It was with a clear conscience, therefore, that I saw my husband off the following morning without mentioning my plan. After he’d gone, I made a quick run into the village for some needed supplies, returning to the cottage in plenty of time to prepare a hearty breakfast for the twins while Annelise helped them dress for their nine o’clock riding lesson. All three were surprised when I joined them in our canary-yellow Range Rover for the short drive to the stables.
As Annelise backed the Rover out of our graveled drive and onto the narrow county lane that ran past the cottage, she cast an appraising look over my hiking boots, rain jacket, and day pack.
“Going for a ramble?” she ventured.
“I thought I’d stretch my legs,” I informed her airily. Since Annelise was as big a worrywart as Bill, I’d decided to conceal my true intentions from her as well. “I’m tired of being confined to barracks by the lousy weather.”
“Why drive to Anscombe Manor to stretch your legs?” Annelise glanced doubtfully at the cloud-covered sky. “It’s just as wet there as it is here.”
“I thought I’d watch the boys ride before I head out,” I explained. “It’s been a long time since I attended one of their lessons.”
“That’s because you don’t like horses,” Rob observed sagely from the backseat.
“You’re afraid of horses,” Will chimed in.
“You won’t even feed Toby carrots, and he doesn’t hardly have any teeth,” Rob went on, relentlessly.
“Yes, all right, boys,” I said, giving them a quelling look over my shoulder. “I may not be as comfortable around horses as you are, but I still want to see you ride.”
“From the fence,” Rob said, giggling.
“From behind the fence,” Will added wickedly.
I faced forward and maintained a dignified silence. It was pointless to ask for sympathy from my horse-crazy sons or from anyone else in the riding world. Horse people expected everyone to be as fearless as they were. They couldn’t understand how a person could love horses from a safe distance, as I did. When I refused to risk life and limb by climbing aboard a huge, muscular creature that could kick, rear, buck, bite, step on, and run away with me, they simply shook their heads and wondered how on earth I’d given birth to Will and Rob.
It took us only ten minutes to reach the entrance to the long, curving drive that led to Emma and Derek Harris’s house, though to call Anscombe Manor a house was to grossly understate its quirky grandeur. It was a partly fourteenth-century manor house, the fourteenth-century bit being the foundation upon which a succession of owners had, over some five hundred years, built a succession of manor houses.
Anscombe Manor had entered the twenty-first century with, among other things, fifteen interior staircases—one of which stopped unexpectedly at a bricked-in doorway beyond which there was nothing but fresh air and an abrupt drop onto Emma’s cucumber frames—a timber-roofed great hall, a pair of mismatched towers, a cobbled courtyard, odd stretches of crenellated wall, and a collection of outbuildings that included a beautiful nineteenth-century stable constructed of mellow Cotswold stone.
Emma and Derek had made their own mark on the estate, first by refurbishing the manor house from top to bottom, then by adding three open-air riding rings, a modest indoor riding arena, a modern stable block for boarding horses, an assortment of storage sheds, and, last but not least, a cement-lined manure pit. I was particularly fond of the manure pit. On hot summer days, its odor seemed authentically medieval.
The Anscombe Riding Center, as Emma and Derek called their creation, had proved to be a great success, in part because of its fine facilities and splendid rural setting but to a much greater degree because of the skill and talent of its stellar stable master, Kit Smith.
Kit had an uncanny way with horses, and he was pretty good at teaching humans, too. He knew when to be patient and when to crack the whip—at the humans, that is, not the horses. I’d never seen Kit scold a horse, let alone use a whip on one. Even the most ill-mannered mounts seemed to obey him, not out of fear but because they didn’t want to disappoint him.
Clients came from far and wide to board their horses at the ARC and to take lessons from Kit. Most of the clients were wealthy—riding is an expensive hobby—so I was accustomed to seeing an array of pricey cars parked on the gravel apron at the end of the long drive. I was not, however, accustomed to seeing cars that looked as though they’d popped off the pages of a racing magazine.
“What’s with all the sports cars?” I asked as the manor house came into view.
“Didn’t Emma tell you about the cars when she came over the other day?” Annelise asked.
“She never got around to it,” I said. “Our conversation was interrupted by the telephone call from Miss Archer.”
“After which you went to pieces,” Annelise said, nodding.
“I became…distracted,” I admitted.
“Right, then,” said Annelise, “I’ll fill you in. The sports cars belong to the new stable hands. Emma’s hired quite a few since Nell came back from France. None of them need to work for a living, but they’re queuing up for jobs all the same.”
I put the words “Nell,” “stable hands,” and “sports cars” together and came to the obvious conclusion. “The new stable hands wouldn’t happen to be rich but pathetically lovesick young men, would they?”
“They would,” said Annelise. “Lucca’s not too happy about it.”
“Poor kid,” I murmured.
Lucca was one of Annelise’s many brothers. He’d had a major crush on Nell Harris for years. Most girls would have welcomed Lucca’s attentions—he was as sweet-natured as he was gorgeous—but, sadly for Lucca, Nell wasn’t most girls.
“Poor fool, you mean,” said Annelise, with an older sister’s casual ruthlessness. “Let’s face it, Lori, Lucca’s kidding himself if he thinks the new arrivals will hurt his chances with Nell, because he never had a chance. Nor have the new boys, come to that. No one’s ever had a chance with Nell but Kit, and the sooner Lucca realizes it, the sooner he’ll be able to get on with his life. I’ve told him time and again that Nell’s not the only girl in the world.”
“Maybe not,” I said quietly, “but she’s the only Nell.”
Annelise gave me a rueful glance and nodded her agreement, then parked the Rover between a fire-engine-red Ferrari and a gleaming silver Porsche. We climbed out of the Rover, helped the twins down from their booster seats, and walked sedately after them as they made their usual mad dash for the stables.
“Who owns the Porsche?” I asked, hitching my day pack’s straps onto my shoulders.
“Friedrich,” Annelise replied. “He’s from Berlin. He met Nell at the Sorbonne and followed her home.”
I had to smile. Annelise made it sound as if Friedrich were a stray dog.
“Nell takes no notice of him,” Annelise went on. “Friedrich drives here from Oxford every day, and all he gets for his trouble is heartache and a pair of smelly wellies.”
“Good grief,” I said.
“He’s not the only one,” said Annelise. “There’s Mario from Milan and Rafael from Barcelona and a handful of French boys with names I can’t pronounce. Honestly, Lori, I think the Sorbonne lost half its male undergrads to Oxford when Nell came home from Paris, and half of them are skiving off classes to work here. How they’ll ever get their degrees, I don’t know.”
“It depends on what they’re studying, I suppose,” I said.
“I know what they’re studying,” Annelise said portentously, “and they don’t give degrees for it at Oxford.”
We were ten feet or so from the stable yard’s open gate when I caught sight of the blossom that had attracted so many ardent bees to Anscombe Manor. It always took me a moment to catch my breath when I saw Nell Harris. She was quite simply the loveliest young woman I’d ever seen. When I tried to describe her to those who’d never encountered her, I always ended up mumbling feebly, “Have you ever seen Botticelli’s Venus? Nell’s
like that, only more so.”
Eleanor Harris was tall and willowy, with a halo of golden curls framing a flawless oval face adorned with features so pristine and delicate that they might have been carved out of marble. Her dark-blue eyes were as fathomless as the night sky and as brilliant as the stars sprinkled across it. She was as graceful as a nymph, as regal as a queen, and as beautiful as Botticelli’s Venus—only more so.
It didn’t matter that she was wearing a nondescript navy-blue nylon jacket, a fairly ratty pair of fawn-colored riding breeches, wrinkled leather work gloves, and black Wellington boots splashed with unspeakable horsey filth. It didn’t matter that she was wheeling a barrowful of disgusting muck out of the stables. Nell made old clothes and horse manure seem…ethereal.
I was about to call out to her when Annelise seized my arm and dragged me behind the stable-yard wall.
“There’s an interesting tableau going on in there,” she said softly. “Take a peek.”
I leaned forward cautiously and saw a tall, broad-shouldered youth with flaxen hair sweeping the cobbles near a water butt on the far side of the yard. His sky-blue eyes were so firmly fixed on Nell that he seemed unaware of the fact that he, too, was being watched—by Kit Smith.
Kit stood half hidden in the barrel-vaulted passageway that connected the manor’s rear courtyard to the stable yard. As I looked on, his gaze moved slowly from the flaxen-haired boy to Nell. Then he ducked his head abruptly and turned back toward the courtyard, as if he didn’t want to intrude upon the scene.
Beside me, Annelise was shaking her head.
“If Kit’s jealous of Friedrich,” she whispered, “then he’s as big a fool as Lucca. Doesn’t he know Nell’s his for the asking?”
“He knows,” I whispered back, “but he doesn’t want her to be. I imagine he wants her to fall for Friedrich, or for any of the young stable hands. He thinks he’s too old for her.”
“He’s mad,” Annelise declared.
I nodded. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
We peered into the stable yard again, but the interesting tableau had dissolved. Nell was wheeling her barrow around the corner of the stables, on her way to the manure pit, and Friedrich was trailing after her as faithfully as Ham, her ancient black Labrador retriever. Annelise rolled her eyes, as if to say, “All men are mad,” and went into the stables to find the twins.
I headed for the courtyard, to find Kit.
When I’d first met Kit Smith, he’d been unshaven, unshorn, homeless, half starved, and dressed in rags, but none of it had mattered. Kit’s breathtaking physical beauty, like Nell’s, transcended circumstance, but there was more to it than that. When I’d first looked into his violet eyes, I’d seen the soul of a saint.
Kit had changed a lot since then. He was gainfully employed, for one thing, and Anscombe Manor was his home as well as his workplace. He’d gotten rid of his scraggly beard, clipped his prematurely gray hair short, and added flesh and muscle to his lean frame. His face—his heart-stoppingly beautiful face—which had once been so gaunt and pale, was now radiant with good health. The only things that hadn’t changed about him were his eyes. When I looked into them, I still saw the soul of a saint.
He was a tortured saint, to be sure, but his suffering was entirely self-imposed. I knew in my bones that it would come to an end once he allowed himself to acknowledge his love for Nell. All he needed was a nudge—or a good hard kick—in the right direction.
“I don’t care what Emma says,” I muttered as I crossed the stable yard. “Friends don’t let friends suffer.”
By the time I entered the barrel-vaulted passage, I’d made a small but important addition to my original plan. I’d use the vampire hunt to find Rendor, of course, but I’d also use it as an opportunity to talk some sense into Kit. The more I thought about it, the better I liked my revised mission statement. No one could resist me when my heart was set on something, and my heart was set on helping Kit live happily ever after. If I could spread the hunt out over several days, I had no doubt whatsoever that I would be able to cure him of his age-gap phobia, convince him that he was making a dreadful mistake by rejecting Nell, and persuade him to ask for her hand in marriage.
Emma might be willing to stand by and do nothing while Kit ruined his life, but my boots were made for kicking—and I intended to use them. I was sure that Aunt Dimity would approve.
There was a bounce in my step and a determined gleam in my eye when I strode into the courtyard, but when I caught sight of Kit, I stopped short.
Why was Anscombe Manor’s stellar stable master sitting idly on a damp wooden bench? I asked myself. Why was he wearing hiking boots instead of riding boots, wool trousers instead of breeches, and a rain jacket instead of his customary barn coat? Had he relinquished his role to one of Nell’s many suitors? Had the new herd of young studs driven him from the stables?
“Hey, Kit,” I called, hurrying over to sit beside him on the bench. “Why aren’t you dressed for work? Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not ill.” He heaved a mournful sigh. “I’m on holiday.”
My eyebrows rose. To my knowledge Kit had never taken a single day off of work, much less a whole vacation.
“Since when do you take holidays?” I asked.
“Since Emma ordered me to,” he replied. “She thinks we should take advantage of the extra help while we can.”
I glanced toward the stable yard. “Can the extra help manage without you?”
“Oh, yes,” Kit answered dully. “Most of them were raised around stables much grander than ours. They don’t need me to tell them what to do.”
“What about your lessons?” I asked.
He shrugged apathetically. “Emma and Nell are covering for me. They’re both excellent instructors.”
His shoulders sagged, and he shuffled his feet aimlessly on the cobbles, as if he were bored to tears. I, on the other hand, had to restrain myself from jumping for joy. It would be ten times easier to persuade Kit to come with me, now that he had nothing else to do. He wouldn’t even have to change his clothes.
“Are you planning to spend your entire holiday sitting here?” I teased.
Kit extended his long legs and leaned against the wall behind the bench.
“I was going to go for a walk,” he said, “but I ran out of energy.”
“Then you can borrow some of mine,” I said, beaming at him. “I have a favor to ask of you, Kit.”
“Do you?” he said lazily. “What sort of favor?”
“I want you to help me to find Rendor.” I held up a hand to forestall interruption. “I know all about the gnarled tree and the missing footprints, but Will drew a detailed picture of Rendor, so I’m convinced that he and Rob saw someone. I don’t know who it was, but I’m going to find out, and I want you to come with me because…” I paused for a breath, then went on in a rush. “Because he might turn out to be another violent psycho and I don’t want to run the risk of ending up in the hospital again—or worse.” I paused again before adding craftily, “And seeing as you’re at loose ends…”
Kit continued to lounge against the wall for a minute or so. Then he sat up and turned to face me. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you. On one condition.”
“Name it,” I said, smiling brightly.
“Once we’ve proved to your satisfaction that the woods are safe,” he said, “you’ll take riding lessons.”
My smile vanished. “I’ll…what? Me? Ride? A horse?”
“Yes,” Kit said gravely. “You. Ride. A horse.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, waving my hands to ward off the insane suggestion. “Not in this lifetime at any rate. You know how I feel about horses.”
“I do,” he said, “and it’s high time you got over it. Wouldn’t it be fun to go for a hack with Emma every now and then?”
“Sure,” I said. “If you leave out the part where I take a nosedive into the nearest hedgerow.”
“Listen to me, Lori.”
Kit folded his arms and regarded me severely. “You can’t go on standing on the far side of the fence. If you do, Will and Rob will always see you as an outsider looking in. You’ll never earn their respect, you’ll never fully bond with them, you’ll never truly understand your sons until you overcome your fear of horses.”
“Ouch,” I said, wincing. “You really know how to hit a mom where it hurts.”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.” He smiled sweetly, unfolded his arms, and gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, Lori. We’ll take it very slowly, one step at a time. I’ll put you on Toby. He’s small, gentle, patient—”
“And toothless,” I finished for him. “Yes, I know Toby. I petted him once.”
“You see? You’re halfway there.” Kit stuck out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
I whimpered piteously but shook his hand to seal the deal.
“You won’t regret it.” Kit sprang to his feet, as if energized by my surrender, and said cheerfully, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into the manor house and returned a moment later, sliding the straps of a bulging day pack over his shoulders.
“That was quick,” I commented.
“I like to keep a pack handy, for long trail rides,” he explained. He nodded toward the tree-covered hills behind the manor house. “Shall we?”
I got up and trudged after him, feeling a bit shell-shocked. I’d never expected Kit Smith, of all people, to drive such a hard bargain. To my way of thinking, there wasn’t much difference between doing battle with a vampiric psycho pervert and riding a horse.
But Kit would have to keep his part of the bargain, too, I reminded myself. Before I risked life and limb by climbing into a saddle, he’d have to prove to me that neither man nor monster haunted the woods above Anscombe Manor.
Six
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter Page 5
