“Lark has kindly offered to drop me at home while you stay and continue to debase yourself.”
“Shall I remind you that Ten Actual Downing Street is at stake here? Surely that’s worth fetching a few whiskeys.”
He walked them outside with the umbrella and traded cheek kisses with Channing before dashing back into the pub.
“Your friend is kind of adorable, Channing.”
“He knows that all too well.” Folded into the cramped space, Channing shoved her raincoat into the backseat and fidgeted with the lever on the passenger seat until it loudly ratcheted as far back as it would go. “That was an absolutely hideous sound…I believe I’ve just broken something. A rental, I hope.”
“Even better—it’s a company car.”
“Brilliant. I’ll be sure to sell my stock.” She flipped the visor’s mirror and brushed her cheeks with a tissue, clearing smudges that might have been from tears at the memorial service.
Only then did Lark consider that it likely had been a difficult day for Channing as she confronted memories of her grandfather. It was a lot to deal with on the heels of a breakup and resignation from her job. Maybe it wasn’t the best day to push her for a date.
“Quite the coincidence, Dr. Latimer, you being there at the pub. You aren’t stalking me, are you? Not that I actually care at the moment, since you’ve rescued me from a rather dreadful afternoon. I couldn’t have stood it another second.”
“Of course it was a coincidence.” Feeling defensive all of a sudden, Lark opened her texting app and handed the phone to Channing. “See? This is where my friend told me to meet her. I had nothing to do with choosing the pub. For all I know, you were stalking me.”
“Easy there, I’m hardly complaining. You should have told me on the plane you were heading to Cambridge. I’d have offered you a lift from the airport.”
Lark doubted that, considering Channing’s sullen mood at the time. Hard to believe that was just yesterday morning. “And you should have told me you were so fancy, Lady Channing Hughes. I saw your driver holding that sign when I came out of customs.”
Channing threw her head back and laughed. “That’s just a family joke. I started calling myself Lady Hughes when I was eight years old. I also announced my intention to marry Prince William and become Queen. You see how well that worked out.”
“How are you doing? Any more news from your old boss? Please tell me you haven’t decided to go back to her.”
“I most certainly have not. She calls, I ignore. She texts, I ignore. I suppose the nude photos will come next. Here, the drive’s coming up on your right.”
Lark knew from her GPS that Penderworth Lane headed toward the River Cam, which also ran through the heart of Cambridge University. The pocked pavement ended at an open iron gate flanked by two stone columns, one bearing a worn bronze marker that read Penderworth Manor 1784. Inside the wall was an impressive Georgian home right out of a PBS costume drama.
“Excuse me, Lady Not Actually Fancy. Ordinary people don’t live in houses that have names. You have to be nobility. Are you sure there’s not a lord of the manor somewhere among your ancestors?”
“Positively not. The entire house of Penderworth perished during the flu pandemic just before the First World War. Not a single surviving heir. My great-great-grandfather acquired the manor in 1923 and it’s been in our family ever since.” She paused with her hand on the car door, a worried look crossing her face. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come in?”
Okay, so not the warmest invitation she’d ever gotten. It was entirely possible she’d misread Channing’s excitement at seeing her at the pub. The charm, the disarming humor…maybe she’d poured that on to get a ride home.
“Maybe another time. You must be as jet-lagged as I am, and I bet it wasn’t an easy day.”
Channing pursed her lips and nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Another time then.”
“Like I said, I’ll be in town a few weeks if you want to grab dinner or something.”
“I could probably manage that, though I’m not sure of my schedule just yet. I’ve several meetings next week to see about sorting my grandfather’s estate.”
“No worries. Come Monday, I’ll be neck-deep in clinical reports. If it works out, great. If not…”
Again with her noncommittal hesitation, Channing fumbled for her phone. “Very well, suppose I give you my number.”
“Here, just take mine.” Lark handily produced a business card from her chest pocket. With Channing so hard to read, it made much more sense to leave the ball in her court. “Give me a call, shoot me an email…whatever. But take care of yourself first. Like I said, I’ll be here a while.”
It was just her luck the first woman other than Bess to really pique her interest would be emotionally unavailable at the exact moment their paths crossed. Or maybe Channing wasn’t attracted to her.
Lark hardly expected a relationship. She was only in Cambridge for a few weeks at the most and Channing had made it plain she wasn’t coming back to Boston. They were adults. Why couldn’t they have a meaningless fling?
Even that wasn’t happening if she couldn’t manage a perfunctory invitation to come inside, Lark thought as she circled the drive and exited the gate. For all she knew, Channing had walked through that red door and tossed her card in the trash, relieved to have squirmed out of an awkward engagement.
Chapter Five
“Mum, you know bloody well I’m in England. It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
“That can’t possibly be right.” Even after nearly thirty years in America, Mum still had a marked English accent. “Irwin looked it up for me. He specifically said there was only a five-hour time difference. I was calling to catch you before dinner.”
“It’s five hours the other way. England is ahead.”
Channing seethed as much as her brain would allow after being awakened from a dead sleep. It rarely occurred to Liz Guillory—she’d never get used to calling her Blumenfeld—to question her own impulses. Likely, she hadn’t considered the time at all. The thought of talking to her daughter had popped into her head so she’d picked up the phone and dialed.
“What is it you want?”
“To hear about the memorial, of course. I was worried about you being there all alone again. I should be there with you.”
“I’m not alone. I have Maisie and Cecil, and I spent most of the weekend with Kenny.”
“I so love that boy. I can’t imagine why you kids don’t just get married, Channing. You two make just the sweetest couple. Plus you’d be a countess.” Liz had been beating this drum from the moment she learned Kenny was heir to an earldom, having convinced herself that, as mother of a countess, she too might be given a courtesy title. “Speaking of weddings, your brother Nathan’s getting married. Just the nicest girl. Her father’s a periodontist. Gums. They have a vacation home in the Berkshires. Not as posh as Martha’s Vineyard, but it’s something.”
Half dozing, Channing wasn’t interested in the lives of her half-brothers, regardless of the hour. As a purely intellectual exercise, she’d once contemplated her willingness to provide either of them with a lifesaving kidney and hoped for their sake they’d never have to ask. There was a great deal of discussion over the scientific technicalities as to why Nicholas, Nathan’s fraternal twin, wasn’t the better donor. It had to do with the birthmark on their hip—Channing and Nathan had it, Nicholas did not. And since it was a birthmark, there were questions as to the viability of using a skin graft instead of a kidney, but then Payton rang to ask if she could arrange a new rental car for Lark Latimer.
“Channing!”
“What? I’m here…I’m listening.” She’d obviously fallen asleep again and missed another critique of her love life, or lack thereof. Though Mum knew about her sexuality, Channing had not shared a word about Payton, a point for which she was exceedingly relieved. “You’ll forgive my reluctance to take marriage advice from someone who stayed with Calvin Guil
lory for twenty-two years.”
Her mother sighed dramatically. “There is that.”
“Now if it’s all right with you, I’d really like to go back to sleep. I have my first meeting tomorrow with Lord Alanford to go over Poppa’s will.”
“All right. Call me when you can talk longer. I want you to figure out how much Gary’s computer company is worth. You remember Gary…Irwin’s middle son, has that crooked eye? He wants to use his company for collateral at the Bank of Dad, but what good is that if he’s—”
“Mum. Sleep. Later.”
“Okay, okay. You get some rest. But I want to hear all about the will tomorrow. I’ll have my phone on all day. We’re taking the yacht down to Boca for lunch with the Solomons. Irwin and Rudy, two peas in a pod. They’re—”
“Goodnight, Mum.” She ended the call and drifted off with the phone still in her hand. Only moments later it rang again. “What!”
“Your grandfather’s pipe collection…I was thinking you could pick out something nice for Irwin. I’d be happy to pay the post. But you mustn’t send it here to the yacht because I’d like it to be a surprise. Use the Solomons’ address. I’ve got it on a scrap of paper somewhere but you’ll have to look up the zip code. Let me—”
“Mum, if you wake me again I’m going to tell Irwin what you did with his mother’s zircon ring.”
“Channing, that was just the most hideous piece of junk…”
* * *
Lark shook out her wet hair and shaped the curls with her fingers. Freshly cut for her trip, it would dry on its own before she got to her office. It hardly mattered how she looked, since her white lab coat rendered her practically invisible among the other doctors at PharmaStat. Being an MD had its perks.
At barely five hundred square feet, the corporate apartment had everything she needed to feel at home away from home—bed and bath, a cozy living area and a kitchenette. A pair of barstools at the counter served as her dining room, where she sipped from a pot of tea steeped for exactly four and a half minutes and poured over a tablespoon of milk.
Six days had passed without a word from Channing, leaving her disappointed but not surprised. It was silly to think she’d made any sort of impression at all. A chance meeting that had lasted no more than thirty minutes and Lark was still treating it as the highlight of her week.
Channing probably never gave it another thought, mired as she was in the emotional fallout from a broken affair, the loss of her grandfather and resigning her job. Anyone with that much going on in her life could be forgiven for ignoring social trivialities.
Over a breakfast of yogurt and muesli, she searched the web and found the obituary from three months ago of The Honourable Lord Hughes of Horningsea, given name Patrick. A professor of economics at Cambridge and a proponent of privatization, he’d served fifteen years in the House of Lords after receiving a life peerage from Margaret Thatcher in 1982. Lark didn’t know much about the British system of government, but a title from the prime minister struck her as a significant honor, even if it didn’t pass to his heirs.
Lord Hughes was previously married and preceded in death by both of his children, Frances Hughes Martin and Royal Air Force Wing Commander Henry Hughes, the latter apparently Channing’s father. No mention of Channing’s mother. Deceased, estranged or indisposed? Or perhaps the British simply ignored in-laws in obituaries.
The article confirmed that granddaughter Channing resided in Boston, which led Lark to track down her work bio. Channing T. Hughes, valuation analyst at Albright Trust, a company that insured parties undergoing mergers or acquisitions. A gorgeous color headshot, naturally. Male clients probably asked for her by name—Lark certainly would have. A graduate of Wellesley, she’d worked at Lloyd’s of London before returning to Boston for an MBA at Harvard. Quite the impressive résumé, ironic considering Lark had taken one look at her voguish appearance in the airport and immediately written her off as someone who couldn’t possibly be a business traveler. On the contrary, people who understood money like Channing did were the engine of the business world.
Curiosity drove her to check out Payton Crane as well. A senior client manager with a background in accounting, she too boasted a Harvard MBA. Mid-forties by her photo, but with ash-blond hair cut in an asymmetrical style more typical of women twenty years her junior. Lark conceded the hypnotic appeal of her steely expression, which oozed power and self-possession. Of course Channing would fall for a woman like that.
Enough with the cyberstalking. Finishing her tea, she scrolled through her email and found a late-night note from Bess saying that Otis, the scruffy stray they’d taken in four years ago, had gotten a clean bill of health from the vet after a stubborn ear infection. It was telling that after a relationship lasting nearly a decade, the only thing keeping them connected was a dog. What did that say about her emotional maturity?
Besides the note from Bess, there was a frequent flyer summary from British Airways and an offer of extra nights through Hilton Honors. And something spammy-looking that came in at 4:10 a.m. from an unfamiliar gmail account…l_of_hsea, which she very nearly deleted without even giving it a look.
Channing Hughes here, aka the Lady of Horningsea. I haven’t forgotten your rain check. Supper Sunday at Penderworth?
* * *
A house with a name, Channing thought, recalling what Lark had said about Penderworth Manor. She must have found it amusing, the grandiose story of a child who’d appropriated a royal style for her identity. Lady Channing Hughes.
She’d dragged her feet all week about reaching out to Lark again. It surprised her how happy she’d been to see her in the pub. Then she’d grown uneasy, what with Kenny pointing out that she wasn’t exactly the best company right now. Besides, the last thing she needed was to get involved with someone who lived in Boston. Or was it? Maybe Lark was the perfect candidate. Three or four weeks, no strings.
What would Lark make of a courtly home like Breckham Hall? Situated at the back of a vast lawn, its ivy-laced facade rose three stories above a circular cinder drive, the grass edges of which were meticulously trimmed. On the near end was a carriage house that Channing knew housed several flashy vehicles. Opposite was a covered brick walkway that connected the house to the stables.
She knew the Alanford estate well, having spent countless hours of her youth exploring its corners with Kenny. They’d forged a trail through the woods, where the property line abutted Penderworth. Though Kenny’s estate was a hundred times larger at least, she’d always lorded it over him that Penderworth cut off Breckham’s access to the river.
The interior of Breckham was no less impressive, with its towering ceilings, wall designs and ornate chandeliers. In a nod to its historic significance, most furnishings on the ground floor were eighteenth century antiques. House servants managed somehow to be both ubiquitous and invisible.
Sitting in a manly study adorned with gauche hunting trophies, she readied herself for the terms of Poppa’s estate, executed by Kenny’s father, the Seventh Earl of Alanford. Though twenty years younger than Poppa, Lord Alanford had been one of his closest friends, and his solicitor as well.
He set aside a leather binder she presumed to contain the will and pressed his hands together as if in prayer. “I believe Lord Hughes would be quite pleased with the honors bestowed since his passing. His was such a lovely memorial at Trinity…but then I’ve always been partial to Keats. ‘Now more than ever seems it rich to die.’”
“‘To cease upon the midnight with no pain,’” she replied. It was “Ode to a Nightingale,” the poem she’d read during the funeral at the historic campus chapel. “Poppa had a wonderful poetry collection. His guilty pleasure, he called it. Perhaps you’d enjoy a memento.”
“That would be splendid. Forgive my atrocious manners, Miss Hughes. May I offer you tea?”
“Thank you, no. Mrs. Browning is preparing lunch at Penderworth.”
“Yes, of course, my dear. It was very kind of you to accommodate my s
chedule this morning. It’s refreshing to work at home rather than in my London office.”
“You’re the kind one, Lord Alanford. That someone of your stature takes time for such a small matter is greatly appreciated.”
“On the contrary, our families go back four generations. I was honored when Hughes asked me to sort his estate.”
Pleasantries aside, Channing found it disconcerting that Lord Alanford knew more about the Hughes family accounts than she did. Poppa had always kept his finances close to the vest, maintaining that one’s worth ought not be measured by accumulated wealth but by contributions to humankind. His core theory—the one for which he was most revered by conservative economists—argued that financial contentment was a disincentive to productivity, whereas a labor force that constantly strived to keep up was a perpetual engine of economic growth. He rarely splurged for personal enjoyment, other than for his comfortable life at Penderworth. That the Iron Lady herself had sought his counsel on global economics was far more meaningful to him than the luxuries other peers purchased with their wealth.
Lord Alanford cleared his throat as he opened the binder. “Very well then…let me first dispense with concerns you might have regarding Penderworth. You are to inherit the manor, which is at this moment free and clear of debt. As you know, it’s a rare historic property, thus its value well exceeds the allowed amount under estate laws. I’m afraid you’ll be facing a considerable tax bill.”
“I assumed that would be the case.” At Britain’s rate of forty percent, it could be several hundred thousand pounds.
“To my beloved granddaughter, Miss Channing Trilby Hughes, I give, devise and bequeath the whole of my estate both real and personal of whatsoever kind and nature and wheresoever situate unto…”
A Proper Cuppa Tea Page 6