by Nora Roberts
“Can’t do it, old man. The photographer isn’t half done, and this is the perfect time of day to catch the shadows of old foundations or soil disturbances.”
Michael’s green eyes blazed. “Don’t be a fool, Peter. They’re not familiar with the weather on this coast. I am. The storms blow up out of nowhere, and the wind comes barreling through the straits like a sonic blast.”
Peter Jones, the producer of Dig It, the British Broadcasting Company’s unexpected hit show, threw his cigarette stub down and ground it beneath his boot.
“Look here, Bellamy. You don’t understand what producing a television series like this entails. It’s not just coordinating the profs from the university with the directors and my cameramen and the sound and lighting crews.”
There was always the worry that they might spend weeks digging up the place, only to find nothing more interesting than a crumbled wall dating back fifty years. The thought of it made his stomach clench.
The helicopter made another tight pass over the narrow river valley and the half-abandoned village of Frogsmere. Michael watched it swoop low, felt the reverberations of the engines in his bones, and tightened his windbreaker against the blast from the blades.
“Damn it, man, they’re likely to catch a downdraft that will send them right into the cliffs!”
“If you want the BBC to underwrite a dig season at King’s Meadow,” Jones said, “we have to get on with the job. They’re already talking of going back to the other site. I don’t think you want that to happen.”
Michael’s jaw hardened. “I don’t. Having the property surveyed and investigated by your team of specialists is certainly important. But it’s not worth losing human lives.”
Jones shrugged. “It’s their job. They know the risks.”
Evidently they did. When he signaled for them to go round once again, the chopper came down low and fast instead, shaking the ground with its thunder. So close that Michael could see the wide grin and rude gesture the pilot sent the producer.
The photographer was still shooting as the billed cap that Jones wore went whirling away, revealing the large bald spot in the center of his trademark long dark curls.
“Bastards.” Jones suspected they did it just to get his goat.
He stalked off to retrieve his cap, then got in the pickup and drove off toward the place where the helicopter would eventually set down.
Michael looked away toward King’s Meadow Hall. Slanting light glittered from the windows of his home and highlighted the more distant ruins of the fortified castle that had once guarded the coast.
He was dedicated to restoring King’s Meadow to its former grandeur, but it was the land that he loved with a passion. He’d roamed the downs and meadows, fished the streams, and looked for buried treasure as far back as he could remember. And now it was his.
The estate had been in his family since Girard Belleme` had come over from Normandy in the train of William the Conqueror. Over the centuries it had thrived—according to some, on fortunes made smuggling French brandy across the Channel. Others claimed it was because the Bellamy ancestors had chosen their brides wisely, marrying for wealth as well as status.
Michael’s father had been the exception.
At thirty-five, William Bellamy had fallen for a beautiful American actress, mistaking her childishness for innocence. He’d married her for love. The resulting divorce settlement had emptied the family coffers and left him an angry, bitter man.
Michael’s mouth went hard. He had no memory at all of his mother, and wanted none. She’d abandoned him shortly after his second birthday, and had died in a car crash in California when he was seven. Her legacy to him had been a lonely childhood, a father distracted by financial worries, and a fear of losing his home.
It had been a struggle to keep King’s Meadow in the family at all, much less in half-decent repair over the years, and Michael was determined to use every tool that came to hand in his battle against time and neglect. Agreeing to let the television show excavate on the estate was only the latest one.
The wind rose, buffeting him, and dark clouds swept in, killing the light. He turned back when he heard the off-kilter whack-whacka-whack of the helicopter and watched it tilt alarmingly. The pilot fought the throttle and brought it down safely in the east meadow in a cloud of dust and whirling leaves.
Damned fools. They cut it close!
Beyond the still-rotating blades, the chimneys of Frogsmere rose in silhouette against the angry sky. Agatha Culpepper had thrown his plans awry, leaving Frogsmere to someone in the States.
He frowned and wondered what the unknown heiress was like, and what she’d think of the old place. Not much, he hoped, once she discovered how out of the way it was and how very inconvenient an old house could be to someone used to the level of comfort with which most Yanks grew up.
While most Americans he knew had a reverence for the past, they were also too fond of central heating, shopping malls, and modern conveniences to put up with an antiquated place like Frogsmere for long. If he was lucky, she’d take one look at it and hotfoot it back to Detroit or Milwaukee or whichever Midwestern city was her home base.
Light flickered in the green depths of his eyes. Despite inheritance taxes and repair bills, he’d managed to guard and protect the assets of King’s Meadow and consolidate the estate’s holdings. Long ago, Frogsmere had been a part of it.
He had no doubt that if he was clever and played his cards right, Frogsmere could still be his.
3
London
KATE FINISHED OFF the last of a buttered scone and put down her linen napkin with a sigh of contentment. Through the wide windows she had a panoramic view of the Tower Bridge and the busy water traffic on the Thames.
Yesterday she’d been in Chicago’s O’Hare airport, drinking ersatz cappuccino from a disposable cup. Today she was in a four-star hotel in England, sipping Earl Grey from bone china.
She jumped when the phone rang, hoping it was Jenny with some information—any information—on Agatha Culpepper before she met with the attorneys.
It was the concierge. “Your car is here, Miss Singleton.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
Grabbing her purse from a side table, she hurried down to the small jewel of a lobby and out the glass doors. A black car with a uniformed driver was pulled up to the sidewalk carpet.
One more reason to be grateful to Miss Golunka, she thought happily.
The doorman conjured up a folded umbrella as neatly as a stage magician pulling paper flowers from his sleeve.
“Rain this afternoon, Miss.”
She looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “How can you tell?”
“This is England, and it’s April, Miss.” The doorman smiled as he opened the car door for her. “Also, I saw the weather forecast on the telly this morning.”
He shut the door and rapped on the roof to signal the driver that she was safe inside. The chauffeur saluted and shifted into gear. Kate’s heart raced as they set off through the morning snarl of cars, trucks, and red two-decker buses. Everywhere she looked there were historic buildings overshadowed by tall glass-and-steel skyscrapers. Ornate medieval structures and centuries-old churches stood cheek by jowl with office towers filled with the electronic bustle of modern businesses.
It’s like a time warp, she thought in wonder, and leaned back to enjoy the view.
Kate had imagined that Mr. Plunkett’s offices would be in Temple Bar and the Inns of the Court, where the characters in her favorite mystery novels all seemed to work. Instead the driver continued on into the Bloomsbury district and pulled up opposite a large square filled with flowers and trees, enclosed by a high wrought-iron fence.
“Here you are, Miss.” The driver held the door open as she got out.
Kate gazed at the impressive Georgian facade of number 66, all gray stone and white trim, with a glossy black door beneath a decorative arch. It looked more like the home of aristocrats than
law offices.
“Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Oh, yes, Miss. There’s the placard affixed to the wall, d’you see?” Sunlight winked off a discreet brass plaque: PLUNKETT, PLUNKETT, AND RITCHIE, BARRISTERS AND SOLICITORS.
Kate tipped the driver, took a deep breath, and approached the place. She was looking for the bell when the door was suddenly flung open by an elderly porter in a black suit.
The man bowed her into a dark-paneled hall floored in marble squares. A brass and crystal chandelier hung in the dimness above the staircase. It was like stepping into an old Agatha Christie novel. She half expected to see Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple both waiting to greet her.
Kate suddenly felt underdressed and hopelessly modern. A setting like this called for immaculate white gloves, a discreet strand of perfectly matched pearls, and a whimsical little cocktail hat with a polka-dot veil.
Not to mention a pistol in my purse with one bullet gone, she thought. Or an enormous ruby plucked from the eye of an ancient idol.
“Miss Singleton?” The voice shattered the mood as a figure materialized out of the shadows at the back of the hall. “You’re very prompt. I am Miss Golunka, Mr. Plunkett’s secretary.”
Kate blinked. From Miss Golunka’s telephone voice, Kate had pictured her as a thin, elderly woman with a pursed mouth and flat bosom. Despite the secretary’s Gibson girl hairdo and her retro ankle-length skirt and jacket, she looked to be the same age as Kate. She had an impressive chest beneath her crisp white blouse, and a waist that Scarlett O’Hara would envy. Thick rimless glasses magnified her green eyes rather alarmingly.
“Thank you for taking care of my travel arrangements,” Kate said.
“My pleasure, Miss Singleton. Please come this way.”
She led Kate through a reception room and down a hall past enormous waterscapes and pastoral scenes in heavy gilt frames. The only portrait was of a beautiful young debutante dressed in Edwardian fashion. Kate caught just a glimpse of it as she passed.
Miss Golunka opened the door at the far end and ushered her into an office filled with leather furniture and lined with bookshelves. The blinds were half-open, bathing the room and its occupant in watery spring light. They might have been in any year of the past two hundred. No computer, no multiline telephone cluttered the pristine surface of the mahogany desk. Kate wondered if the quill pens in the gilded inkstand were there for more than decoration.
The portly man behind the desk leapt up from his leather wing chair. “Welcome to London, Miss Singleton!”
He made a courtly bow over her hand. “Alfred Plunkett at your service.”
His elegant manners and air of complete delight at meeting her made Kate feel like a princess. In the dimness and the excitement of finally being there, it took her a moment to realize that he, too, was dressed in a style of years past. Beneath the dark green frock coat, a vest of tobacco-colored brocade stretched over a rotund belly festooned with a gold watch chain that gleamed in the filtered light.
He led her to a chair beside his desk. “And how was your flight?”
“Extremely comfortable, thank you.”
“And the hotel is to your liking?”
“Very much so.”
“Excellent, excellent. Haven’t stayed there myself, although I hear it’s quite the thing these days.” He puffed out his cheeks. “We Plunketts always put up at Claridges.”
He took his seat and regarded Kate appraisingly. A slight frown formed between his brows. She felt exactly the same way she’d felt in seventh grade, when Sister Mary Columba called her to the office for some infraction of the rules.
Mr. Plunkett let his breath out in a long sigh. Kate had the sinking feeling that he was going to say that he was sorry but there had been a terrible mistake. She was sure of it. “Have any relatives of Miss Culpepper come forward to contest her will?”
“Alas, she was the last of her noble branch. There were only the two children born of her parents’ marriage. Honoria was the elder. A great beauty. She received offers of marriage from princes and kings.”
“What happened to Honoria?”
Mr. Plunkett shook his head. “She vanished one fine summer morning, along with one of the footmen. It created a dreadful scandal. Agatha told her distraught parents that Honoria was safe with the man she loved, and that they should be happy for her.”
“I hope they were.” Kate slipped a packet of documents from her purse. “I’ve brought everything you requested: my birth certificate and my parents’ birth certificates with official seals, and a notarized copy of their marriage license.”
Mr. Plunkett examined the papers gravely while she held her breath.
“All in order.” The solicitor smiled. “Well, then. You’ve a long day ahead. I’m sure you’d like to get down to the business at hand.”
He opened the desk drawer and took out an ancient-looking key ring and a manila envelope. “The keys to Frogsmere. This large ornate one opens the front door.”
Kate reached out her hand. The moment her fingers touched the heavy brass key she felt a jolt of current race up her arm. For a split second the world tilted, then it righted itself. She took a deep breath and convinced herself it was only a combination of jet lag, excitement, and static electricity.
Mr. Plunkett didn’t appear to notice anything unusual. “Inside the envelope,” he continued, “are the keys and papers to the automobile we’ve hired for your use during your stay. You’ll find a map with the route clearly marked and suggestions of places you might care to stop along the way.”
He favored her with a wide smile. “It’s not much above an hour’s drive to Frogsmere, unless it rains—one never knows this time of year, does one?—or unless you run into heavy traffic leaving London.”
He rose, indicating that the interview was over. “I believe that is everything for now, Miss Singleton. Please feel free to call me if you have any problems or questions.”
Kate was startled. “But…shouldn’t there be a reading of the will or something?”
“Been watching the legal shows on the American telly, have you?”
He smiled, and his tawny eyes gleamed with good humor. “Miss Culpepper’s will went through probate last February. It’s really more of a formality now. I’ll come down to Frogsmere Monday afternoon, and we can go through everything, if that’s agreeable to you?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” She took the envelope from him. “Will I be staying at the house or at a nearby hotel?”
Plunkett chuckled. “I don’t think you’d care for the amenities of the Jester’s Arms—the taproom tends to get rather loud of an evening. I arranged for Mrs. Bean, Mrs. Culpepper’s former housekeeper, to get the place ready for your arrival. She’s agreed to come in daily. The linens will be aired and the fridge well stocked. Should you require anything more, there’s a butcher shop and a greengrocer in the village. Miss Golunka has set up an account with them to cover your expenses.”
Kate was impressed. “You seem to have thought of everything.”
“We want your stay at Frogsmere to be quite comfortable. Oh, and should you run into problems with anything mechanical, there’s Eames, who lives in the old gatehouse. He used to be coachman, and later chauffeur, to Miss Culpepper. He’ll come round to look after the gardens and do odd jobs. He’s quite elderly but still active. A positive wizard with anything that has gears or a motor.”
She pumped the attorney for more information. “I’m still baffled as to why Mrs. Culpepper chose me as her heir.”
Mr. Plunkett smiled. “I am quite certain that she had her reasons. She was inordinately fond of Frogsmere, you know, so she must have reposed a good deal of confidence in your ability to manage the place.”
Kate hoped she’d live up to it. “Frogsmere. That’s a very interesting name. Do you know anything about its origin?”
“I’ve never given it any thought. Perhaps you’ll discover something in Mrs. Culpepper’s journals to satisfy you
r curiosity,” he said.
Kate had forgotten that she’d inherited her benefactor’s private papers along with the other contents of the house. “Are there many of them?”
“I should say so!” The attorney’s eyes sparkled. “Miss Culpepper filled a volume every year or so. And then, of course, there are her mother’s journals, and her grandmother’s…and her great-grandmother’s,” Plunkett added, guiding her inexorably toward the foyer.
Excitement sent shivers up Kate’s spine. The same golden shivers she’d felt whenever she found a book that she wanted to acquire for Hartland Press. If these journals were any good at all, she might be able to edit them and sell them to a small publishing house.
“How far back do these journals go, Mr. Plunkett?”
“I’m not exactly sure…early 1700s, I believe. Miss Culpepper’s ancestors believed in equal education for females, you know, and the maternal line was very strong on record keeping. And there are the household inventories going back a good way.”
Kate was so excited about the journals and lists that somehow she found herself at the open front door without realizing how she’d gotten there. Mr. Plunkett held out his hand.
“A safe journey to Frogsmere, Miss Singleton. Godspeed.”
There wasn’t much more she would get out of him, Kate realized. “Thank you. Until Monday, then.”
“Yes. I shall look forward to hearing your impression of Frogsmere.”
His voice resonated with quiet reverence, but there was a glimmer of something else in his face. Kate couldn’t quite place it.
“Is it very beautiful?” she asked.
This time she caught a distinct twinkle in his eye. “My dear Miss Singleton, I believe you’ll be both surprised and delighted with the old place: Frogsmere is not only beautiful…it is utterly enchanting.”
Alfred Plunkett IV stood at the window and watched from behind the net curtain until the hired car drove off with Kate inside. When the vehicle vanished around the corner, he strolled back down the corridor.