Aunt Dimity Takes A Holiday Part 6

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."

"Would you like me to place the item in your room, madam?" Giddings inquired.

"Yes, please," I said, glancing at my watch. "Would you also direct me to the library? I'm told it's very beautiful."

"The library is on the ground floor of the central block, madam, two doors up from the drawing room." Giddings bowed. "I will escort you, if you wish."

"No, thanks," I said. "I'm sure you have more important things to do."

"As you wish, madam." Giddings took the parcel from me and left the room.

I waited for five minutes, checked to see if the coast was clear, and darted across the entrance hall, thanking Aunt Dimity once again for her sartorial a.s.sistance: The soft-soled flats she'd advised me to wear didn't make a sound on the marble floor.

I opened the door to the library at precisely nine o'clock. It was a s.p.a.cious, rectangular room with a coved ceiling. The west-facing windows were shrouded in dark green velvet drapes, to guard the leather bindings from the ravages of the afternoon sun. The walls were hung with leaf-green watered silk, and a pair of enormous Turkish carpets covered the parquet floor. The mahogany bookcases rested on finely carved bases and were enclosed by diamond-paned gla.s.s doors.

An a.s.sortment of reading chairs, library tables, display cabinets, and map cases had been tastefully arranged to form bays in which the studious could go about their business without disturbing others. I expected to find Simon lurking in the bay farthest from the door, but the person I found seated at the table there seemed to be as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

"Who are you?" he blurted.

He was a young man with Asian features, an uncombed thatch of jet-black hair, and oversized wire-rimmed gla.s.ses that were at least twenty years past their fashion sell-by date. His blue jeans were faded and his white shirt, though spotless, looked as if it hadn't felt the touch of an iron in months. I was fairly certain he wasn't an Elstyn.

"I'm Lori Shepherd, one of Lord Elstyn's houseguests," I replied. "Who are you?"

The young man pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. He was as tall as Simon but as thin as a rail, and he stood with his shoulders hunched forward, as if he were self-conscious about his height.

"I'm, um, Jim Huang." His eyes darted nervously from me to the door, as if he were planning an escape route.

I glanced down at the table. A ma.n.u.script box and a small reading lamp sat at one end, a laptop computer at the other. Between them lay a magnifying gla.s.s and neatly stacked piles of loose papers that appeared to be letters. They looked nothing like the one Simon had received. These were written in a feminine hand on fussy stationery.

"Nice to meet you, Jim," I said, hoping to put the young man at ease. "You sound as if you're from the States."

"I'm from Kalamazoo, Michigan," he admitted.

"Chicago," I said cheerfully, pointing to myself. "I'd say that makes us neighbors. What are you doing so far from home?"

"I'm an archivist." Jim switched off the reading lamp and began methodically to gather the notes and return them to the ma.n.u.script box. "Lord Elstyn hired me to sort through some family papers."

"Don't let me chase you away," I urged.

"It's okay," he said, closing the laptop. "I was about to take a break anyway."

Jim's twitchiness and the speed with which he'd cleared the decks suggested to me that he was working on yet another of the earl's highly confidential projects. I wasn't interested in what he was doing, but I did want to pick his brain about a few other matters.

"Been here long?" I asked.

"Ten days," he replied.

I turned to survey the room. "It's a lovely place to work. I'll bet people are in and out of here all the time."

"You're the first, apart from the earl." Jim pushed his oversized gla.s.ses up his nose and gazed about the room. "It's surprising, really, because the collection's amazing."

I recognized the note of enthusiasm in his voice because I'd heard it so often while working in my alma mater's library. Unless I was very much mistaken, Jim Huang was a born bibliophile. I felt as if he'd given me a gift.

"Amazing, huh?" I said. "I don't suppose you'd have the time to show me a few of the highlights."

"Well . . ." He glanced anxiously at the door.

"I won't tell the earl, if that's what's worrying you," I a.s.sured him. "It's just that I don't know much about books. It'd be great to learn about them from someone who really knows his stuff."

The dumb-little-me routine worked like a charm. In no time at all Jim had forgotten about his break and begun a guided tour of the shelves.

Ardor loosened his tongue and he talked a mile a minute as he walked, describing early editions of works by Austen, Defoe, and Fielding. He was extremely knowledgeable about cla.s.sic English literature, but his greatest joy seemed to come simply from handling the books. I understood the sensation. There were few things in life as satisfying as the pebbly texture of a fine morocco binding or the chance discovery of an author's inscription. Jim Huang seemed to have thumbed through every volume in the room.

"It sounds as if you've been camping out in here," I commented when we reached the end of the tour.

"No such luck." Jim returned a first edition of Christopher Smart's Hymns for the Amus.e.m.e.nt of Children to the shelf, aligned it precisely with the other volumes, and closed the gla.s.s doors. "I sleep in the servants' quarters. It's not as bad as it sounds. Lord Elstyn treats his hired help really well."

"So if I came in here during the night," I said, "I wouldn't run the risk of tripping over you?"

"Not me." Jim laughed. "You might trip over the earl, though. He's in here most nights, reading. I think he's an insomniac." His smile vanished suddenly, as if by mentioning the earl he'd reminded himself of the work he was neglecting. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go."

"I understand," I told him. "Thanks for showing me around. I learned a lot."

Jim returned to the table to pick up the laptop and the ma.n.u.script box, then paused on his way out.

"If you're looking for something great to read," he said, "I stand ready to help. Giddings always knows where to find me." He nodded to me in a friendly fashion and left the room, his precious project cradled in his arms.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten o'clock and there was still no sign of Simon. I considered searching for him but decided to stay put. There was no point in both of us running in circles and a library was one of my favorite places to kill time.

I was perusing an 1814 Military Library edition of Mansfield Park when the door opened and Simon appeared. Though slightly out of breath, he still managed to look elegant in a black cashmere sweater tucked into pleated charcoal-gray trousers.

"I'm so sorry, Lori," he said, closing the door behind him. "My new hunter tossed me into a muddy mora.s.s and the cleanup took longer than I'd antic.i.p.ated."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I've made good use of my time."

"You intrigue me." Simon crossed the room and lowered himself gingerly into the leather armchair opposite mine.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, wondering how far the new horse had tossed him.

"I'm fine," he replied. "Tell me what you've been up to in my absence."

I laid Mansfield Park aside and sat forward in my chair. "You asked me here to help you find the books that were chopped up by whoever created the poison-pen letter, right?"

"I don't need to explain much to you, do I?" he said, smiling.

"It was a logical a.s.sumption." I gave silent credit to Aunt Dimity, then went on. "I think I've saved us a lot of wasted effort. Have you met Jim Huang?"