They drove toward the storm clouds in the west. The road was a lonely one, dallying endlessly through fallow fields and woods turning autumn gold. The summer was over, Grace reflected as they tooled past a lone biker. In only a couple of days she would be back in the classroom and all this would be a memory. A lovely memory of lazy country lanes and ivy-covered inns, shining lakes and towering crags. Lakeland, Mountain and Fell: the guidebook had not begun to do Cumbria justice. Even Wordsworth’s poetry had painted a pale portrait of this magnificent landscape.
“It rains a lot here,” she commented, her eye on the pale flicker of lightning in the somber clouds ahead. The sky appeared to have an electrical short.
“You are a detective,” Peter mocked. “It’s the wettest corner of England.”
He seemed in a peculiarly good mood, whistling with a jaunty air as they headed for the coast.
“I like the rain,” Grace said contentedly. She settled against the headrest, listening to another snatch of whistling. She remembered that tune from the night she had arrived. Right after her Mistress of Mellyn routine, Peter had walked in whistling that same melody. “What’s that tune?”
He thought it over. “The Little Gypsy Girl.”
She bit back a smile. “It sounds familiar.”
“I think it’s an old folksong.” He quoted,
“My father’s king of the gypsies, ‘tis true
My mother, she learned me camping for
to do
With my pack on my back all my friends
wished me well
And I went up to London town some
fortunes for to tell.”
Grace caught his eye and he winked. She glanced in the rearview; her smile faded. “I think we’re being followed.”
“The Rolls?”
“You noticed?”
“It’s hard to miss. And preferable to the cops.”
She hadn’t even considered that the police might tail them. She wished she could be as blasé as Peter about it.
“What do we do?”
“There’s no secret about where we’re going. Let them follow.”
“Suppose they try something?”
“They’re welcome to try.”
He had a point. They could probably out walk the antique Rolls pursuing them. And would they know if the police were following?
“Can I ask you something?” she began diffidently.
“I was a poor friendless boy,” he said promptly.
“Seriously. Why did you…?”
“Turn to a life of crime?”
“Yes.”
“Weak character.”
She eyed him steadily until he shrugged. “Unfortunately it…appealed to me. To my adolescent love of adventure and even, I suppose, romance. And as I knew all the wrong people, it was quite easy to find steady work.”
“You stole jewelry?”
“Jewels. Diamonds mostly. My least favorite stone actually.”
“And you…kept the money?”
He smiled sympathetically. “I’m afraid so. It was my job, you see.”
“Why did you quit?”
She didn’t think he was going to answer, but he said, “Things got a bit hot for me in England. I decided to travel. And while I was making the Grand Tour I realized there was a lot to be said for a quiet life. It gets old, having to look over your shoulder constantly.”
Grace thought this over. She supposed there was something to be said for the fact that he didn’t sugarcoat it. She glanced at his profile: Peter was whistling cheerfully once more. She could tell she was not going to get much more out of him. She was surprised he had shared this much.
Grace reached into her bag and pulled out Glenarvon by Lady Caroline Lamb, which she had been longing to examine all morning.
Lamb was yet another of Lord Byron’s famed light o’ loves (as the Regency novels delicately put it). In the early nineteenth century she had been as famous for her gothic novels as she was for her notorious liaison with the “mad, bad and dangerous to know” poet. Glenarvon was the fictionalized and highly overwrought tale of the love triangle between Byron, Lady Caroline Lamb and her husband, the future Lord Melbourne. Lord Melbourne had Grace’s sympathy.
Between convoluted fiction and sensational fact, it was hard to keep straight the details of Byron’s life, Grace thought, turning a browned page. Byron had packed a heck of a lot of living into his brief span, and that wasn’t even including his single catastrophic marriage and string of lovers.
She turned another page. Grace told herself she was looking for clues, but the truth was, she had always been curious about this scandalous novel. She offered to read aloud to Peter. He declined.
On they drove.
They arrived at Penwith Hall as the sun was setting. Grace proposed calling first, which Peter seemed to find funny. Perhaps he was counting on the element of surprise. Or perhaps he just had the worst manners in the world. Either one would not have surprised Grace.
In the uncertain light, the house looked like something out of a gothic novel. Nightmare Abbey perhaps. Ivy entwined the shattered turrets and cracked casements. Gargoyles hunched on the rooftops. There were hundreds of windows, many of stained glass, several broken. Mist swirled in serpentine coils.
“This is cozy,” Grace remarked.
“Isn’t it just.” Peter parked in the weed-choked courtyard and they got out beside a moss-covered fountain whispering its dying words.
The Rolls following them slid slowly past the iron gates down the end of the long drive and vanished into the gloaming.
Traversing the uneven flagstones of the court, they knocked hard on a formidable door. “Try the bell,” Grace said.
“What would I do without you,” Peter murmured, trying the bell.
A young man wearing a yellow bow tie opened the door. His expression, already displeased, grew even grimmer.
“Yes?”
“Aeneas Sweet?”
“Certainly not!”
Grace offered the card. The young man took it frowningly. He had thinning hair, a pencil-like mustache and round dark eyes. He reminded Grace of a youthful version of the Monopoly man.
“We’d like to see Mr. Sweet if it’s possible,” she said.
“What’s the old villain up to now?” The young man eyed them suspiciously.
Peter said, “Look, mate, tell him Grace Hollister and Peter Fox have arrived.”
The young man uttered a sound of exasperation and threw open the door with a ghastly screech of hinges.
“I suppose you’d better come in.”
“After you,” murmured Peter in Grace’s ear as she hesitated.
Grace expected to be escorted in grand old tradition to a side room, there to await the master of the house’s pleasure, but apparently they were to meet up on safari.
They followed their escort through an entrance hall the size of one of those playing fields of Eton—only minus the fresh air and sunshine. There were several suits of battered armor, a moth-eaten tapestry depicting a boar hunt that did not seem to be going well for any of the participants, and a gruesome assortment of gilt-framed ancestors who looked as happy to see them as the young man. The young man hurried up the monumental staircase—perhaps he was trying to lose them, thought Grace, speeding to keep up.
Down damp and dusty halls they trekked. Peter lingered now and then to examine a painting or vase.
At last they were shown into a chamber filled with antique furniture. A fire burned but it was unable to dispel the clammy chill. A tall display cabinet crowded with miniatures stood in one corner. A copy of the famous portrait of Byron in Turkish headdress hung on one wall. At least, Grace supposed it was a copy.
“You’ve got guests, Uncle,” announced the irritable young man.
A ruined giant of a man in a paisley dressing gown rose to greet them.
“At last you’ve arrived!”
Aeneas Sweet had a wild mane of snowy white hair, a hawkish nose and fierce eyes. He lim
ped toward them, his shadow looming across the wall. As he reached them he bellowed suddenly, “Ram Singh! Tea!”
Grace inadvertently stepped back on Peter’s foot. He bore it stoically.
At Sweet’s invitation they found seats close to the fire. The fireplace was one of those enormous constructions that reduced people to the size of andirons. As for andirons, two little gargoyles squatted in the fire leering up at Grace. A macabre touch, she thought.
The old man flung himself back on the red mohair sofa. “I expected you hours ago!”
“We only got your—um—message this afternoon,” Grace excused.
Peter drawled, “So good of you to invite us.”
A man wheeled in an antique tea cart. Grace recognized the Indian who had delivered Sweet’s card. In this mausoleum he looked perfectly at home.
“There you are, Singh. What the devil took so long?”
The Indian said nothing. The gold earrings swung against his tattooed cheekbones as he lowered a colossal silver tray to a low table.
“Mute,” Sweet informed them. “All servants should be mute. Wouldn’t hurt in one’s family either.”
Grace glanced inadvertently around, but the young man in the bow tie had vanished. She smiled politely at the servant who gazed stonily back. The last time she had seen eyes that black and emotionless, they had belonged to a figurehead in Peter’s shop.
“You’ll pour, dear lady,” instructed Sweet. “I take sugar, lemon and cream.”
It nearly took two hands to lift the enormous silver teapot. Grace poured tea into fragile little cups and handed them round.
“Have some of these savories. Singh! You’ve forgotten the cakes, damn your eyes!”
Grace selected one of the little fried triangles. She bit into mozzarella, peppers, black olive paste and a cup of salt. It was all she could do not to spit it back out. Peter, she noticed, had stuck to plain tea. That strong survival instinct at work.
Singh departed and the old man hissed at Peter, “Shut the damned door!”
Peter shut the door.
When he had reseated himself at the fire, Sweet demanded, “Now, have you got it with you?”
“Have we got what?”
“Don’t be coy! Whatever she’s offered you, I’ll top it!”
“You’ll top a hundred thousand pounds?” Peter inquired.
Grace held her breath.
The old man never blinked. “Opening bid at a hundred thousand, eh?” Grace had the distinct impression that he was pleased. Pleased because…the opening bid was so low? It was all she could do not to look at Peter. She was afraid her face would give her away.
“Well, well,” Sweet was saying, and he could not keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “It’s a great deal of money, of course. I’m not a rich man. Why, the manner in which my own kith and kin have preyed on my resources…” He fell silent. Studying them under white brows he said, “But you did bring it with you?”
“No,” Peter said. “We wouldn’t take that kind of risk.”
“But you’ve taken a risk coming here, haven’t you?” Sweet’s fierce eyes bored into them.
“No.”
“Heh? No?”
In the staring contest Sweet blinked first. Almost pleadingly he said, “You wouldn’t sell it to her, surely? Not that…that…woman.” He leaned forward and tapped Grace on the knee. “Dear lady, you’ve read her work?”
“I’m somewhat familiar with it.”
“Ha! Familiarity breeds contempt.” He drained his cup and passed it over for a refill. “Appalling lack of scholarship.” He slid a couple of biscuit-shaped savories onto his plate, wiped his fingers on his robe and said, “I’m an old man. I need my rest. I sleep badly these days. You will stay for dinner, of course?”
“Of course,” said Peter.
The old man waved them off wearily. “Dinner’s at eight. I can’t abide lateness. Singh will show you to a room where you can freshen up. And tell him to bring those cakes. The cream-filled ones.”
Sure enough, Singh waited in the drafty hallway to escort them to a still damper part of the house. There, in a room with all the comfy ambience of a crypt, burned a dispirited fire in another oversize hearth.
They had a brief wait while their suitcases were brought up so that they might dress for dinner. The wind lamented down the chimney and the ivy scratched at the windows. A full-size bear rug, complete with snarling head, lay before the fireplace.
“He’d have snapped it up at a hundred thousand pounds,” Grace whispered excitedly. “Did you catch that? Whatever it is, it’s worth a fortune.”
“To him, at any rate.”
“Good point. I don’t think Mr. Sweet is completely sane. What do you think?”
Peter’s thin lips twisted. “I think we’re going to have a hell of a time getting any more information without revealing how little we know.”
“I think you’re right. We could just fess up.”
“We could, but he likely won’t believe us. I wouldn’t. And if he does believe us, we’ll probably not get another word out of him.” He circled the enormous chamber as though taking inventory. Perhaps he was. Perhaps she should frisk him before they left this house.
“Do you think he killed Delon?”
“I don’t think he’s seen the light of day for the past twenty years.”
“He reminds me of Miss Havisham.”
Peter’s mobile mouth twitched.
“You don’t think he plans on our staying the night, do you?” She had been counting on spending the night at one of those cozy little inns they had passed on the long drive. Grace studied the boat-sized bed—complete with dusty canopy and faded gold hangings—skeptically. A gigantic harp crowding a window alcove had caught Peter’s attention.
Quitting his examination of the harp, he ran a light hand across the old strings. Even that random chord sounded ancient. “That’s worth a pretty penny.”
“I think the dust here is older than anything in my apartment,” Grace admitted.
Peter zipped open his shaving kit.
“Do you think he had Delon killed? That Singh looks like someone who would know how to wield an ax.”
“Maybe.” He headed for a side room that turned out to be a bathroom complete with a fireplace and picture window looking over the coastline. Grace followed, watching as he mixed up shaving lather in a silver cup. Over his shoulder, she could see her reflection in the mirror.
“The thing is,” she said slowly, “there’s still the question of the secret passage.”
Peter gazed at her alertly, smoothing a dollop of white cream over his already smooth-seeming jaw.
“What I mean is, how did Danny Delon wind up dead in your secret passage?”
“I wondered when you’d consider that.” He tilted his head back. The long line of his throat was exposed as he scraped the razor through the shaving lather. She thought there was something intimate about watching a man shave. “Is this one of those shadow- of-a-doubt moments?”
Grace could see herself considering this in the mirror. Peter watched her reflection, too. There was certainly plenty to doubt, but the more time she spent with Peter the more confident she felt that he could be trusted in all the essential ways.
“No, I’m just wondering how many people know about that passageway? Did Delon know?”
“I certainly didn’t tell him. He could have stumbled upon it, I suppose. It’s the easiest to find.”
That gave her a moment’s pause. Craddock House had other hidden passages?
“Could his murderer have known about it?”
“It’s not impossible.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
Peter shrugged. “The house is centuries old. When I purchased it, the estate agent showed me that particular passage, a hidden staircase and a priest’s hole. The house had other secrets I discovered for myself. And I’ve added a few touches of my own through the years. Anyway, it’s more than possible some of my nei
ghbors are familiar with that particular hiding place.”
“Did you leave the door to your flat unlocked?”
“Of course not.”
“It was unlocked when I arrived.”
He thought this over. “You think Delon found his way upstairs by the secret stairway?”
“Yes. That means he could have hidden the item upstairs in your quarters.”
“I suppose so. But that means Delon’s killer must have had time to retrieve the item as well.”
“Not necessarily. Not if he—or she—was in a hurry, and I think committing murder would tend to make you hurry. It’s not that easy to find the entrance to your quarters from the passage. I found it by accident.” Grace considered this. “Does anyone have a key to your shop?”
“No.”
“No one?”
“No one.”
That pleased her for some inexplicable reason. “So Danny must have picked the lock?”
“Picked the lock and bypassed the alarm system. It wouldn’t be hard. It’s an old system. More for show than anything.”
“That seems awfully trusting.”
“I’m a trusting sort of fellow. Besides, we’ve a low crime rate in Innisdale. That’s why I moved there.”
“So Danny must have been wandering around when the murderer arrived. He tried to hide in the passage, but either his killer knew about it or he didn’t get the door closed in time.”
“Using the battleax seems to indicate a certain spontaneity,” Peter agreed. “Perhaps Danny surprised this second chap.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps they had arranged to meet while you were away.”
Grace left him to his ablutions and opened her suitcase, shaking out the little black dress she had brought to England in hope that she might have dinner one night with a handsome and mysterious stranger. Not that she had really expected that to happen. Certainly not to this extent.
Made entirely of stretch lace, the décolleté dress had sheer lace sleeves and a body-fitted shape. She had never dared wear it before. Just owning it had seemed daring enough. Until tonight.
Peter strolled out of the bath and did a double take. “Why shucks, ma’am. Need help with any zippers or buttons, I hope?”
“Everything’s under control,” Grace said breathlessly. The dress was a little more body-fitted than before, thanks to her recent diet.
He quirked an eyebrow.
“What?”
He shook his head. “If we’d had teachers like you when I was a lad, I might have stayed in school.”
They started downstairs, tracking—according to Peter—the savory crumbs he had thoughtfully sprinkled on their journey up. The lighting from the old wall sconces flickered spookily over the empty halls. This part of the house was nearly stripped bare; it had an abandoned air.
They passed a sizable leak in the roof. Rain trickled down in a steady stream.
Peter quoted solemnly, “Tell me how many beads there are in a silver chain…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Of evening rain.” And Grace giggled. The sound startled her. It was such an undignified noise. She realized she was having fun. More fun than she could remember. She was having an adventure. The first in her life. And so far she was surviving it.
At long last they found the drawing room. Sweet and his nephew were already taking advantage of the cocktail hour.
The room was furnished with extraordinarily ugly Victorian furniture. Sweet, garbed in outdated evening dress, sat in a giant clawfoot chair, his feet propped on a matching footstool. His nephew, still in bow tie and sweater vest, stood staring out the window.
Outside, the rain sparkled like silver glitter.
“Good, you’re wearing a frock,” Sweet greeted them. “I cannot abide women in trousers. Women in trousers are an abomination.”
“I agree,” said Peter.
“What do you mean, you agree?” Grace demanded.
Sweet interrupted, “You’ve met my nephew, Ferdinand?”
“Philip,” corrected the young man turning from the window. “Delighted to meet you.” Looking anything but delighted, he handed around a tray with cocktail glasses.
“Ferdy!” jeered Sweet under his breath. His gaze found Grace’s. He rolled his eyes significantly. For a moment Grace thought he was having a fit. It dawned on her that Sweet was cautioning her. That he must mean he did not want them discussing the manuscript in front of Ferdinand or Philip or whatever his name was.
She glanced at Peter who dropped his eyelid in a slow deliberate wink. She sipped her drink. It seemed to consist of alcohol and ice.
“I say, are you by any chance the Peter Fox of Rogue’s Gallery?” Ferdy (now Grace was thinking of him as Ferdy—he just seemed like a “Ferdy”) asked.
“Guilty.”
“I believe I’ve been to your shop. Do you ever come across oyster plates?”
“Occasionally.”
“Bah!” Sweet exclaimed.
“Oyster plates?” Grace inquired.
A trace of animation entered Ferdy’s manner. “Oyster plates, yes! Decorative plates dating from 1860 to 1910 mostly. The good old days when a meal had several courses and every course had its own utensils and dishes.”
“I resent that! We always have several courses,” Sweet bridled. “What are you implying? You’re not wasting away!”
While Ferdy defended himself, Peter explained to Grace, “Oyster plates have depressions in the shape of shells to hold the oysters and their broth. They’re generally made out of porcelain, glass, pottery. I’ve even seen them in silver.”
Ferdy’s cheeks grew pink with excitement. “I recently purchased two nine-inch Haviland floral-decorated plates with two mussel wells. I should be delighted to show them to you. I’ve over three hundred plates in my collection, you know.”
“My stars,” murmured Grace. She felt as though she’d wandered into a Woody Allen movie. Even Peter seemed happy to discuss oyster plates all evening.
“You say oysters and I say bugger off!” the old man growled. “I need another drink.”
Ferdinand fetched another round of cocktails. Grace, already feeling the effects of her first drink, declined.
“Very wise,” Sweet said, coming up for air. “Nothing is more revolting than a woman who can’t hold her liquor.”
After another round of drinks and more utterly pointless small talk, they proceeded to the dining hall, which would have comfortably seated Robin Hood’s entire merry band. Sweet sat at one end of the long table and Ferdy at the other. Peter and Grace were positioned midway down the table across from each other. A monstrous centerpiece made it difficult to see more than each other’s eyes.
An elderly servant moved slowly from place setting to place setting. As soon as the soup was served Grace understood why getting sauced was a prerequisite for dining at Penwith Hall. The soup was a watery yellow. It tasted as it looked.
Ferdinand called to Grace, “Then you’re not a dealer as well, Miss…Holiday was it?”
“Hollister,” Grace corrected. “I’m working on my dissertation. Poets of the Romantic period.”
This did not strike the noticeable dread into hearts that she had hoped.
“And have you read my work, Miss Hollister?” Sweet inquired hopefully, spoon poised before his lips.
From down the table Ferdy made a pained sound.
“I know that you’re the author of The Last Corsair,” Grace said diplomatically.
“Ah yes, my account of Byron’s adventures in the East.” Sweet smiled devilishly. “The chapter on Byron’s love affair with Ali Pasha and his son Veli Pasha is a masterpiece!”
“Then you believe Byron was bisexual?”
“Of course! Byron was the supreme sensualist. He wished to experience every nuance of life, to wring from life’s loins every drop of—”
Grace put her spoon down and stared at the tiny silver berries in the centerpiece, tuning out.
“The proof is conclusive,” Sweet finished. “Veli Pasha h
onored Byron with the gift of a magnificent white horse.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Peter’s voice commented from behind the centerpiece. “You know what they say about big white horses.”
The next course consisted of a slab of half-cooked meat flavored with cranberry-ginger chutney. There was a quantity of soggy vegetables, and someone had done something cruel to potatoes.
Sweet kept up his monologue, yet still managed to consume vast quantities of the dreadful food. “I suppose you have been reading that woman! She and her sisterhood want to sanitize Byron, castrate him, wrap him up in turtledoves and sticky sentiment.”
“That’s got to hurt,” Peter put in. Through the silver shrubbery she caught a glimpse of his raised glass. Grace hoped he was not getting drunk. Not that she could blame him.
Following three kinds of moldy cheese, dessert was served: lemon tarts with poached pears—ingeniously made without any kind of sugar or sweetener at all.
Grace considered tipping her dessert plate into the centerpiece but restrained herself.
“Well, you must excuse me,” Ferdy said, rising from the table.
“Yes of course, dear boy,” Sweet replied with patent relief.
When the carved door closed behind the other man, Sweet knocked over his water glass, waving his hand excitedly. “Thank heavens he’s gone! Now let’s stop haggling. How much for it? And I warn you, I won’t be swindled.”
Peter said, “May I ask when Delon contacted you?”
“About a week ago, I suppose. Why?” Sweet said suspiciously, “When did he contact that woman?”
“Around the same time,” Peter said as though he knew it for a fact.
“But surely it’s a matter of—of—”
“Naturally,” Peter said. “Out of curiosity, why did you have him killed?”
The old man’s jaw dropped. “I. Beg. Your. Pardon?”
“It’s one less split,” Peter said. “I’m not objecting. Just curious.”
“But I had no idea! None. Why should anyone kill him? You were the one handling the item.” Sweet turned to Grace. She made a commiserating face.
Peter said cheerfully, “There you’re wrong, I’m afraid. You see, Delon was killed before he could hand off the item.”
Sweet combed his white mane out of his face as though he couldn’t hear through it. “What? What are you saying?”
“We don’t have it,” Grace interjected. She wanted there to be no doubt. Sweet appeared exactly like the kind of wacko who would devise an abduction.
“But that’s…that’s nonsensical! What are you trying to pull?”
“It’s the truth, I’m afraid,” Peter said. “We’re not even sure what the item is.”
The old man stared at them. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh Lord, you had me for a moment!”
As though magnetized, Peter and Grace’s glances locked.
The old man laughed more heartily still. “Name your price! Within reason, of course!”
“That’s very tempting,” Peter remarked.
“And alarming,” Grace put in, thinking aloud.
“It doesn’t alter the fact that we don’t have…It.”
“Bah!” The old man rose, catching the linen tablecloth and nearly dragging the place setting from the table. “Bah!”
“Nevertheless,” Peter responded. His slim fingers played with the sterling napkin ring.
The old man took a turn around the room. Outside the window the night flashed white and then black. The rumble of thunder followed.
“Bah!” Sweet exclaimed again.
“Humbug,” said Peter. He rolled the ring across the table to Grace. She caught it and absently tried it on for size.
“I can’t think,” complained Sweet. “You’re up to something, I suppose. Everyone’s always up to something. That damned Ram Singh has let me get drunk again. He must be up to something. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Oh! Well, actually…” Grace started in.
Peter shot her a warning look.
She shook her head stubbornly.
Peter nodded.
Grace shook her head more forcefully.
“What the hell are you two doing?” Sweet roared. “Save that sort of thing for the privacy of your own home.” With that he banged out of the room.
“What are you doing?” Grace demanded. “We can’t stay here!”
“We can’t leave now.”
“Yes we can. We get in the car and start the engine. Hey, presto!”
“My dear girl—”
“Don’t ‘dear girl’ me. I’m a woman, not a girl. A woman who does not plan on spending the night in this house of horrors.”
“Grace, we can’t go haring off without the information we came here for.”
“Yes we can. We can come back in the morning.”
He was staring intently past her head. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly.
“What is it?” she breathed, instinctively glancing over her shoulder.
His lips barely formed the words, “The eyes in that portrait moved.”
Grace froze. “What? Are you trying to scare me?”
In a normal voice, he said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
Grace pushed back from the table. She couldn’t help an uneasy look at the sallow-faced Cavalier hanging behind her chair. He bore a strong resemblance to Ferdy. Perhaps it was the eyes. Perhaps not.
“Could you tell who it was?” she asked softly as they mounted the grand staircase.
“From the eyeballs?”
“I’ll bet it was that Ram Singh.”
Peter didn’t answer. Perhaps he was saving his breath for the climb back. It wasn’t a bad idea.
When they finally staggered into their room Grace announced, “I knew it! They’ve searched through our luggage.”
“What makes you think so?”
“My suitcase was on the left and yours was on the right. Now mine is on the right and yours is on the left.”
“Maybe the maid moved them.”
“What maid?”
“True.” He considered and then dismissed this. “Well, if they searched our gear, it’s natural enough.”
“We have different ideas about what is natural when staying in other people’s homes.” She picked her suitcase up. “What do we do now?”
“Get some sleep.” He was going through his suitcase.
“Sleep?”
“Unless you have another idea?” He winked at her in that maddening way. How he could flirt under these circumstances—but apparently it came as naturally to him as breathing.
“Uh, no. No.” She studied the antique bed. “It probably has spiders.”
“Very probably.” He glanced at her critically. “I’d get comfortable if I were you.”
“Comfortable?”
“Warm.” He was pulling a black sweater over his shirt. No yellow silk jammies tonight.
“Oh.” Grace grabbed her jeans and sweater and headed for the industrial-sized bath.
When she came out again Peter had turned the lights down. He was lying on the bed. She could see the outline of his body in the fireplace glow. She hesitated in the doorway.
“Come ahead. I won’t bite.” His voice sounded lazy and amused.
With great self-consciousness, she crossed the wide expanse of cold floor and gingerly climbed into the galleon-sized bed. The mattress was feather and seemed to melt away under Grace’s hands and knees. The velvet coverlet smelled dusty.
Her hand planted into something soft. She withdrew it hastily.
“Sorry.” She slipped under the covers beside him. She could just make out his features in the flickering light.
Peter’s mouth twitched. “You seem a little tense. Is it the spiders or me?”
Grace laughed uncertainly. “Do you suppose it’s haunted?”
“The bed?”
“The Hall.”
“Come here, Esmeralda.” He stretched out his arm.
Grace scoote
d over and gingerly laid her head on his shoulder. He smelled pleasantly masculine, of soap and lambs’ wool and a light spicy aftershave. She could feel him smiling. She could feel the lean strength of his body cushioning her.
Oddly enough the fact that they both wore jeans and sweaters seemed more erotic, not less. The thought of warm bodies, smooth bare skin, nakedness beneath the clothing…
“Better?”
She nodded.
For long moments they lay listening to the occasional pop of the fireplace, the rain against the windows.
Her stomach gurgled. “I’m starving.”
“We could raid the kitchen.”
“I’m afraid to find out what goes on back there.”
“Good point.”
Silence.
Grace’s brain seemed to be in overdrive. “Did you know that due to a genetic tendency toward obesity, Byron had to diet? He periodically starved himself with soda water, biscuits and cathartics.”
She felt his silent laugh.
The wind moaned drearily down the chimney.
“So you never married?” Grace asked.
The silence held a surprised quality, or maybe it was just that Grace was amazed at herself. Her uncharacteristic nosiness had to be due to finding herself sharing this man’s bed, even in this weird circumstance.
“No.”
“You don’t seem much like the marrying type.”
“Is there a type?” He sounded dry.
“I just meant that you have so many lady friends.”
He seemed to be reflecting aloud. “There was a girl once. A woman, rather. We probably would have killed each other eventually.”
“Oh?”
She felt rather than saw his smile. “She had red hair and the temper to match. Lovely red hair, like a fox’s.”
Grace discovered she had no desire to hear anything more about the woman with fox-colored hair. She was just making conversation, in any case, and wasn’t really interested in picturing the woman who might one day snare Peter Fox. She deliberately summoned up the memory of Chaz and their model relationship, which was based on mutual interests and respect and friendship.
It was annoying that Chaz’s face, in memory, seemed the tiniest bit fuzzy.
As though reading her thoughts, Peter said suddenly, “Tell me about the boyfriend. Chip, is it?”
“Chaz?”
“Ah. Chaz.”
“It’s short for Charles.”
“Yes? And what does Chaz do?”
“He’s a professor of mathematics at St. Anne’s. St. Anne’s is where I teach.”
“Right.” He yawned, turning his head away. “What’s he like?”
“He’s…nice. Reliable. He’s an excellent teacher.” Grace tried to remember. All at once Chaz seemed like someone that she had known a long time ago in another life. “We share the same interests.”
After a pause, “And those interests are?” Peter sounded drowsy, like someone who was only half remembering his cues.
“We like…Masterpiece Theatre and Irish music. We saw the Chieftains in concert the last time they were in Los Angeles. We like Sunday morning brunch at the Odyssey.”
It suddenly seemed important to remember all the things she and Chaz shared. Peter was silent.
“In the summer we always get season tickets to the Hollywood Bowl. Usually we go with Tom and Monica. Monica is the friend I came over with. Tom is her boyfriend. He teaches P.E. at St. Anne’s. And in the winter the four of us play bridge every Tue—”
She was interrupted by a gentle snore.
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 25