“I wish Derek was here,” Bel whispered to her.
As they reached the foot of the staircase Lowecroft, adept in the magical art of butlerdom, appeared from nowhere and ushered them into the drawing room.
Geraldine came to greet them. Behind her, three men stood up: Raymond, Vincent, and a stranger. Belatedly Edgar followed suit. With him rose a boy he had been chatting to, a dark lad of about Belinda’s age. An unknown lady remained seated.
Daisy presented Martha to Geraldine, who welcomed her kindly though with a distracted air. General introductions followed, not without some difficulty, as many of those present had the same surname.
Raymond Dalrymple favoured Daisy with a half bow, shook hands with Alec, gave Martha a nod and a hard stare, and ignored Belinda.
Vincent Dalrymple was all smiles and complaisance. The unknown woman turned out to be his wife. Mrs. Vincent Dalrymple was a handsome woman who spoke excellent English with a slight French accent and was dressed and made up with the Parisian chic attained without effort by so many Frenchwomen. Her manner was graciously condescending to Daisy, as if she already knew her husband to be the true heir. She couldn’t—could she?
To Martha, Mrs. Vincent didn’t bother to be gracious. She was coldly polite, after a glance with narrowed eyes at the younger woman’s obvious pregnancy. After an appraising look at Belinda, she bent enough to say, “My elder daughter must be about your age.”
“What’s her name? Is she here?” Bel asked eagerly.
“Certainly not. The children are en vacances on the Continent with their governess.”
Geraldine swept onwards. “Daisy, this is Mr. Crowley.”
So the stranger was the one who had told Tommy he was escorting a Dalrymple scion to England. In his late thirties, Mr. Crowley was dark haired, extremely good-looking, with green eyes and an engaging smile that displayed very white teeth. Altogether too much of a good thing, Daisy thought. What was his association with the unknown Dalrymple and why was his attendance necessary?
He grinned at Daisy and, as if reading her mind, said, “I’ve brought my stepson over to take his chances in the Dalrymple stakes.”
Doubtless he had had to answer the same question, spoken or implied, over and over again, she realised crossly.
He turned to the boy beside him, between him and Edgar. “Benjamin Dalrymple, son of my late wife and her first husband, Lucas Dalrymple, of Port-of-Spain, Trinidad.”
An orphan, then. Benjamin, a lanky lad about Bel’s age, was as dark skinned as Daisy’s Indian friend Sakari. Though his features were more European than African, his short-cropped hair was crow-black and tightly curled. Daisy had been vaguely aware of these facts since her first glance at the assembled company, but she hadn’t paid much attention, concentrating on the adults. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he was one of the would-be heirs.
He bowed slightly, looking apprehensive.
“Hello,” said Belinda, eschewing the formal “how do you do” with which she had addressed the grown-ups. She went straight to the question that most interested her: “How old are you?”
“Twelve, miss.”
“I’m thirteen. So’s Derek. My name is Belinda but you can call me Bel.”
He beamed. “You can call me Ben. Or Benjie, but I like Ben better.” His voice had an attractive lilt, rather like Martha’s, though less strong and with a mixture of other elements. It sounded almost Welsh to Daisy’s ears.
“Bel and Ben. I bet people will get confused.”
“Who’s Derek?”
“My cousin. My stepcousin, really. And my friend. You’re a sort of stepcousin too, I expect. You came from Trinidad?”
Daisy heard no more, as Ernest bore in the tea tray and Geraldine bustled her and Martha away to sit down. However, she was glad to see the two heads, ginger and black, remaining close together. Belinda’s coeducational school had made her quite at ease with boys, unlike many girls her age, and Sakari’s daughter was one of her best friends, so dark skin was no impediment.
However, it didn’t seem remotely possible that a half-caste child could be a legitimate “heir of the body.” That was not the boy’s fault. Crowley was responsible for his claim. Daisy wondered whether he really was Benjamin’s stepfather.
The ramifications were so complex she soon stopped wondering, in favour of answering Geraldine’s polite enquiries about the rigours of the train journey and the health of the twins. Geraldine was always meticulous about asking after the babies, though Daisy was pretty certain she really preferred older children, in spite of—or perhaps because of—having spent years as unpaid housemother to a horde of adolescent boys.