Silverbridge (11 page)

Four centuries of possessiveness sounded in the steely, unyielding notes of his voice.

When he turned to Tracy she was staring at him. He lifted a brow in inquiry, and she said breathlessly, “Do you know, for a moment there you looked exactly like that picture of Charles you have in your office?”

“Did I?” He took a deep breath and made himself relax. “Well, I’m quite sure that Charles wouldn’t have sold Silverbridge either. Fortunately for him, he lived in a different world, and the issue never came up.”

She returned somberly, “He couldn’t have been that fortunate, my lord, if he died at thirty-four.”

He stood in his stirrups, looking for his spaniels. When he didn’t see them, he whistled. “True. He was killed right near the lake, you know.”

“How did it happen?” Her voice was almost a whisper.

He whistled again, then turned to look at her. “He was out riding, just like we are, when a poacher must have mistaken him for something else.”

She was looking straight ahead, and the line of her mouth looked ineffably sorrowful. “How terrible.”

He found that he couldn’t pull his eyes away from her mouth. “Yes, I’ve always thought so. Ironic, too. He had
made it through a war and then, to be picked off in his own woods like
that…
”

Her h
ead turned and she looked directly
at him. “I thought you said tha
t no violent deaths had ever oc
curred at Silverbridge.” She sounded as if she was accusing him. “Charles’s death was certainly violent.”

He dragged his eyes away from that tantalizing mouth. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

“But no one has seen his ghost?”

Finally, the dogs came catapulting out of the woods, and he managed a shaky laugh. “You really are keen on ghosts, aren’t you?”

Her chin came up. “There’s a lot of evidence that they do exist.”

“It depends on what you call ‘evidence.’ All I can tell you is that, fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how you look at it, Silverbridge has been remarkably free of ghosts.”

A flock of sparrows rose in the air from the grass on their left and the dogs gave chase.

Tracy asked, “Did they ever find out who shot Charles?”

He shook his head. “Not that I know. But it was a long time ago, and records get lost.”

Tracy turned in her saddle so she could look back at the woods. “Well, I’m on your side about the land, my lord. I think it would be a sin to cut all that natural loveliness down to make a golf course.”

He didn’t like the pleasure he got from hearing her say she was on his side. He made his voice expressionless, and said, “Some people think golf courses are beautiful.”

“They may be pretty, but they’re unnatural. They don’t shelter any wildlife or grow any food or have any viable ecosystem. They’re only a playground for people who ride around in carts trying to hit a little white ball with a stick.”

It amazed him that this American movie star should be the only person he knew who seemed to share his feelings.
Christ,
he thought with alarm.
I’d better watch out. The last thing I need is to get entangled with a movie star!

11

T
he Honorable Anthony Oliver arrived at Silverbridge early that afternoon. Tracy met him as she and Meg were finishing lunch in the kitchen. Meg, who looked paler and even more fragile than usual after her evening’s foray into the brandy bottle, had eaten exactly one quarter of a bowl of Mrs. Wilson’s excellent vegetable soup. Tracy, on the other hand, had eaten two bowls, as well as some homemade bread. In fact, she was still nibbling on the bread while Meg was ignoring her almost-full bowl, when a flexible tenor voice said liltingly, “Mrs. Wilson! You’ve made soup. Surely this is my lucky day.”

The stout, middle-aged woman at the sink turned around, a smile on her square, no-nonsense face. “Mr. Anthony! How grand to see you again!”

Tracy watched as the slim, athletic figure of Anthony Oliver swooped across the kitchen floor to catch Mrs. Wilson up in a hug.

“La, now, Mr. Anthony. Enough of your shenanigans,” the woman scolded, as he set her back on her feet. But she was smiling.

“Hi, Tony,” Meg said, her face brighter than it had been all day.

“Meggie, darling. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

Tracy watched curiously as Harry’s younger brother crossed the kitchen to bestow a kiss on his sister. When he straightened up it was Tracy’s turn to receive the radiance of his smile. “Miss Collins. How delightful to meet you. And I understand from Meg that we are fortunate enough to have you actually staying with us?”

He had Brad Pitt good looks, with a cap of silver-blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and chiseled features. He kept his hands on Meg’s thin shoulders as he regarded Tracy.

“Yes, I am,” she replied. She was not quite sure how to address him, so she asked, “Do I call you Lord Anthony?”

He laughed, his teeth very white against the golden tan of his skin. His classic features had none of the male toughness or arrogance that characterized Harry’s. Everything about Tony was sunshine and charm.

“Alas, while the daughter of an earl is designated a
lady,
the son of an earl does not merit the title of
lord,
”
he replied. “I am merely an Honorable, to be addressed as Mr. Oliver.” His blue eyes smiled cloudlessly. “But please do call me Tony.”

“Where’d you get the tan?” Meg asked, twisting her head to look up at him.

“I was in Spain last week on business and I managed to get to the beach for a few hours,” he replied carelessly.

“Would you care for some soup, Mr. Anthony?” the housekeeper asked.

“I should adore some soup.” Tony pulled out the chair next to Meg and sat at the table. He glanced at his sister’s bowl and a faint line marred the perfection of his forehead. “Eat some more, Meggie,” he said.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied sulkily. “I ate a big breakfast.”

“And where was that, Lady Margaret?” Mrs. Wilson asked from her place in front of the stove. “It certainly wasn’t here.”

Meg slammed her hand on the table. “Leave me alone, all of you! Can’t you talk about something other than my eating?” She jumped up and ran out of the kitchen.

In the ensuing silence, Mrs. Wilson brought a bowl of vegetable soup to the table and placed it in front of Tony. He looked at it, then looked up at the housekeeper. “Is she eating at all, Mrs. Wilson?”

The reply was grim. “A bit here and a bit there. His lordship has her going to some therapist over in Warkfield, but it don’t seem to be helping much.”

Tracy said quietly, “Anorexia is very difficult to treat.”

“Are you familiar with the problem, Miss Collins?” Tony asked.

She finished her bread and wiped her fingers on a linen napkin. “We see quite a bit of it in America. Unfortunately.”

He looked interested. “How is it treated in America?”

“The same way you treat it here, I imagine. It’s a
mental disease, really, so psychotherapy is definitely called for.”

“I’ll have to talk to Harry.” Tony’s blue eyes were somber. “She’s always
been thin, but today her shoul
ders felt as sharp as blades under my fingers.”

“His Lordship told me to leave food for her in the refrigerator, in case she might want to eat when no one’s watching her. I do that, Mr. Anthony, but it’s never touched,” Mrs. Wilson contributed.

“Something has to be done.” He shook his head. “What the hell is the matter with her? Why won’t she eat?”

His concern for his sister was palpably genuine, and Tracy found herself warming to him. Since he had been so frank, she felt comfortable asking, “Is this a longstanding problem?”

He sighed and dipped a spoon into his soup. “Meg has been a problem ever since my mother died, which was three years ago. My mother never paid very much attention to her, so I don’t really understand why she should have been knocked into such a tizzy. But she was, and she hasn’t come out of it. Harry’s had her in five different schools, and the last one said she couldn’t come back unless she gained some weight.”

“She wants attention is my guess,” Mrs. Wilson said unsympathetically. “Starving herself is the way she’s going about getting it.”

That may well be true,
Tracy thought,
but such drastic behavior is the sign of a deeply disturbed person.
“Your father is also deceased?” she asked Tony.

He nodded. “Papa died when Meg was eight.”

Good grief,
Tracy thought.
She lost both parents before she was fourteen. No wonder she’s troubled.

Tony said, with a clear desire to change the subject, “Tell me, Miss Collins, how is the movie progressing?”

“Very well, thank you,” she returned briskly.
“I
believe we are on schedule, which is very important to the producer and director. Time is money, you know, and fortunately the weather has been cooperating.”

The kitchen door opened and, even though Tracy’s head was turned away from the door, she immediately knew who had come in. “Tony,” Harry said. “I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

“I just got here.” Tony had risen and was holding out his hand to his brother. “I’m going to stay for a few weeks. Did Meggie tell you?”

“Yes, she did.” Harry looked as if he wanted to say something else, but then he glanced at Tracy and contented himself with shaking his brother’s hand.

Don’t air family business in front of strangers,
Tracy thought cynically.

He said, “I was looking for Meg. I’m driving over to the point-to-point, and I wondered if she’d like to come.”

“She was here, but she left in a huff,” Tony said. “I made the mistake of urging her to eat. She’s painfully thin, Harry. It can’t be healthy.”

“I know.” Once again Harry shot Tracy a look. “I’ll see if she’s in her room.”

Then, without speaking a single direct word to her, he left.

T
racy was furious. Not only was it inexcusably rude for him to ignore her in such a way, but they had just
spent a delightful morning together.
I thought we were becoming friends,
she fumed.
Then he has the nerve to act as if I wasn't there.

He had known she was there, though. Her presence was what had kept him from discussing family problems with Tony.

She went back upstairs to the morning room, sat in Harry’s usual chair, and wondered what to do with herself for the rest of the afternoon.

I could go shopping,
she thought unenthusiastically. Gail had rented a car so she could get back and forth from her B&B, and Tracy knew her secretary would be delighted to pick her up for a shopping expedition.

She was still debating with herself when Tony came into the room accompanied by a large, burly man whom Tracy recognized as Robin Mauley. Both men looked surprised to see her.

She produced her most bewitching smile and watched as their faces relaxed and they smiled back. “Am I in your way?” she asked lightly.

“Not at all, not at all,” Mauley blustered. “You could never be in anyone’s way, Miss Collins.”

“How nice of you to say that,” she returned pleasantly. “Have you gentlemen got together to discuss the golf course?”

Mauley’s thick, bushy brows snapped together.

Tony said sharply, “What do you know about the golf course?”

“Oh dear.” Tracy’s lovely face looked distressed. “Have I said something I shouldn’t? All I know is that Meg told me Mr. Mauley wanted to buy some Silverbridge land to build a golf course. Was it wrong of her to tell me that?”

The two men exchanged a glance, and Tony said, “Of course it wasn’t wrong.” He smiled ruefully. “The problem is that my brother is being stubborn and doesn’t want to sell. Mr. Mauley and I have got together to see if we can come up with a persuasive enough argument to change his mind.”

“Why do you want him to change his mind?” she asked ingenuously.

Tony took a seat on one of the sofas and gestured for Mauley to do the same. “Money,” he replied succinctly. “Harry doesn’t have the money to keep up this immense property. With the money he would get from Mauley, he could afford to maintain the house and expand the stables. Hell, he would be able to afford a new car! It’s completely to his advantage to sell the land.
”

And I imagine that it would be to your advantage too,
Tracy thought.
Some of Mauley’s money would be bound to trickle down into your pockets.

Tony said grimly. “I cannot believe that he is being so stubborn about property that is just farmland.”

“At least farmland contributes to the common good,” Tracy said. “It produces food.”

“And a golf course produces exercise and enjoyment for thousands of people,” Mauley returned swiftly. “It will contribute to the common good as well if not better than any farmland.”

Tracy disguised her disagreement and rose gracefully to her feet. “Well, I’ll leave you gentlemen to your discussion. I have shopping to do.”

Both men had risen with her, and Robin Mauley
bared his small teeth. “Pleasure to have met you again, Miss Collins.”

Tony said with an engaging smile, “I’ll see you later.” Tracy shared a gracious smile between them and floated out into the foyer, where a worried frown creased her brow. There had been an air of conspiracy between the two men as they came into the room that she did not like.

Harry’s bedroom door was half-open as usual, and she glanced back at the morning room to check if the men could see her. The sofa where both men were seated was out of her line of sight. Without stopping to think, she stepped into Harry’s room and shamelessly prepared to eavesdrop.

Mauley’s deep, gruff voice was easy to distinguish. “Percy isn’t going to wait forever on this, Tony. If I can’t tell him that I definitely have the land, he will look elsewhere to build his hotel. And that is something we don’t want to happen. A hotel is a key part of my plan, and Percy Hotels are the best.”

“I know,” Tony replied. Tracy had to strain to hear his lighter voice. “Harry is just so goddamn stubborn. But I have a few ideas that might make him change his mind.”

“I can stall Percy for a few more weeks, but not much beyond that,” Mauley said wa
rn
ingly.

“Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do. And if you do get the land, our deal stands?”

“Absolutely, dear boy. Absolutely.”

What deal?
Tracy thought. But the men must have moved because their voices had become indistinguishable. She waited for a few more minutes, hoping that
they would become audible once more, and while she waited she looked around the room.

It was a larger bedroom than hers, with an equally high ceiling and tall windows. The walls were painted Wedgewood blue, with the elegant moldings that divided the walls into squares and rectangles painted a contrasting white. Over the white marble fireplace hung a picture of horses on Newmarket Heath that Tracy was certain was an original Stubbs. Most of the furniture in the room was either Regency or French in style, from the blue silk chairs in front of the fireplace, to the small satinwood tables that flanked the fireplace, to the magnificent rosewood armoire. However, the blue-patterned carpet was definitely modem, as was the king-size bed, which was covered with a blue-and-white comforter.

A jet-black spot of fur was curled up in the middle of that comforter and Ebony was directing an outraged green glare at the intruder in her domain. “It’s okay, little girl,”
Tracy said softly to the cat. “
I’m not going to touch anything.”

The room was neat, but there were definite signs that someone beside Ebony inhabi
ted it. Reposing on the Louis XI
V table in front of the window was a pile of loose change, a set of car keys, and a folded-up newspaper. A man’s wool sweater was carelessly tossed on the bed and a pair of maroon slippers was on the floor. A book lay open and facedown on the bedside table, as if the reader had put it that way to mark his place before going to sleep. Before she could think better of her action, Tracy crossed the carpet on soundless feet to look at the book’s title.

Wellington: The Years of the Sword.
The author was Elizabeth Longford.