Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday (12 page)

“I believe he’s conferring with Uncle Edwin,” said Oliver.

“Simon’s in with Gina and Bill?” Claudia tittered. “What an awkward place for him to be.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded, more heatedly than was strictly necessary.

Claudia scarcely looked up from her sole à la meunière. “I mean that poor Simon is no match for Gina and Bill when it comes to brain power. They’re such clever clogs and they take things so seriously. They’re more suited to each other than—”

“The weather’s remarkably fine for this time of year,” Oliver put in hastily. He was staring at my knife, which had somehow pointed itself in the direction of Claudia’s throat.

I relaxed my grip, but it wasn’t until I’d worked my way through a small pool of cucumbers in parsley sauce that I could bring myself to inquire politely, “What does your husband do for a living, Claudia?”

“He’s a member of Parliament, one of the party’s rising young stars,” she replied. “Quite a catch for a girl who couldn’t pass her O levels. Uncle Edwin was terribly proud of me. One can never have too many MPs in the family.”

I caught Oliver’s eye and a look of understanding passed between us. Claudia might be an insensitive, indiscreet moron, but, like Simon, she’d proven her usefulness to the family. Between the two of them, they’d brought a top-notch attorney and a rising young member of Parliament into the fold. If the Elstyns had been a corporation, they would have gotten bonuses.

Lemon tarts appeared, we made them vanish, and the meal was over. As I rose to leave, Claudia asked how I planned to spend the afternoon.

“I’m going to check in with my sons’ nanny,” I told her, “then catch up on some reading.”

“How thrilling,” she said. “I’m off to visit an old school friend in Westbury. A pity you can’t join us. Tea’s at four-thirty in the drawing room, if you can bear to tear yourself away from your book.”

“Books,”
I muttered, and headed back upstairs.

Twelve

I stopped in my bedroom and called Annelise on my cell phone, to thank her for sending my shoes and to make sure that peace reigned on the home front. Will and Rob got into the act with a breathless account of a goat that had strayed into our back meadow, and though Annelise assured me that the animal’s owner had retrieved it, I had a sneaking suspicion that goats would reappear when it came time for the boys to compose their Christmas wish lists.

I returned the cell phone to my shoulder bag and changed into a pair of soft wool trousers with roomy pockets so I wouldn’t have to carry Simon’s poison-pen note in my skirt’s waistband anymore. I was retying my shoes when I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

I went to my door and listened. The footsteps paused outside my room, then moved on to Simon’s. A moment later I heard his door open and close.

Was someone playing post office again?

I slipped into the hallway, tiptoed to Simon’s room, and pressed my ear to his door. At first I heard nothing, then, faintly, came a distinct moan, as if someone was in pain. I recognized the voice.

“Simon?” I called. “Are you all right?”

A moment later the door opened and Simon appeared. His face was pale and drawn, and his black sweater was no longer tucked neatly into his gray trousers.

“It’s kind of you to look in on me, Lori,” he said, “but there’s no need.”

“Uh-huh,” I said doubtfully, eyeing the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

He put a hand on the door frame, as if to steady himself. “I’m indulging in a bit of a lie-down, that’s all. It’s been a rather taxing morning.”

As he turned to go, I grasped the hem of his sweater, lifted it, and gasped. An ugly, misshapen bruise splashed his fair skin, as if he’d been struck in the side with a sledgehammer.

“Dear Lord,” I said, aghast. “What have you done to yourself ?”

“I landed badly when Deacon tossed me,” he confessed. “It’ll be all right. I just need to rest.”

He pulled his sweater down, took a step into his room, and swayed, as if his legs were about to give way. I came in behind him, closed the door, and helped him to sit on a divan at the foot of his bed.

“You’ve been in that stupid meeting for nearly four hours,” I fumed. “Didn’t Gina notice that you weren’t your usual bubbly self? Didn’t your uncle? As for Bill, I’ll give him such a clout—”

“Bill sensed that something was wrong,” Simon broke in. “He tried to cut the meeting short, for my sake, but Gina insisted that we carry on, and I didn’t object. I didn’t want anyone to suspect that I was injured because . . . It’s happened again, Lori.” He motioned toward his dressing table.

I crossed to the table and saw a half-sheet of white paper that resembled the death threat in every way except for the message:

“I found it on my pillow when I came up to change out of my riding clothes,” Simon explained.

“It must have been pasted together pretty quickly,” I said. “Or prepared ahead of time.” I pocketed the note and turned to Simon. “Do you think someone tampered with Deacon before you took him out?”

“Horses aren’t like cars, Lori. You can’t drain their brake fluid.” He took a shallow breath and winced. “My persecutor is mocking me. He’s every right to. I’m an excellent rider. The fall was embarrassing.”

“The fall was painful.” I returned to the divan. “It could have been fatal.”

“No one dies of bruised ribs,” Simon muttered.

“Your ribs may be broken,” I insisted. “You could have a punctured lung or . . . or a concussion. If you go to sleep now, you could slip into a coma.”

Simon wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I did see stars as I hit the ground.”

“That’s it. I’ve heard enough.” I took him by the arm. “Come on, we’re going to the hospital.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he protested.

I bent down to look him straight in the eye. “You have two choices, old bean. Either I take you to the hospital or you go there in an ambulance. What’s it to be?”

He held my gaze briefly, then bowed his head and murmured, “I don’t want the others to know.”

“Gina’s bound to find out when she comes to bed,” I said.

Simon sighed impatiently. “Do you see any sign of Gina in this room?”

I looked around and noticed for the first time that there was no connecting door leading to the next room.

“My wife and I haven’t shared a bed in years,” he said wearily. “Not since our son was born. She’d rather I find my amusement . . . elsewhere.”

It was hardly the time to analyze Simon’s marriage, but my next question popped out before I could stop it. “Why did you marry her?”

“Someone had to make a good match,” Simon snapped. “Derek hadn’t, so it was left to me.” He grimaced and held a hand to his side but went on with forced nonchalance. “Though if Derek had been available at the time, I’ve no doubt Gina would have set her sights on him. She’s always regretted marrying the wrong Elstyn.”

I didn’t know what to say, but further discussion was out of the question anyway. Simon’s face had gone from pale to ashen.

“Okay,” I said briskly, “here’s the plan. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them we’ve gone sight-seeing. Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“Salisbury,” he replied.

“I’ve been to the cathedral,” I told him. “I’ve climbed the cedar of Lebanon in the cloisters. I’ll have no trouble convincing people that we went there to see the sights.”

Simon managed a weak chuckle. “I’d give a lot to see you climb the cedar of Lebanon.”

“Maybe you will, one day,” I said. “But today it’s X rays and an MRI for you.”

I used the phone on the bedside table to call Giddings, arranged to have the Mercedes brought around to the front entrance, and asked him to tell the earl not to expect us for dinner. Even if we got back in time for the evening meal, I doubted that Simon would feel up to sitting through it.

I helped Simon don a brown suede jacket, stopped in my room to grab my coat and shoulder bag, and kept a close watch on him as we descended the staircase.

“Why did the meeting go on for so long?” I asked.

“Gina gave me an excruciatingly detailed report on Hailesham’s debts and assets,” he replied, “compared to which an MRI seems like jolly good fun.”

 

The closest I came to seeing Salisbury’s sights was a distant view of the cathedral’s floodlit spire. The rest of my visit was spent in the hospital, where, after nearly five hours, the doctor on call managed to allay my worst fears: Three of Simon’s ribs were badly bruised, but none were broken, and there was no sign of concussion. Dr. Bhupathi prescribed pain pills, recommended bed rest, and absolutely forbade further excursions on Deacon for at least a week.

I picked up some barley soup and cold chicken sandwiches at a café on our way out of Salisbury, so it was nearly nine o’clock by the time we reached Hailesham. Since lights were blazing in the dining room, Simon directed me to a discreet rear entrance and a secondary staircase, where we’d be unlikely to meet anyone.

Our stealthy return was witnessed only by Jim Huang, who was on his way to his room in the servants’ quarters, still clinging to his manuscript box and laptop computer. Fortunately, the dark-haired archivist was more concerned with scolding me for leaving
Mansfield Park
on a table in the library than with taking note of Simon’s appearance.

Simon was running on empty. He’d refused to take a pain pill on the way back, on the grounds that it might knock him out so thoroughly that I’d have to call for help to haul him from the car. By the time we reached his room, therefore, he was shuffling along as feebly as old Mr. Harris.

I helped him to remove his shoes, his socks, and his sweater, but left the rest of the undressing to him while I politely turned my back and dug the container of soup and a plastic spoon out of the café’s takeaway bag. I waited until he’d crawled under the covers to bring the soup to him.

“I’ve never been less hungry in my life,” he stated flatly.

“Eat anyway,” I ordered. “You’re not supposed to take your medication on an empty stomach.”

I coaxed and wheedled and did everything but play the airplane-spoon game with him, and he eventually downed enough soup to satisfy me. I fetched a glass of water from the bathroom, tipped two tablets into my palm, and insisted that he swallow both.

“You remind me of my nanny,” he grumbled irritably.

“You remind me of my three-year-olds,” I retorted, and gently rearranged his pillows.

“Just my luck,” he muttered. “I finally succeed in luring you to my bedroom only to have you turn it into a nursery.”

“That’s where I’m going next,” I said, and settled on the edge of his bed.

He regarded me gravely. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I have to check out the children’s books,” I reminded him. “Maybe I’ll find something that’ll lead me to—”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he repeated, though his speech was becoming slurred and his eyelids were drooping. “Our prankster’s a malicious beast. I don’t like the thought of you being up there alone at night, and I’m bloody useless at the moment.”

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” I soothed.

“Stay with me,” he murmured drowsily.

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.” I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Now close your eyes.”

The pain pills saved me the trouble of singing a lullaby. Minutes later, Simon was so deeply asleep that he didn’t stir when I bent to kiss his brow.

“Thank you,” I said, knowing he couldn’t hear. “You didn’t have to tell me that Bill tried to cut the meeting short. You could have kept it to yourself.”

It wasn’t difficult to imagine Bill persisting in his protests until he sensed Simon’s reluctance to acknowledge weakness. Only then, out of respect for Simon’s unspoken wishes, would Bill have let the matter drop.

Simon had, perhaps unwittingly, given me a great gift. He’d reminded me that, while Bill and Gina might have a few superficial things in common, their souls were as different as night and day. Bill could never be attracted to a woman who prattled on about money while her husband sat suffering before her.

Bill had never placed profit above compassion. He’d find it frustrating to work with someone who did. The emotion I’d heard in his voice when he’d whispered Gina’s name had more likely been exasperation than longing. I still wasn’t sure what had happened between them over the past three months, but I was certain that such a woman could never touch Bill’s heart.

“I wish your life were different, Simon,” I whispered.

“You deserve better than Gina. And when I find out who’s tormenting you, I’m going to hang him—or her—out to dry.”

Thirteen

I put in an appearance in the drawing room, to make my apologies to Lord Elstyn for missing dinner, but he wasn’t there. He hadn’t made it to the dining room, either. The earl and his trusty counselors had taken their meal on trays in the study. They were still there.