“It wasn’t easy for Kit,” I murmured pensively. “Seeing Nell, I mean.”
He was troubled to discover that her time abroad has not lessened her affection for him.
My eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”
I know Nell. She’s not one to give her heart lightly, and you’ve told me that Kit believes himself incapable of reciprocating her affection. It’s a most unfortunate situation. I feel for them both.
“Me, too.” I suddenly remembered a tidbit that had slipped my mind in my preoccupation with Kit. “When Kit told Nell about the hurdles, Dimity, she muttered something about Simon’s demon. She became agitated and told him to speak with Lord Elstyn—”
Royal-blue ink spattered the page as Dimity’s words raced across it. He didn’t agree to do so, did he?
“Of course not,” I said. “He told her I’d speak with the earl. But what did she mean by ‘Simon’s demon’? Do you think she knows about the poison pen?”
It would amaze me if she did not. Nell is highly intelligent as well as observant, and she’s intimately familiar with everyone involved. Such emotionally charged events could scarcely take place beneath her nose without her catching the scent. The handwriting paused briefly, then resumed. You remember the strand of golden hair you found in the vandalized books?
“How could I forget it?” I said, recalling the foolish suspicions I’d harbored about Nell.
Perhaps Nell discovered the damage done to those books before you did. She might have taken it into her head to piece together the missing letters and deduce the messages that might be created with them. Or, if you prefer a simpler solution, Edwin may have taken his granddaughter into his confidence. You did mention that Edwin was aware of his nephew’s persecution.
I nodded slowly. “Simon gave three of the nasty notes to him.”
I wonder if Simon offended Chambers in some way—if he inadvertently caused Chambers to lose his position as Edwin’s valet?
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Chambers wasn’t the only servant to lose his job. Simon told me that the earl fired most of the staff the year after his wife died because of financial troubles.”
Simon’s mistaken. The troubles weren’t financial, Lori. They were emotional.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The first time I met Edwin was when I came to Hailesham to thank him for an extremely generous donation he’d made to a Westwood Trust hospice for terminal cancer patients. He’d made the donation in his wife’s name.
I sat forward in my chair. “Did Derek’s mother die of cancer?”
Sadly, yes. Edwin did everything in his power to save her. Lady Hailesham spent a year in London, undergoing every sort of treatment, but it was to no avail.
“I had no idea,” I said. “Derek didn’t mention a thing to me about cancer.”
I’m not surprised. Lady Hailesham’s illness was a terrible blow to the family. Edwin may not have married for love, but love grew nonetheless. Edwin adored his wife. After her death, he could never bring himself to look at another woman, let alone remarry. His social life came to a standstill for a number of years, while he buried himself in building his empire. Without his wife at his side, he couldn’t bear to host parties or welcome guests to Hailesham Park. That’s why he reduced the staff.
I scanned Dimity’s words with a growing sense of incredulity. “Derek told me that his mother went to live in London because she hated his father.”
I beg your pardon?
“Derek believes that his mother left Hailesham to get away from his father,” I said. “He’s always believed it, ever since he was a little boy. That’s why he hates his father. That’s why he changed his name and rejected his family and . . . and everything.” I gripped the journal tightly. “Are you telling me that Derek altered the direction of his entire life simply because no one told him the truth about his mother’s death?”
A breeze ruffled the flames in the fireplace, as if Dimity had breathed a mournful sigh.
Derek was so young when Lady Hailesham became ill—scarcely six years old. Edwin didn’t want him to remember his mother as she was after the radiation, the chemotherapy, the surgery, and the disease itself had taken their toll. Afterward, he found it difficult to speak of her to anyone.
“He spoke to you,” I commented.
I believe I was the first person in whom he confided. I’d worked in the hospice, you see. Few deaths are kind, but cancer can be very cruel, indeed. I’d sat with many families while they watched someone they loved diminished, then destroyed by the disease. I had some understanding of Edwin’s pain, but I urged him nonetheless to tell his son the truth. He said he would, when Derek was a bit older.
“He must have waited too long,” I said. “By the time he got around to talking to his son, his son was no longer willing to listen.” I looked toward the rain-dashed windows. “What a mess.”
When you speak with Edwin about the poison pen, you must also tell him about Derek.
“Me?” I gulped as I read Dimity’s injunction. “I’m not sure the earl will appreciate an outsider like me reopening old wounds.”
The wound is infected, Lori. It must be reopened if it is to heal. You will speak with him?
“I’ll try.” I glanced at the door. “But I’ll speak with Bill first. He should be back any minute now.”
I’ll leave you to it, then. I must say that your stay at Hailesham Park is proving to be as complicated as your sojourn in Northumberland. I don’t think you’re cut out for peaceful holidays, my dear.
I smiled wryly as the curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page. When I called to mind the strange and sometimes frightening things that had happened to me the last time I’d left home, I was forced to agree with Dimity: I wasn’t a fun-in-the-sun type of gal.
I returned the blue journal to the bedside table, reached for Reginald, and stretched out on the bed. I listened to the rain as it whooshed in sheets against the windowpanes and tried to think of a painless way to rip open an old, infected wound.
The next thing I knew, Bill was kissing me awake. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been back, but he’d already changed into his pajamas.
“Time to put on your jammies,” he said.
“Don’t need jammies.” I set Reginald aside, gave Bill my steamiest smile, and began unbuttoning my silk blouse.
When we eventually got around to talking, I told Bill exactly why my stay at Hailesham Park had been anything but boring. I expected him to be upset with me for not confiding in him sooner, but he wasn’t. He respected me for keeping my promise to Simon, and he understood Simon’s fear of scandal. He also acknowledged that he hadn’t given me many opportunities to speak privately with him since we’d arrived at Hailesham.
“I’ll pave the way for you to meet with Lord Elstyn,” he promised. “But no matter what he says, Simon will have to notify the police.”
“You don’t have to convince me.” I snuggled closer to him. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Bill.”
My husband emitted an aggrieved groan. “It’s not about you and Simon, is it? I realize that he’s a charmer, Lori, but—”
“It’s not about Simon,” I interrupted with mild indignation—very mild indignation, since both Bill and I were acutely aware of my less-than-stellar track record with charmers. “It’s about you and Gina. For a while there I was under the impression that maybe the two of you might’ve . . . well, you know . . . had something going.”
Bill sat bolt upright in bed. “Me and Gina? Are you insane ?”
“You muttered her name one night in your sleep,” I attempted to explain, “so I thought—”
“If I muttered her name,” Bill declared, “it was because I was dreaming of strangling her. How could you possibly think that I would ever . . .” He sputtered into incoherence.
“She’s beautiful,” I ventured. “She’s smart. She’s a lawyer. You have a lot in common.”
Bill rolled his eyes and ra
ised his palms to the heavens, then swung around and pinned me to the bed. “I’m not saying I could never be attracted to another woman, love, but never, not in ten thousand years, could I ever be attracted to a woman like Gina.” His voice softened. “Why would I settle for smarts and beauty when I’ve got all of that and so much more with you?”
It was my turn for incoherence, but Bill had no trouble whatsoever understanding my reply.
Twenty-one
Bill and I were awakened the next morning by a tap at the bedroom door. While Bill searched for his pajamas, I pulled the covers up to my chin and gazed blearily toward the balcony. The wispy gray light filtering through the glass told me that dawn had barely broken.
Bill finally managed to locate his pajama bottoms in a tangled heap under the bed, pulled them on, and went to answer the door. The red-haired maid stood in the corridor beside a wheeled serving cart.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, courteously averting her gaze from my husband’s rather fetching torso, “but to expedite the morning’s business, Lord Elstyn has ordered breakfast to be served upstairs today. He requires your presence, sir, and that of Mrs. Willis, in the study in one hour.”
“My wife’s name is Ms. Shepherd,” Bill told her, “but I take your meaning. We’ll be there.”
The maid motioned toward the cart. “Shall I . . . ?”
“I’ll take it.” Bill pulled the cart into the room, thanked the maid, and closed the door. He folded his arms across his bare chest and studied the covered dishes in silence.
“I’m all for room service,” I grumbled, reaching for my robe, “but couldn’t it come at a more reasonable hour?”
“I detect Gina’s hand in this,” said Bill, nodding at the cart. “It would serve her purpose to have everyone off balance today.”
“It’s Elstyn business.” I yawned hugely. “What does she want with me?”
“I don’t know.” Bill pushed the cart between the two armchairs near the hearth and beckoned for me to join him. “But I intend to be well fed and wide-awake when I find out.”
As we descended the main staircase, Bill’s expression became as severe as his black three-piece suit, as if he were girding himself to do battle. While he’d dressed for business, I’d dressed for warmth, pairing a cream-colored cashmere sweater with a tailored tweed blazer and skirt. I carried my shoulder bag as well. It held the saboteur’s wire, which I planned to show the earl when the morning’s meeting was over.
The study lay beyond the billiards room, in a part of the house I hadn’t yet explored. Its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the north end of the courtyard, where the workshops stood and where a young and rascally Peter had once hurled a snowball at Oliver—and missed.
The study was a room of modest proportions and masculine decor. It reminded me of an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club, with its oak-paneled walls, shiny oxblood leather chairs, hunting prints, longcase clock, and gold velvet drapes. A fire danced in the oak-manteled hearth at the far end of the room, and the faint scent of cigar smoke seemed to linger in the air.
The chairs had been arranged in a half circle facing a massive mahogany desk that stood before the windows. When Bill and I arrived, all but four of the chairs were occupied. Peter sat at the center of the half circle, with Derek and Emma to his right and Claudia and Oliver to his left. Gina, however, stood behind the desk, examining a file folder, and Simon stood before the hearth, with his back to her.
Only Nell and Lord Elstyn were missing. I suspected the earl of orchestrating a dramatic entrance for himself but seriously doubted that Nell would leave her bed to attend the meeting.
Every face turned toward us when we entered the room, including that of the red-haired maid, who was moving from person to person, offering cups of tea. She didn’t have many takers. Simon accepted a cup, for politeness’ sake, evidently, because he immediately placed it on the mantelshelf, untasted. When the others declined refreshment, the maid curtsied and left the room.
Gina favored Bill with a brief, dismissive glance as he took a seat beside Derek, then returned her attention to the file folder. I paused at Emma’s side to ask after Nell.
“Nell is Nell,” Emma replied with a wry smile. “She wouldn’t let us sit with her through the night because her accident had taken so much out of us.”
“We looked in on her, of course,” Derek added, “and every time we did she was asleep, so we’re fairly confident that we made the right decision when we allowed her to leave the hospital.”
“There’s no question about it.” I reassured them both, then crossed to stand with Simon before the hearth.
“Tea?” he offered, nodding at the cup on the mantelshelf. “I’ve no stomach for it this morning.”
“No, thanks,” I said, and edged closer to him. “Have you spoken with Giddings about Chambers?”
“Haven’t had the chance,” he answered, sotto voce. “No one seems to know where Giddings is.” He peered at me curiously. “I’m rather surprised to see you here. Pleased, but surprised.”
“Not half as surprised as—” I fell silent as the study door flew open.
Lord Elstyn strode into the room. He seemed to have recovered his energy. Looking neither left nor right, he went directly to his desk and seated himself behind it. Gina, file folder in hand, promptly sat in the armchair next to Oliver’s—mirroring Bill’s position at Derek’s side—but Simon and I remained standing, though we turned to face the earl. No one made a sound.
Lord Elstyn rested his folded hands on the desk and tapped the tips of his thumbs together. He appeared to be pondering his opening remarks, which, to judge by his stern expression, would deal with weighty matters—such as the disinheritance of his only child.
“I apologize for rousing you at such an inhospitable hour,” he began, “but a situation has arisen that may affect all of us.”
Gina’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if the earl had inexplicably departed from an agreed-upon script. Bill, too, looked faintly puzzled, but the others simply waited for the earl to go on.
“In speaking with my granddaughter this morning,” he continued, “I learned certain facts of a most alarming nature.”
Lord Elstyn’s penetrating gaze fell on my shoulder bag, then shifted to my face. I quaked when he held his hand out to me, and heard vague mutterings from the others as I approached the desk, opened my bag, and handed the coiled wire to him. Though flustered, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t know what Nell had told him about the wire’s discovery, but I wasn’t going to give Kit away.
The earl, however, didn’t ask for an explanation. As I returned to my spot near the hearth, he placed the coiled wire before him on the desk and folded his hands again.
“The situation of which I speak may subject our family to a certain amount of public scrutiny,” he said. “I wish to make it clear that I, and I alone, will speak for the family. I expect the rest of you to refer all queries to me.”
Lord Elstyn cleared his throat and I sensed that he was about to come to the heart of the matter. I set my shoulder bag on the floor, surveyed the faces turned toward his, and saw nothing in them but rapt attention.
“Four months ago,” he said, “Simon received the first of a series of anonymous, threatening messages, three of which he subsequently brought to me. . . .”
As the earl described the notes and the nature of the threats, Gina’s increasingly angry frown told me that neither Simon nor Lord Elstyn had let her in on their secret.
“Due to a minor indisposition, I was unable to give the matter my full attention.” The earl skipped over his heart attack as lightly as I would have skipped over a head cold. “While I was recovering, certain possibilities presented themselves to me. After some thought, I decided to enlist the help of a professional to investigate those possibilities.”
He reached over to press a button on his desk. A moment later Jim Huang entered the study, carrying his laptop computer and the manuscript box. The young archivist had pulle
d a navy-blue V-neck sweater over his rumpled white shirt and combed his jet-black hair, but his almond eyes were as anxious as they’d been the first time I’d encountered him in the library.
He paused just inside the doorway, as if uncertain of his welcome, before moving swiftly to place the box and the computer on the desk. He opened both, fiddled with the laptop’s keyboard, then stood back, as if awaiting further instructions.
“Mr. James Huang”—Lord Elstyn raised a hand to indicate the new arrival—“is the son of an American business associate. He also works for Interpol.”
My jaw dropped. I simply couldn’t, by any contortion of the imagination, picture the slender, timid, bespectacled young book-lover packing an automatic and rounding up drug lords for the International Criminal Police Organization. Without thinking, I blurted, “You’re an Interpol agent?”
My open incredulity made Jim blush.
“I’m not a field agent,” he explained hastily. “I’m in document analysis.”
Lord Elstyn silenced me with an oppressive glance. “Mr. Huang is an expert in document analysis,” he emphasized. “He also has access to a wide range of useful information networks. With his help, I have been able to identify the person responsible for Simon’s anonymous messages.” He sat back in his chair. “Mr. Huang?”
Jim nervously pushed his oversized glasses up his nose, but his voice was surprisingly steady when he said, “There’s a ninety-nine percent probability that the anonymous threats were sent by one of Lord Elstyn’s former employees.”
No one said a word, but an ax would have bounced off the tension in the room. Simon gripped my shoulder and I found myself mouthing the name of the earl’s ex-valet: Chambers . . .
“My research indicates,” Jim went on, “that the threats came from Miss Charlotte Elizabeth Winfield, who was employed as—”
“Winnie?” Derek jumped to his feet. “Nonsense! Utter nonsense! How dare you suggest that my nanny could be responsible for—”
Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday Page 15