by Joan Wolf
Tracy went on down the stairs to the kitchen, where she was surprised to find Tony, dressed in another Savile Row suit with a gray silk tie, drinking coffee at the table. “You’re up early,” Tracy said.
“I have a breakfast appointment with a client,” he replied, politely standing as she came in. “But I simply cannot leave the house without a cup of coffee, so I made a pot. Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Tracy poured herself some and leaned against the counter, her eyes on Tony, who had sat back down at the table. His blue eyes glimmered a little as he regarded her.
“Congratulations,” he said. “It’s quite a feat to appear sans makeup in the morning and still manage to look beautiful.”
Tracy ignored the compliment, watched him closely, and said, “Did you know that someone tampered with the brakes on Harry’s car? That’s why they failed, and he had that horrible accident.”
Tony’s look of incredulity could not be faulted. “Someone tampered with the brakes? Are you sure, Tracy? Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing?”
“I was hoping you might be able to answer that question.”
His incredulity deepened. “Me? Why should you think that?”
“You’re his brother.”
“I’m his brother, not his keeper.” His expression suddenly changed. “Who told you that the brakes were tampered with, anyway? Was it by any chance Ian Poole?”
Tracy took a swallow of coffee. “Yes.”
Tony snorted. “Well, there you have it, then. Ian is covering his own backside. He’s the one who maintained that car, and he obviously missed the fact that the brakes needed replacing. He’s not about to admit that, however, so he came up with this story about the brakes being tampered with.”
Tracy said steadily, “Harry believes him.”
Another snort. “Of course he does. Ian is one of Harry’s inner circle of magic friends who can do no wrong.”
Tracy took another sip of coffee and regarded Tony over the rim of the cup. “The fire marshal thought that the stable fire had been set. Doesn’t it seem a little odd that two suspicious ‘accidents’ should occur within such a short space of time?”
Tony wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “The fire marshal’s investigation has turned up no proof of arson. From what Harry told me, he based his suspicion on an empty kerosene can he found in the stable. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Ned Martin didn’t have a small kerosene heater that he uses when he has to be in the stable at night. No doubt he, or somebody else, was careless, and the kerosene caught on fire.”
“Harry said he doesn’t allow any flammable liquid near the barn.”
“He told that to the fire marshal, too.” Tony put the napkin down on the table. “And Ned Martin is another one of Harry’s inner circle, so it would never occur to my brother to question him. But the fire marshal could find nothing else to indicate that the fire had been deliberately set, and he has ruled it an accident.”
Tony seemed to be sincere, but Tracy knew that a good actor could play any scene with conviction. She said, “You don’t seem very impressed by your brother’s friends.”
Tony leaned back in his chair. “Loyalty is all very well, but Harry carries it to extremes. And I question the wisdom of making friends outside one’s class. People like Ian Poole and Ned Martin look at Harry as a source of income. The more they can get out of him, the better. He doesn’t have enough money to buy a new car, but I know for a fact that he lent Ian the money to start his garage. And Ian has yet to pay him back.”
There it was again, the class thing. Tracy said defensively, “I think loyalty and generosity are admirable qualities.”
“Yes—in a dog!” Tony retorted. “A man should have more discrimination about whom he trusts. Please don’t get me wrong, Miss Collins. I love Harry. It’s because I love him that I hate to see him always scraping for money. If he would only sell Mauley the land, he would be fixed for life. And Silverbridge would still be one of the premier estates in the country. In fact, once Harry had the money to bring back the gardens and make the necessary repairs to the buildings, it would be one of the most beautiful homes in all of England.”
“He likes farming, though,” Tracy said. “If he sold all his farmland, he would be out of a job.”
Something sparked in Tony’s blue eyes. “You appear to understand him very well.”
Tracy didn’t know what to answer.
Tony grinned. “Well, good for Harry. You are a definite improvement on Dana Matthews. She had money, but she was nuts. And Harry’s other serious girlfriend came from one of England’s best families, but her father is even more broke than Harry. He came to his senses a month before the wedding and called it off. You, on the other hand, are beautiful, presentable, and rich. Perhaps Harry has finally got himself on track.” He stood up.
Tracy wanted to smack him. “Do you mean to be insulting, or are you just dense?”
“And you’re smart, too,” Tony said approvingly. “Don’t get me wrong, Miss Collins. I’m in your corner all the way.”
He crossed to the door but before he left he turned to say one more thing: “Try to persuade him to sell that property, will you?”
Then he was gone.
Harry arrived in the kitchen a half an hour after Tracy had gone. He still had a headache, but he had treated it with aspirin and thought that he would be all right as long as he didn’t try to ride.
He was disappointed to have missed Tracy but surprised and pleased to find Meg in the kitchen when he came in. She was seated at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of her, and either she had only taken a small amount of cornflakes or she had actually eaten some.
“Good morning, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson said after the dogs had given him a much noisier greeting. “Scrambled eggs, bacon, and fried tomato?”
It was his usual breakfast, but for some reason his stomach rejected the idea of all that food. “No thanks, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll just have some toast.”
“You look awfully pale, Harry,” Meg said. “Are you sure you’re well enough to get up?”
“I’m fine,” he replied.
She gave him a skeptical look but said nothing. Instead she dipped her spoon into her cereal, filled it with cornflakes, and ate them.
Thank you, God, Harry thought.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Meg said.
Mrs. Wilson brought him a cup of coffee, and he joined Meg at the table. Instead of returning to their sofa, Marshal and Millie sat on either side of him, ears lifted expectantly.
Mrs. Wilson brought a plate of cinnamon raisin toast to the table, and Harry gave half a slice to each of the spaniels.
“You spoil those dogs something fierce, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson said.
“A child or an animal that isn’t spoiled isn’t loved,” Harry returned peaceably, and took a bite of the toast he had left.
“I wasn’t spoiled,” Meg said defiantly.
Harry looked at his sister’s set face and felt a pain in his heart. “I spoil you,” he said. “Look at how I’m letting you lie about, no school, no job. All you do all day is watch the movie being filmed. If that isn’t spoiling you, I don’t know what is.”
“I’m sick, that’s why I’m not in school,” Meg shot back. “No school will take me. They’re all afraid I’m going to die.”
She looked so fragile in her brave blue sweater. He reached out and took her hand. It was like holding a bundle of bones. “Don’t die, Meggie. It would break my heart to lose you. I’m sorry that I didn’t pay more attention to you when you were little. But I love you, and I want you to get better.”
Meg had dropped her eyes when he said he was sorry, but she raised them again when he had finished speaking and gave him such a timid, hopeful look that it made him feel like crying. “Do you really love me, Harry?”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I love you very much. You’re my sister, Meg. I would do anything in the world to help y
ou.”
She said, “Would you come with me today to watch the filming?”
He had a million things he needed to do and another million things that he wanted to do. He looked into her hopeful eyes, and said, “Of course I will.”
The lighting and set crews were setting up in the drawing room and wouldn’t be ready to film until after lunch, so Harry used the time to go down to the stables. A sense of familiar contentment came over him as he came into view of the horses turned out in their paddocks. Pendleton had seen him coming and was waiting at the fence for his usual tribute. Harry produced the expected sugar cube from his pocket, rubbed his horse’s forehead, straightened his forelock, and proceeded to the riding ring, where Ned was riding Lady Anisdale’s mare, Marita.
Marita was a three-day-event horse that Maria Anisdale had sent to Harry for training. The mare did very well in the cross-country and stadium-jumping components of the event, but she had been losing points on the dressage test.
He stood for a few moments in silence, watching as the mare cantered a twenty-meter circle. “Bring her shoulders in a little more,” he said, then watched in silence once again. “She’s looking much better,” he said at last. “She’s really reaching under with that inside leg.”
Ned brought the mare down to a trot and then to a walk. He stopped in front of Harry, who bestowed a pat on Marita’s sweaty chestnut neck, and said, “She’s leaving next week, so that will be one less horse for us to worry about.” Ned unbuckled his helmet and took it off, baring his curly brown head to the cloudy sky. “Have you spoken to the insurance company?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, his voice more clipped than usual, “and they are going to drag their heels because the fire may have been arson. In fact, I got the distinct impression that they thought I might have set it myself.”
“That’s just ridiculous,” Ned said heatedly. “Why would you burn down your own stable, a listed historic building?”
“An excellent question and one that I have charged my solicitor to bring up with the insurance company. I don’t have the patience to deal with them. The fellow I talked to on the phone made me so angry that I hung up on him.”
Ned grinned. “Better to hang up than to tell them what you think of them.” He swung down from the saddle. “It will work out, Harry.” He regarded his employer with concern. “How are you feeling? Are you sure you shouldn’t stay in bed? I heard you had a bad concussion.” His hazel eyes narrowed as he assessed Harry’s face. “You’re much too pale.”
Harry scowled. “I’m all right.”
Inside the ring, Ned began to lead the mare in a ten-meter circle to cool her down. Harry rested his arms on the fence, and said calmly, “Ian Poole told me that the accident happened because someone cut my brake lines.”
Ned stopped in his tracks, and the mare stopped with him. “Are you serious?”
“Ian was quite serious. There’s no doubt about it, apparently. The car was in for work three weeks ago and Ian checked the brakes and they were fine. He also said that he looked at them after the accident and they weren’t frayed, as they would have been from wear. They were cut quite cleanly.”
“My God.” Marita nudged Ned’s shoulder and he ignored her. “Have you told the police?”
“Not yet.”
“You have to tell them, Harry. It sounds as if someone is out to get you.” He pushed a curling lock of hair off his forehead. “But who?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “You don’t have enemies. I don’t get it.”
Harry said jokingly, “I can’t even suspect any of my competitors. They all know that I am retiring Pendleton and that I’m out of competition until another of my horses moves to Grand Prix.”
“It’s not funny, Harry!” Ned exploded. “You’ve got to do something. You just can’t sit around waiting for this maniac to strike again.”
The mare blew impatiently out her nose, and Ned began to walk her in a circle once again.
Harry said, “What do you suggest I do?”
“Go to the police,” Ned replied promptly.
Harry’s negative headshake was firm. “The police will be as clueless as we are. In fact, if they’re brought in, they might just scare the bastard away.” His face hardened. “I don’t want that. I want to find out who burned my stable. And I will find out, Ned. I swear it.”
Ned said in a strange voice, “Surely the attack on your life is more important than the attack on the stable.”
Harry made an impatient gesture. “I want you to be extra vigilant, Ned. The horses may be the next targets.”
“All right. I’ll sleep downstairs, where they are stabled.”
“Keep your hunting rifle by you.”
The two men looked at each other. “Jesus, Harry, I can’t believe this is happening. With all the bastards in the world, why would someone want to pick on you?”
Because I own Silverbridge and someone else wants it.
He didn’t say the words, however. He had no proof of anything, only a suspicion. He contented himself by repeating, “I don’t know, Ned, but I am damn well going to find out.”
19
Meg wanted Harry to have lunch with the crew in the catering truck. “It’s fun, Harry,” she said as she met him on the front lawn. “You should make an effort to meet these people. You don’t want them to think you’re a snob, do you?”
He had absolutely no interest in what the film people thought of him, but he did care about his sister. “I’ll eat if you promise you’ll eat something, too,” he said.
“Done!”
“And I don’t just mean a half a cup of soup, Meg. I mean something substantial.”
Her eyes sparked with anger. “What do you mean by substantial? I’m not eating red meat!”
“I don’t care what you eat: pasta, a sandwich, chicken salad… so long as it’s solid food. Do we have a deal?”
“That’s blackmail,” she protested.
He touched her nose and smiled. “I know.”
Reluctantly, she smiled back. “Okay, we have a deal.”
Harry hoped fervently that Tracy would be at lunch. If he could look at her, talk to her, then having to be polite to a group of people he didn’t know wouldn’t seem quite so horribly tedious.
His eyes found her the moment he stepped into the bus carrying his plate of food. It’s like a magnet finding true north, he thought wryly. She couldn’t be anywhere within his vicinity without his knowing it immediately.
“Hi, everybody,” Meg said. “This is my brother Lord Silverbridge. He’s come to join us for lunch today.”
The look she gave him was so full of happiness and pride that he was determined to be as charming as he knew how to be. He smiled at the faces around the table, and said, with just the right touch of deprecation, “Hello. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t had a chance to stop by and meet you.”
A jumble of voices answered, “Glad to have you, my lord,” and “Welcome to the crazy house,” along with an assortment of other greetings.
Unfortunately, the seats on either side of Tracy were taken, but the person who was sitting across from her stood up, and said, “I’ve finished, my lord, if you’d like my place.”
Harry gave this generous soul a heartfelt, “Thanks.” Meg went to take the empty seat one chair away from him, and he put his food on the table, sat down, and looked at Tracy.
“Are you sure you should be here?” she asked. “You’re awfully pale.”
He was getting sick of hearing how pale he was. “I’m fine.”
Jonathan Melbourne was sitting on Tracy’s left and he said with a challenging note in his resonant voice, “Slumming, my lord?”
Harry met the actor’s angry hazel eyes and thought he knew what was bothering him. Jon probably had an interest in Tracy himself, and he didn’t like the possibility of an aristocratic rival.
Tough luck, old man, Harry thought, and gave him a sunny smile. “Not at all. Meg has told me that both the food and
the company are excellent, and I came to sample some of both.”
Tracy looked at his plate, which contained a small amount of pasta and a green salad. “You’re not eating very much.”
She sounded faintly maternal, which in any other woman would have annoyed the hell out of him. In her he found it enchanting.
He shrugged. “I’m not very hungry.” He glanced at his sister. “Would you like to introduce me around the table, Meggie?”
She looked radiant. “Of course.” She turned immediately to the person next to her, and said, “This is Liza Moran, one of the actresses.”
Liza Moran looked thirty, was probably forty, and was looking at him in a way that he found all too familiar. Normally he would have frozen her right out, but he had sworn to be charming, so he smiled, and said, “How do you do.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Silverbridge.” Her voice was husky, and the hunting look in her eyes became even more pronounced.
Meg was saying, “And this is Kim Hamilton, the script supervisor.”
Kim wore a twin set and a tweed skirt, and Harry said apologetically, “I must confess to complete ignorance about filmmaking, Ms. Hamilton. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what it is a script supervisor does?”
Kim was delighted to enlighten him, and then Meg went around the rest of the table introducing an assortment of actors and actresses as well as people who bore such peculiar titles as focus puller and grip and lighting gaffer.
It might have actually been a pleasant lunch if not for Liza Moran, who kept throwing out lures to him. She was not subtle, and he did his best to parry her remarks. He had never been able to stand her kind of woman, and it was even worse having to endure her in the presence of Tracy, who spent most of the lunch ignoring Harry and chatting with Jon Melbourne.
She's not fooling me, Harry told himself. She’s as aware of me as I am of her.
He tried an experiment. He focused his mind and thought, Tracy, look at me.
He was profoundly shaken when, almost instantly, her eyes turned away from Jon’s and met his.
