“Tastes change.”
“Don’t they just.” She gives a tiny wry smile. “Hugh won’t be a soldier but a duke if my brother doesn’t hurry up and do something about it.” The prospect doesn’t seem to make her at all happy. “Though I suppose he should find a wife first.”
“And he doesn’t . . .?”
“There isn’t anyone.” She shakes her head as though to stop herself from going on.
“I imagine it’s some responsibility, being a duke.”
“Yes, it is. It’s a lifetime commitment and one I don’t want for Hugh. Sandy hasn’t, well, he hasn’t had the easiest of times. As the head of the family, he’s like the figure of Atlas, but instead of the world, he’s balancing his family, the estates, all that responsibility on his shoulder. Is this from the garden?” Slender fingers reach out to stroke the petal of the white rose as she adroitly changes the topic. “It’s a beauty.”
And so is she. Built on slender aristocratic lines. High cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Sad eyes, I think, though that’s probably more to do with her current circumstances. “It’s one of the first of the season,” I say, passing a cup and saucer into her hand. “Or so Cameron says.” There’s no need to mention who it was originally meant for. Or how I’d taken a moment to rearrange the contents of the tray on the way up here, then took a photo for my Instagram. I’ll post it later, once I’m in better range of the Wi-Fi. Stone walls make for a terrible internet connection, so I’m finding.
“My mother used to love her roses.” Once again, she rouses herself from her thoughts. “And speaking of family, my brother will be at the castle this weekend.”
“Oh? Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to have him here.”
“Yes. And no.” She tries to temper a smile and fails, though she tries to conceal it as she begins to doctor her coffee by adding milk and a raw sugar lump. “Like Hugh, Sandy is a bit of a force of nature.”
Good. Maybe he can take some of that energy and use it to beat up his brother-in-law. Not that I get the impression Lady Isla would let him ride roughshod over her. And while I’m not usually an advocate for violence, I’ve (accidentally) heard (okay, eavesdropped) some of the vile things he’s said to Isla over the phone. And siblings can be protective. Just ask my sister. The chatter in the kitchen yesterday touched on how Isla’s ass of an ex threatened to come to the castle but that he didn’t turn up. Word was he probably thought better of the plan when he remembered the place has stocks. And a dungeon. Not to mention a rifle room and a wife who is, so they say, a crack shot.
“I met his grace’s chef earlier.”
“Dougal.” She sort of grimaces, then lifts the cup to her lips, the matching saucer balanced in her other hand. “His cooking is better than his personality, though I will say he’s extremely meek when Sandy is within earshot.”
I hope my smile looks more sincere than it feels because that makes the man sound like he’s an ogre. “Will he be staying long?”
“I shouldn’t imagine so. Not while the tourist season is in swing. He says it’s like living in a goldfish bowl. He’s a very private person, you see.”
I smile again, but this time it’s genuine. He must be extremely private because when I was researching this job, not one photograph of him as an adult came up on my internet search. I imagine that’s because Isla got all the good looks, leaving him with a face like a gargoyle. A face for radio, my granny would have called it.
“I should imagine he’ll be here for the weekend, at least. And he’ll bring friends.” And his butler and personal chef, laa-dee-daa. “The castle will also be closed this weekend.”
“Closed?”
She nods. “To the general public. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but the castle and some of the grounds were used as a location on an upcoming Hollywood blockbuster. Or so we all hope. And Sandy is hosting a dinner on Friday night for the director and some of the stars. I believe a number of them will be here for the weekend.” A deep sigh overtakes her. “It’s been a while since we had a house party.”
The only house party I’ve been to are the kinds that serve Cheetos as hors d’oeuvres, use red Solo cups, and offer an aperitif in the form of cheap keg beer. I mean, I’ve been to parties, sure. And dinner parties, but house parties conjure up visions of my college days.
“Should I grab some paper to take notes?”
“Oh. No.” She waves my offer away. “McCain will have it all under control, along with Chrissy. They know the form of old. Holly, I just wanted to say that I appreciate all your help, taking on extra work, helping with the boys, and so on.”
“Honestly, it’s my pleasure. They’re such great kids, and they’re going to grow to be the best kind of men.” Maybe I should’ve kept that to myself as her eyes fill with tears almost immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No.” She dabs at the corner of her eye. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“It’s only the truth.” I shrug a little uncomfortably, suddenly wishing I had a little of Isla’s poise and dignity as she leans forward, setting the cup and saucer onto the coffee table.
“With the castle closed, you’ll have the weekend to yourself.”
Which is the polite way of saying I’m not wanted, I think cynically.
“Would you like me to move back into the cottage?” Urgh, please say no.
“There’s no need for that,” she replies evenly.
“You won’t need the room for your guests?”
“What do you think?” Her eyes twinkle with mirth.
“That you have space for a battalion or two,” I reply, “but—”
“The battalion will be housed, and you will keep your room in the family apartments. Feel free to come and go as you please. Perhaps you’d like to join the party for dinner on Friday night? Meet some of Hollywood’s leading lights?”
“That’s very kind of you, but”—that sounds like a nightmare evening— “I already have plans.” I’m hardly a seasoned fancy dinner party guest. I mean, I’m not exactly a heathen, and I know a fork is supposed to be held in your left hand, but what fork do you eat souffle with? Or do you eat it with a spoon? I’ve examined the table setting in the formal dining room, the one set out for the tourists. The amount of china, silver, and glassware was enough to create an anxiety spike. So, nope! Nope, thank you! “But thank you for the invite.”
“I completely understand. But if you change your mind, do let McCain know as soon as you can.”
“That’s the butler, right?”
“Yes, though he’s more like Sandy’s sergeant major,” she says with a small laugh. “The boys adore him. And their uncle, of course.”
“And you won’t need my help with them over the weekend?” Say, to hide more damaged heirlooms?
“Thank you, but no. You enjoy your weekend.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Doing anything interesting?” Her question is accompanied by a smile that seems to say, come on, girl! Spill the tea!