A Deadly Dedication, page 25
“And Regina was brave enough to volunteer to be on our local BBC radio station to talk up the fest,” Penelope said. “Brava, Regina.”
“As if she would have turned that opportunity down,” India whispered to Penelope.
Regina looked around the table and beamed at them. “Thank you. Thank you.” She cast her eyes down demurely. “And,” she said, pausing dramatically, “our little fest has been written up in the Sun.”
Gladys gasped and clasped her hands to her chest. India looked equally startled. Stories from their little corner of the world rarely made it into the national papers.
Regina preened. “Gordon—that’s my husband,” she said to Penelope, “places a lot of ads with the Sun for his business. He pulled some strings and, well . . .” Regina batted her eyelashes.
She reached into her purse, pulled out a copy of a newspaper, and placed it on the table. She thumbed it open to the fifth page and tapped a headline with a crimson-manicured fingernail.
“Here it is. ‘Upper Chumley-on-Stoke to hold its annual Worthington Fest on Saturday. Hosted by the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke and his American fiancée, the fest is an annual event’—well, you can read the rest yourselves.” She turned the paper around so the others could see it.
A stock photo of the duke and Charlotte Davenport taken at some other event was included with the article. Penelope had seen Worthington from a distance once or twice as he sped through the village in his vintage Aston Martin but had never gotten a close-up look at him.
He had a roguish air about him—in the photograph, at least—with blue eyes that twinkled beneath thick, straight brows and a mouth that looked to be curved in a perpetual half smile—as if he was privy to an especially delicious secret.
Charlotte looked every inch the duchess she was about to become in a pale pink dress with a full skirt and lace bodice. Her blond hair was in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck and she carried a tiny clutch bag in one hand. Her other hand—with its four-carat diamond solitaire—was laid lightly on the duke’s arm.
“I still don’t know why Worthington chose that woman,” Gladys said, tapping Charlotte’s picture.
“Well,” Regina said, raising an eyebrow, “they’re not married yet, are they? Anything could happen.”
Regina folded the newspaper back up and tucked it in her handbag, and they went back to the business at hand, finishing up their meeting half an hour later. Regina gathered her things together and immediately took off at a trot, yelling over her shoulder that the duke was waiting for her and she simply mustn’t be late. Everyone stood in a cluster as they listened for the sound of the door closing behind her.
“That woman becomes more insufferable by the day,” India said. “Nouveau riche,” she declared as if that explained it.
“I don’t know why Worthington chose her to be the chairwoman of the fest,” Gladys grumbled, her expression stormy.
“Quite,” India said. “I understand that competition for the position was dreadfully fierce among the ladies of Chumley.”
“She probably badgered him until he cried uncle,” Penelope said.
India made a sound like a snort.
“I wonder what she meant about Worthington and Charlotte not being married yet,” Penelope said. “It almost sounded like she was hinting at something. As if she knew something.”
Gladys laughed. “What could Regina possibly know about it?”
“I don’t know.” India frowned. “But Regina collects secrets the way some people collect stamps. And she’s not afraid to make use of them either.”
About the Author
Margaret Loudon is the national bestselling author of the Farmer's Daughter Mysteries, the Cranberry Cove Mysteries, and the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries, written under the name Peg Cochran. She also wrote the Sweet Nothings Lingerie Mysteries under the name Meg London.
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Margaret Loudon, A Deadly Dedication
