Part 14 (1/2)

”In your condition?” I tossed my head. ”I'd lose my status as your honorary nanny.”

”I refuse to think of you as my nanny,” he stated flatly.

I smiled up at him. ”Then think of me as your friend.”

”Friend.” He tilted his head to one side and p.r.o.nounced the word experimentally. ”Friend is better than nanny, I suppose.”

”Much better.” I took his hand and hooked it in the crook of my arm as we strolled toward the staircase. ”But if you ever ask me to go to bed with you again, Simon, I reserve the right to box your ears.”

I left Simon at his bedroom door, then sailed straight through my firelit room and into Bill's, but my husband was still burning the midnight oil with Gina. I gazed at his pillow reflectively and decided, on behalf of all hopeful romantics everywhere, to leave a note on his bed that might lure him into mine when he finally finished his working day.

Enticing phrases filled my mind as I returned to the writing table in my room in search of notepaper. I was giggling over a particularly sultry phrase when the drapes billowed inward.

I stepped toward them, wondering who'd left the window open, then recoiled in terror as a shadowy figure lunged at me, raising a clenched fist.

Eighteen.

My a.s.sailant sneezed.

The shriek that had risen halfway up my throat emerged as a garbled ”G.o.d bless you!”

”Thanks,” said the shadowy figure. He raised his fist again to cover a second sneeze. ”Do you have a tissue? My handkerchief's drenched.”

A log fell on the fire, sparks flew, and I caught a glimpse of my attacker's face. I knew those delicately carved features. The fine, straight nose, the curving lips, and the wide-set violet eyes belonged to the most beautiful man I'd ever met.

”Kit?” I squeaked.

”Keep your voice down,” Kit urged. He stepped closer and asked, ”How's Nell?”

”She's banged up,” I said. ”But they let her come home this evening, so-”

”She's here? Is she alone?” he demanded sharply.

”No,” I replied, dizzied by the rapid-fire interrogation. ”Derek, Emma, and Peter are with her.”

He seemed to relax. ”About that tissue . . .”

I leaned on the desk for a moment, to recover from Kit's heart-stopping entrance, then took a packet of tissues from my shoulder bag and thrust it at him.

”I should give you a kick in the backside for scaring me like that,” I said in a heated whisper.

”Sorry.” He blew his nose and tossed the crumpled tissue in the wastebasket. ”I thought you might be another maid. Thousands have been tramping through here-turning down the bed, lighting the fire, freshening the vases. I had to slip out onto the balcony when the red-haired one hoovered the carpet.”

I peered at him more closely. A waterproof parka had protected his dark blue crew-neck sweater from the storm, but his work boots and blue jeans were sopping wet, and rivulets of rain drizzled from his short-cropped gray hair.

”You're soaked,” I said in dismay.

”I am a bit damp,” he admitted. ”I had to park the van a couple of miles away and hike in.”

I motioned toward the hearth. ”Go and sit by the fire while I find something of Bill's for you to change into.”

He knew better than to argue and we both knew why. Kit Smith hadn't always been gainfully employed as the Harrises' stable master. When I'd first met him, he'd been homeless, starving, and half dead from a combination of hypothermia and pneumonia. His encounter with the grim reaper had been close enough to turn his hair gray at the ripe young age of thirty. I'd been a little overprotective of him ever since.

It took five minutes for Kit to change into dry socks and a pair of Bill's twill trousers. He and Bill were much the same height-just over six feet-but Kit was the leaner of the two, so I added one of Bill's leather belts to the ensemble. While Kit toweled his hair dry, I hung his wet clothes from the mantelpiece, dragged a pair of armchairs close to the fire, pulled a blanket from the bed, and wrapped it around him. We spoke in lowered voices as we sat facing each other across the hearth.

”I'd phone the kitchen for a pot of hot chocolate,” I said, ”but it's past Cook's bedtime.”

”I've stopped sneezing,” he said meekly.

I ducked my head and smiled, but my amus.e.m.e.nt was short-lived. I couldn't believe that Kit had been so foolhardy as to come to Hailesham Park.

”How did you get into my room?” I asked.

”You gave Annelise a fairly detailed description of the view from your balcony,” he explained. ”I climbed up the stonework, spotted Reginald, and knew I'd found the right place.”

”You climbed the stonework,” I repeated. ”After walking two miles. Through the storm.”

”I had no choice.” Kit held his hands out to the fire. ”Lord Elstyn thinks I've trifled with his granddaughter's affections. Can you imagine what would've happened if I'd knocked on his front door?”

”He did mention something about shooting you if you set foot on his property,” I said with some asperity.

”I know I'm not welcome here, Lori, but I had to come.” Kit's expression was grave as his eyes met mine. ”Nell's in danger.”

The hairs on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kled, but I waited for him to go on. He hunched forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together.

”When Annelise told me about your call this morning, I knew something was wrong. The horse hasn't been born that can throw Nell, under normal circ.u.mstances.”

Though Emma had said much the same thing in response to Gina's gibes, Kit's opinion carried more weight. Emma might be blinded by her stepmaternal love for Nell, but Kit the stable master would neither under- nor overrate his pupil's abilities. When it came to horsemans.h.i.+p, Kit was utterly clear-sighted.

”I thought of ringing you and asking you to look into it,” he went on, ”but you've never been comfortable around horses.”

”I wouldn't know what to look for,” I agreed.

”That's why I had to come. I had to find out what had really happened.” Kit drew the blanket more closely around him. ”I went to the stables first, to gauge Deacon's temperament. The horse is sound, Lori. Spirited, yes, but nothing Nell can't handle.”

”Deacon's thrown two good riders in two days,” I pointed out.

”It's not his fault,” said Kit.

I didn't understand what he was getting at. ”If it's not Nell's fault, or Deacon's, then-”

”The hurdles.” Kit shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, stood, and rummaged in the cargo pocket of his dripping parka. When he turned back to me, he was holding a tangled web of fine electrical wiring.

”Flashbulbs,” he said, handing the wire to me. ”Remote-controlled flashbulbs. I found the wire wound among the ivy on the hurdles. Someone must have hidden the bulbs there and set them off when Deacon approached. The flashes terrified him and he panicked. No one could have stayed on him after that.”