Silverbridge (8 page)

Tracy shut her eyes and thought. “Wilson Photography,” she said finally. “It’s in Westport, Connecticut.”

“Okay, I’ll call. But I’m sure they’ll have the negative, Tracy. In fact, they probably have the picture hanging in their showroom.”

Tracy slowly hung up. Her irrational fear that if she lost the picture she would be losing Scotty again was slightly abated by Gail’s rational words.

She was exhausted, but the adrenaline was still flowing too strongly to make sleep possible. When she saw the closed door at the far end of the corridor, she decided that she would take a look at the drawing room before she went to bed. She walked past Harry’s room, Meg’s room, and her own room, softly turned the knob on the drawing room door, and opened it.

The drawing room was much larger and grander than the morning room. Hanging over the marble fireplace was a magnificent painting of a mother and child, which Tracy later learned was a Gainsborough portrait of a previous Lady Silverbridge holding the hand of her young son. Green v
elvet sofas and green-and-rose-
striped chairs were grouped around the fireplace, and a large grand piano stood in one pale green co
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er. Tracy’s eyes moved slowly across the stunning room, with its magnificent moldings and chandelier, in the direction of the tall window, which looked out over the back lawn and the fountain.

A man and a woman were standing a few steps away from the window. They were very close to each other, but not touching. The man, who looked like Harry, wore the blue morning coat and pale yellow pantaloons that Tracy had come to recognize as standard for a Regency
gentleman. The girl, for she could not have been over twenty, wore a simple muslin dress, and her auburn hair was pulled back into a chignon. Tracy had a clear view of her profile and, except for the darker hair and straighter nose, it was like looking in a mirror.

The strangest feeling settled over Tracy as she beheld this couple. No longer was she startled, or frightened, or upset. It was as though a great stillness had encompassed her, almost like the stillness she had felt when she first met Harry. She stood, motionless and silent, and watched.

The man lifted a hand and gently traced a finger along the girl’s cheekbone. He left his finger where it was as he said, “God, Isabel. What am I to do?”

His voice was the voice of a living man. The couple looked complet
ely solid as they stood there in
front of the window.

“You can’t do anything, Charles,” the girl replied. Her accent was English. “We can’t do anything. You are married, and I am your third cousin. And that is all we can ever be to each other.”

“I know that you are right.” His voice sounded harsh. “At least my head knows that you are right. It’s my heart that tells me otherwise.”

The girl did not reply. She just looked at him. Very slightly, her mouth quivered.

He jerked his hand away from her face and turned to stare out the window, the tension in his broad shoulders visible. “Christ, this is a pretty sight. Here I am, trying to seduce my children’s governess. I have always despised men who took advantage of their dependents.”

“You haven’t taken advantage of me,” the girl
replied. “Something happened between us. It wasn’t something either of us wanted. It just”—she lifted a hand in a helpless gesture—“happened.”

He turned back. “I know. But
I
can’t go on like this, Isabel. I can’t see you day after day, and want you, and know you are living under the same roof as
I
…
”

She crossed her arms over her breast in a protective gesture. “What am I to do, Charles?” There was a desperate note in her voice. “Caroline took me on because there was nowhere else for me to go after Papa died. I’m too young to get a job as governess with any other family.”

The sun suddenly peeked out from beneath the clouds, lighting the man’s hair to gold. Tracy felt a pain somewhere in the region of her heart. He reached out and gathered the girl into his arms. “I have no intention of putting you out, sweetheart
.
Forget my ravings. We shall do just fine.”

The girl rested her cheek against his shoulder in a small gesture of confidence and trust. She did not see, as Tracy did, the look of grim despair carved into the flesh of the man’s face.

Yeeooow!
Tracy jumped at the high-pitched screech and looked down to see Ebony standing beh
ind her in the doorway. The littl
e cat’s hair was standing on end, making her look twice as big as she really was, her tail was fat and standing straight up, and her glittering green eyes were fastened on the space in front of the window. Once again she let out that bloodcurdling sound.

Tracy looked back to the window, but no one was there. Her heart, which had accelerated at Ebony’s yowl, continued to race as she stared at the empty space
where just a minute before two people had stood. Then she looked back down at Ebony, who was still staring at the window and still in a state of full alarm.

I’m not crazy,
she thought.
There was something there. Ebony knows it.
She looked once more around the empty room and began to tremble.
In the name of God,
she thought, afraid as she had not been before,
what is going on here
?

8

T
racy slept for five hours and when she awoke the
light outside her window was dimming. The first thing she thought was,
I’m starving. I hope I haven’t missed all the food.

She went to the window to see if the catering truck was still there. It was, but the caterers were packing up to leave.

Damn. Tracy had crawled into bed in her clothes, and she looked with disgust at her wrinkled turtleneck and jeans. She turned from the window to see if her clothes from London had arrived.

Someone had placed a large leather suitcase and a smaller matching tote bag along the wall next to the door. A green garment bag was draped over a chair. Tracy heaved a sigh of relief and went to pull out some warm clothes. She had been delightfully toasty under the down comforter, but the air in the bedroom was decidedly colder than she was accustomed to.

She wanted to take a shower before she dressed, and went into the plain, functional bathroom she was to share with Meg. The old white tub was long and narrow and, to Tracy’s relief, a striped shower curtain indicated the presence of a shower.

The bathroom was freezing. Tracy started the shower and stripped off her clothes, praying that the water would be hot. It was. She climbed through the shower curtain, borrowed Meg’s soap and shampoo, and was out again in five minutes. She had no wish to linger and find that she had run out of hot water before she had washed the suds out of her hair.

Shivering even more than before, she hurried into her
underwear and a pair of wool slacks and a lavender cashmere sweater set, the kind of clothes she would wear to a gathering of friends in Connecticut. She couldn’t find a hair dryer in the bathroom, which, except for a few shelves holding towels, was utterly devoid of storage space, so she dried her hair as best she could with a towel. Then she set off for the morning room, hoping to find Jon.

The person she encountered was Lord Silverbridge. He was sitting in a large, comfortable-looking wing chair with Ebony on his lap and a folded newspaper propped up on the chair’s arm so it was out of the little cat’s way. He looked up as Tracy came in.

“Good evening,” he said. “Meggie said that you were sleeping. I hope you got a good rest.”

His words were courteous, but his tone was indifferent. He was wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that, outrageously, made him look even more handsome than usual.

He could have been the twin of the man she had seen in the drawing room.

“Yes, thank you, my
lord,” she replied expression
lessly.

“You must forgive my not getting up, but Ebony dislikes being disturbed.”

Tracy narrowed her eyes.
You arrogant bastard, you’re the one who dislikes being disturbed.
“Where are Meg and Jon?” she asked.

“They still appear to be shooting down in the garden. I haven’t seen either of them since I got in.”

Tracy looked at the paper he was holding. “Is that an evening edition?”

“It is indeed,” he replied. “And there is a picture of you prominently displayed.”

Tracy cursed.

“You look quite fetching in your pajamas,” Lord Silverbridge went on. He turned the paper around and held it out to her. “Here, would you like to see?”

She took the paper from him silently and regarded the picture that Jason Counes had taken at the fire. He had caught her smiling at Jon.

“Damn,” she said. “Now the gossip will start that I’m having an affair with Jon.”

“Are you?” he asked blandly. Then, as she glared at him, he held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I know all too well how the press can distort things.”

There was a bitter note in his voice, and Tracy remembered Jon’s story about Silverbridge’s relationship with a model. Then her stomach gurgled, and she said, “I missed dinner, and the catering truck is leaving. Is
there any
way I could get some food? Are there any area restaurants that deliver?”

“No.” He took off his glasses and rested them on top of a table. Very gently he shooed the little cat off his lap. She leaped to the floor with a protesting squawk, gave Tracy an indignant glare, and began to clean her paws.

“I’ll take you down to the kitchen,” he said. “I’m sure there will be something you can eat.”

He was wearing brown twill pants, a tattersall shirt open at the neck, and a pair of polished brown mocca
sins. As he joined her, Tracy co
uld see that he was taller and slimmer than his phantom counterpart, but their faces were almost identical.

“The kitchen is in the basement,” he said. “It was much easier to use the original than it was to install a new one upstairs.”

“That is understandable,” Tracy said, mimicking his carefully polite tone.

She followed him down the staircase that led to the green marble hallway, where he opened a door revealing yet more stairs. He switched on a light, and they went down another flight, ending up in a very large but surprisingly cozy kitchen. When Harry entered, his two spaniels arose from the sofa under the window and came to meet him, tails wagging eagerly. As he greeted the dogs, Tracy looked around. Besides the sofa and table and chairs, there was a large oak sideboard displaying an assortment of china, soup tureens, and a big bowl
of fruit. The stove looked modern
, as did the refrigerator. The countertops were the same color oak as the table. The wood floor was darker.

The spaniels pattered out into the back hall.

“I usually come down before I go to bed and take them out,” Harry said. “I’ll just let them out now, if you don’t mind.”

He disappeared into the back hall, and, a moment later, Tracy heard the sound of a door opening and closing. He returned almost immediately without the dogs and went directly to the refrigerator, murmuring, “I’m sure there must be something here.”

When he withdrew his hand from the refrigerator it was holding a plate covered with plastic wrap. He said expressionlessly, “Mrs. Wilson left some stewed chicken for Meg, but she must have eaten with the movie people.” He looked at Tracy. “I can warm it in the microwave if you like.”

“I don’t want to eat Meg’s dinner,” she said. “Some cheese and crackers would be fine.”

He was looking at the plate in his hand. “Meg isn’t going to eat this. It will only get thrown away. You might as well have it.”

“How can I possibly refuse such a gracious offer?” Tracy said.

He shot her a look but didn’t reply. Instead he popped the plate into a large microwave oven that sat on top of one of the counters and expertly pushed some buttons.

“Would you care for something to drink?” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “We have some fizzy water that Meg likes. Or I can offer you a glass of wine.”

“Fizzy water will be fine,” Tracy said. She went to sit at the oak table, putting him in the position of serving her.

He didn’t seem at all discomposed by this maneuver. He opened the bottle top, poured the water into a glass,
and brought it to her. The microwave beeped, and he went to remove the plate, which he brought to her as well. “Hold on,” he said, and went to get a knife, fork, and spoon from the sideboard drawer.

As Tracy lifted the fork she saw that the kitchen flatware used at Silverbridge was heavy, solid silver with a coronet engraved on the handles. The dinner plate, on the other hand, was the kind of mode
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stoneware that one could put in the microwave.

“Oh,” he said. “I forgot.” He went back to the sideboard and returned with a heavy white damask napkin, which he spread ostentatiously on her lap. “There. I believe I’ve done everything expected of a good innkeeper.”

Tracy was annoyed. Somehow he had got the best of her. She ignored him and began to eat.

He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure what to do, then he took the seat across from her. Tracy glanced up from her food and found him looking at her. His open collar revealed a strong, slim neck and an elegant but firm jaw- line. She quickly looked down at her plate, speared a piece of potato, and said offhandedly, “Do you have any ghosts here at Silverbridge, my lord?”

“Are you one of those ghost-busting Americans who go around collecting haunted houses, Miss Collins?” There was amusement in his voice.

“No, I am not.” It was difficult to make an American voice sound as chilly as an English voice, but Tracy managed it. “I am merely trying to make conversation with a very rude man. However, if you prefer to be silent, that is perfectly all right with me.”

She shot him a scorching blue look and ate the piece of potato on the end of her fork.

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to reply. Then he rubbed his hand across his eyes, and said stiffly, “I beg your pardon. I have been rude. I have a great many things on my mind, but it isn’t fair to take my bad temper out on you. Please forgive me.”

The words were okay, but the tone was wrong. Tracy picked up her glass, looked at him, and for a brief second their eyes met and held. An electric current flashed from her toes to the ends of her still-damp hair. She mumbled, “Of course,” and quickly returned her gaze to her food.

She heard him shift in his chair. “We don’t have any ghosts that I know of. They are supposed to lurk in places where they met a violent death, isn’t that so? Most of the violent deaths in my family were met on the battlefield, not here at Silverbridge. For such an old house, we are remarkable spirit-free.”

Tracy moved a piece of celery to the side of her plate. She kept her voice casual as she asked, “Do you know which ancestor of yours lived here during Regency times?”

“That would be Charles Oliver, the tenth earl,” he replied.

Charles.

Tracy returned her fork to her plate with an unsteady hand. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You’ve gone quite white.”

She waited a moment until she was certain she had
control of her voice. “I’m fine.” She wanted a drink of water but was afraid her hand was trembling too much to pick up the glass. “You must be very familiar with your ancestors. You certainly came up with that name in a hurry.”

He leaned his shoulders against the back of his chair. She noticed that his eyebrows were the color of his hair, but his lashes were as dark a brown as his eyes. He said, “I’ve always felt a kinship to Charles. He fought in the Peninsula during the war against Napoleon, and he managed to learn the elements of classical riding while he was in Portugal. It was he who built the indoor riding ring here at Silverbridge. Actually, I have a portrait of him hanging in my office.”

Tracy reached for her glass and realized it was empty. She asked if there was any more water.

“Certainly.” He went to the refrigerator, opened another bottle, and returned to pour it into her glass. She drank half of it.

“Is that chicken too salty for you?” he asked.

“Not at all. It’s delicious. I’m just very thirsty. It must be because my sleeping schedule is all out of whack,” She put her glass down and stabbed another piece of chicken with her fork.

For a long while the hum of the refrigerator motor was the only sound in the room. It was Harry who made the next attempt at conversation. “So you ride yourself, Miss Collins?”

The refrigerator motor switched off as Tracy answered. “I had a wonderful Thoroughbred mare I used to show when I was in high school. When I went away to college I retired her to a big farm in Virginia, and I’ve
done very little riding since.” He actually appeared to be interested in what she was saying, so she continued. “I rode hunt seat, of course. That’s what equitation is in America. But I have always loved to watch dressage. It comes the closest to the Greek myth of the centaur of any of the riding disciplines, I think.”

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, he regarded her with approval.

A single sharp bark came from outside the kitchen door. “Excuse me,” he said as he got up to go and let the dogs back in. They trotted into the room, their nails making scraping sounds on the bare wood floor. Marshal went to take a drink from his water dish while Millie jumped on the sofa and made herself comfortable.

Harry returned to the kitchen table. Tracy had finished the food on her plate, but he didn’t appear to notice as he sat back down. She wanted to keep him talking to her, so she resumed the conversation about horses. “Whom did you study with?”

He replied gravely. “I was fortunate enough to spend a year with Nuno Oliviero in Portugal.”

“Oh wow,” Tracy said, genuinely impressed. “I’ve only seen pictures of him on horseback, but even in a still picture you can see that he was something.”

“So you have heard of him?”

“Yes, I have heard of him,” she replied. “I have also heard of Podhajsky. And I once saw Reiner Klimke ride Ahlerich to music at the National Horse Show in New York.” Her tone softened. “I actually cried, it was so beautiful.”

He folded his arms on the table. “Klimke is my hero. He competed internationally, yet he always remained
faithful to the ideals of classical horsemanship. He was able to marry the competition to the art, and that is something I have been trying to do.”