Part 6 (1/2)

Oliver lifted his eyes to gaze at me somberly. ”I should think so,” he said. ”I should think it very likely. Uncle's not getting any younger. He's got to consider the future.”

”Would it be legal for someone other than Derek to inherit Hailesham?” I asked.

”Gina can find a way to make anything legal,” Oliver replied. ”She's extremely good at what she does, especially when she has a vested interest.” He hesitated. ”I imagine you've run into similar difficulties in your family.”

I nearly sprayed the tablecloth with tea. After a valiant swallow, I hastened to clear up Oliver's extraordinary misconception.

”My family consisted of my widowed mother and me,” I told him. ”Our entire apartment could have fit into your uncle's drawing room. I never had to fight for my inheritance because a) there was no one to fight with, and b) there was nothing to inherit. So, no, I've never experienced anything remotely like the difficulties you're describing.”

”I do so admire your frankness.” Oliver sighed deeply. ”The trouble with my family is that no one tells the truth. Claudia says she misses her husband, but she doesn't. Derek and Uncle Edwin act as if they hate each other, but they don't.”

”Don't they?” I interjected.

”They wouldn't be able to inflict such dreadful wounds on each other if they didn't love each other.” Oliver glanced toward the windows. ”Then there's Simon. My perfect brother. Poor chap. He pretends to be happy, but he isn't.”

I toyed with my fried tomatoes. ”Why isn't Simon happy?”

Oliver laid his knife and fork aside, saying, ”I'm hoping you'll find out.”

I looked up from my plate, startled.

”Something's troubling Simon,” Oliver went on, his brow furrowing. ”It's been troubling him for some time. He won't-he can't-admit it to any of us, but I think he might tell you.”

I focused on the tomatoes. ”What gives you that idea?”

”He likes you,” Oliver replied.

”If you ask me,” I said, ”your brother likes anything in a skimpy dress.”

Oliver smiled but shook his head. ”I watched the two of you in the rose garden last night. He was looking at you, Lori, not your dress. He trusts you.”

”He's only known me for five minutes,” I protested.

”Sometimes that's all it takes,” Oliver said. ”Perhaps it's because you're not part of our world. You're not an Elstyn, you're not English, and you weren't born to wealth.” He rested his hands on the arms of his chair. ”My brother hasn't met many women like you, Lori. You speak your mind. You don't paint your face or color your hair. You don't try to conceal the fact that you're dazzled by Simon, or irritated by Claudia, or jealous of Gina.”

I felt myself go crimson. ”Remind me never to play poker with you, Oliver. In fact, remind me never to play poker, period.”

”It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Oliver said earnestly. ”You simply can't help being honest. Perhaps that's why my brother trusts you. I'm convinced that he'll confide in you.”

It was comforting to know that although Oliver had discerned much from my treacherously transparent countenance, he hadn't yet figured out that his big brother had already confided in me.

”Oliver,” I said slowly, ”if you're asking me to spy on Simon-”

”I'm not,” he interrupted. ”I'm asking you to listen to him, to give him a chance to talk about what's troubling him. I'm asking you to be his friend. He doesn't have any, you see. He has allies and a.s.sociates, yes, but not a single friend.”

”What about his wife?” I asked.

”Oh, no, not Gina.” Oliver lowered his eyes. ”Gina's a useful ally, not a friend.”

I stared down at my plate, but the food had lost its savor. I understood more clearly, now, why Simon was his uncle's favorite. Simon loved Hailesham and horses, and he'd married a woman who was more than capable of managing a large and complex family fortune. Whether she loved him or not seemed-in Oliver's mind, at least-to be an open question. Simon had willingly walked a path Derek had refused to tread. Did he think it would lead to his installation as Lord Elstyn's heir?

I lifted my gaze. ”You're Simon's friend, aren't you, Oliver?”

”In my family,” he said softly, ”brothers aren't permitted to be friends.”

”d.a.m.n it, Derek!”

Oliver and I jumped, startled by the earl's earsplitting shout.

”My golden girl, in love with an overgrown stable boy?” Lord Elstyn's furious roar reverberated from the marble walls of the entrance hall. ”I won't hear of it!”

”She seems to be over it, Father.” Derek was in the entrance hall, too, and he was making no effort to keep his voice down. ”But Emma wanted me to put you in the picture, in case it crops up again. I told her it would be a mistake.”

”One of many to be laid at your door,” the earl thundered. ”I blame you for this unthinkable dalliance. If you hadn't married beneath you, Nell would never have considered-”

”Nell would be lucky to have Kit!” Derek bellowed, matching his father decibel for decibel. ”But the fact of the matter is that Kit will have nothing to do with her.”

”He won't have her?” the earl sputtered. ”I've never heard of such insolence. If this Kit Smith sets foot on my property, I'll have him shot.”

”Kit wouldn't come here for a king's ransom,” Derek retorted. ”He's far too decent a chap.”

”Sack him!” shouted the earl.

”I have no intention of sacking him,” Derek declared stoutly. ”Kit's more than an employee. He's a friend. Emma and I depend on him.”

”You care more for yourself than for your daughter,” the earl scoffed. ”I might have known. Gina, Bill, come with me. I have nothing more to say to this . . . this in-grate. ”

Doors slammed and footsteps pounded up the marble staircase. Then all was silence.

Oliver looked sh.e.l.l-shocked. ”What on earth . . . ?”

”Nell has a crush on a man who works for Derek,” I explained. ”It's n.o.body's fault, and he's not interested. I'm not sure it would be such a bad thing if he were.”

Oliver glanced fearfully toward the entrance hall. ”My uncle would disagree.”

”Your uncle,” I said, ”hasn't met Kit.”

”I hope to G.o.d he never does,” Oliver said fervently. ”Burning bushes are bad enough, but it would be much worse to dodge flying bullets.”

I thought of the poison-pen letter and hoped Oliver's words wouldn't prove to be prophetic.

Nine.

Oliver went to his room to make phone calls and, I suspected, to reduce the chances of running into his irate uncle. I was on my last cup of tea when Giddings returned to the dining room bearing a brown-paper-wrapped parcel addressed to me. I recognized the handwriting on the label, gave the package an exploratory squeeze, and smiled.

”It's from my children's nanny,” I told Giddings. ”She must have noticed that I forgot to pack my dress shoes and sent them along to me.”