Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday (6 page)

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, Gina, but the secret’s out.” I gestured toward Claudia, Emma, and Nell, who were clustered in conversation around the hearth. “The Elstyns are here, one big happy family, except that they’re not, are they? Why haven’t the aunts and uncles joined in the fun? Why has the earl focused on the younger generation? What’s going on?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer your questions, Lori,” Gina replied. “I work for my uncle, you see, and I play by his rules.”

“Gina!” Claudia’s voice could have been heard in the next county. “We’re completely outnumbered. Nell and Emma agree with Lori about makeup.”

“Oh, Lord,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.

Gina turned toward the others, but before she could reply, the door opened and Simon came into the room. He went directly to his wife and told her that she was wanted in the dining room. She gave me a cool nod and departed, but Simon stayed behind.

“If Claudia says one more word about makeup,” I growled through gritted teeth, “I’m going to stab her to death with an eyebrow pencil.”

“Fresh air?” Simon suggested.

“Please,” I replied gratefully, and we exited through the French doors.

In my haste to escape Claudia’s clutches I’d forgotten that it was October and that my black dress wasn’t suited to the great outdoors. I began to shiver the moment the cool night air touched my skin.

Simon noticed, removed his dress jacket, and draped it around my shoulders. He would have left his arm there, too, if I hadn’t walked away. He caught up with me in two strides, offered his elbow instead, and guided me toward a short flight of stone steps that descended into the uppermost of the three terraced gardens.

The fire brigade had long since gone. The night was still and silent save for the muted murmur of voices coming from the drawing room. A nearly full moon cast a soft glow over the shadowy landscape as we strolled along a grassy path bordered by formal flowerbeds that had been tucked up for the winter.

“Is the path smooth enough for Emma’s shoes?” Simon inquired.

“It’s like a billiards table,” I told him. “I could dance a minuet on it in Emma’s shoes—if I knew how to dance a minuet.”

“I’ll teach you,” he offered.

I stopped short. “Do you really know how to dance a minuet?”

“I do,” he said. “I was taught it by a dancing master, here, in the ballroom, when I was eleven years old.”

I looked him up and down. “You’re remarkably well preserved for someone who was born in the eighteenth century.”

Simon laughed. “I freely admit to being out of step with my time. I’ve always preferred the country to the city, the handmade to the mass-produced, the minuet to the . . .” He frowned. “Do dances have names nowadays?”

“If they do, I don’t know what they are,” I replied.

“We’re in the rose garden,” Simon informed me as we walked on. “In June the air is intoxicating, but I’m afraid it’s rather less so in October.”

“Still,” I said, “it’s a beautiful place.”

“It’s more beautiful in June.” Simon stopped beneath an elaborate wrought-iron arch, and an intricate pattern of shadows fell on his upturned face. “When the climbing roses are in bloom, it’s the most beautiful place on earth.”

“Emma might agree with you,” I allowed, “but I’m not sure about Derek. I don’t think he cares much for Hailesham Park.”

“He never did,” said Simon. “Even as a child, he preferred the carpenter’s shed to the house.” He ran a fingertip along a wrought-iron curlicue. “You know my cousin fairly well, Lori. Has he ever told you why he so thoroughly dislikes his home?”

“He and his father don’t seem to get along,” I said diplomatically.

“Even if I thought my uncle the worst tyrant in the world, I could never hate Hailesham,” said Simon. “There must be some other explanation.”

I thought of the cheerful disorder that reigned in Derek’s manor house and compared it to Hailesham’s uncluttered perfection. I pictured Derek’s muddy work boots, glanced at Simon’s gleaming black shoes, and swept a hand through the air to indicate the manicured flowerbeds surrounding us.

“Maybe he considers it a bit . . . elitist,” I ventured.

“Elitist?” Simon’s mouth tightened, and though he spoke quietly, his voice was taut with anger. “Are beauty, craftsmanship, and continuity elitist? Hailesham wasn’t run off on an assembly line. It was made by hand. It was created by masons, joiners, painters, plasterers—men who strove for a kind of self-expression rendered obsolete by soulless modern architecture.” He grasped the wrought-iron arch as if to reassure himself of its permanence. “I should think Derek, of all people, would appreciate the distinction.”

“I’m sure he does,” I began, but Simon didn’t seem to be listening.

“Hundreds of country houses were demolished in the last century,” he went on. “Treasure houses the likes of which will never be seen again. It’s a miracle that Hailesham survived, a miracle wrought by succeeding generations of my family who cared enough to . . .” He tossed his head in disgust. “Does Derek realize how many crafts-men we employ to maintain the house?”

“Simon,” I said gently. “Forget that I mentioned the word
elitist.
It was an idiotic thing to say. Derek’s devoted his life to restoring old buildings. No one appreciates craftsmanship more than he does.”

Simon released the arch and held his hand out to me beseechingly. “Then why does he hate the place?”

“I don’t know.” I clasped his hand. “But it’s clear to me that you love it.”

Simon’s anger seemed to fade. He took a deep breath, caught his lower lip between his teeth, and regarded me shamefacedly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m being a bore. Gina finds nothing more tedious than my passionate defense of Hailesham Park.”

“I don’t think you’re boring,” I said stoutly. “I mean, it’s not just a home you’re defending, it’s . . . it’s
civilization
—a handmade world as opposed to one built by machines. If defending civilization doesn’t rouse your passions, I don’t know what will.”

Simon gazed at me gravely for a heartbeat or two, then his dimples showed and his blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “I can think of at least one other thing that rouses my passion. Shall I tell you?”

I couldn’t help smiling as his flirtatious mask slipped back into place, though I felt a bit sorry for him, too. I was beginning to suspect that he used the mask as protective coloration in a world where true passion was dismissed as tedious.

“I’m pretty sure I can guess,” I said dryly. I released his hand and walked to the low stone wall bordering the rose garden. I stopped at a spot that afforded a good view of the turtledove’s former perch. The scent of kerosene had dissipated, but the topiary’s charred remains were still very much in evidence.

I gazed thoughtfully at the blackened, soggy mess. Derek and the earl believed that the fire had been an unfortunate accident, but I still had my doubts. Could sheer coincidence explain the destruction of one of Hailesham’s prized topiaries within hours of Derek’s arrival, or was something more sinister at work? The ornamental figures were in plain view of the house, but the hedges containing them were high enough to allow anyone to light a fire and escape unseen, especially after dark.

“Has Gina told you why we’re here?” I asked.

Simon came to stand beside me. He peered silently toward the blurred line of distant woods for a moment, then bent forward to prop his elbows on the wall.

“Gina never tells me anything,” he said softly. “She seldom has time to spare for conversation. Her work requires her to be away from home quite often. It’s all highly confidential.”

I glanced at him uncertainly. I’d expected an evasive or a playful answer. His directness had caught me off guard and his words had struck closer to home than he could have realized. I, too, was married to a high-powered professional who disappeared for weeks on end to conduct business about which he seldom spoke. It was like being married to a spy. I studied Simon’s profile, wondering what else we had in common.

“Do you have children?” I asked.

“A son,” he said. “He’s at Eton. You?”

“Twin boys,” I told him. “They’re at home with their nanny.”

“Aren’t we lucky?” Simon turned his head to gaze at me. The sadness in his eyes touched me more deeply than I was willing to admit.

I folded my arms inside his jacket and looked away. “It must have broken your heart to see the topiary burn.”

“It was meant to,” he said.

I looked at him sharply. “Excuse me?”

Simon stared straight ahead. “The fire was no accident, Lori. I believe it was set intentionally, to intimidate me.” His lips quirked into a wry smile as he added, “Not only because I’m the perfect egoist, but because of a curious item I found in my room shortly after I arrived.”

I cast my mind back to my first encounter with Simon. He’d said something then that had piqued my curiosity:
“Someone’s been playing post office. . . .”

“A letter?” I guessed.

“You’ve a retentive memory, Lori.” Simon straightened. “Someone left it on my dressing table. I found it before I exchanged rooms with Emma, so there’s no doubt it was meant for me. Care to see it?”

I eyed him narrowly. “Are you telling the truth, Simon, or is this a ploy to get me up to your bedroom?”

“Would I need a ploy?” He didn’t wait for an answer but gestured toward his jacket. “I didn’t think it wise to leave the note lying about, so I brought it with me. You’ll find it in the inside breast pocket.”

I slid my hand into the jacket’s pocket and removed a folded half-sheet of plain white paper. I opened it and held it up to the moonlight.

“Good grief,” I muttered.

It was a classic poison-pen note. The words were made up of individual letters clipped from books and pasted together in three crooked lines:

I shuddered and when Simon put his arm around me this time, I didn’t move away.

“It’s horrible,” I said. “You should take it to the police.”

He gently pulled the threatening note from my hand. “Elstyns solve their problems privately,” he said quietly. “My uncle abhors the thought of public scandal.”

“Have you shown it to Gina?” I asked.

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “She’s been far too busy to spare a moment for her husband.”

I looked up at him, bewildered. “Why are you telling me about it?”

“We’re birds of a feather, you and I.” He leaned his head closer to mine. “And I need someone who knows her way around a library.”

My bewilderment increased. I couldn’t imagine how he’d learned that I’d once worked as a rare-book bibliographer in my alma mater’s library.

He seemed to read my mind. “Your husband was singing your praises over the port.”

The idea of Bill bragging about me in front of the earl filled me with delight. In an instant all of his sins—including those he hadn’t yet committed—were forgiven.

“Was he?” I said, beaming.

“Incessantly.” Simon cocked an ear toward the house as Claudia’s shrill voice announced the return of the men and Gina to the drawing room. His hold on me tightened. “Meet me in the library tomorrow at nine. Tell no one.”

A thousand questions clamored to be asked, but there was no time. I hastily returned his jacket and smoothed my rumpled dress.

“I’ll be there,” I promised. “And, Simon”—I gripped his arm—“be careful.”

He stared at my hand for a moment, then reached out to touch me lightly on the cheek. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

The air seemed to tingle between us. My hand slid from his arm and I headed for the drawing room without saying another word. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I could laugh at Simon’s flirting, but his sincerity was more than I could handle.

Seven

Bill was so tired by the time we got upstairs that he tumbled into his own bed without pausing to ask how my evening had gone. I stood over him for a while, then bent low to kiss him, hoping he’d murmur my name, but the only name he whispered was
“Gina.”

I fell back a step, too stunned to speak, and quickly told myself that it meant nothing. Bill had spent most of the evening with his colleague; it was only natural that she should be on his mind. I ordered myself not to overreact, then retreated to my room to speak with Dimity.

It was nearly two in the morning and the fire in my hearth was burning low. I sat atop the bedclothes with Reginald perched on a pillow beside me and the blue journal open in my lap, determined not to mention what had just happened.

“We were wrong, Dimity,” I said. “It’s not Derek who needs a bodyguard, it’s Simon.” I pulled Reginald closer to me as the lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop across the page.

“That’s right,” I said. “He’s married to Gina, and his brother’s name is Oliver.”