Suspicion (5 page)

I blink rapidly as ghosts descend upon the photo in my mind, strolling the grounds and looking out from the high balconies and arched windows. I can’t look anymore. I quickly shift my eyes down toward the text.

Welcome to Rockford Manor, home to the eleventh Duke of Wickersham. Known as the finest nonroyal palace in Britain, Rockford Manor is a National Trust Site. The Rockford family has called the manor home for more than three centuries. The palace and gardens are currently closed to the public but will reopen in June for the summer season.

I swallow hard, struggling to calm my racing heart, as I click the Contact Us tab. I scan the different titles and phone numbers until I find the name I’m looking for:
Mr. Harry Morgan, Estate Manager.

Why in the world would the Rockford’s estate manager need to reach
me?
I wage a silent debate in my mind over whether or not to contact him, and once the little voice in my head urging me to do it has won, I question whether calling or emailing is the right move. Finally, I bite the bullet and reach for my cell. Calling Europe is probably going to cost me a fortune, but I’ll deal with that later.

It strikes me that I have no clue what the country code is for England—the last time I ever called overseas was when Mum and Dad were still alive. I quickly Google “How to call England,” and after dialing a myriad of numbers, I hear the drone of the international ring tone. At last, a prim woman’s voice answers.

“Good afternoon, Harry Morgan’s office.”

“Hi.” My voice comes out like a croak, and I clear my throat nervously. “Hi, um, can I speak to him, please?”

“Mr. Morgan is currently in America,” she replies briskly. “May I take a message?”

“Where in America?” I ask, feeling suddenly light-headed.

The woman pauses. “May I ask who I’m speaking with?”

I take a deep breath.

“This is Imogen. Imogen Rockford.”

I hear a sharp exhale on the other end of the line. When she speaks again, the woman’s voice is entirely different. No longer sounding harried, she adopts a girlish tone brimming with excitement.

“Lady Imogen! I’m Liza, Harry Morgan’s assistant. You can’t imagine how long we’ve been trying to reach you. It’s been quite a trial, so much so that hearing your voice now is just … well, I can’t believe it!”

I hold the phone in front of me and stare at it, as if gazing deep into my iPhone will somehow make sense of her bizarre words.

“I’m just Imogen. No one calls me Lady,” I say, baffled. “And I don’t know what you mean about trying to reach me. I haven’t gotten any calls or mail or anything, other than a package from Mr. Morgan just now.”

“You didn’t receive anything?” Liza echoes, her voice sounding bewildered. “But we’ve been writing and calling for weeks.”

With a jolt, I realize this can mean only one of two things. Either this lady is off her rocker—or the Marinos have been withholding the correspondence from me.

“Where is Mr. Morgan?” I ask again. “I haven’t opened his package yet. My guardians have it.”

“He’s in New York,” she says softly. “He came to see you.”

I nearly fall out of my desk chair.

“What? He’s here?”

“Yes. He needs to speak with you. It’s very important.”

“Is it something bad?” I ask tentatively. What if the Marinos have a good reason for keeping this from me?

“Not exactly.” As if sensing my hesitation over the phone, Liza continues, “You’ll be glad to speak with him. You won’t be sorry, I guarantee it.”

“Okay …” I think quickly. “It’s probably best that I meet him somewhere else, not at my home.”

I nervously rattle off the first place I think of, Lauren’s address, and ask if Mr. Morgan can meet me there after school.

“I’ll make sure he gets there at three-fifteen,” Liza promises me. “I’m so glad I got to speak with you, Imogen. Have a wonderful day, and I—I hope we’ll be seeing you at Rockford Manor soon.”

“Oh, um, probably not, but thanks. Have a good day.”

I click the phone off and fling myself onto my bed, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I’ve just done. I can’t imagine what’s so important that an estate manager would travel halfway across the world to come talk to me about—and I’m both terrified and eager to find out what it is.

“You said what?” Lauren exclaims through a mouthful of her turkey sandwich. We’re sitting at our usual table in the school cafeteria and I’ve just finished giving her a quick, under-my-breath recap of the phone call. “What am I supposed to tell my mom when a strange old British guy shows up at our apartment?”

“I didn’t know what else to say. I had to come up with something on the spot, and I wanted to meet him someplace where I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing. And I obviously can’t meet him at home when Carole and Keith are the ones trying to hide all this from me.” I glance across the room at Zoey, who’s chatting happily with her friends at a corner table, blissfully unaware of her parents’ secrets—or my own. “Plus … I’d just feel a little better if you were there.”

Lauren gives my arm a squeeze. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Of course I’ll be there for you. We just have to think of an alias for this Harry guy that won’t make my mom suspicious.”

“I guess we could say he’s my uncle?” I suggest. “We could pretend he’s visiting me and that I brought him over to meet you.”

Lauren wrinkles her nose.

“I don’t know. I can totally see my mom mentioning that to the Marinos.”

“Okay, then … what if he’s my tutor and is helping us study for a test?”

“You know how often my mom talks to Carole,” Lauren says, shaking her head. “Anything we come up with could get back to her, even if it’s something as small as my mom commenting on how nice your fancy British tutor is.”

I take a deep breath.

“Then I guess I’ll have to be prepared to tell her the truth … later. First I’ve got to find out what Harry Morgan wants, without Carole and Keith getting in the way. So even if the tutor alias gives us just a couple of hours before my cover is blown, at least by then I’ll have some answers. And if it comes down to it, I’ll tell your parents I lied to you about who he is too, so you won’t get in trouble.”

Lauren stares at me. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“You never talk about your family—the Rockfords,” she says carefully. “I hardly know anything about them, or … or what your life was like before we met in middle school. But now some guy who works for them shows up and you’re suddenly willing to risk being grounded till your eighteenth birthday, just to find out what he wants? That’s not the Imogen I know.”

I glance down at the cafeteria table, where someone has crudely etched their initials.

“I may not talk about it, but I think about them … often.” All those years ago, I shut my cousin and grandfather out, and I haven’t heard from them in so long that I figured they just let me go. But now it turns out maybe they haven’t. And I need to know why.”

Lauren reaches for my hand.

“I get it. And I’ll be here to help you.”

English lit, my last class of the day, drags on so long that every time I look up at the clock expecting to see half an hour has passed, it turns out I’m no closer to the final bell than before. Normally this is my favorite subject, but today it’s impossible to focus. My teacher’s voice is background noise, a droning sound track to my thoughts, which swim with images from the Rockford Manor website and imagined scenarios of what Harry Morgan will say when we meet.

At last, the bell rings. I hurriedly toss my textbook and binder into my bag, failing to notice that Mark Wyatt has sidled up to my desk.

“Hey. Thank God that’s over, right? Does anyone really need to know that much about Tolstoy?” he says with a grin.

Oh, right. That’s who our teacher was going on about.

“True.” I smile back at him, and we fall into step together as we leave the classroom.

“So are you doing anything right now?” he asks casually. “Feel like a snack at Magnolia Bakery?”

“Oh …”

I stop short, caught off guard. Is he asking me on a date? I mean, we’ve never hung out just the two of us before. And if the answer is yes, am I actually going to pass up a date in favor of an awkward meeting with a stranger? But … do I really like Mark, or am I just flattered by his attention? The truth is, I haven’t had a real, honest-to-goodness crush since I was ten years old. The words I spoke when Sebastian and I said goodbye had been presciently true:
“I’ll never forget you.”

“Well?” He gives a self-conscious chuckle. “Tough decision?”

“No, of course not,” I tell him, reddening. “I just promised I’d help Lauren cram for a test tomorrow and I was thinking maybe I could bail, but I … I can’t. Rain check?”

“Yeah, no worries,” he says as we reach the school exit. “See you tomorrow?”

I give him another smile, hoping my confusion isn’t evident on my face.

“See you.”

My stomach is jittery throughout the subway ride to Lauren’s, and I know it has a lot more to do with the upcoming meeting than Mark’s Magnolia Bakery offer. By the time I’m walking up to her family’s SoHo loft, my throat is dry and my knuckles white.

I dash up the stairs to the second floor, and then let myself into her apartment—which isn’t as rude as it sounds. Lauren and I have been going over to each other’s apartments since we were thirteen, and as her mom once sweetly said, “I think we’re past the point of knocking. You’re one of us.” Remembering that makes me feel guiltier about lying to her, but I swallow the feeling. There’s no backing out now.

I find Lauren in the kitchen, rummaging for an after-school snack. She must have just beaten me here.

“Hey. So what should we serve our illustrious guest? Will Cheez-Its do the trick?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I tap my foot apprehensively. “Did you tell your mom?”

“Yep, and I asked her to leave us alone in the living room so we can study. But she’s still close enough to save us if he turns out to be a creeper.” Lauren grins. “She was mighty impressed with you for bringing over a tutor.”

“Oh.” I glance down at the floor. “Well, hopefully whatever he has to say will be … something I can handle.”

“Of course you can handle it,” Lauren says encouragingly. “Maybe it’s something good—maybe you’ve inherited a billion dollars!”

I burst out laughing.

“Well if that’s the case, I can’t imagine why the Marinos wouldn’t want me to know about it. We could all be loaded!”

At that moment, the doorbell rings. My smile remains frozen on my face.

“He’s here. What do we do?”

Lauren gently pushes me toward the door.

“Answer it. I’ll be waiting for you guys in the living room.”

Gathering my courage, I step forward.
Don’t chicken out, Imogen,
I instruct myself.
You know you need to talk to him.
I take a deep breath and open the door.

A bespectacled middle-aged man stands before me, his graying hair slicked back and his posture proud and straight. His eyes widen behind his glasses at the sight of me.

“Do I have the honor of meeting Lady Imogen Rockford?”

I stare at him, my skin prickling with shock, as I realize I know that voice. It’s the man who called last night; the same man Keith claimed was his legal rival.
Keith lied to me.
Even though I know he and Carole are hiding things, the blatant lie has me momentarily speechless.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” I say when I’ve recovered. I’m just a little confused by all this. No one calls me Lady Imogen. Well, no one except you and your assistant.” I hold out my hand. “But anyway. Nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Please, call me Harry.”

“Oh. Okay.” I open the door wider to let him in, lowering my voice as I say, “This is my best friend’s apartment. If you see her parents here at any point, please tell them you’re my science tutor. Okay?”

I expect him to be thrown off by this, but he nods calmly.

“I can do that.”

I lead him into the living room and find Lauren already perched on the loveseat, leaving the couch free for us. Three cans of Diet Coke and a box of Cheez-Its sit on the coffee table, and in this bizarre moment, I feel myself on the verge of giggles at the thought of prim and proper-looking Harry Morgan digging his fist into the box of cheesy crackers.