Read Online This Private Plot by Alan Beechey - Free Book Online

finances of the current Lord Yateley (and currency didn’t feature much), there was a clear tit for tat in the pairing, no doubt starting with Lucinda’s well-heeled father helping to get the Yateley family jewels out of hock in time for the wedding. Never mind the nouveau, feel the riche .
    â€œAnd when did the Hon. Don pop the question?” Oliver asked.
    Mrs. Bennet lowered her voice still further. “Well, dear, he’s not exactly asked her in so many words, which is why we don’t want to take any chances with Lady Luck. Lafcadio and I will leave the dining room to you eleven youngsters. I’d join you, but Lafcadio sulks if he’s made to dine alone, the brute, and we girls may not see the checkbook for a month.”
    We girls. Wendy Bennet didn’t like to be reminded that there was any generation younger than her own. “My oldest daughter’s in her twenties,” she would frequently confess with an expression that anticipated your shocked disbelief, and then would look away coyly so she never had to notice that it wasn’t forthcoming.
    Mr. Bennet was now ushering Effie into the presence of his wife, who managed to force her lower face into a dazzling smile while her eyes skewered the surplus female guest with a malevolent glare. Effie, who had faced down criminal court judges, murderers, and other evildoers, quailed slightly. The senior Bennets withdrew to bully the hired kitchen staff, and the new arrivals were shown into the drawing room.
    Once Effie’s pupils had adjusted to the blaze of gilded furniture, ormolu clocks, and gold-edged porcelain, she became aware that the settees supported a full hand of Bennet daughters, all staring at her with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. It was unlikely that anyone had ever dared bring the girls’ shared plainness to their notice, but that hadn’t stopped them devoting much of their time—it would be redundant to call it their “free” time—and much of their father’s fortune to grooming and styling. For a quiet dinner at home, the sisters were decked out in bright bracelets, necklaces, and earrings that almost, but not quite, eclipsed the satin and chiffon of their designer gowns. Effie, cool and stunning in the newer of the two dresses she’d brought with her—a blue cotton Monsoon sundress that Oliver had assured her would be adequate for the occasion—felt self-conscious and underdressed.
    As Oliver made the introductions, she used her police training to fix which sister was which, noting the color of their dresses and their expensive hairstyles. (Her own mutinous curls had been dragged into a tentative ponytail.) The girls’ listless conversation gave her less to work with, with the possible exceptions of Davina, the oldest and least unattractive (dark bob like her mother’s, black Valentino), who seemed to have some spark of personality. Unfortunately, not a very pleasant one. Lucinda, the youngest (medium brown hair, long and upswept, caramel Dior) never spoke at all, but gazed with a half-smile at the Honorable Donald Quilt-Hogg. The other sisters gazed frankly at Ben. As Oliver had once commented, Ben didn’t so much ooze charm as squirt it.
    The same could not be said of the Honorable Donald (Norton & Sons, tweed). He was a tall, well-built young man, with prematurely thinning blondish hair, whose speech was similarly sparse, apart from a sporadic comment that sounded to Effie like “Ah, jolly old honkers!” followed by a throaty chuckle.
    Oliver, sensing Effie’s discomfort, poured two glasses of white Sauterne from a gold-rimmed cooler on the sideboard and passed one to her without asking. She finished it in two gulps. After an agonizing twenty minutes of desultory small talk about the London Season, the door opened and Toby came in, followed by another young man.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” Toby said. “Eric and I got caught in the theatre