Part 4 (1/2)

I sat between Lord Elstyn and Simon, and when I wasn't spying on my husband, I was listening to the men's conversation. It was clear that the earl was proud of his nephew, and with good reason: Simon sat on the boards of at least three major corporations and twice as many charities. Both men were remarkably well informed on the Westwood Trust's various projects and drew from me an enthusiatic account of the work being done at St. Benedict's, the trust-supported homeless shelter in Oxford.

”You go there yourself?” the earl asked.

I nodded. ”I've worked my way up to pot scrubber.”

”Remarkable,” the earl murmured.

”Admirable,” Simon stated firmly.

Even while we spoke, a part of my mind was focused on the end of the meal when, if the earl lived up to his Edwardian reputation, the ladies would be banished to the drawing room while the gentlemen stayed behind to pa.s.s the decanter.

Sure enough, when the last plate had been cleared, the ladies rose as one-apart from me and Emma, who rose somewhat belatedly-and left the men to their port. Emma attempted to catch my eye when we entered the drawing room, but Claudia intercepted her and dragged her over to the fireplace.

I made a beeline for Gina Elstyn.

”So,” I said brightly. ”You're Gina.”

”And you're Lori.” Gina had hazel eyes and her chin-length brown hair was straight and s.h.i.+ny and held back from her face by an elegant brown velvet band. Her wedding ring had a rock on it the size of Pike's Peak. ”Bill's told me so much about you.”

”Has he?” I lifted an eyebrow. ”He hasn't told me a thing about you.”

”Good.” Gina spoke with the chilly detachment of a polished professional. ”My uncle has strict rules about confidentiality. He insists that our business meetings be conducted in complete secrecy.”

”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 cl.u.s.tered 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 gra.s.sy 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 ma.s.s-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, craftsmans.h.i.+p, and continuity elitist? Hailesham wasn't run off on an a.s.sembly 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 rea.s.sure 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 craftsmans.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sions, 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 pa.s.sion. Shall I tell you?”