Part 8 (1/2)

”She . . . died?” I whispered.

”She'd been sacked.” Derek's mouth twisted bitterly. ”My father had decided that since I would be away at school for most of the year, her services would no longer be required. I never saw or heard from her again. I was eight years old.”

I thought of myself at eight, running home after school to my mother, as certain that she would be there as I was of my own name, and tried to imagine the shock of finding her gone-not dead, but alive and beyond my reach. I wondered how many crowds Derek had scanned, looking for Winnie, before he'd finally given up the search. Had I been Derek, I told myself, I'd be searching for her still.

”That's when I understood,” Derek said abruptly. ”My mother spent the last year of her life in London because my father was a heartless swine. I vowed then and there that I would never be like him.”

”You're not,” I said fiercely. ”The only way you could be less like him would be to have a s.e.x-change operation.” I would have gone on to enumerate the myriad ways in which Derek didn't resemble his father, but he forestalled me with a wholly unexpected snort of laughter.

”I must admit that a s.e.x-change operation never occurred to me.” Derek struggled for sobriety, but a second snort forced its way out. ”Emma would have been terribly disappointed if it had. Might've been worth it, though, just to see the look on Father's face. I'd've made a formidable viscountess.”

”You'd be stunning in a tiara,” I agreed, and with that we both gave way to a fit of giggles.

”Poor Blackie,” Derek said when he'd regained his composure. ”It's been too long since he's heard the sound of laughter.”

”Didn't Nell or Peter or Simon's son stay here when they were little?” I asked.

”They've had suites of their own in the south wing since before they could walk,” Derek told me. ”Father's always been more indulgent with his grandchildren than he was with me.”

”It's awfully tidy for a place that's never used.” I ran my finger along the windowsill, then held it up for Derek's inspection. ”Look. No dust.”

”Father would never let something as plebian as dust alight on Hailesham.” Derek looked around the room and shook his head. ”No, Lori, this place is full of ghosts. You should bring Rob and Will to play here. They'd fill it with life again.”

I gave him a sidelong glance. ”There's one ghost you might be happy to see.”

When he looked at me questioningly, I told him to visit the night nursery. He disappeared through the doorway, but I stayed behind. Some reunions were meant to be private.

He was gone for perhaps ten minutes and when he returned his face was such a cauldron of emotions that I didn't know which one would bubble over first. The elephant he cradled in his arms, however, was already looking less forlorn.

”I'm taking him to Nell,” Derek stated firmly, making it clear that, as a grown man, he could not be expected to display affection for a stuffed animal, however dear.

”I'm sure Bertie will welcome a new companion,” I said, thinking of Nell's unabashed devotion to her chocolate-brown teddy.

Derek stroked Clumps's trunk absently. ”If you see Emma, will you tell her that I've decided to take lunch in our room? I need to be alone for a while.”

”I'll tell her,” I said.

”One more thing . . .” Derek's weathered face grew solemn. ”Promise me that you won't ever send your children away against their will.”

”Derek,” I said, ”I don't even make my boys eat lima beans against their will.”

He smiled and turned to go.

”Derek, wait a minute, will you?” I hesitated, then went on. ”You spent the morning with Bill and Gina. Tell me, do they seem to . . . to get along?”

”Hard to say.” Derek s.h.i.+fted Clumps to one arm and scratched his head. ”They're cordial to each other, but they're both so thoroughly professional that it's difficult to tell what they're thinking, let alone what they're feeling. And I have to confess that I was paying rather more attention to my father than to them.” He peered at me intently. ”Why? You're not . . . worried about them, are you, Lori?”

”Worried? Me?” I tried to toss off a carefree laugh but couldn't squeeze it past the lump in my throat. I ducked my head. ”Maybe I am. A little. They've known each other for a while now, and Gina's awfully attractive.”

”Do you think so?” Derek seemed to give the matter serious consideration. ”She's too cold and calculating for my taste, not at all the sort of woman Bill would find attractive.” He reached over to raise my chin. ”He prefers the warmer sort.”

”Maybe he needs a change of climate,” I mumbled.

”I doubt it,” said Derek. ”I doubt it very much.”

”Okay.” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. ”And if you mention a word of this to Emma, I'll never speak to you again.”

”Come here, you ridiculous woman.” Derek pulled me to my feet for a rea.s.suring hug, then held me at arm's length. ”It's between you and me and Clumps, and Clumps can be trusted implicitly. Coming down?”

”Not yet,” I said. ”My red nose will give me away.”

”Bill's mad about you, Lori. Always has been. Always will be.” Derek tapped the tip of my nose. ”Red nose and all.”

I watched him go, then took a few calming breaths and repeated the words cordial and professional to myself. The exercise would have been more comforting if Bill had whispered Gina's name the night before in a cordially professional way, but he hadn't. He'd said it pleadingly, as if he'd been longing for her.

I couldn't blame him. He and Gina were both lawyers. They spoke the same language, moved in the same circles, shared a world I neither knew nor cared about. Gina was, as Derek had pointed out, cool and calculating. She'd make a refres.h.i.+ng change of pace from hotheaded, impulsive me. And after the many times I'd strayed, Bill probably felt ent.i.tled to enjoy a little fling of his own. It wasn't reasonable of me to expect absolute fidelity from my husband.

I was, however, famously unreasonable.

I shook off the waves of doubt that threatened to engulf me and got to my feet. I had no time to waste on Bill and Gina at the moment, and the poison-pen investigation would have to wait. Derek needed Emma now. I had to head her off before she reached the dining room.

Eleven.

Giddings was in the dining room overseeing a pair of uniformed maids who were setting the table for lunch. He guided me to a back door that gave access to the graveled courtyard I'd seen from my bedroom's balcony. The workshops, he told me, occupied the row of low stone buildings opposite the stables.

I could have found the workshops by sound alone. The moment I strode into the courtyard I heard a cacophony of telltale noises: the clank of a blacksmith's hammer, the tink-tink of a stonemason's chisel, and the high-pitched whine of a band saw. I also smelled the telltale stink of kerosene.

In an instant I forgot all about Emma and raced toward the pillar of black smoke that rose beyond the last low building. I skidded to a halt at the end of the row and peered furtively around the corner just in time to see Nell toss a cloth bundle onto a bonfire.

Nell had exchanged her riding gear for work clothes similar to Derek's, but her long limbs and natural grace made old jeans and Wellington boots seem the height of fas.h.i.+on. She wore a quilted vest over a cornflower-blue cotton s.h.i.+rt, and her golden curls tumbled loosely beneath a tweed cap. She stood with a pitchfork in one hand. A can of kerosene sat a few yards away, at a safe distance from the roaring fire.

”Hi, Nell,” I said, coming up behind her. ”We hardly had a chance to say h.e.l.lo last night.”

”You were captivated by Simon,” she said. ”Isn't he lovely?”

”He's, er, very nice,” I agreed, and hastily changed the subject. ”How's life at the Sorbonne?”

”C'est merveilleuse,” she replied. ”Bertie and I have invited Mama, Papa, and Peter to spend Christmas with us in Paris.”

I stared at her, nonplussed. ”You're not coming home for Christmas?”

”No,” she replied. ”I'm afraid the vicar will have to find another Virgin for the village play this year.” She stepped forward to poke at the burning cloth with her pitchfork.

”That's quite a blaze you've got going,” I commented. ”What're you burning?”

”Rubbish,” she said.