“Noted.” Marguerite beamed at him, and he reached down for a water glass, taking a second one to hand her as well. “Does he know why you’ve summoned him?” she asked.
Win nodded. “I outlined what I wanted to know, asked him if he remembered any of the old stories handed down from that time period. He was, predictably, absolutely certain that he had information that would startle and amaze us.”
“You have your doubts?”
“In this? Actually no. Kit’s spent his life cataloguing his family’s oral histories into several volumes published by the College of Charleston—local history with a literary bent always fares well in the Lowcountry. But he’s also been quite clear that the history he’s presented is favorable to the local families in which he’s so entrenched. He’s never been one to air dirty laundry, in other words, at least not in his nonfiction.” He grimaced. “His fiction might be another issue altogether. He’s said on more than one occasion that he knows more about the dirt of this area than the famers do, and I’m inclined to believe him.”
Another of the myriad reasons to keep on the man’s good side. Win’s family had long prided themselves as not caring one whit about social disgrace, as long as the money kept rolling in. But there were a lot of things that Win didn’t agree with his forbears on. For him, keeping their family secrets was necessary—at least until he could do something about them in a meaningful way, the same as he’d done with his own.
He finished his water and switched to the mixed drink, sitting on the nearest chair. Marguerite followed suit, positioning herself on the wicker couch next to the food tray, and selecting her own glass. “Mint juleps?” she asked dubiously.
He raised a brow at her. “Not a fan of bourbon?”
She held up the glass to the light, peering at the concoction. “You forget, I’ve worked as a bartender at the Cypress these past several weeks. I’m well acquainted with the most popular southern drinks, but I get requests a lot more frequently for rum runners than mint juleps.”
“I suspect the quality of your alcohol may play into that,” Win said, surprised to find himself teasing her. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Marguerite merely laughed, cheerfully taking the bait. “Something to speak to the owners about—oh wait, I have one right here.” She lifted her glass to him. “In addition to our generic spirits, you really should do something about the music that’s piped over the loud speakers. If I hear one more Ace of Bass song, I may have a stroke.”
Win frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about—” but Marguerite was already onto her next grievance—valet parking.
They spent the next hour on a surprising variety of topics, each of them reminding Win once again that Marguerite was far more than an attractive face, she was a shrewd observer of the foibles of both the staff and the range of guests…from the one-timers who were most likely to leave comments—whether gushing or gutting—online, to the revered charter members who wouldn’t know a Yelp review if it bit them in the toe. The Cypress, she harangued him, didn’t know who it was best targeted to—couples, families, or local society. With its split focus of the nightclub-stocked singles section of the resort to its haughtily tony pricing in the staider section, it was heading quickly for an identity crisis.
She talked, and he listened, gradually becoming more at ease with her as a person, and less as the object of his every waking thought. When he asked her for suggestions on how to tackle the problems she so succinctly had laid out, however, she surprised him.
“I don’t know,” she said, sitting back.
“You don’t know? You’ve no ideas at all?”
“Ideas, yes—of course. Theories. But you forget, all my study so far in hotel management has been exactly that. Theories. I haven’t been privy to the inner workings of a major property. Even at the Cypress, where they’re more than grateful to have me as a set of high-profile wrists, it’s not like they’ve let me into the inner workings of their directors’ meetings. Until I fully understand the makeup of the staff and even more importantly the management, I can’t begin to know which, if any, of my ideas would hold any water. For me to throw them out to you now would be pointless.”
He eyed her over the rim of his glass. “If I didn’t know better, Ms. Saleri, this would be the part where you suggest that I hire you for a job.”
“At the Cypress? No.” Marguerite primly took a sip of her drink, and Win considered her more intently. She was angling for a job, he realized with astonishment. She’d spent this past hour effectively impressing him with her intelligence, her observations, and her dedication to her craft, without resorting to flirtation, guile, or flattery. She’d conducted herself with perfect grace and even now, as she moved in toward whatever it was he was going to ask of him, an almost studied focus. There was nothing about her that suggested for a moment she considered him more than a potential employer.
Despite himself, Win felt himself growing annoyed. Had she not stood with him in that gazebo, practically melting in his arms as he’d kissed her? She’d apologized quickly and so he’d said something vague and reassuring, and the moment had been gracefully passed...but he’d wanted it to be passed, not entirely forgotten. Had it really meant nothing to her, merely a hurdle to be crossed before she could get on with what she truly wanted? And was that why she’d pressed to see his family home? To put him at ease long enough for her to present her…her business case to him?
He couldn’t believe it. Even now, as Marguerite turned to gaze out over the back lawns of the Grand, Win found his mind racing over everything they’d said, everything they’d done, certain that he must have made a mistake. Had all these weeks when he’d thought she’d been watching him covertly—had been secretly glad of it, if he was honest—had that all been…
His crashing thoughts were interrupted with a noise behind, him, and Win turned, forcing himself to ease his death’s grip on his mint julep. He was going to need a stiffer drink than this, if what he’d just realized was true.
“Your guest has arrived, sir,” John intoned formally. “Shall we move you and Countess Saleri to the dining room?”
“Of course,” Win said. He stood, not missing Marguerite’s clear excitement. But it was excitement for the conversation, he realized now. And maybe, for a future plum role in one of his hotels.
It was not at all excitement that she was standing next to him…while all he could think of was how it would feel to have her once more in his arms.
Chapter Ten
“A countess! I may swoon.”
Marguerite focused on the man sitting across from her at the small table. Anything to keep her focus off Win. Ever since she’d learned the truth about his broken engagement, she’d been vacillating between curiosity, irritation, and lust over the man. She’d tried acting coy—even going on and on about work, as if they had nothing better to discuss—but that hadn’t worked at all. He’d merely let her ramble. She’d almost thought she’d made a major breakthrough when the announcement had come that Kit Wellingford had arrived. Instantly, Win’s demeanor had reverted back to the cool, sardonic control she’d come to associate with him.
Only, she didn’t want the coolly controlled Win. She wanted the wild-eyed, intensely focused man who’d nearly attacked her in the gazebo. And she preferred to have him all the time, not only on the property of Holt House. Because who knew? Maybe that was part of the curse, and she would only be kissed by him once?
Kit was looking at her expectantly, however, and she realized the man had drawn breath—apparently waiting for her to answer a question…one about which she had no clue. “Please forgive my distraction,” she said, rapidly scanning the man’s outfit for an excuse. She found it immediately. “That tie pin, however, is absolutely stunning. I have been impossibly focused on wondering where on earth you found it.”
“Oh! Well, of course, you would notice that.” Kit puffed out his chest, turning slightly so Win could admire the piece as well. “It’s been in the famil
y for generations—was originally a cravat pin, but someone had it altered when the fashions changed. It’s a pure emerald—rather large and wholly natural of course. Not recolored like so many of the ones today.”
“It’s beautiful.” It was, too. Its setting was that of a set of ornate, crossed leaves, framed in heavy gold. “I can see why you’re proud of it.”
“With old families come old jewelry—you know how it is,” Kit said, leaning forward with chummy bonhomie. “But my question still stands. How long will you be staying in America? From the sound of things on the Royals Network, there’s a wedding coming up fast.” His eyes were dancing with interest, and Marguerite blinked at him. What wedding?
“Ah—wedding?” she managed, then her mind caught up. “Oh! The royal wedding. I can’t imagine it will be anytime soon. The princes—both of them—have only met their fiancées recently.”
“Then allow me to educate you,” Kit said, leaning even closer. He was a handsome enough man, she supposed, slender and blond with light blue eyes and a ready smile. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, and despite the tie tack, an expensive watch and a suit that had to have cost him thousands of dollars, he wasn’t sporting a wedding ring. Probably didn’t have much time for a normal relationship, she mused, if he was so focused on following all the international gossip.
“The royal family has made an announcement that a very royal wedding will take place this fall. Details are all very hush-hush, but I’m sure you’ll hear eventually, right? Before the rest of the world? I’ve heard Garronia royal society is very tight, and of course the queen herself was just over, visiting your sister, isn’t that correct?”
Marguerite had to hand it to Kit, he was very thorough. “She was,” she said, smiling gamely. She didn’t think Queen Catherine would appreciate her gossiping, but then again, the queen herself was no stranger to paparazzi. She knew how to manipulate them to best effect, and there was nothing she liked more than when she was manipulating them around the subject of a wedding. The monarch of Garronia seemed to be singularly entranced with the subjects of love and romance—especially when it came to her subjects.
“You’re correct,” Marguerite continued. “Queen Catherine was gracious enough to visit when Caroline was helping a local landmark home gain historical recognition.”
“Historical,” sniffed Kit, and he sent a sidelong glance Win’s way. “That little B&B has only been around since the turn of the last century. This home—” he waved his fork around, apparently incorporating all of Win’s residence. “This home grew up out of the ruins of the Civil War—and well, if I do say so. I’ve never seen such exquisite updates while still maintaining the flavor of history. How did you afford it, and why can’t we include it on the Summerland County tour of homes?”
Win seemed to be used to Kit’s quick changes of focused, and took the redirection in stride. “You can’t include it because it’s become too modern—and you know that as well as anyone.”
“Not all of it is twenty-first century, though,” Kit protested, and Win conceded the point with a shrug.
“Fair enough. Most of the restoration took place in the early 1900s, financed by the industrial investments made by the Masters over a half century earlier,” he said, seemingly unconcerned about divulging this much of their history. Strange, Marguerite thought. He’d seemed much touchier about the subject of his family’s past with her. “We were fortunate they did such a good job. Money became appreciably tighter with the onset of the World Wars.”
“Yes,” Kit nodded enthusiastically, then became distracted with his next bite of filet mignon. He savored the cut with an appreciation that almost made Marguerite smile—Kit seemed to do everything with intense appreciation. It was part of his charm, especially since it seemed completely unfeigned.
Win took advantage of the momentary lull in the conversation. “Speaking of history, I must confess I’m eager to hear what you might be able to share about the legend of Holt House. Most of the information on the subject we’re finding is fairly contradictory.”
“Mm! Mm.” Kit replied, once again nodding in short, percussive movements, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead as he swallowed. “You’re quite right.” He reached for his wine glass, a cut crystal confection that seemed to distill the light from the chandelier and send it rebounding back somehow more beautiful for the experience, and waved it at Win. “You never did explain your interest, though.”
Marguerite tensed, but Win dismissed the question. “Old Holt himself asked my thoughts on the property, told us about the supposed curse on it. I grew curious.”
“Supposed!” Kit’s voice was appropriately strangled. “There’s nothing supposed about it. It’s quite real.”
“I’m not so sure.” Win said repressively, his act so well-done that even Marguerite was nearly taken in. “Seems like a lot of, if you’ll pardon the expression, back-stabbing gossip taking advantage of a widow’s misfortune.”
“Oh, Priscilla was no widow,” Kit’s glee in his tale was almost unnerving. “Her husband was quite alive at the time of her death, they simply could no longer stand to be in the same room with each other.”
“They couldn’t?” Marguerite realized with surprise she was the one who spoke. “I thought they loved each other.”
“Loved—yes. They were mad for each other, by all accounts. She’d come to Holt House one pretty summer day—at a party, of course. The Holts were insanely dedicated to their social schedule. And she and the Holt heir met and fell in love almost immediately. Eventually the house passed to them, and the parties they threw, oh my.” The historian lifted his hands wide, fluttering his fingers. “Like you would not believe. But their son—he was the real charmer, and their pride and joy. Everything was roundabout perfect until the boy fell in love with, well, an undesirable.”
Marguerite frowned. “An undesirable what?”
Kit’s face assumed a moue of distress. “That remains a question. Girl, boy, no one really seemed to know. But he was in love and that was that. Rather than let it alone, the parents violently disagreed about whether he should continue the liaison, their emotion so great it consumed them. Mrs. Holt, rather than capitulating, became ever more entrenched—outraged, in truth. Possibly touched, some said! It’s impossible to know, it was so long ago. But her passions overwhelmed her. She drove the son off to the army, and then the father to God knows where—and by the time she realized her folly, it was too late. Her boy was gone and refused to come home, and her husband, well… she couldn’t face him, not after what she’d done. So rather than call him back to her side, she became a recluse. Died the same year, if that part of the story holds. And everything about Holt House died with her.”
“My God,” Marguerite said, riveted. “That’s horrible.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Kit said, clearly relishing his role.
“And did Mr. Holt never return?”
“Only once. At his wife’s funeral, and then only to transfer the deed of the house and all its contents to his solicitor. By then, of course, the die-off had occurred and the place was already an eyesore. He left a plaque in the one of the destroyed gardens, in memory to his wife. Love conquers all. Though by all accounts, it clearly didn’t,” Kit sniffed. “Didn’t much matter though. The place was shut up, the doors barred, the parties over.”
Marguerite could only stare at him. “But—what happened then?”
Marguerite’s clear dismay made something hard and hollow twist in Win’s gut, but he couldn’t move himself to speak. Kit’s story was so much more wrenching than he’d anticipated, the foppish man’s tale truly one of tragedy.
“Then, what happened was, nothing.” Kit spread his hands. “Mr. Holt disappeared, and on his death, a writ was presented to his heir—a cousin, the father of the inimitable Dawson Holt. Local family, good people, very stable. They took over ownership of the house, but never moved in. The house stayed maintained all the way up to Dawson inheriting it. He tried to make a go of salva
ging the grounds, but that never did take. They say it’s as complete a wreck inside as out. Is that true?”
Interest gleamed in Kit’s eyes, and Win weighed his options. He needed Kit to stay quiet, which involved him believing he had something to gain by his discretion. But the man also couldn’t be trusted to harbor a secret for longer than it took him to reach his own car. Inevitably he would tell one of his trusted confidants, and then the story would be out. Perhaps not acted upon, but out.
“The entire property is in woeful condition,” Win said, and that was certainly true. “It’ll take a great enterprise to turn it around.”
“It will!” Kit’s eyes rounded. “And you’ll be taking that enterprise on?”
In response, Win merely sat back in his chair. “How are you finding the wine?”
“Exquisite!” Kit cried, far too enthusiastically for the wine in question, no matter how fine. But opposite him, Win could feel Marguerite’s shrewd eyes on him. She was as steeped in the politics of idle conversation as he was, she had to know what he’d just done. Kit, of course, bounded forward with breathless excitement.
“You realize, surely, that Constance Gibbs has been trying to get the old man to sell that heap for a decade. You know that, right? Wants him to unload it for pennies, doubtless to flip to the next southern-fried faux mansionette.”
Win frowned. “I’m sure Ms. Gibbs is an excellent realtor with a firm grasp of the value of the property.”
Kit snorted. “I’m sure she’s a ruthless harpy who’ll swindle Holt out of his family home if he doesn’t watch it.” Opposite him, Marguerite coughed, and Kit swung to her. “Oh, do feel free to repeat that, too, Countess Saleri. We make no attempt to conceal our mutual dislike. She’s done her level best to merchandise the area surrounding Charleston to the highest bidder, never mind that half the people she sells to have no intention of keeping up the historical homes on the property.”
Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Page 10
