by Nancy Warren
“We are so excited at the possibility of doing this show with you. It’s history, English-American relations, a chance to show the world your beautiful home.” She snuck a glance at him and found him listening politely, but not sitting forward in a lather of excitement.
“We’ll try and keep disruption to a minimum, and of course, there’s the location fee.”
His gaze sharpened and she felt him straighten almost imperceptibly in his chair. Who’d have thought it, it was the money that motivated him. She named a figure that was in the upper range of her budget. And saw an expression of relief cross his face. Money was tight, then. No huge ancestral fortune to pay for the upkeep of the estate.
“And how long would your crew be here?”
“Probably we’ll shoot on location for about a week. It could be delayed if we can’t get good weather to shoot outdoors, or sometimes there are unexpected delays. But I’m budgeting a week. Shooting to take place late spring.”
“And what do you need from us?”
“All right. Well, I’m not only scouting locations, I’m also getting a feel for the story of this house and your family. I’ll want you to talk about your mother, and how she came to leave Philadelphia to marry your father, but also, the interesting stories. Ghosts, murders, that sort of thing.”
“Air out the family closet.”
“I think a good murder story or a disruptive ghost adds a lot of interest to a story.”
“Really.” He rose. “Shall I put you to the test?”
There was something about him that made her think he could get a girl in a lot of trouble if she wasn’t careful. “What would that require?”
“Wellies,” he informed her.
“Wellies?” Was this one of those incomprehensible things the Brits ate all of which seemed to include some form of sausage?
“Yes. Wellington boots.” He nodded, glanced outside and said, “And you’d better bring your Mac.”
Since she didn’t think he was telling her she’d need her laptop, she merely raised her brows. For her trouble she was rewarded with one of his lordship’s mischievous smiles. God, the things he must have got away with in his lifetime thanks to that grin. “Wellington boots. Rain boots. And a Macintosh is a raincoat.”
“And you’re the Earl of Ponsford.” Okay, she’d managed to look foolish in front of her documentary subject which was bad, but the fact that he, a sexy and naturally charismatic man would be the focus of the documentary was very, very good. She wondered if he was single. For some reason, she felt too foolish to come right out and ask. She didn’t want him thinking she had any personal interest. She’d get a researcher onto it.
“So, you do have a ghost.”
“Well, there may be loads of them, but if so they’re very polite ghosts. No one ever sees or hears them. No. What I want to show you is the scene of the grisly murder.”
A hottie and a murder. This location was looking better and better.
She was too busy for a man, Maxine reminded herself, especially an interview subject. But, as he helped her slip into an ancient dark green raincoat, she thought he could literally charm the pants off her.
Chapter 3
George sauntered at her side, leading her down a crushed stone path that curved through the damp rose garden. A light mist hovered over the river and the white stone of the Palladian bridge stood out like a ghost.
“Is that where the murder took place?” she asked. Could she reproduce the misty atmosphere? Already her mind was working angles, lighting, a little bit of special effects? Maybe an actor or two to play out the bloody scene while the earl described the murder in his wonderful voice.
“That’s where the 9th Earl of Ponsford died. He was our naughty earl.”
“He drowned in the river?” Not bad, but not terrific television unless his ghost kept tipping over rowers, or spitting water at pedestrians on the bridge or something.
“He was very drunk and took a hankering to ride his horse into the village to the local pub for some mayhem. But he never got there. His body was found the next day under the bridge.”
“Was he murdered? Then dumped in the river? Or did he fall in?”
“That, my dear, is as yet, and probably always will be, an unsolved mystery.”
My dear was an old-fashioned endearment, but still, for some odd reason awareness skittered over her skin at the words. With luck, he’d have the same effect on female viewers, she thought, pushing aside her own response. And mystery was almost as good as a murder. Immediately, she began assessing how to dramatize the scene. Maybe a POV shot of the ninth earl, woozy with drink, approaching the bridge. Does he hear a sound? Turn? She scribbled some notes.
“Would you like to see his picture?”
“The ninth earl? You bet.”
“I’ll take you to the portrait gallery.”
They tramped across a lawn and through a grove of fruit trees coming into blossom. He opened a side door and they entered an almost empty room. “We don’t use this wing, much. But it’s a shortcut to the portrait gallery. It’s also a bit chilly, I’m afraid. We save the heat for the main rooms.”
It wasn’t just chilly. It was freezing, in a damp way that made her reluctant to give up her coat, though she did when he took off his.
“Don’t worry about your wellies,” he said, when she bent to take them off. “The main rooms are open to the public, so the floors are covered.”
So, she found herself treading beside the earl in slightly-too-big borrowed rubber boots that must look really good with her black and white Miu-Miu suit.
They entered an ancient hallway, with gorgeous wooden paneling, high coffered ceilings and paintings and treasures everywhere. Gorgeous and thankfully, no red in sight.
The portrait gallery was long. Very long. Long enough to hang huge portraits of an awful lot of earls, their wives, their families, dogs and horses.
If they set up in here, she’d have to warn the sound tech.
“There are a lot of earls in here,” she said, amazed. She knew that her great-grandfather had come from Ireland and her great-grandmother from Sweden, and that they’d met in Boston and moved to California. She doubted family memories or records went back much farther. How incredible to live in the same house and have pictures of all your ancestors for such a chunk of time.
“I’ll give you the highlights,” he promised her.
“This one’s the first earl. Titled by Henry VIII and given the land. There was an abbey here, originally, but when the Catholics were tossed out and the protestants in, my ancestors found themselves on the right side of the king.” The first earl looked very pleased with himself, she thought, as well he might given that he’d been handed a massive estate. He wore ermine and jewels and was pictured astride a black stallion. Massive sexual symbolism for pre-Freudian times.
Some of the artists were more famous than the men they’d painted. He showed her two Van Dycks, and a Lely, and a probable Rembrandt.
“This one’s interesting,” he said, gesturing to a painting of an earl and his countess. “If you look carefully, you can see that the painting’s been sliced in half and a second half painted later and reattached.”
She stepped closer. “Wow. And now that I really look, the background is a little different.”
“Different artist. You see, the earl remarried and the new countess didn’t like her dead predecessor on the walls so she was cut out and the new one put in her place.”
She scribbled more notes.
“And here we come to the naughty ninth earl.”
“The one who drowned but was possibly murdered? Why did he have enemies? Did he kill someone?”
“God, yes. Killing people was, as far as we can tell, his only hobby. He shot or stabbed three men, badly wounded two. Drink made him crazy. Luckily he didn’t live very long.”
“Too bad he doesn’t walk around at night rattling chains or something,” she said, disappointed in the ninth earl.
“W
ell, I could show you the spot where he killed his mistress’s husband in a duel. Would that help?”
“Are there blood stains?”
He chuckled. “Better. The mistress, who was a most unwilling one, by the by, kept a diary.”
Her eyes widened with excitement. “You haven’t got it?”
“In a glass case. Upstairs.”
“Is it good stuff?”
“Oh, there’s everything in it. Love, loss.” He gave her a steady glance. “Sexual longing.”
How could the walls of a castle suddenly feel like they were closing in on a person? Even though the castle was chilly, she felt the heat of his gaze on her and the zing of attraction she’d experienced when she first set eyes on him.
“All the ingredients that keep a documentary interesting, then,” she said lightly.
“And that keep life interesting,” he said softly.
By the time she’d seen the diary, toured everything that was of interest in the house, and met the house staff, she had so many scribbled notes she’d given herself a severe case of writer’s cramp. Outside, the dismal day had turned even gloomier as the afternoon aged.
“I have to get going,” she told the earl. She needed to get to her hotel and type up her notes. And then tomorrow she’d be up early to head to the next location.
“Thank you so much for all your help and for giving up so much time to me today.”
“It was my pleasure. I hope we’ll spend more time together in the near future.” He might be talking about the shoot, but the undercurrent to his words was clear. Of course, she didn’t have sex with the subjects of her documentaries. At least, she never had. It seemed like such a bad idea, not to mention complicating an already complicated business.
But then, she’d never met anyone quite like George before.
“We won’t make our final choices for a few weeks, but I have to tell you, I’m very excited about Hart House. Very excited.”
She shook his hand, and as she was leaving, heard him say under his breath, “I’m feeling quite excited myself.”
She was definitely going to have to do some research on this earl.
“Blimey,” George said, after he’d shut the door. He felt a bit stunned. He’d imagined a gorgeous, sun-kissed L.A. girl in a bikini and got a gorgeous L.A. girl in a power suit with an attitude. Much more appealing than a bikini – though he wouldn’t mind seeing her in skimpy two-piece. Or, in fact, nothing at all. “That was sudden and possibly inappropriate.”
“Just so, sir,” said, Wiggins, who happened to be passing.
Chapter 4
Maxine was in a snit. She admitted it, accepted the fact, knew she should wait to confront his bloody lordship in the morning, except that she didn’t feel like being wise, and restrained, and sensible.
This was her second day at Hart House. The first she’d spent on pre-production stuff, making final decisions on locations, pulling together a list of scenes. Today, she’d been getting ready, writing script, preparing for the crew which would arrive tomorrow. She wanted to walk George through his duties tomorrow. He was going to be on film, telling the story of the house, the story of the ninth earl, the murder, the unwilling mistress, the mysterious drowning. Sure, George’s stories would be off the cuff and in his own words, but she needed his full attention while they rehearsed.
Instead, he’d most charmingly put her off again and again. First there was a crisis on the farm, an accident with some equipment. She didn’t completely understand what business it was of the earl’s, but he had a noblesse oblige thing going on that was kind of appealing.
Then, they’d started to discuss the history of the house and which parts he should talk about on camera, when his banker called. It seemed the banker was an important person in George’s life. Fair enough.
She’d accepted his invitation to stay at Hart House in one of the guest rooms mainly so she’d have easy access to him, but it seemed this was not to be.
She’d eaten alone in a cozy room known as the family dining room since the earl had gone to the hospital to visit the injured farm worker.
Tomorrow was looming and she needed the first day of shooting to run smoothly. They only had a week on location, and she wasn’t paying a crew to hang around while the earl figured out what to say on camera. Oh, no.
So, she went searching for the man. A pretty futile effort in a house that boasted so many wings and rooms that she could get lost for years. At last, she stumbled on Wiggins the butler wandering by with a load of his lordship’s shirts.
“Where is he?” she asked as pleasantly as she could considering she really wanted to growl and hiss.
“He’s round the pub, madam.” And the way the butler gave the information with bland-faced terseness told her he didn’t appreciate that his lordship had skipped out and gone to the pub either.
Injured workers and bankers she could appreciate, but if his friggin’ lordship wanted a pint, he could down it next week, when she and her very expensive film crew were gone.
“Thank you,” she said. “Which pub?”
“I would imagine he went to the Royal Oak, madam. The village local.”
“Okay. I think I’ll go and find him,” and bring him back whether he liked it or not to face his responsibilities.
The Royal Oak was on the main street of the tiny village outside the castle gates. In Hart House terms, it was one of the closest neighboring buildings. In actual getting there terms she had to stomp down miles of roadway to reach the end of the earl’s land before she could cross the street to the pub. She slipped on her sneakers, grabbed a sweater and her purse and headed down the drive at a speed-walk. Halfway to her destination it began to rain.
Naturally. When did it do anything else in this country?
The drizzle wasn’t heavy enough to soak her, merely wet enough to be annoying, dampening her hair so she knew it would frizz, moistening her face so her makeup smudged. The air smelled of freshly mowed fields, the damp wool of her sweater, and a little bit like horse.
When she got to the pub, she’d at least marched off the worst of her temper, but George Hartley, 19th Earl of Ponsford better not push her buttons or he’d discover she had a temper – and was enough of a republican to let him have it, earl or no earl.
When she dragged open the heavy door of the pub, she was hit by the feeling of warmth and cheer, the sound of laughter and the smell of beer and centuries of smoke.
There were about three generations of people who had to be related since so many of them sported the same beaky nose sitting round the big table in the middle, a group of young people laughing and flirting at the bar, a couple more interested in their drinks than in each other, a few assorted tables of guys who must be mates and a raucous group at the dartboard.
No George.
Her eyes swept the pub once more for his lordship, and only then did she see him rise and take three darts. She blinked. He was part of the boisterous bunch of dart players. Imagine. His company wasn’t exactly Buckingham Palace fare. They were working men, and they seemed as comfortable with his lordship as he seemed with them. A new picture of George Hartley sprang up in her mind, and she experienced the zing in the pit of her stomach that helped her in her work.
She could visualize this scene in the documentary; the earl playing darts with the lads down at the pub showed off a wonderful contrast to the man who could stand on camera in his Savile Row suit and explain, in his I-went-to-Oxford-and-you-didn’t accent, the famous paintings in his gallery, including those of his own ancestors painted by the greatest artists of their day.
Okay, so she was still mad at him, but not as angry now she’d had this epiphany. Still, he didn’t have to know that. He’d snuck away without a word. She wasn’t going to let him get away with treating her like that.
So she walked forward, ready to ask him, rather pointedly, what he thought he was doing. She couldn’t be heard approaching, of course, through the crowded room and when she arrived behind him
, she didn’t have the heart to speak when he was about to throw his final dart. So, she waited. She could see the taut line of his body, the stillness of his head as she imagined him squinting at the spiderweb of circles on the board, then his hand came back decisively and with a graceful arc, he threw his dart. It didn’t land terribly near the bullseye, but it was a respectable shot.
“Not bad,” she said at his shoulder.
He turned, brows raised in surprise. “Maxine. Hello. I didn’t expect to see you at the pub tonight. Thought you were working.”
Those charming blue eyes were so guileless she’d have believed he’d have forgotten all about the fact that he was supposed to be on hand. If she were a naïve woman.
“I came to—’”
“But where are my manners?” He interrupted, slipping a hand behind her upper back and urging her forward. “Come and meet my mates.” There it was. Mates. As though he were anybody.
“Barney, Dave, Patrick, and that handsome dark fellow over there is the pub owner, Arthur.”
“Hello,” she said, giving them each a taste of her smile, then turning to George, by which time the smile was suffering a severe case of rigor mortis.
“Tell your mates you have to leave,” she said, managing to squeeze the words out through her closed teeth.
He chuckled, a hahaha, you’re so amusing for a Colonial type laugh. “Did I tell you it’s my birthday?”