidence of Fleur’s recent activities. Nothing in the austere room had been disarranged. The window hangings were deep blue, the carpet a tired, old blue-flowered affair. A desk and chair, an uncompromising wooden bench that did not encourage lounging, a table holding dried flowers, and an assortment of undistinguished bibelots were the furnishings. She wandered to the desk and noticed that the pen was dry. Of course, if Fleur had felt weak, she couldn’t work. She’d decided to lie down a moment first, and had fainted or fallen asleep.
    Pamela went into the bedchamber and took a peep about her. This room was more comfortable than the drawing room. The hangings had been replaced within the last decade in a pretty royal blue. The carved and canopied bed was ornate without being elegant. Its covering was undisturbed except for the dent where Fleur had lain down, and her night things laid out at the bottom of the bed. On the mahogany toilette table, a battery of silver and crystal toilet articles were ranged. Pam went to examine them. Brush, comb, hand mirror, nail clippers, nail file, a suede nail polisher, a miniature sewing set, powder, rouge, perfume. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed—yes, it smelled like the wet handkerchief. What was keeping Nigel and Breslau?
    Next she cast a covetous eye on the nightgown and peignoir laid out on the bed. All shiny pink satin and blond lace. The familiar musky scent rose from them. Fleur would wish she’d brought a flannelette nightie with her. The room was freezing, though a sluggish fire smoldered in the grate. On the floor, a pair of high-heeled satin slippers awaited Fleur’s dainty toes.
    So this was how an actress lived. Pam thought of the comfortable mules and flannelette nightie in her own room. On her dresser rested no battery of crystal and silver but a plain horn-backed brush and comb. No wonder Fleur looked so beautiful. Any woman would if she used all that stuff. What could be keeping them?
    Finally becoming bored, she went to the clothespress and peeked in. The only clothing was the green suit Fleur had arrived in. The feathered bonnet rested on the top shelf. She thought Fleur was the sort of woman who would have half a dozen changes of clothes in two days and nights. The sable cape was gone. Fleur must have thrown it over her shoulders before going out for air. Naturally she wouldn’t go out in her evening gown.
    At last the sound of footfalls and subdued voices was heard in the next room. Pam waited for the men to join her, fully expecting to see Fleur with them. She carefully closed the clothespress door and stood innocently in the middle of the room. When the men came in, she looked from one to the other, bewildered.
    “Where is she?” she demanded.
    “We couldn’t find her,” Nigel said.
    “You have to find her, Nigel. She’s fainted, out in that cold rain. She’ll catch pneumonia.”
    At this point, Pamela noticed that Breslau looked—not quite guilty, but somehow knowing. “What’s going on? What haven’t you told me?” she demanded.
    “It will be best if we continue our discussion in the saloon,” he answered, and took Pamela’s elbow to lead her to the door.
    She shook him off impatiently. “If she’s missing, we should notify someone. Did you find any trace of her? I don’t understand.”
    “Pam’s right,” Nigel said. “There’s no saying Fleur—”
    Breslau