A Lady's Luck
Ken Casper
Mills & Boon Silhouette
Will the lady bring luck…or misfortune?Widowed racehorse breeder Brent Preston greets every morning with the painful memory of his wife…and the burden of knowing that somehow he's responsible for the encroaching ruin of Quest Stables. But then Brent stumbles across a clue–one that could solve the mystery surrounding his family's Thoroughbred champion once and for all…Brent follows the trail to England, hoping that Lady Devon Hunter can help him infiltrate her brother's secrets. But after one glance at the lovely English schoolteacher, Brent finds himself feeling emotions long since buried. He's torn between pursuing the gracefully elusive Devon and hunting down the person responsible for ruining his family…unaware that both paths will lead him straight into the arms of danger!
Thoroughbred Legacy
The stakes are high.
Scandal has hit the Preston family and their award-winning Quest Stables. Find out what it will take to return this horse-racing dynasty to the winner’s circle!
#5 Millions to Spare by Barbara Dunlop
Identifying with your captor is one thing. Marrying him is quite another! But when reporter Julia Nash is caught snooping, she’s faced with saying goodbye to her freedom…or saying I do to Lord Harrison Rochester!
#6 Courting Disaster by Kathleen O’Reilly
Race-car driver Demetri Lucas lives hard and fast—and he likes his women to match. Until he meets the one woman who can tempt him to slow down and enjoy the ride.
#7 Who’s Cheatin’ Who? by Maggie Price
Champion jockey Melanie Preston has a firm no-men-with-secrets policy. Especially when it comes to her family’s horse trainer, who has more secrets than anyone that sexy should….
#8 A Lady’s Luck by Ken Casper
After one glance, widower Brent Preston finds himself feeling emotions he thought long since buried. But pursuing his gracefully elusive English lady may mean heading straight into the arms of danger!
#9 Darci’s Pride by Jenna Mills
#10 Breaking Free by Loreth Anne White
#11 An Indecent Proposal by Margot Early
#12 The Secret Heiress by Bethany Campbell
Available as e-books at www.eHarlequin.com
#1 Flirting with Trouble by Elizabeth Bevarly
#2 Biding Her Time by Wendy Warren
#3 Picture of Perfection by Kristin Gabriel
#4 Something to Talk About by Joanne Rock
Dear Reader,
I live on a horse farm in West Texas. It’s not as grand or green or plush as Quest Stables in this story, but you can believe me when I say there’s always plenty of work to do. Horse people love every aspect of their four-legged critters. We’re enthralled to see them born, consider ourselves privileged to raise, coddle and ride them, and feel heart-wrenching sadness when we finally have to say goodbye to them. One of our old timers here is a twenty-eight-year-old retired Thoroughbred racehorse, so when I was asked if I would like to contribute to this Thoroughbred horse-racing series, you can be sure my immediate answer was a resounding “Yes!”
I hope you’re enjoying the THOROUGHBRED LEGACY series as much as I am. It seems to me it’s got it all—a close-knit, multigenerational traditional family; lots of beautiful horses; plenty of romance; and a soul-searching intrigue in an international setting. A hard combination to beat, on or off the track.
I always enjoy hearing from readers. You can write to me at P.O. Box 61511, San Angelo, TX 76906. Also, please check out my Web site at www.kencasper.com.
Ken Casper
A Lady’s Luck
Ken Casper
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KEN CASPER
Also known as K. N. Casper, Ken Casper is an author of more than twenty books for Harlequin. He figures his writing career started back in the sixth grade when a teacher ordered him to write a “theme” explaining his misbehavior over the previous semester. To his teacher’s chagrin, he enjoyed stringing just the right words together to justify his less-than-stellar performance. That’s not to say he’s been telling tall tales to get out of scrapes ever since, but…
Born and raised in New York City, Ken is now a transplanted Texan. He and Mary, his wife of thirty-plus years, own a horse farm in San Angelo. Along with their two dogs, six cats and eight horses—at last count—they also board and breed horses, and Mary teaches English riding. She’s a therapeutic-riding instructor for people with disabilities, as well.
Life is never dull. Their two granddaughters visit several times a year and feel right at home with the Casper menagerie. Grandpa and Mimi do everything they can to make sure their visits will be lifelong fond memories. After all, isn’t that what grandparents are for?
You can keep up with Ken and his books on his Web site at http://www.kencasper.com.
My special thanks to:
Toni Anderson
Beryl Liggett
Garda Parker
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
One
Monday, January 5
“It’s no good,” Brent Preston said sharply at his brother’s entrance. “I’ve hit a wall in this investigation.”
“That bad?” Andrew inquired. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the marble counter in the middle of the family’s country kitchen.
Brent had gone over everything in his mind and on paper a hundred times, and still he came up without answers that made sense.
He swept a hand over his face and turned to his brother. “Dammit, I don’t know what the hell went wrong. That breeding went like scores of others I’ve arranged and supervised.”
Andrew regarded him sympathetically. “No one’s blaming you.”
Like hell they’re not. And even if they aren’t, I am. I was in charge.
Last spring, three-year-old Leopold’s Legacy had become the star racehorse at the family’s Quest Stables, winning the Kentucky Derby, as well as the Preakness. The stallion appeared to be on his way to taking the Belmont Stakes and the Triple Crown, as well, but even without the Triple Crown, Leopold’s Legacy would garner enormous stud fees. Then a computer glitch at the Jockey Association prompted a call for a certain group of Thoroughbreds to have their DNA resubmitted.
No big deal.
Until the results came back. Then all hell broke loose.
According to the new DNA test, Apollo’s Ice was not the sire of Leopold’s Legacy, as the registration papers stated. Even worse, no one knew who the sire was, since the DNA didn’t match that of any stud in the Thoroughbred file.
The Jockey Association wasn’t interested in how the mix-up had occurred; their sole concern was that the provenance of the horse was not what it was purported to be. Leopold’s Legacy was pulled from the Belmont Stakes and Quest Stables was given three months to solve the discrepancy. When they were unable to do so, all Thoroughbreds majority-owned by Quest were banned by local and regional racing commissions from competing in North America. An international ban soon followed.
Almost overnight, revenue dropped by half as owners pulled their horses from the stables.
Andrew idly stirred his cup. “Listen, Brent, most of our clients will come back.”
“Maybe,” his brother allowed, “if this DNA debacle can be solved soon, and if it’s cleared up without prejudice. But a prolonged investigation or proven fault on the part of Quest, and on me…” He let the words fade as he gazed toward the wall of windows looking out on the winter garden. Its bleakness matched his mood. “If there’s no resolution at all, it’ll be the end of Quest.” He let out a long breath. “When I think about what Granddad has created, all his hard work, his love, his passion—when I think of it being wiped out in his own lifetime because I was too damn blind to know when I was being taken— I’m the head breeder. I witnessed the live cover. What are people supposed to think?”
“Look,” Andrew said. “As manager of this place, I can tell you we’re not going to fold. It’s just a matter of time before we get a break.”
He was being optimistic. Stables had gone out of business for less. He was also being generous in not mentioning how the situation was impacting his personal ambitions. Andrew had been planning to run for president of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation someday. Brent had hoped when that happened he’d be able to take over as general manager of Quest. None of that would happen now—or maybe ever—with this scandal haunting Quest’s reputation.
“I’ve decided to go to England,” Brent announced tersely.
“England? In January?” His mother, Jenna, walked into the kitchen and hooked her favorite mug, already set out on the counter. “Dress warmly, dear.”
“Why England?” his father, Thomas, asked, trailing closely behind her.
“Nolan Hunter, of course,” Jenna declared, before her son could respond.
Brent almost smiled. Not much got past his mother. He had attended the Gulf Classic in Florida on New Year’s Day and had run into Nolan Hunter, the owner of Apollo’s Ice. Nolan had entered Sterling Pass in one of the races but was beaten in a photo finish by Brent’s sister, Melanie, riding Something to Talk About. Brent had invited the Englishman to spend a few days relaxing with the family at Quest Stables in Kentucky before returning home, hoping he might learn more from him about the debacle that was threatening his family. He had, but not in the expected way.
“I’m having second thoughts about Nolan,” Brent admitted.
“I thought you might be,” his mother said, as she poured coffee for her husband and herself. “The man is charming and sophisticated, but there’s something about him that sets my teeth on edge.”
Brent nodded. “Yesterday, just before he left for the airport, I overheard him talking on his cell phone. I don’t normally listen in on other people’s conversations, but the tone he was using was unlike the polished English gentleman. More like a street thug.”
“What was he discussing?” Andrew asked.
“I didn’t get all of it. He was angry, no question about that, insisted he had things here well in hand, that there was no reason to worry. He kept referring to some third person—he didn’t specify who—and said the guy couldn’t do anything because he had no proof.”
“Any idea who he was talking to?” his father asked.
“Someone named Camberg. The name mean anything to any of you?”
Everybody shook their heads.
“You heard only one side of this exchange,” Andrew reminded him. “Isn’t it possible you’re misinterpreting what—”
“Of course it’s possible,” Brent snapped. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And this conversation may not have had anything to do with Apollo’s Ice or Leopold’s Legacy. Nolan didn’t mention horses. But I didn’t mistake the guy’s tone. There’s a side to the Right Honorable, the Viscount Kestler, that we haven’t seen before. And I’d bet good money it’s not one his peers would approve of.”
Andrew took a sip of his coffee. “Nolan Hunter has social position, considerable wealth and an impeccable reputation. Why would he risk all that?”
“How the hell do I know?” Brent retorted. “But he is the owner of Apollo’s Ice, and until we find out who’s behind the DNA fraud, he’s my prime suspect.”
“A trip to England might be just the thing,” Jenna observed. “Especially right now.”
No one needed elaboration. They were all aware that the anniversary of Marti’s death was approaching.
Three years ago Brent’s wife had started complaining about nonspecific problems, mostly lethargy and tiredness, nothing she could put her finger on. Athletic, bright and perpetually cheerful, she had captured Brent’s heart thirty seconds after they’d bumped into each other, literally, in the college library. They’d gone together for two years before getting married right after their graduation, he with a degree in animal husbandry, she with a double major in English and sociology.
Since their twin daughters had just started kindergarten, Brent and Marti chalked her sluggishness up to her missing the girls being home all the time. He suggested she start a new project to keep herself busy.
Six months later, she died of cancer.
He’d lost her, and that loss still lay heavy on his heart, dominating his every private thought. If only he’d insisted she go to a doctor sooner… If only…
He’d spent countless hours harboring that guilt but precious few wallowing in it. He had his beautiful twins to guide through their grief and sorrow. It was a purgatory no parent ever wanted to suffer, yet it surprised him to realize that somehow he’d succeeded. He was proud of his daughters. They made him want to go on.
“What about the girls?” Jenna asked. “School starts next week.”
“I’ll take them with me,” Brent told her. “I don’t want to be separated from them right now.”
“I’ll talk to the school principal,” his mother said. “Althea’s very accommodating about children taking trips with their parents.”
“Where are they this morning?” Andrew asked. “Surely not sleeping late. That’d be a first.”
“They went down to the stables with Granddad to see Raleigh’s Rascal, Isabella’s new foal. They should be back any minute.”
Just then they heard a commotion at the back door, the high-pitched excited voices of young children and the low rumble of a mature man. A moment later two identical eight-year-old girls burst into the room.
“Isabella let us touch her baby,” Rhea exclaimed. “Rascal is so soft.”
“And he hasn’t got any teeth yet,” Katie added, “just like a regular baby.”
Their ponytails were held back with yellow ribbons to match the bright yellow polo shirts they were wearing with red jeans.
Their great-grandfather stood behind them. Tall and lean, with a fuzzy head of white hair, at eighty-six, Hugh Preston still had the power to dominate a room simply by walking into it.
At his heel stood Seamus, a steely-blue-gray-colored Irish wolfhound whose shoulders came to the man’s knees. Hugh patted him on the head, then pointed to the corner, where the dog contentedly lay down with a slight groan to observe the activities of the humans around him.
“I figure sixteen hands,” Hugh said about the foal. “A bay now, but I’m hoping he’ll gray out like his sire.” He poured himself coffee.
“I want orange juice,” Rhea said, racing over to the marble counter and reaching for the nearly full pitcher. Katie was beside her, competing for it.
“Whoa.” Brent rose from his seat. “I’ll pour. First, how about showing some manners by saying good morning to your grandparents?”
“Good morning,” they sang in unison.
“And Uncle Andrew,” Brent prompted.
They wished him a good morning, as well. Immediately Rhea asked, “Can we have our juice now?”
Suppressing a smile, Brent poured it for them. “How would you girls like to go on a trip?”
“To Disney World?” Rhea asked, wide-eyed. “Jennifer and her mom went there over Christmas. She said it was awesome.”
“I was thinking of England.” He handed them each a medium-size glass only half-full.
“I don’t want to go to England,” Katie told him with a pout. “I want to go to Disney World.”
“You’ll get to see the Tower of London,” Thomas told them.
“And we can hear the clock strike,” Rhea contributed. “Bong, bong, bong—”
“That’s Big Ben,” Andrew said. “The Tower of London is a castle.”
Katie frowned. “Then why do they call it a tower?”
“It’s where the queen keeps all her jewelry,” Jenna explained.
“You mean the queen lives in a tower?” Katie asked. “Like Rumpelstiltskin?”
“No,” her sister said impatiently. “She lives in Buckingham Palace.”
“But why doesn’t she keep her jewelry with her at home, like other people?”
Exasperated, Rhea said, “Because she’s not like other people, silly. She’s the queen, and she’s got so much jewelry she doesn’t have room for all of it in her palace.”
“When do you plan to leave?” Thomas asked his son.
“I don’t want to go to England,” Katie repeated, clearly not enticed by the lure of seeing a tower full of jewelry.
“In the next day or two,” Brent answered, “if I can make the arrangements.”
As they settled down to family breakfast, Brent mentally reviewed the other reasons he wanted to investigate Nolan Hunter, the Viscount Kestler. Over the past week Brent had learned that Marcus Vasquez, Melanie’s fiancé and Quest’s former trainer, was actually Nolan’s illegitimate half brother. Marcus had also confided to Brent that he suspected Nolan was not being completely up front about the breeding scandal, though he could offer no proof to support his allegation. Brent might have dismissed it as sour grapes over the issue of the Spaniard’s paternity, had he not overheard Nolan’s phone conversation.
A horse in Dubai owned by Lord Rochester had purportedly been sired by Apollo’s Ice. Not long after the Sandstone Derby, the horse was found dead. Poisoned. DNA tests revealed the stallion had not been sired by Apollo’s Ice, but by the same mysterious stallion that had sired Leopold’s Legacy. Brent had discussed the matter on the phone with Lord Rochester, but the Englishman had no idea who could be behind the fraud.
“What’s your game plan in England?” Thomas asked, after the girls had been excused to return to the barn to see the new pony again.
“I thought I might start at the Jockey Association in London, see what I can pick up there.”
“Marcus mentioned that Nolan’s younger sister Devon teaches in a private girls’ school near Oxford,” Jenna commented. “Briar Hills Academy, I think he said. You might contact her to see what light she can shed on the situation.”
“If you need help, son,” Thomas said, “all you have to do is call. You know that. One of us…all of us…can be on the next available flight to Heathrow.”
“I don’t have to tell you to be careful, brother,” Andrew said. “This scam is international and somebody’s making big bucks. The closer we get to the truth, the more desperate they’re going to get.”
Two
Tuesday, January 6
The two-hour flight from Louisville to New York, followed by a three-hour layover there and another six hours crossing the Atlantic, left Brent exhausted. He’d never been one to sleep on planes, and with his twin balls of energy in tow there was no way he could have gotten a wink if he’d tried. After charming the neighboring passengers to the point of weariness, the twins settled down in front of a children’s movie.
Finally he had time to review the one-sided telephone conversation he’d overheard.
“We’re safe, I tell you. The bastard doesn’t know a bloody thing,” Hunter had said.
Was the epithet simply a crude expression, or was he referring to Marcus Vasquez, his illegitimate half brother, who had been a trainer at Quest for a few months but left in December to become head trainer at Lucas Stables, where Brent’s sister, Melanie, was currently a jockey? The two had fallen in love and were planning to marry.
“He can think whatever he bloody well wants,” Hunter had protested further, “but he has no proof, so he’ll keep his mouth shut, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Proof of what? And if he was referring to Marcus, the statement wasn’t completely true. Marcus had told Brent he was convinced Hunter was behind the breeding mix-up that was destroying Quest Stables, but he also admitted he had no idea how the fraud was done, nor had he a lick of evidence to support his accusation. Marcus also confessed to hating Nolan Hunter’s father for abandoning Marcus’s late mother. Marcus was a damn good trainer, as Melanie’s recent Gulf Classic win on Something to Talk About attested, but his emotional involvement with Hunter robbed him of objectivity, though in Brent’s opinion, not necessarily credibility.
By the time the plane landed at Heathrow, they’d passed through customs and climbed into a taxi, the girls were finally showing signs of winding down. Wanting them to stay awake long enough to get to bed under their own power, Brent kept up a running narrative, pointing out the things he recognized on the trip from the airport to their hotel in London. The striking facade of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Trafalgar Square. Buckingham Palace. By the time he tucked them into bed, it was after one in the morning, local time.
He chuckled to himself. They were sound asleep before he even had a chance to pull up the covers. A three-ring circus entering the room wouldn’t have awakened them now.
He poured himself a small Scotch from the bar in the sitting room and sipped it as he reviewed his plans for the next few days. Touristy stuff mostly, for the girls. He’d first come to England months ago to see Nolan Hunter right after the DNA imbroglio became known. The man had let him talk to his help, as well as take additional blood and hair samples of Apollo’s Ice for further DNA testing, convincing Brent at the time that Hunter was on the up-and-up.
“Let’s think outside the box, as you Americans would say,” Hunter had proposed, while pouring generous quantities of fine Napoleon brandy into cut-crystal snifters, “and see if we can pull a Sherlock Holmes on this singular case.”
To no avail. Nolan Hunter himself appeared to be uninvolved in whatever was going on. He had actually remained in England, for example, when Apollo’s Ice was standing at stud in Kentucky, where Brent had witnessed the live cover that resulted in Leopold Legacy’s conception.
Brent checked on his sleeping daughters. The two could be exhausting, but they were unquestionably the joy of his life. He couldn’t imagine the world without them. He thought of his late wife, Marti. She’d never been to England. She would have loved it, but with two young children, they’d decided to delay any major trips until the girls were older. Now here he was alone, wishing Marti were with him.
The long day’s tension gradually seeped from his tired muscles and frazzled nerves. Pouring most of the whisky down the sink, he rinsed the glass, undressed and climbed into the other queen-size bed.
He awakened to the sounds of giggling and the room flooded with light. The clock on the bedside table said nine-fifteen. The girls, to his amazement, were already dressed, Rhea sitting behind her sister on the other bed, brushing her long brown hair.
“I’m hungry,” Katie said. No new phenomenon.
“Good morning to you, too,” he returned with a yawn and a stretch. It had been over twelve hours since any of them had eaten. He discovered he was famished, as well.
Twenty minutes later the three of them were on their way downstairs for breakfast and a day on the town. The girls stuck up their noses at the kippered herring offered on the hotel buffet, but they decided they “really, really liked” the sausage links called bangers. He wondered if it might be because of the name.
“This bread tastes funny,” Rhea said as she bit into her second triangle of buttered toast.
“Not funny,” Brent corrected her. “Different. You’ll find a lot of things are different here. It’s one of the best parts about traveling, getting to try new and different things.”
“It’s good,” Rhea agreed reluctantly, as she picked up another slice. “But I still say it tastes funny.”
The next day they did what most first-time London tourists did. Watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Gawked their way through the Tower of London. Craned their necks at the imposing edifices of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. They went to see The Lion King, rode double-decker buses—always on the upper level, of course—and took refuge in Victoria Station during a torrential downpour.
And then it was time to try to solve the mystery of Leopold’s Legacy.
Finally, after another “proper” English breakfast at the hotel buffet, the three of them set off from Paddington Station for Oxford.
The sky was pewter and the trees bare, but once past the suburbs and outskirts of London, the English countryside took on a quaint, nostalgic quality with its Tudor houses, thatch-roofed cottages and thick-walled Norman churches. An hour later they arrived in the famous university town.
Getting a taxi wasn’t nearly as difficult as comprehending what the driver was saying as he chatted with the girls along the way. What amazed Brent was that they had so little difficulty understanding his lingo, at least after the first few exchanges.
Briar Hills Academy for Girls occupied a nineteenth-century manor house of brown brick tucked neatly among low rolling wooded hills a few miles northwest of Oxford.
Brent had arranged for the visit before leaving the States, saying he was an American businessman anticipating an assignment to England in the not-too-distant future and wanted to check out schools where he could send his daughters. He’d called again yesterday from London to confirm this morning’s appointment. He wasn’t altogether surprised when a young lady in her early twenties emerged from the stone-arched doorway to meet them as they alighted from the cab.
“Mr. Preston?” she asked.
Stepping forward as the taxi circled around in the gravel forecourt and grumbled away, he admitted he was. “These are my daughters, Rhea and Katie.”
She offered her hand. “I’m Heather Wilcot. Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin, the headmistress, asked me to welcome you and take you to her straightaway.”
Beyond a small vestibule, she led them into a central hall that was dominated by a wide, gracefully curving staircase with an ornate wrought-iron banister topped with a shiny wood rail. A thick, red wool runner covered the white marble stairs, softening their ascent.
At the head of the stairs, Heather led them to a heavy, dark paneled door on the right and turned the polished brass handle. They entered a reception area.
“If you’ll wait here, sir.”
She went to the open doorway beyond and tapped on the framework. “Mr. Brent Preston and his daughters, Rhea and Katie, have arrived, Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”
The woman who emerged was tall, close to six feet, and Raphaelesque in build.
“Mr. Preston,” she said in a strong but pleasant voice, “how very good of you to visit us. I’m delighted to meet you.” She immediately shifted her attention to the girls. “Rhea and Katie. So which twin is which?” Her smile seemed genuine.
More the extrovert, Rhea spoke up. “I’m Rhea. She’s Katie.”
Eyes twinkling, Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin took a minute to study the two of them, her attention flicking from one to the other. After what seemed like a very long interval, she asked, “Do the two of you always dress alike?”
“Mostly,” Rhea said brightly. “Except Aunt Melanie bought us ugly green dresses. I think they look like barf, so I never wear mine. But Katie wears hers sometimes.”
“I didn’t bring it with me,” Katie informed her. “And it doesn’t look like barf. It’s more like…celery pudding.”
Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin’s brows rose precipitously. “Celery pudding? I’ll have to think about that. Rather an unusual image, I must say.” She was clearly straining to control a smile. So was Brent.
“Let’s go for a walk, shall we? I’ll show you our grounds before it starts to rain, and you can tell me about your school back home in Kentucky.”
Brent had mentioned where they were from when he’d called from the States to make the appointment. She’d obviously made note of it. The day was overcast and gloomy. The headmistress queried the girls about the subjects they were studying in school and asked questions to determine their level of advancement. Satisfied with their answers, she let them run ahead to the play area.
A scrap of paper fluttered to the ground.
“Katie, you dropped something.”
One girl turned around, while the other looked over at her sister.
“Right there.” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin pointed to the ticket stub from one of the places they’d visited.
Katie stared at her, her expression one of awe bordering on fear.
“Pick it up, dear. When we go inside I’ll show you where you can throw it in the dustbin.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Katie replied softly. She picked up the litter, then ran after her sister.
“Congratulations. We have friends at home,” Brent remarked, “who’ve known them since they were born and still can’t distinguish them.”
He wondered if it was luck that she’d picked the right name or if she really could tell them apart on only a minute’s acquaintance.
“Several sets of twins are in attendance here, Mr. Preston. I find them an interesting challenge.”
They walked on. She recited a brief history of the school, the enrollment numbers, staff qualifications and the most recent awards the academy had received.
“When you called to make this appointment, Mr. Preston, you said you anticipated spending some time here in England on business.”
“It’s not certain yet. That’s why I haven’t said anything to the girls and asked you not to mention it in their presence. As far as they know we’re here only on vacation.”
“I fully understand. I’ve alerted the staff, as well. We have a number of foreign students boarding here whose parents travel a good deal.”
He couldn’t imagine leaving his girls with strangers.
“They could live with their grandparents back home, but I’d prefer to keep them with me.” He paused. “Since their mother passed away, I feel it’s important that we stay together as much as possible.”
“My condolences on the loss of your wife, Mr. Preston. They seem well-adjusted, polite girls. May I ask why you have elected to consider Briar Hills Academy?”
“A friend recommended it. Nolan Hunter. I understand his sister is one of your teachers.”
“Lord Kestler!” Her face lit up. “Yes, of course. His sister, Devon, is one of our sterling young instructors. Do you know her, as well?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her.”
The headmistress gazed up at the dark sky. “We’d best go inside straightaway.” She clapped her hands. The girls, chattering on a seesaw, stopped instantly and swiveled to face her.
I wish they would obey me that well, Brent thought.
“Come along, girls,” she called out. “Inside, quickly.”
The four of them had hardly entered the building’s back door when the first large raindrops began splattering the black slate walk.
“Perfect timing,” Brent said, as he let the door he’d been holding close behind them.
“I’ll have Miss Hunter join us,” the headmistress said. “She’ll be delighted to meet you. She thinks the world of her brother. A fine gentleman.”
Three
It was rare for Devon to be called out of her classroom in the midst of a lesson. She prayed it wasn’t to learn of tragedy. Her mother’s health was fragile, but surely Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin would come in person to inform her if something had befallen Lady Kestler. Could it be about her brother? Nolan had become a mystery to her of late.
“She has a visitor,” Heather whispered, almost in awe, as she looked up from her desk, where she’d been tapping away at her computer keyboard a moment before. “She said for you to go directly in.”
“Who is it?” Another VIP, no doubt. Maybe a Member of Parliament on an inspection tour or dropping off his daughter for the first time.
“You’ll see.”
Devon wondered at her friend’s dramatic secrecy. Judging from the impish grin on her pixie face, the surprise would not be an unpleasant one.
Before approaching the headmistress’s open doorway, however, Devon paused to adjust her frock, to make sure her belt was straight and to smooth out any wrinkles. As a matter of habit she ran her hands through her shoulder-length hair, and only then knocked on the headmistress’s office doorframe and entered.
Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin was standing in the center of the room, talking to a man Devon was sure she’d never seen before. With his back to her, she saw only that he was tall, an inch or two over six feet, with impressively broad shoulders. When he turned it was his face, however, that instantly captured her attention.
He was clean-shaven with even, well-proportioned features, a slightly cleft chin and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek, His full lips had a sensual quality that seemed poised on the brink of a smile.
“Ah, Devon, there you are,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin said in a pleasant greeting.
As she drew closer, Devon noticed the man’s eyes were dark blue. They seemed the perfect complement to his tan complexion and medium-brown wavy hair. In fact, everything about him seemed perfect. She understood Heather’s smile now and had to control one of her own.
“Allow me to introduce you,” the headmistress went on. “This is Mr. Brent Preston, the American I mentioned in the staff meeting, who asked to visit our school.”
Devon remembered now. A businessman who’d asked for an appointment because he expected to be transferred to England and was looking for a school to which he could send his young daughters.
“Mr. Preston,” the older woman continued, “may I present the Honorable Devon Hunter.”
It was unusual for Sybil to introduce Devon by her title. Despite the difference in their ages and backgrounds, they were normally on a first-name basis in private. In more formal settings, such as this one, Devon became simply Miss Hunter.
She extended her hand. “Mr. Preston, I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Briar Hills Academy.”
His hand was large, warm and dry. She felt a slight tug as they shook. Or maybe it was her imagination. Pleased as she was to be meeting him, she had to wonder why she was here. Sybil normally handled visitors on her own without involving the teaching staff.
“Mr. Preston is acquainted with your brother,” the headmistress informed her, as if reading her mind.
The mention of Nolan wasn’t as welcome as it might once have been, but Devon did her best not to show it.
“I saw him over the New Year,” Brent said in a deep voice that was distinctively American. She didn’t fancy herself an expert on foreign accents, but she was quite certain his was what was referred to as a Southern drawl. It was fluid and mellifluous. “He had a horse running in the Gulf Classic in Florida.”
Devon tilted her head to one side. “Did he win?”
Brent chuckled softly. “Actually, he lost. By a nose. To my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“She’s a professional jockey.”
This time Devon had to laugh. “I hope he was a good sport about it.”
“A perfect gentleman,” Preston replied, showing even white teeth.
“And these are his daughters,” Sybil said, placing her hands on the shoulders of the two girls. “Rhea and Katie.”
Devon looked from one eight-year-old to the other, then folded her hands casually in front of her.
“Not fair dressing alike, girls,” she said. “One of you could at least spill a bit of your breakfast porridge on your shirtwaist to make it easier.”
The girls giggled.
One asked, “What’s porridge?”
“Oatmeal,” their father answered.
“Yuck—” her sister wrinkled her nose “—I hate oatmeal.”
Devon was keenly aware of the man watching her. She liked the way his daughters looked up at him and how the one on the right—Katie?—placed her hand in his. They clearly adored the man, and he, Devon suspected, doted on them. Seeing happy families always brought bittersweet emotions. Her own father had been anything but sentimental. When he wasn’t criticizing her, the best she could hope for was that he was mute.
“They’ve never been to an English primary school,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin explained, “and are interested in seeing how it differs from theirs in America. Since Mr. Preston knows Lord Kestler, I thought perhaps you would like to show them around.”
“I’d be delighted,” Devon replied.
Brent was entranced. The young woman who’d entered the room was nothing short of beautiful, with dignity and charm to match. She had an oval face, cream-white flawless skin, delicately rosy cheeks and coffee-colored eyes that sparkled with intelligence and, he perceived, a hint of mischief.
When they’d been introduced and she’d placed her hand in his, he’d had an instant impulse to raise it to his lips and kiss it. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way before. It wasn’t, after all, an American custom, and he wasn’t even sure it was an English one, but somehow the intimacy it implied was enormously appealing.
Then he thought about Marti and felt a twinge of guilt. After exchanging a few more words with the headmistress, they left the office. Devon led them around a corner to a newer wing of the building that hadn’t been visible from the front.
“How old are you, girls?” she asked the twins, who were practically skipping along beside her.
“Eight,” Rhea responded.
Devon nodded, then thought a moment. “Your school system in America is different from ours. Let me see. You’re in the third grade. Is that correct?”
Katie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We start a year earlier than you, so here you would be in the fourth, but I expect what you would be learning would be about the same.”
“Do you teach a particular subject, Miss Hunter?” Brent asked.
“English grammar and reading. At elementary four—your third grade—we’re learning about nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs.”
“We are, too,” Rhea cried out.
“Shh.” Her father put a finger to his lips. “Not so loud. We don’t want to disturb the children in class.”
As they walked the corridors and Devon invited him to peek into classrooms through door windows or stand at the threshold of computer-filled labs, observing young ladies flicking their fingers over keyboards and mice, Brent found himself drawn more and more to the viscount’s younger sister in a way he hadn’t been drawn to a woman in a long time. He asked appropriate questions, all the time trying to figure out how to bring up the one subject that had brought him there. Apollo’s Ice.
She had saved her own classroom until last. When they arrived there, she took them inside and presented them to a group of twenty girls, all of whom were about the twins’ age. She had just completed her introductions when a bell rang out in the hallway.
“Recess.” Devon turned to the twins. “Why don’t you join the girls for their break in the assembly area downstairs—it’s too wet to go outside right now.”
The twins didn’t need a second invitation. They rushed out the door with the other girls and disappeared from sight.
“Do you get to see your brother very often?” Brent asked, using the interruption to change the subject.
“I very rarely go to London,” she replied, “which is where he spends most of his time when he’s not traveling. On the occasional weekend—” she placed the accent on the last syllable of the word “—when I’m able to get home to see my mother in Abbingvale, the timing always seems to be off, and he’s not around.”
“I thought perhaps you shared his love of horses and joined him at races,” Brent observed.
For a moment she glanced at him quizzically, as though she were aware of his hidden agenda, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Indeed I love horses and still ride when I’m home, but for me racing has never been the passion it’s become for him.”
So much for getting information from her about Apollo’s Ice, Brent realized. But his interest by this point was no longer equine based. He reminded himself that his response to her was both natural and, with Marti gone, permissible, which made him wonder how he could find a way to spend more time with this young woman, the Honorable Devon Hunter.
Devon asked him questions about the girls’ school until another bell sounded. The girls filed in, not as loudly as the kids back home probably would have, but with no less enthusiasm. His daughters followed, decidedly more boisterous.
They bounced up to him, faces eager. “The kids want to know if we can come back tomorrow and sit in class with them,” Rhea announced to their father. “They said Miss Hunter is really, really nice.”
Only young children could make friends within a matter of minutes, Brent thought. He was willing to bet it was Rhea who had led the way. Katie wasn’t unfriendly or any less eager to join in groups, but she wasn’t as unconditionally gregarious as her sister. Rhea was impulsive, Katie more reflective. He suspected Katie would prove the stronger personality in the long run.
“It’s not up to me, girls.” He wanted to give both of them a big hug for solving his dilemma. “Perhaps…” He glanced over at Devon.
“We have visitors sit in from time to time,” she said, seemingly as agreeable with the idea as they were. “We must first get permission from the headmistress, of course.”
“Yay! We’re going to school.” They clapped their hands.
“It’s not certain yet, girls,” their father warned.
“There are two extra seats against the back wall,” Devon told them. “You may take those for now and watch, if you like, whilst your father and I confer with Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”
While Devon spoke privately with her assistant, Brent reminded the girls to remain quiet in class and to speak only if they were spoken to by the teacher. A minute later, he and Devon left the room as the lesson recommenced.
“Funny,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the headmistress’s office, “I can’t recall them ever being that enthusiastic about going to school back home.”
Devon laughed. “Foreign intrigue.”
Speaking of foreign intrigue, he was falling under the spell of that laugh and wanted to hear more of it.
“Their mother…” she started tentatively, obviously seeking information. She was probably expecting him to say his wife had decided to stay home, maybe with other children, or that they were divorced.
“She died a few years ago.”
Her shock and discomfort were palpable. “I’m so, so sorry. It must be difficult for them…for you…” Her words trailed off. A moment passed. “What about sleeping arrangements?”
Startled, he glanced over before he realized she’d intended only to change the subject. He hoped she couldn’t read the thought that had instantaneously shot through his head.
“Hotel accommodations,” she clarified, her pretty face tinged with pink. “You’re staying in London, I presume.”
“Oh…um…” He suddenly felt like a clumsy teenager. “I didn’t know how late we’d be finishing up here and figured this would be a good chance to see Oxford, so I booked us into the Sword and Shield for the night.”
“Good choice,” she said with a nod. “Many parents visiting their children stay there. It’s not especially grand, but it’s convenient and I’m told quite comfortable.”
“If you don’t already have plans, Miss Hunter,” Brent said, as they drew closer to the headmistress’s office, “we’d very much like you to join us for dinner.”
Four
“What do you mean, you turned him down?” Heather asked that evening. “Are you daft?”
Devon tried to ignore the question, as she gathered up the newspapers and magazines left on their sitting room settee. For the most part she enjoyed sharing a flat with her friend, but the girl could be so slovenly at times.
“For heaven’s sake, why?” Heather persisted.
“He’s too old for me.”
“He’s mature,” Heather corrected her. “He’s also handsome, well-mannered, and he’s certainly not poor. He’s also available. I heard him tell Mrs. S—”
“That his wife is dead. Yes, I know.”
“Well, then?” Heather raised both her brows and grinned. “And the way he speaks makes me want to curl up on a warm bed. Really, what more could you ask?”
Devon picked up a three-day-old copy of the Times, folded it and added it to the stack of things destined for the rubbish bin.
“And judging from the way those dreamy eyes of his follow you,” her roommate persisted, “he’s interested in more than advice on what to order from the menu selection at the Sword and Shield.”
Devon continued to ignore her.
“Okay, so he’s got two daughters,” Heather conceded. “Twins at that. Probably not something you were bargaining for—”
“I’m not bargaining for anything…or anyone.”
“But they’re well enough behaved,” Heather prattled on, ignoring the interruption. “They obviously love their dad, and he as obviously loves them. That counts for a lot.”
Devon gave up with the paper gathering. It was busywork anyway, a diversion from listening to Heather, and wasn’t doing any good. If her friend didn’t say it, Devon was saying it to herself. What’s more, fully half of the litter was hers.
“It’s not the girls,” she protested. “You know why…”
“Charles.”
Devon nodded. Just the sound of his name had her muscles tightening.
“You can’t allow him to dictate—”
“Stay out of it,” she snapped.
“I won’t.” Heather seemed impervious to her friend’s flare of temper. “I care too much about you to let you ruin your life this way. Besides, he hasn’t called in weeks, months.”
“Because I haven’t been out with anyone in months.”
“And who’s the loser there? Keep this up and you’ll be a wizened old crone who’s never experienced living, much less loving. Like it or not, you’re going to have to stand up to him and take control of your destiny.”
“Leave me alone, will you?” Devon implored.
“I shan’t.”
Devon plopped down on the sofa, her arms flung out, her head thrown back against a cushion. She sighed. “I know you’re right, but…”
It had started two years ago when she was still at university. Her brother, Nolan, had introduced her to his friend Charles Robinett. Charles was a duke, several steps higher up in the aristocratic pecking order than a viscount, and from a family of considerable prestige. He was young, only twenty-eight to her twenty-one at the time, a large, physically imposing ex-rugby player. Despite having broken his nose twice, he was a reasonably good-looking chap, if not exactly handsome. He was also reputed to be worth millions.
Immediately after she graduated, he proposed marriage.
For all his pedigree and fine public manners, Charles Robinett was hardly her ideal for a husband. Looks were fine, and wealth certainly made life easier. But looks faded, and she had sufficient means of her own to live a respectable life. She didn’t need a man for security or social position. She certainly didn’t need one who was a tyrant, who demanded unquestioned compliance with his wishes without any consideration of her desires or interests.
When she rejected his offer, he swore he’d do physical violence to any man she showed an interest in. She took it as bluster at the time, the idle petulance of someone who was used to getting his own way without much effort on his part. After all, he was a duke. Then her next two dates were mugged after delivering her home. The first time she could dismiss it as coincidence, but the second established a pattern. The assailants were never apprehended, so there was no way to link the attacks to Charles, but Devon knew he was behind them, especially after he called her to renew his threat. She got the message.
“You know what happens when you give in to a bully,” Heather stated now. “He becomes more demanding.”
Would Brent Preston welcome a chance to play Sir Galahad? Devon wondered.
That was what she’d expected of her brother when she reported Charles’s threat to him. She was sure he’d warn the duke off. Instead Nolan had called her foolish for passing up such a rare opportunity to climb the social ladder. He’d dismissed Charles’s “supposed” threats as a misunderstanding on her part, declaring instead that in his opinion she should take what the man said as a compliment and proof of his devotion to her.
Devon had been at once stunned and furious that her own brother, whom she’d idolized for so many years, would in effect call her a liar and fail to even investigate a situation which potentially put her in harm’s way.
Since then their private relationship had been distant and strained, if not quite crossing the threshold to hostility. In public and in the presence of their mother they played their accustomed roles, even joking the way they had in the past. Devon didn’t know what had come over her brother, but the change in him saddened her greatly.
“I know you’re right,” she told Heather. “But I’m not sure it’s fair to put Mr. Preston in that sort of position.”
“You’re going to have to stand up to Charles sooner or later, you know. Why not with a man who looks like he can take on half of rugby union single-handedly? Besides,” Heather added, “he’s not going to be here very long. This is just an exploratory trip in case he gets that job transfer.”
Devon finally laughed. “Perhaps I ought to sell tickets.”
Heather slouched onto the sofa beside her and grinned. “I’ll buy one.”
Brent and the girls ate dinner—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was their current favorite—at the hotel that evening after walking around Oxford and seeing a few of the more famous landmarks of the university town. He soon realized, however, that eight-year-old girls weren’t interested in or impressed by ancient seats of scholarship.
To his own chagrin he found himself a bit bored by it all, as well, without adult companionship. He kept thinking of Devon Hunter. She undoubtedly knew all about the things he was seeing and could show him more. In his mind he pictured her eyes lighting up, her lips smiling, as she recited a concise history of the courts of learning, including ancient tales of duels and chivalry.
It was foolish really. He’d met Devon only briefly, and she’d turned down his dinner invitation. He also had to remind himself he wasn’t here for the sightseeing or to pursue the opposite sex. The world might see him as unattached, but he still thought of himself as a married man. At least he had until meeting Devon Hunter.
To his relief, after dinner he found a movie on television that the twins were actually able to agree on. The true sign of their tiredness, however, was that they didn’t put up much of a fuss when he told them it was time to go to bed. They’d been on the go for several days and the pace was finally taking its toll. Within five minutes of their heads hitting the pillows, they were sound asleep.
He, too, was weary, but he was even more restless. He got out his laptop and continued his search of the Internet for information about the Hunter family. Nolan, he discovered, was the sixth Viscount Kestler. His father, Nigel, had left him the title eight years earlier, when he died at the age of fifty-two of kidney failure, according to one report. Another version alluded to the condition being the result of chronic alcoholism. His wife, Sarah Morningfield Hunter, the mother of Nolan and Devon, apparently came from the landed gentry rather than the aristocracy. The current Kestler estate, Morningfield Manor, was from the distaff side of the family. Brent couldn’t find much about Sarah Hunter, except one article which noted that she was two years older than her late husband and that she was in frail health because of a heart condition.
By the time Brent turned off the computer and prepared for bed, he didn’t know much more than he had before, nothing, at any rate, that shed light on his investigation into the mystery of Leopold’s Legacy’s DNA.
The entire evening would have been far more pleasurable, and perhaps more productive, he decided, as he slipped in between the sheets, if Devon had agreed to spend it with them.
He shouldn’t be thinking about a beautiful young woman while he was lying in bed, and in particular he shouldn’t be thinking about Devon Hunter. His research had disclosed her age, twenty-three, a dozen years his junior. Quite a gap. Yet, when he was in her company, she seemed his match in maturity. He didn’t feel more than a decade older. If anything, she had the opposite effect. She made him feel ten years younger.
From her remarks, it appeared unlikely she had anything to do with her brother’s fraudulent activities, or that she was even aware of them, assuming her statement that she rarely had contact with him was true. Her expression seemed to have clouded over when she’d spoken about him. Protectiveness or duplicity? Why would Nolan need protection? As for duplicity, could she be aware that her brother was engaged in some sort of fraudulent dealings and simply didn’t know the details or didn’t want to?
In any event, she wouldn’t be pleased when she discovered Brent suspected him of criminal behavior. Under the circumstances, entertaining notions of a closer relationship with her was a foolish distraction and a waste of time. Unfortunately, some reactions weren’t subject to reason.
The next morning the girls were wide-awake before he was and doubly full of life. A good night’s sleep had invigorated them. To his relief and amazement, their enthusiasm for going to school hadn’t diminished overnight, which meant he would have an opportunity to see Devon again when he dropped them off and once more when he picked them up.
They ate another hearty English breakfast and set off for the academy.
By arrangement the previous afternoon, he delivered them directly to Devon’s classroom. Along the way the girls kept babbling on about how nice Miss Hunter was, how all the girls in the class liked her, that she wasn’t mean like some of the teachers back home—a charge he couldn’t remember hearing before—and how much they were looking forward to spending the day in her classroom. Apparently, Brent reflected, Devon was casting a spell on his children, as well.
She greeted him with a smile and told the girls where to sit. Wisely she didn’t keep them together but paired them off with different partners.
“You may collect them at three o’clock. If they’re not downstairs, they’ll be up here with me. How are you planning to occupy your time alone?” she asked casually, then, as pink rose to her cheeks, excused herself. “That was impertinent of me. I beg your pardon.”
His response was mixed. He found her discomfort amusing, even encouraging. On the other hand, complete honesty on his part would be unwise.
“I have business research I need to do, so this time off works out nicely. What time do you quit today?”
She gazed at him in a way that made him wonder if it was with interest or dismay. He preferred to think it might be the former. “It’s Friday,” he reminded her. “I thought we might stay here another night, if you’ll agree to join us. Our attempt at playing tourist yesterday wasn’t very successful. We ended up watching television.”
“Oh, my.” Her brown eyes sparkled with exaggerated dismay. “That bad?”
“And the offer of dinner is still open.”
She grew more serious, but the humor didn’t completely fade, and that gave him hope.
“Please join us,” he repeated.
Whilst changing clothes in her flat late that afternoon, Devon debated with herself and Heather about the wisdom of spending the evening with Brent Preston.
“Charles has spies everywhere,” she reminded her friend. “So many people in Oxford know me. Word is bound to get back to him that I was in the company of a good-looking American gentleman….”
“And his two kids,” Heather pointed out.
“That won’t make any difference.”
Charles was jealous and vindictive, and his threatening telephone calls since their breakup had made it clear he didn’t want her seeing other men and would take vengeance on any man who shared her company.
“He has no bloody right laying claim to you like that,” Heather countered angrily. “He asked you to marry him and you said no. That should be the end of it. You can’t spend the rest of your life cowering in fear of a man whose designs on you border on the criminal and perhaps even the psychotic.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already told myself,” Devon murmured as she slipped out of the dress she’d worn at school and went to the lavatory. For the past two years she’d been alone and lonely. She could change that if she’d cease being such a coward and a victim. She used to be popular, outgoing.
Her determination to disregard Charles’s threats was intractable until she thought about Brent’s children. Surely Charles wasn’t so depraved, so obsessed with her, that he’d do them harm. The girls had already lost their mother. If something were to happen to their father, something that resulted from her association with him, she’d never be able to live with herself.
Wearing only bra and panties, she weighed the pros and cons of the situation as she scrubbed her face. She emerged a minute later in her dressing gown, sat at her vanity and brushed out her shoulder-length hair. While she was applying a dusting of makeup, Heather inventoried the small collection of perfumes on the dressing table and selected one.
Devon couldn’t help smiling as she dabbed it behind her ears. It had been so long since she’d been out with a man, the prospect sent little shivers tripping along her skin and in her belly.
“What are you wearing?” Heather asked. “Something simple, I should think. Casual but elegant, of course.”
Devon laughed. “I was considering the dark green trousers and the silver-gray blouse.”
“And your rust-colored cable-knit pullover. Perfect. Oh, wait.”
Heather rummaged in the side drawer of Devon’s dressing table and brought out a necklace of polished black-, green-and wine-colored stones and a matching bracelet.
“Here. Where’s your good watch?”
If Devon weren’t already keyed up about her date, her friend’s enthusiasm would have made her excited. She pointed to the little drawer under the mirror. Heather extracted the stylish gold timepiece with its tiny diamond chips for numbers.
Ten minutes later Devon spun around in front of the mirror that ran the length of her wardrobe. She was feeling giddy, like a girl let loose after a long confinement.
Pleased with the results thus far, she now considered her footwear.
“The black boots,” Heather insisted.
Devon agreed. Finally she put on her tan Burberry and grabbed a multihued green silk scarf.
“Wish me luck,” she said as she went to the door.
“I wish you more than that. I’ll want a full accounting when you get back—” Heather smiled “—whenever that may be.”
Devon left the flat laughing.
Five
The ornately carved grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby was striking six when Devon walked into the old Tudor inn. At this time of year the sun had long set.
Brent and the girls were waiting for her on the settee in front of the fireplace, in which a lively fire burned. Unlike so many Americans who dressed casually for nearly every occasion, he was wearing a perfectly tailored chestnut tweed jacket, a fawn shirt and olive-green tie. His darker sepia slacks were sharply creased and he had on comfortably worn polished brown loafers.
He was even handsomer in this more informal attire, she decided, than in the proper suit he’d had on earlier in the day. But it was the man and not the clothes that caught her attention—and her imagination.
He was powerfully built. She wondered what sports he played, convinced that whatever they were, he played them well. Brent Preston didn’t strike her as a man who did things by half measures.
“My,” she said, making an effort to focus her attention on the twins instead of him, “aren’t you the smart duo?” They were dressed in matching pink frocks and mid-calf boots.
The girls jumped up and ran to her, clearly pleased to see her. As delighted as she was with their greeting, it was their father’s appraisal that warmed her insides.
“Where do you suggest we eat?” Brent asked.
“There are several places in the area,” she said. “The Stag and Steer, a short walk from here, is quite good. Their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding are excellent—”
“Yay, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Rhea sang out.
“I want something else,” Katie complained. “I’m tired of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
“Well—” Devon put a finger to her chin “—they have steak pie, mutton chops, their trout is quite good and—”
“Steak pie,” Katie repeated. “I want steak pie.”
Brent smiled. “I guess it’s the Stag and Steer then. Trout, you say…”
They donned their coats.
“Thank you for joining us,” Brent said as they walked through narrow streets to the restaurant. “It’s always more fun to have someone local show us around.”
Devon smiled. “And it’s my pleasure to be that someone.”
It was a fun meal. Brent, Devon soon discovered, was possessed of a droll sense of humor. He told stories about life in Kentucky that made her wish she were there.
“Is the grass really blue?”
He chuckled. “It’s definitely lush and definitely green, but it’s not even native to America. It grows all over Europe and North Africa.”
She sighed dramatically. “Another myth destroyed.”
Taking a different route back to the hotel after dinner, they came upon a toy shop that featured old-fashioned porcelain dolls. The girls were fascinated by their painted faces and period costumes. They begged their father to bring them back the following day.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he pointed out. “They probably won’t be open.”
Devon could tell he was teasing, but the twins apparently didn’t realize it. Rhea screwed up her mouth with annoyance and Katie stared stoically, her eyes teary.
“I believe they’re open until noon,” Devon informed them.
“Please, can we come back?” Rhea begged. “Please?”
He turned to Devon. “If you’ll join us.”
She hadn’t anticipated that. Or had she subconsciously been angling all along for another excuse to see him?
“If you really want me to.”
“We really want you to,” Brent said quietly. His lips said “we,” but his eyes said “I.” Awareness set off little flutters in her belly.
At the hotel, he invited her up to their suite. Since the inn was nearly empty he’d been able to book their best and biggest accommodations.
She hesitated.
“Will you help tuck us into bed?” Rhea asked eagerly.
It was an unusual request, one she’d not received before, and the intimacy it implied made her slightly uncomfortable. She glanced at Brent. All evening long they had been catching each other’s eye, then looking away. Heather had been right, Devon realized. He was interested.
Were it not for her concern about Charles, she would have accepted the invitation with alacrity. She enjoyed this man’s—and his daughters’—company and would very much like to share more of it.
But Charles—
If she was surrounded by spies for the duke, as she suspected, he would know she’d been in Brent’s company. Not going up to his room wouldn’t make any difference, regardless of his young daughters being with them. Charles had made it clear he didn’t want any other man to enjoy her companionship in public or in private.
Then she took another look at Brent and couldn’t imagine him being intimidated by anyone, even a man like Charles. Besides, in a few days Brent Preston would be on his way back to the United States. Charles wasn’t likely to pick a fight with him across the Atlantic.
“Just for a few minutes,” she said to the girls, then added to Brent, “if that’s all right with you.”
All right? Brent felt his blood racing, long-dormant sensations tingling. Thoughts and desires he’d managed to bury since Marti died were resurfacing with brutal vengeance.
He and Devon had spent the evening like two old friends, exchanging ideas, asking each other questions, sharing laughter. Twice he’d spontaneously reached for her hand, found it and squeezed. Twice she’d willingly returned the casual caresses. More than like friends.
Guilt rampaged through him. If Marti were here, he would never…
But she wasn’t, and the renewed realization that she was gone forever produced an ache so acute it could have brought him to tears. Then he raised his head—till then unaware he’d been staring at the ground—and saw Devon, and a different kind of ache possessed him. For a fate-changing instant he prayed that Marti would understand, and if he was making a mistake, forgive him.
There was such warmth in Devon’s smile that he had to believe that Marti would approve.
They took the stairs up one flight to what the British and Europeans insisted on calling the first floor, as if the ground floor didn’t count. The suite comprised two modest bedrooms, a private bath and a sitting room with a small marble fireplace.
“Change into your jammies,” Brent told the girls, “and brush your teeth, then I’ll come and tuck you in.”
“We want Devon to tuck us in, too,” Rhea reminded him.
“She will. Now, go get ready for bed.”
The twins danced into their bedroom. After a few seconds he and Devon could hear water running in the bathroom.
“I like them, Brent. Very much. They’re wonderful children.”
“I guess I’ll keep them then,” he replied, more aware of her and the effect she was having on him than the lighthearted words tumbling out. “You’ve made quite a hit with them, too.”
“We’re ready,” Rhea called out a minute later.
“Come on,” Brent said, and put his hand on the small of Devon’s back as he guided her toward the girls’ bedroom.
Brent hugged the twins, gave them each a kiss. Devon could remember her father sending her to bed, but she couldn’t recall him ever kissing her good-night, much less tucking her in. How lucky these girls were to have a father who loved them. She expected to simply say good-night and leave, but they insisted on giving her a hug and kiss, as well.
“Pleasant dreams,” she said in a voice choked to a whisper as she watched them snuggle contentedly under the covers.
What a wonderful experience it was to hold the children in her arms and kiss them good-night. She had no siblings other than Nolan, who was so much older that he hardly counted. She had a few cousins, but they, too, were his age, so she had been brought up virtually as an only child and never experienced the kind of intimacies this family, incomplete as it was, engaged in as a matter of routine. She envied them.
Family dynamics in her life had been keeping track of how much her father was drinking, and if necessary, avoiding him. Her mother, who had been over forty when Devon was born—an unplanned, if not unwanted child—had been frail for as long as Devon could remember, owing to a wonky ticker, as her father had invariably phrased it. At one stage Devon had wondered if Sarah Hunter wasn’t faking feebleness to gain attention, but entertaining such a doubt had only made her feel guilty.
The warmth of this encounter with the Prestons, father and daughters, filled her with a longing she’d never felt before. If this was what it was like to have a normal family, she decided, she wanted it. She’d thought of family before, many times, but somehow the image had never included moments like this.
Brent stood behind her in the doorway to say their final good-night, his body’s warmth enveloping her, as his arm reached around her and pulled the door closed.
“They’ll be sound asleep in no time,” he assured her with a smile, and the love she saw in his eyes made her all but cry out with the pain of her own loneliness. “They run at top speed all day, then it’s like turning off a light switch, and they sleep the sleep of the dead.”
She didn’t like the metaphor, but she smiled nonetheless and shivered a little.
“You’re cold.” As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he wrapped an arm across her shoulders.
The tremor that flowed through her now had nothing to do with the room’s chill but everything to do with the heat his touch generated. His body was solid, his contact firm and reassuring, and she wanted to burrow into it.
She tried to tell herself she was reacting like an adolescent. In truth, his embrace reinforced her awareness of the two years she’d spent alone, untouched, a woman apart.
“Let me light the fire,” he said, “then I’ll pour us a glass of something.”
She wanted to cry out “no,” when he released her. Instead she stood where she was and watched him bend down and reach for the propane starter to ignite the gas log.
He stood up, smiling at her, then walked over to the drinks table in the corner. “Let’s see. Scotch, of course. Brandy. Cream sherry. There’s red wine. What can I get you?”
Another hug, please, she wanted to say. “Sherry, I think.”
“Sherry, it is. I’ll have Scotch. I’m a Bourbon man at home.”
“Kentucky is famous for its Bourbon whisky, isn’t it?”
“We make the best. I’ve heard Tennessee produces some passable stuff, too, but I’m partial to the home spirits.”
“Naturally.”
He caught the humor in her voice, looked over and grinned.
“I have to thank you for a wonderful day,” he said, pouring a couple of ounces of sherry into a wineglass.
“Your girls are enchanting.” What she really felt like saying was that she didn’t want the day to end. “You must be very proud of them.”
“I am.” He decanted even less whisky into a short tumbler for himself. “You have to understand, though, they’ve been on their best behavior the last couple of days, for which I’m enormously grateful. But they can also be holy terrors, I assure you.”
She smiled as he handed her the sweet wine.
“Thanks for inspiring them,” he said.
“It’s I who should be thanking you for today,” she replied, standing in front of the fire. “You’ve given me a special gift, sharing your family and allowing me to see the world ’round me with fresh eyes. I shan’t forget that.”
He loved listening to her speak, the crisp accent that was so clear and precise, the unaccustomed words. Meeting her eyes, he held up his glass. “To special gifts.”
She raised hers, never breaking eye contact. The intimacy of the moment lingered even after they’d sipped their drinks.
Taking her hand, he led her over to the love seat in front of the fireplace. Yellow and blue flames licked around the simulated logs. The fire wasn’t giving off much heat yet, but that wasn’t important. There was already enough between them.
“You must be tired,” she said softly. “This has been a long day for you, too.”
“All I feel right now is contentment. It’s been a wonderful two days,” he murmured. “I met you.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his. He brought his lips down to hers, and suddenly the heat of the fireplace was nothing compared to the heat between them.
It was all happening so fast, she thought, yet not quickly enough. She closed her eyes, let her senses float. A furor of needs and desires raged inside her. Was it this man who was setting her free? Or would any man touching her have provoked the same response?
She sensed, too, the desperation in the kiss. Were they no more than two lonely people starved for contact?
They broke off. He didn’t look at her but bowed his head. Had she disappointed him? Did he feel regret?
Another long moment elapsed before she was aware of a sound coming from the other room, a muffled sob.
Six
He was on his feet so quickly she almost fell into the void he left. She regained her balance and stood up as he darted to his daughters’ bedroom and shot inside. Devon went as far as the door but didn’t enter.
Rhea was sleeping soundly, her face turned away from the light coming in through the open doorway. It was Katie who was crying.
Brent sat at her side and ran his hand gently along her hair and down her neck.
“What’s the matter, pumpkin? Having a bad dream?”
“I miss Mommy.”
He gathered her in his arms. “I know, honey. I do, too. But you know she’s here with you. You just can’t see her.”
Katie cried harder against his chest. “Daddy…”
“What is it, baby?”
“Are you going to take us back to that school and leave us there?”
“What?” He held her gently away so he could look into her tear-drenched eyes. “What are you talking about, honey?”
“The other kids…they told us their parents brought them there and left them. They don’t see them anymore, except on visitors’ day. They don’t go home anymore, except maybe on holidays. Are you going to leave us there, too?”
He thought he’d known pain before, but nothing compared with the agony he felt at that moment. For his girls to think he would abandon them…
He hugged her so tightly he was afraid he was going to hurt her.
“I would never do that, sweetheart. I love you so much, I could never leave you with other people. We’re only visiting here. When our vacation is over we’re going home again. All of us. Together.”
She sobbed. “I was afraid you didn’t want us with you anymore.”
“Shh,” he soothed. “That’s not true, honey. It’ll never be true.”
He rocked her in his arms and felt his own tears roll down his face.
“We’re going to have a good time while we’re here,” he said, “then we’re going home. Okay?”
She nodded and hiccupped and clung to him all the tighter.
“I promise.” He brushed away her tears with the pad of his thumb and kissed her cheek softly.
He urged her to lie down again, pulled up her covers and sat on the edge of the bed until she had fallen asleep. Only then did he tiptoe from the room.
Devon watched him pick up his whisky glass with a shaky hand and swallow its meager contents. She waited for him to go to the drinks table and refill it. Wasn’t that what men did when things went wrong or they didn’t get their way? Take another drink? To her amazement and relief, he didn’t.
“What’s going on, Brent?” she asked in a quiet but determined tone.
He spun around, as if he had forgotten she was there. “I should have realized something was bothering her,” he said morosely. “Rhea is the chatterbox, but Katie isn’t usually as withdrawn as she was this evening.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He finally looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“You obviously didn’t come to Briar Hills Academy with the intent of enrolling your daughters there, unless what you told Katie was a lie.”
“It wasn’t.” He opened a bottle of Evian water and poured the contents into a clean tumbler.
“So why did you come to the school?” When he didn’t respond, she ventured further. “Are you going to tell me, Brent? Or should I just leave?”
“Don’t go. Please.”
He sounded so earnest, so troubled, but he had already lied to her once. Why should she believe anything he told her now? Had the kiss been a lie, too? A way of manipulating her, of getting whatever it was he was after? She could still imagine the sensation of his lips on hers.
“Please sit down,” he said, “and I’ll tell you.”
She wasn’t sure she should stay, but she did want answers, and he was the only one who could furnish them. She settled into the club chair. Her sherry was within reach, but she ignored it.
“What do you know about Apollo’s Ice?” he asked.
She cocked her head and studied him. After a long pause she replied, “Apollo’s Ice. Is that a horse?”
He nodded and sat on the sofa where they’d been kissing a few minutes earlier. “Yes, a stallion your brother had up for stud in the States four years ago.”
“I told you I don’t know anything about his horses. Or do you think I lie as facilely as you do?”
“I’m sorry I deceived you, Devon. Maybe after I’ve explained what’s happened—”
She swallowed a sarcastic reply and folded her arms across her chest.
“My grandfather, Hugh Preston, came to the United States from Ireland more than sixty years ago,” Brent said. “He worked hard, saved his money, invested in a few promising ponies, did well and eventually married my grandmother. Together they bought a thousand acres of prime Kentucky farmland and started Quest Stables.”
He took a sip of his water and put the glass back down next to her sweet sherry on an end table.
“It’s done well over the years. We’re not the biggest horse farm in Kentucky anymore, much less the country, but we’re not exactly small, either. We have… We had an average daily horse population of five hundred and a permanent staff of nearly seventy-five employees.
“Granddad retired from active management of the business after my grandmother passed away a few years back, leaving day-to-day operations to my father, who more recently has turned over details of the business to my brother and me. Andrew is the general manager. I’m in charge of breeding.”
She listened without interrupting or showing emotion. Rising, he went to the drinks table and splashed more Scotch into the whisky glass he’d abandoned. Remaining by the window, he leaned against the sill, facing her.
“Four years ago, when I learned Apollo’s Ice was going to be standing stud at Angelina Stud Farm about fifty miles from us, I booked one of our premium mares, Courtin’ Cristy, to be bred to him. The results were outstanding. Last year the foal, Leopold’s Legacy, won the Kentucky Derby as well as the Preakness and appeared to be on his way to taking the Belmont Stakes and the Triple Crown.”
He swallowed some of his drink and made a face. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to the taste of this stuff.” He put it aside.
Devon waited, knowing the comment was a delaying tactic. She was having a hard time reading his face. Anger, yes, but there was something more complex there, as if he couldn’t figure out who or what he was angry at.
“Then came a computer glitch at the Jockey Association. A small group of DNA files were lost or corrupted, so the association requested that the owners of the affected horses draw new blood samples.” He took a deep breath. “A simple enough procedure. No problem, right?”
He gulped the remainder of his whisky. “Except according to the results, Apollo’s Ice was not the sire of Leopold’s Legacy. Overnight we were branded as frauds.”
Now his anger spilled over.
“Do you have any idea what impact that accusation had?” he demanded.
She shook her head, unwilling to speak.
“No,” he snapped, “I don’t suppose you do. So let me tell you.”
He began to pace, his head lowered, his expression fierce. “A major source of our income is from boarding and training fees. Breeding brings in big money, too, but it’s only for three months a year. Because all Thoroughbreds officially have their birthdays on January first, no one wants a foal born late in the year. When the question of Leopold’s Legacy’s provenance came up, he was banned from further competition until the discrepancy is corrected, and three months later, when we have no resolution, all Thoroughbreds majority-owned by Quest Stables were banned from competing in North America. An international ban followed in October.”
That didn’t seem unreasonable, she wanted to argue, given they had proof. The DNA. But she said nothing.
“As a result,” he continued, “owners immediately began removing their racehorses from Quest. Horses that were there for training were taken away, as well. Breeding contracts dried up overnight, and suddenly we were faced with big cash-flow problems.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Employees who depended on us for their livelihoods—grooms, trainers, exercisers, stall muckers, groundskeepers, farmers, maintenance crews—had to be let go. All because I bred a mare to a stallion your brother claimed to be Apollo’s Ice but wasn’t.”
“Surely there was something you could do to prove the accusation wrong.”
He laughed without humor. “I had the test repeated, but the results were the same. I talked to everyone who had come in contact with the stallion and the mare. I even flew over here and talked with your brother. He helped all he could, even let me draw new blood and hair samples from Apollo’s Ice for testing, but it did no good. Apollo’s Ice was not the sire we paid for. Your brother claimed to have no idea what could have happened. He pointed out that he hadn’t even been in the States at the time of the breeding, whereas I had had complete and uninterrupted custody of the mare.”
“I don’t understand,” Devon said. “It sounds like Nolan cooperated with you in every way possible, so why are you here? Why are you accusing him of wrongdoing?”
Brent refreshed his drink, taking only half of what he had earlier, then gazed at its amber glow in the glass and put it down. He retrieved his Evian and drank that instead.
“In spite of what he said, I think your brother was involved in this fraud. I spent today reviewing records, files, newspaper articles—you have excellent research facilities here at Oxford. I was trying to learn everything I could about your brother’s equestrian interests. There have been other frauds involving Apollo’s Ice. I’ll say this, too. Nolan has covered his tracks very well.”
She stared at him for a long minute, her lips pursed, then she rose from her chair.
“I’ll tell you what it sounds like to me, Mr. Preston. I think you have made a cock-up of your breeding business and now you’re looking for a scapegoat.”
Seven
“No, Devon, I’m not looking for a scapegoat.” Brent ran a hand through his hair, ready to vent his anger, but she was so young and pretty, and the innocence he saw in her soft brown eyes made him feel instant regret for any doubts he’d harbored that she might be involved with her brother. “I’m looking for the culprit.” He finished the sentence more gently than he’d started. “And I have good reason to think it’s your brother.”
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