"Hullo, Nell," he said.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. "I knew you'd come. That's why I sent the others away."

"You shouldn't be alone," Kit scolded gently.

"I'm not." Nell managed a ghost of a smile, but in the next moment her dark blue eyes were glazed with tears. "Claudia wants to shoot Deacon."

"I won't let her," said Kit. "It wasn't Deacon's fault." Nell's chest heaved. "Mine?" she asked in a very small voice.

"No." Kit reached down to brush away a tear that had trickled down Nell's silken cheek. "There were wires, lights-someone tampered with the hurdles. When you're stronger, Lori will explain, but you must rest now."

"Simon's demon," Nell whispered. Her breath quickened. "You must tell Grandpapa. He knows-"

"Hush." Kit placed his hand on the pale one that lay atop the coverlet. "Lori will speak with your grandfather. Your only task is to get well. You need to be strong enough to drive Rosie's sleigh when you come home at Christmas."

"I'm not coming home," said Nell.

"No?" Kit gave her a troubled, searching look as his hand drifted to his side, but when he spoke again his voice was calm and soothing. "The Seine is lovely in winter. You must try to be well enough by then to savor its beauty. Sleep now and dream of Paris."

Nell's steady gaze never left his face. "I'll dream," she murmured, "but not of Paris."

Kit stepped back. "I . . . I should go," he faltered. "Good-bye, Nell."

Nell closed her eyes and whispered, "Au revoir, Kit."

Kit swallowed hard, then stumbled toward the door. He would have blundered past me and into the corridor if I hadn't held him back while I made sure no one was out there. He maintained a preoccupied silence until we found Bill waiting for us in my room, when he said, without preamble: "Nell's not coming home for Christmas."

Bill's eyes shifted to mine. When I responded with a minute shrug, he said, "I imagine her studies are-"

"It's nothing to do with her studies." Kit looked stricken. He sank onto an armchair by the fire and leaned his forehead on his hands. "It's me. She left Ans...o...b.. Manor because of me, and she's staying away because of me. I'm keeping her apart from her family, her home. It can't go on."

"It won't." Bill gestured for me to keep back as he crossed to sit in the chair facing Kit's. He must have been yearning for sleep after the long and trying day, but there was no trace of impatience in his voice, only kindness and understanding. "Nell loves you Kit, and she knows you don't love her. It's taken a tremendous amount of courage for her to accept the truth and move on."

Kit raised his head to look at Bill. "I don't think she's moving on."

"She will," said Bill, "given time and distance and a university full of handsome young Frenchmen. You'll see. She'll come home at Easter with Pierre or Jean-Luc or Francois in tow, and you'll have to reconcile yourself to being just another uncle figure in her life."

Kit sighed. "If I could believe that . . ."

"Believe it." Bill gave Kit an encouraging smile, then asked, "Are you planning to spend the night here? Because if you are-"

"I'm not," said Kit. "I brought the van."

"He parked it two miles away," I put in.

Bill rose. "I'll drive you to the van."

"It's nearly one in the morning," Kit protested.

"I'm too restless to sleep," said Bill. "Maybe the drive will calm me down."

Kit reluctantly accepted the offer and went into the dressing room to change out of Bill's trousers and into his own. When he was safely out of earshot, I put my arms around my husband's neck.

"You are my idea of the perfect man," I said, running my fingers through his hair. "But Kit's right about Nell."

"Then let's hope I'm right, too." He pulled me close, then went to fetch his raincoat.

Kit returned, clad once again in his jeans, parka, and boots. He retrieved the bulb-festooned wire from the floor and handed it to me.

"You'll speak with Lord Elstyn," he said.

"I'll speak with everyone." I gave him a tight hug. "Thank you, Kit. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn't come here tonight."

"It's in your hands now." Kit turned as Bill hastened back from the dressing room. "Ready?"

"Let's go," said Bill, and led the way into the corridor.

When the two men had gone, I wound the wire into a coil, placed it next to Reginald on the bedside table, and picked up the blue journal.

Twenty.

Chambers?

I carried the blue journal to the armchair nearest the hearth, where I could watch Aunt Dimity's fluid script unfurl by firelight.

I don't recall ever hearing the name, but there's no reason I should. Edwin would hardly discuss his valet with me. I'm somewhat puzzled by Simon's instant recollection of the man. Valets don't, as a rule, interact with children.

"Chambers did," I told her, settling into the chair. "He used to spend his days off with Simon, Oliver, and Derek. He took them fishing."

Fishing? With three little boys? How peculiar. I've never encountered a valet who would sacrifice his day off to the dubious joys of baiting hooks for three rambunctious little boys.

"Maybe he was trying to impress his employer," I suggested.

A valet impresses his employer by attending to his employer's needs, not those of the children in the house. Take it from one who knows, my dear: Chambers's behavior would have been considered rather eccentric.

"He may have been eccentric then," I commented, "but he's bonkers now."

As I've said from the start, poison pens are notoriously unstable. Chambers-if Chambers is the culprit-has merely proved my point.When indirect action failed, he escalated his campaign. What had been annoying very nearly became murderous. Thank heavens for Kit. If it weren't for him, we might never have discovered the wicked act of sabotage that injured both Simon and Nell.

"It wasn't easy for Kit," I murmured pensively. "Seeing Nell, I mean."

He was troubled to discover that her time abroad has not lessened her affection for him.

My eyebrows rose. "How did you know?"

I know Nell. She's not one to give her heart lightly, and you've told me that Kit believes himself incapable of reciprocating her affection. It's a most unfortunate situation. I feel for them both.

"Me, too." I suddenly remembered a tidbit that had slipped my mind in my preoccupation with Kit. "When Kit told Nell about the hurdles, Dimity, she muttered something about Simon's demon. She became agitated and told him to speak with Lord Elstyn-"

Royal-blue ink spattered the page as Dimity's words raced across it. He didn't agree to do so, did he?

"Of course not," I said. "He told her I'd speak with the earl. But what did she mean by 'Simon's demon'? Do you think she knows about the poison pen?"

It would amaze me if she did not. Nell is highly intelligent as well as observant, and she's intimately familiar with everyone involved. Such emotionally charged events could scarcely take place beneath her nose without her catching the scent. The handwriting paused briefly, then resumed. You remember the strand of golden hair you found in the vandalized books?

"How could I forget it?" I said, recalling the foolish suspicions I'd harbored about Nell.

Perhaps Nell discovered the damage done to those books before you did. She might have taken it into her head to piece together the missing letters and deduce the messages that might be created with them. Or, if you prefer a simpler solution, Edwin may have taken his granddaughter into his confidence. You did mention that Edwin was aware of his nephew's persecution.

I nodded slowly. "Simon gave three of the nasty notes to him."

I wonder if Simon offended Chambers in some way-if he inadvertently caused Chambers to lose his position as Edwin's valet?

"I don't think so," I said. "Chambers wasn't the only servant to lose his job. Simon told me that the earl fired most of the staff the year after his wife died because of financial troubles."

Simon's mistaken. The troubles weren't financial, Lori. They were emotional.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

The first time I met Edwin was when I came to Hailesham to thank him for an extremely generous donation he'd made to a Westwood Trust hospice for terminal cancer patients. He'd made the donation in his wife's name.

I sat forward in my chair. "Did Derek's mother die of cancer?"

Sadly, yes. Edwin did everything in his power to save her. Lady Hailesham spent a year in London, undergoing every sort of treatment, but it was to no avail.

"I had no idea," I said. "Derek didn't mention a thing to me about cancer."

I'm not surprised. Lady Hailesham's illness was a terrible blow to the family. Edwin may not have married for love, but love grew nonetheless. Edwin adored his wife. After her death, he could never bring himself to look at another woman, let alone remarry. His social life came to a standstill for a number of years, while he buried himself in building his empire. Without his wife at his side, he couldn't bear to host parties or welcome guests to Hailesham Park. That's why he reduced the staff.

I scanned Dimity's words with a growing sense of incredulity. "Derek told me that his mother went to live in London because she hated his father."

I beg your pardon?

"Derek believes that his mother left Hailesham to get away from his father," I said. "He's always believed it, ever since he was a little boy. That's why he hates his father. That's why he changed his name and rejected his family and . . . and everything." I gripped the journal tightly. "Are you telling me that Derek altered the direction of his entire life simply because no one told him the truth about his mother's death?"

A breeze ruffled the flames in the fireplace, as if Dimity had breathed a mournful sigh.

Derek was so young when Lady Hailesham became ill-scarcely six years old. Edwin didn't want him to remember his mother as she was after the radiation, the chemotherapy, the surgery, and the disease itself had taken their toll. Afterward, he found it difficult to speak of her to anyone.

"He spoke to you," I commented.

I believe I was the first person in whom he confided. I'd worked in the hospice, you see. Few deaths are kind, but cancer can be very cruel, indeed. I'd sat with many families while they watched someone they loved diminished, then destroyed by the disease. I had some understanding of Edwin's pain, but I urged him nonetheless to tell his son the truth. He said he would, when Derek was a bit older.

"He must have waited too long," I said. "By the time he got around to talking to his son, his son was no longer willing to listen." I looked toward the rain-dashed windows. "What a mess."

When you speak with Edwin about the poison pen, you must also tell him about Derek.

"Me?" I gulped as I read Dimity's injunction. "I'm not sure the earl will appreciate an outsider like me reopening old wounds."

The wound is infected, Lori. It must be reopened if it is to heal. You will speak with him?

"I'll try." I glanced at the door. "But I'll speak with Bill first. He should be back any minute now."

I'll leave you to it, then. I must say that your stay at Hailesham Park is proving to be as complicated as your sojourn in Northumberland. I don't think you're cut out for peaceful holidays, my dear.

I smiled wryly as the curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page. When I called to mind the strange and sometimes frightening things that had happened to me the last time I'd left home, I was forced to agree with Dimity: I wasn't a fun-in-the-sun type of gal.

I returned the blue journal to the bedside table, reached for Reginald, and stretched out on the bed. I listened to the rain as it whooshed in sheets against the windowpanes and tried to think of a painless way to rip open an old, infected wound.

The next thing I knew, Bill was kissing me awake. I wasn't sure how long he'd been back, but he'd already changed into his pajamas.

"Time to put on your jammies," he said.

"Don't need jammies." I set Reginald aside, gave Bill my steamiest smile, and began unb.u.t.toning my silk blouse.

When we eventually got around to talking, I told Bill exactly why my stay at Hailesham Park had been anything but boring. I expected him to be upset with me for not confiding in him sooner, but he wasn't. He respected me for keeping my promise to Simon, and he understood Simon's fear of scandal. He also acknowledged that he hadn't given me many opportunities to speak privately with him since we'd arrived at Hailesham.

"I'll pave the way for you to meet with Lord Elstyn," he promised. "But no matter what he says, Simon will have to notify the police."

"You don't have to convince me." I snuggled closer to him. "There's something else I need to tell you, Bill."

My husband emitted an aggrieved groan. "It's not about you and Simon, is it? I realize that he's a charmer, Lori, but-"

"It's not about Simon," I interrupted with mild indignation-very mild indignation, since both Bill and I were acutely aware of my less-than-stellar track record with charmers. "It's about you and Gina. For a while there I was under the impression that maybe the two of you might've . . . well, you know . . . had something going."

Bill sat bolt upright in bed. "Me and Gina? Are you insane ?"

"You muttered her name one night in your sleep," I attempted to explain, "so I thought-"

"If I muttered her name," Bill declared, "it was because I was dreaming of strangling her. How could you possibly think that I would ever . . ." He sputtered into incoherence.

"She's beautiful," I ventured. "She's smart. She's a lawyer. You have a lot in common."

Bill rolled his eyes and raised his palms to the heavens, then swung around and pinned me to the bed. "I'm not saying I could never be attracted to another woman, love, but never, not in ten thousand years, could I ever be attracted to a woman like Gina." His voice softened. "Why would I settle for smarts and beauty when I've got all of that and so much more with you?"

It was my turn for incoherence, but Bill had no trouble whatsoever understanding my reply.

Twenty-one.