I couldn’t forget the tender look he’d given me when I’d urged him to be careful. He hadn’t been playacting. His suave mask had fallen away, revealing the face of a man so starved for affection that a simple gesture of concern caught at his heart. It seemed pathetic that a man with so much charm could be so lonely.
“Poor little rich boy,” I murmured. “Could it be that you have everything you desire except someone who cares about you?”
I rolled onto my side and looked at Reginald. His black button eyes gleamed softly in the dying firelight.
“Simon thinks that he and I are birds of a feather, Reg, but he’s wrong. Poor Simon’s stuck with Gina, while I’ve got my own sweet Bill.” I frowned distractedly at the faded grape-juice stain on my bunny’s snout. “At least I think I’ve got him. . . .”
Eight
Oliver Elstyn was alone in the dining room when I went down for breakfast. Bill had risen at an ungodly hour to spend the morning huddled with Gina, Derek, and Lord Elstyn in the earl’s study, but I’d slept until half-past seven before showering and getting dressed. I intended to carry on as if I’d never heard Bill whisper Gina’s name.
Dimity had directed me to a demure twinset and a tweed skirt in heathery shades of green and lavender. The conservative outfit made me feel like a country-house veteran, and I was relieved to see that Oliver’s clothes were equally informal: a herringbone tweed jacket over a beige shirt, and brown wool trousers.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, noting the empty chairs.
Oliver looked up from his food. “Emma, Nell, and Claudia have gone riding and Simon’s gone with them. He’s putting his new hunter through its paces.”
He nodded toward the twelve-paned windows and I saw a row of ivy-covered hurdles on the great lawn. As I scanned the grounds, four riders came into view, galloping along the edge of the ornamental lake. Three rode past the hurdles, but the fourth, a tall figure on a huge dappled gray, sailed easily over the first hurdle and took the rest without breaking stride.
I thought the lead rider must be Simon but couldn’t be sure. I recognized Emma as the shortest of the four, but at a distance the cousins were indistinguishable—long-legged, slender, and dressed in black velvet helmets, tall black boots, fawn breeches, and black riding coats.
“Better them than me,” I said, shaking my head. “Riding’s right up there with emergency dental work on my list of favorite activities.”
The quip won a tentative smile from Simon’s younger brother.
“You’re not fond of horses?” he inquired.
“I’m fond of them,” I said, “as long as I don’t have to climb up on them.”
“My uncle will be disappointed,” Oliver commented. “He believes riding to be an essential skill for every gentlewoman.”
I snorted derisively. “Scratch me off the gentlewoman list, then. I’ll get over it.”
Oliver gave me a searching look, then nodded once, as if in approval. “If you’d like fresh tea or coffee . . .”
“I’ll be fine with what’s here.” I turned to survey the silver serving dishes crowding the sideboard. “Your uncle must have a shipload of galley slaves down in the kitchen.”
Oliver shrugged diffidently. “The regular staff’s not as large as you might expect. Uncle Edwin takes on extra help when he has guests.”
He seemed almost apologetic, as if he were embarrassed by his uncle’s aristocratic lifestyle. I wondered if he shared Derek’s aversion to conspicuous consumption.
I loaded a plate with kippers, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, and kedgeree and took a seat across from Oliver. It was the perfect opportunity to ask if he’d received a poison-pen letter, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. It wasn’t a subject that came up often in everyday conversation.
“Enjoying the reunion?” I began.
“Not much.” Oliver shrugged. “I manage my uncle’s portfolio. I’m better with paperwork than with people.”
“Even when it’s family?” I said.
“Especially when it’s family,” he murmured.
I raised a forkful of kedgeree. “Did you all travel down together?”
Oliver looked as though I’d asked him to juggle the kippers.
“We never travel together,” he assured me. “I like to arrive early, Claudia always runs late, and Simon and Gina prefer absolute punctuality.”
“So you got here first,” I prompted, fixing the timetable in my head.
“Yes,” he replied. “Though Cousin Nell was here before me. I believe she arrived from Paris two nights ago. Uncle Edwin sent the car to fetch her from Heathrow.”
While Oliver addressed his fried eggs, I ruminated. If Oliver had his facts straight, the Honorable Nell Harris—Derek’s darling daughter and the apple of Lord Elstyn’s eye—had arrived at Hailesham Park two days ago, in plenty of time to create the poison-pen letter and deliver it to Simon’s room. She could have torched the turtledove as well.
I thought back to Nell descending the grand staircase as we crossed the entrance hall the night before. She’d been the last to come down to dinner. Had she been busy comforting her pyrophobic teddy bear, as she’d claimed? Or had she been scrubbing the stink of kerosene from her clothes?
I remembered, too, the strange look she’d given Simon when Lord Elstyn had declared the fire accidental. In retrospect, it seemed as if she’d been gauging Simon’s reaction, checking to see if he’d made the connection between the fire and the death threat.
Was the exquisite, intelligent Nell attempting to protect her father’s interests by driving Simon—the earl’s favorite—from the house? Or was Oliver attempting to cast suspicion on someone other than himself?
I gazed contemplatively at the man sitting across the table from me. His meek exterior might disguise a veritable snake pit of jealousy and resentment. He might envy Simon’s looks, his easy way with people—even his marriage.
“Are you married, Oliver?” I asked.
Oliver turned beet-red and ducked his head just as Giddings arrived with fresh toast. Giddings placed the toast rack at my elbow, examined the serving dishes on the sideboard, and departed.
“You know, Oliver,” I said after a moment of silence, “marriage isn’t for everyone.”
“It is in my family.” A note of wistfulness entered his voice. “I simply haven’t been lucky enough to find someone as . . . useful . . . as Gina.”
It was a revealing comment. Oliver, it seemed, was being subjected to the same kind of pressure Derek had experienced as a young man. Like Derek, he was expected to make a useful match—to place duty before love. Derek had been strong enough to resist the earl’s demands, but Oliver seemed more frail.
“I’m not sure usefulness is the first quality I’d look for in a mate,” I said gently.
“You would if you were an Elstyn.” Oliver paused. A tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he glanced at me. “On second thought, perhaps you wouldn’t. You’d marry for love and damn the consequences.”
I looked at him closely. “What sort of consequences?” “Estrangement from one’s family.” He lowered his eyes. “A questioning of rights that would otherwise be assumed.”
“Is that why everyone’s here?” I pressed. “Is Derek’s birthright in question?”
Oliver lifted his eyes to gaze at me somberly. “I should think so,” he said. “I should think it very likely. Uncle’s not getting any younger. He’s got to consider the future.”
“Would it be legal for someone other than Derek to inherit Hailesham?” I asked.
“Gina can find a way to make anything legal,” Oliver replied. “She’s extremely good at what she does, especially when she has a vested interest.” He hesitated. “I imagine you’ve run into similar difficulties in your family.”
I nearly sprayed the tablecloth with tea. After a valiant swallow, I hastened to clear up Oliver’s extraordinary misconception.
“My family consisted of my widowed mother and me,” I told him. �
��Our entire apartment could have fit into your uncle’s drawing room. I never had to fight for my inheritance because a) there was no one to fight with, and b) there was nothing to inherit. So, no, I’ve never experienced anything remotely like the difficulties you’re describing.”
“I do so admire your frankness.” Oliver sighed deeply. “The trouble with my family is that no one tells the truth. Claudia says she misses her husband, but she doesn’t. Derek and Uncle Edwin act as if they hate each other, but they don’t.”
“Don’t they?” I interjected.
“They wouldn’t be able to inflict such dreadful wounds on each other if they didn’t love each other.” Oliver glanced toward the windows. “Then there’s Simon. My perfect brother. Poor chap. He pretends to be happy, but he isn’t.”
I toyed with my fried tomatoes. “Why isn’t Simon happy?”
Oliver laid his knife and fork aside, saying, “I’m hoping you’ll find out.”
I looked up from my plate, startled.
“Something’s troubling Simon,” Oliver went on, his brow furrowing. “It’s been troubling him for some time. He won’t—he can’t—admit it to any of us, but I think he might tell you.”
I focused on the tomatoes. “What gives you that idea?”
“He likes you,” Oliver replied.
“If you ask me,” I said, “your brother likes anything in a skimpy dress.”
Oliver smiled but shook his head. “I watched the two of you in the rose garden last night. He was looking at you, Lori, not your dress. He trusts you.”
“He’s only known me for five minutes,” I protested.
“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” Oliver said. “Perhaps it’s because you’re not part of our world. You’re not an Elstyn, you’re not English, and you weren’t born to wealth.” He rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “My brother hasn’t met many women like you, Lori. You speak your mind. You don’t paint your face or color your hair. You don’t try to conceal the fact that you’re dazzled by Simon, or irritated by Claudia, or jealous of Gina.”
I felt myself go crimson. “Remind me never to play poker with you, Oliver. In fact, remind me never to play poker, period.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Oliver said earnestly. “You simply can’t help being honest. Perhaps that’s why my brother trusts you. I’m convinced that he’ll confide in you.”
It was comforting to know that although Oliver had discerned much from my treacherously transparent countenance, he hadn’t yet figured out that his big brother had already confided in me.
“Oliver,” I said slowly, “if you’re asking me to spy on Simon—”
“I’m not,” he interrupted. “I’m asking you to listen to him, to give him a chance to talk about what’s troubling him. I’m asking you to be his friend. He doesn’t have any, you see. He has allies and associates, yes, but not a single friend.”
“What about his wife?” I asked.
“Oh, no, not Gina.” Oliver lowered his eyes. “Gina’s a useful ally, not a friend.”
I stared down at my plate, but the food had lost its savor. I understood more clearly, now, why Simon was his uncle’s favorite. Simon loved Hailesham and horses, and he’d married a woman who was more than capable of managing a large and complex family fortune. Whether she loved him or not seemed—in Oliver’s mind, at least—to be an open question. Simon had willingly walked a path Derek had refused to tread. Did he think it would lead to his installation as Lord Elstyn’s heir?
I lifted my gaze. “You’re Simon’s friend, aren’t you, Oliver?”
“In my family,” he said softly, “brothers aren’t permitted to be friends.”
“Damn it, Derek!”
Oliver and I jumped, startled by the earl’s earsplitting shout.
“My golden girl, in love with an overgrown stable boy?” Lord Elstyn’s furious roar reverberated from the marble walls of the entrance hall. “I won’t hear of it!”
“She seems to be over it, Father.” Derek was in the entrance hall, too, and he was making no effort to keep his voice down. “But Emma wanted me to put you in the picture, in case it crops up again. I told her it would be a mistake.”
“One of many to be laid at your door,” the earl thundered. “I blame you for this unthinkable dalliance. If you hadn’t married beneath you, Nell would never have considered—”
“Nell would be lucky to have Kit!” Derek bellowed, matching his father decibel for decibel. “But the fact of the matter is that Kit will have nothing to do with her.”
“He won’t have her?” the earl sputtered. “I’ve never heard of such insolence. If this Kit Smith sets foot on my property, I’ll have him shot.”
“Kit wouldn’t come here for a king’s ransom,” Derek retorted. “He’s far too decent a chap.”
“Sack him!” shouted the earl.
“I have no intention of sacking him,” Derek declared stoutly. “Kit’s more than an employee. He’s a friend. Emma and I depend on him.”
“You care more for yourself than for your daughter,” the earl scoffed. “I might have known. Gina, Bill, come with me. I have nothing more to say to this . . . this in-grate. ”
Doors slammed and footsteps pounded up the marble staircase. Then all was silence.
Oliver looked shell-shocked. “What on earth . . . ?”
“Nell has a crush on a man who works for Derek,” I explained. “It’s nobody’s fault, and he’s not interested. I’m not sure it would be such a bad thing if he were.”
Oliver glanced fearfully toward the entrance hall. “My uncle would disagree.”
“Your uncle,” I said, “hasn’t met Kit.”
“I hope to God he never does,” Oliver said fervently. “Burning bushes are bad enough, but it would be much worse to dodge flying bullets.”
I thought of the poison-pen letter and hoped Oliver’s words wouldn’t prove to be prophetic.
Nine
Oliver went to his room to make phone calls and, I suspected, to reduce the chances of running into his irate uncle. I was on my last cup of tea when Giddings returned to the dining room bearing a brown-paper-wrapped parcel addressed to me. I recognized the handwriting on the label, gave the package an exploratory squeeze, and smiled.
“It’s from my children’s nanny,” I told Giddings. “She must have noticed that I forgot to pack my dress shoes and sent them along to me.”
“Would you like me to place the item in your room, madam?” Giddings inquired.
“Yes, please,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Would you also direct me to the library? I’m told it’s very beautiful.”
“The library is on the ground floor of the central block, madam, two doors up from the drawing room.” Giddings bowed. “I will escort you, if you wish.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“As you wish, madam.” Giddings took the parcel from me and left the room.
I waited for five minutes, checked to see if the coast was clear, and darted across the entrance hall, thanking Aunt Dimity once again for her sartorial assistance: The soft-soled flats she’d advised me to wear didn’t make a sound on the marble floor.
I opened the door to the library at precisely nine o’clock. It was a spacious, rectangular room with a coved ceiling. The west-facing windows were shrouded in dark green velvet drapes, to guard the leather bindings from the ravages of the afternoon sun. The walls were hung with leaf-green watered silk, and a pair of enormous Turkish carpets covered the parquet floor. The mahogany bookcases rested on finely carved bases and were enclosed by diamond-paned glass doors.
An assortment of reading chairs, library tables, display cabinets, and map cases had been tastefully arranged to form bays in which the studious could go about their business without disturbing others. I expected to find Simon lurking in the bay farthest from the door, but the person I found seated at the table there seemed to be as surprised to see me as I was to see h
im.
“Who are you?” he blurted.
He was a young man with Asian features, an uncombed thatch of jet-black hair, and oversized wire-rimmed glasses that were at least twenty years past their fashion sell-by date. His blue jeans were faded and his white shirt, though spotless, looked as if it hadn’t felt the touch of an iron in months. I was fairly certain he wasn’t an Elstyn.
“I’m Lori Shepherd, one of Lord Elstyn’s houseguests,” I replied. “Who are you?”
The young man pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. He was as tall as Simon but as thin as a rail, and he stood with his shoulders hunched forward, as if he were self-conscious about his height.
“I’m, um, Jim Huang.” His eyes darted nervously from me to the door, as if he were planning an escape route.
I glanced down at the table. A manuscript box and a small reading lamp sat at one end, a laptop computer at the other. Between them lay a magnifying glass and neatly stacked piles of loose papers that appeared to be letters. They looked nothing like the one Simon had received. These were written in a feminine hand on fussy stationery.
“Nice to meet you, Jim,” I said, hoping to put the young man at ease. “You sound as if you’re from the States.”
“I’m from Kalamazoo, Michigan,” he admitted.
“Chicago,” I said cheerfully, pointing to myself. “I’d say that makes us neighbors. What are you doing so far from home?”
“I’m an archivist.” Jim switched off the reading lamp and began methodically to gather the notes and return them to the manuscript box. “Lord Elstyn hired me to sort through some family papers.”
“Don’t let me chase you away,” I urged.
“It’s okay,” he said, closing the laptop. “I was about to take a break anyway.”
Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday Page 6