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But she was by no means of the stock appropriate for the Earl Alcott.
The entry made no mention of the time she died, neither did several other listings I checked.
There were lots of pictures of her, however, and she was stunning. She didn’t have the doe-eyed, simpering innocence that most female stars of that era possessed.
She was Britain’s version of Mae West: sultry, hooded eyes, buxom, and explicitly sexual.
There were also photos of David and Virginia.
David had the thin-mustached, simmering sexuality and rugged good looks of Clark Gable. I could see shades of Richard and especially Ian in him, but not so much Daniel.
Virginia was a blonde version of Clara Bow, complete with wide, wounded eyes filled with vulnerability.
Apparently, David and Virginia never lived Dorothy’s death (murder?) down, but David was rich and titled (as well as entitled) and didn’t give two shits what anyone thought of him. He went about his business and life as if a woman he’d been having an affair with under his wife’s nose (almost literally) hadn’t died a horrible death in the entry of his ancestral home.
However, within months, Virginia had secluded herself in Duncroft, never to be seen on the London scene again. In fact, never to be seen again, unless someone went to Duncroft.
Something that sounded unnervingly familiar.
When I put my phone back on charge, it was nearing four thirty in the morning.
I considered my vibrator before I reached and turned off the light, plunging the room again in complete darkness.
I ruled against a self-induced orgasm, mostly because the dream with Ian Alcott seemingly marrying me, then making love to me, only to end up smothering me, was not something I wanted associated with a real-life climax.
Unsurprisingly, I had trouble sleeping, but eventually managed it.
Only shortly after to be awoken again.
And this time, someone was definitely in my room.
Six
THE TOUR
I jerked up in bed about the time the first set of curtains on one of the four windows in my room was slapped open by one of the maids.
I blinked as she moved to the next window, then whipped my head around when I sensed movement on my other side.
A second maid was approaching the bed carrying a legged breakfast tray, while the maid who’d offered to help me with dressing was finishing tucking my evening shoes into the wardrobe. She then turned toward the gown I’d thrown over the back of the sofa.
Brittany was not there.
“Breakfast,” the maid who set the tray beside me on the bed said. She was now reaching behind me to gather pillows and fluff them for me to lay back on while I ate. “Lord Alcott will meet you at ten in the Conservatory to take you on a tour of the house.”
The window maid was done with the curtains and was looking down at me, and it was her turn to talk.
“If you require any assistance, just use the bell pull,” she instructed.
She then pointed to the wide, velvet ribbon ending in a silk tassel, which hung down the wall close to the bed.
The maid with my dress was walking toward the door.
“Hey,” I called. “Where are you taking that?”
She stopped, turned my way and looked confused. “To the laundry, of course.”
“It’s dry clean only,” I pointed out. “And I can see to that when I get home.”
