“I’ll tell Cassie,” Peter promised.
“G’night, Peter,” the twins chorused, and fell asleep without even asking for a bedtime story.
Peter sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at Will’s tousled head. “They’ve got it all worked out,” he said softly.
“Have you?” I asked.
Peter looked up at me with a crooked smile. “As a matter of fact, I do. She’s a wonderful girl, Lori—fearless and kind and wise. I think she’d say yes if I asked her.” He ducked his head shyly. “I’m just waiting for the right moment, I suppose.”
“You’ll find it,” I told him, and bent low to kiss my brilliant baby boys good night.
Andrew came in to take the night shift, and the rest of us went down to the dining room for what promised to be a truly memorable dinner.
Sir Percy greeted Peter and Cassie with his customary ebullience and listened avidly while Cassie told him of their travails with the press. Cassie was forced to do all the talking, because the smoked-haddock chowder and the crabmeat-stuffed ravioli commanded every particle of Peter’s attention. When the roasted rack of venison appeared, surrounded by roasted potatoes, carrots, and onions, I half expected him to forsake his true love, run from the dining room, and propose marriage to Cook instead.
Sir Percy knew Cassie’s father and Peter’s grandfather.
“Festhubert and I were at school together,” he told Cassie while Mrs. Gammidge served the venison. “He was a pompous ass as a boy, and I’m sorry to say that he hasn’t changed much since then, though I’m sure he’s a fine father.”
“He is,” said Cassie. She seemed slightly taken aback but mostly amused by Sir Percy’s frankness.
“And you,” Sir Percy went on, turning to Peter, “you’re Elstyn’s grandson, eh? I know your grandfather, of course, the stiff-necked old buzzard, and I saw his letter in the Times. It’s a pity he landed you in it by trumpeting your virtues in public, but hardly surprising. Pride was ever his downfall.”
Peter was too familiar with his grandfather’s foibles to be offended by Sir Percy’s unflattering observations.
“Grandfather hasn’t quite come to terms with the twenty-first century,” he explained, with a wry smile. “He much prefers the eighteenth, when gentlemen were gentlemen, ladies were ladies, and everyone else was obligingly invisible.”
“He’s been more than generous to the Seal Conservation Trust,” Cassie put in, casting a swift glance in Peter’s direction.
Peter caught the glance, put down his knife and fork—with some reluctance—and turned to gaze attentively at Sir Percy. I watched, ate, and waited. I had a feeling that the pair were about to solicit a donation from their wealthy host.
“Grandfather has been generous,” Peter agreed. “Thanks to him we’ll be able to open a second observatory this year.”
“Glad to hear it,” Sir Percy boomed. “Fascinating creatures, seals. Erinskil has its own colony, you know. They breed on the rocks near the Devil’s Teeth—the stacks off the western shore.”
“I’m aware of the Devil’s Teeth colony.” Peter stared down at his folded hands for a moment, then looked again at Sir Percy. “If you find Erinskil’s seals fascinating, sir, why won’t you allow the trust to study them?”
Sir Percy responded with a faintly puzzled smile. “Sorry, old man, you’ve lost me. I’ve nothing to do with the trust.”
“But you’re Erinskil’s laird,” Peter countered. “Dr. Withers, the project director, has written to you several times, asking for permission to build our new observatory on Erinskil. He has yet to receive a reply.”
“I haven’t replied to your project director,” said Sir Percy, “because none of his letters have reached me.”
“He sent them, I assure you,” said Peter. “Three or four of them.”
“Has he, by God?” Sir Percy’s mouth tightened, and he beckoned to Mrs. Gammidge. “Would you please ask Elliot to join us? My personal assistant,” he explained to Peter and Cassie. “Elliot handles all my correspondence.We’ll soon get to the bottom of this.”
Sir Percy was, for once, being overly optimistic. Elliot Southmore had never seen the letters written by Jocelyn Withers.
“Did Dr. Withers write to Sir Percy’s corporate address?” Elliot inquired.
“No,” Peter answered. “He wrote last summer, when Sir Percy was in residence on Erinskil. He thought the proposals would have a greater impact if Sir Percy was on the island when he received them. He sent the letters to Dundrillin Castle.”
“They must have gone through the Stoneywell post office, sir,” Elliot said promptly, turning to his employer. “Rather, they didn’t go through the post office. It appears that they were . . . diverted.”
Sir Percy drummed his fingers on the table. “Someone’s been playing silly buggers with my post. How very interesting.”