The meal began, as did the inquisition I’d anticipated.
“Have you run into Arthur Hargreaves since we last saw you?” Grant asked with feigned nonchalance.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I replied. “Bess and I spent a few hours with him yesterday at Hillfont Abbey.”
Charles gasped and Grant choked on his cucumber soup.
“You penetrated the inner sanctum?” Charles said incredulously.
“He showed me around his library,” I said.
“Did you see the da Vinci sketch?” Grant asked wheezily, pressing a napkin to his lips.
“I may have,” I said. “There were lots of technical drawings hanging on the walls. One of them may have been done by Leonardo.”
“Why didn’t you ask?” Grant demanded.
“We were talking about other things,” I replied. “But I promise to ask Arthur to point out the Leonardo the next time I’m in his library.”
“‘The next time I’m in his library,’” said Charles, mimicking my carefree tone. “Do you intend to make a habit of visiting Hillfont Abbey?”
“I don’t know if I’ll make a habit of it,” I said, “but I do intend to go back. I like it there. I like Arthur, too.” I looked from Charles to Grant and sighed deeply. “You’ve got him all wrong, you know.”
“Not all wrong, surely,” said Grant.
“You’re right about him being rich and having exquisite taste,” I acknowledged, “but he’s not a crazy, cave-dwelling spider-guy. He’s a homebody, not a hermit, and he doesn’t control the corporate world by twanging a thread in his web. He offers friendly advice to a few bigwigs who used to be his students.”
“Was he a teacher?” Charles asked interestedly.
“He gave scientific lectures all over the world,” I told him. I remembered the tired expression that had crossed Arthur’s face as he’d gazed at his framed maps. “I think he got sick of the lecture circuit, sick of the attention as well as the traveling. If you ask me, the attention embarrassed him. He’s super-smart, but he’s not a showoff. If he doesn’t give interviews, it’s because he’s too humble to toot his own horn.” I finished my soup and helped myself to a piece of bruschetta. “But don’t take my word for it. Let me introduce you to Arthur. Honestly, guys, if you met him, you’d like him as much as I do.”
“We’d also risk losing friends in the village,” said Grant.
“If you lose them so easily,” I said, “they weren’t real friends to begin with.”
“We still have to live with them,” Grant pointed out.
“Maybe you should set an example for them,” I said. “If I praise Arthur, I’m a lone voice in the wilderness. If the three of us praise him, we’re a trio. A trio is louder than a lone voice. We might be able to persuade others to sing along with us.”
Charles gazed reflectively at a cluster of blowsy peonies.
“Arthur Hargreaves is a humble homebody who gives friendly advice to former pupils,” he mused aloud. “You’ve smashed our preconceptions to bits, Lori. I don’t know whether to be glad or sad.”
“You should be glad,” I said sternly. “Blind prejudice doesn’t suit you.”
Charles accepted the scolding with good grace, but neither he nor Grant offered to join me the next time I visited Hillfont Abbey. Peer pressure, it seemed, was more powerful than curiosity.
“We met William’s sisters this morning,” Grant said. “I was deadheading the roses in the front garden when they happened by.”
“I was still in my dressing gown,” said Charles, the late riser, “but I threw on some clothes and ran out to greet them.”
“I hope it was worth the effort,” I said.
“Oh, it was,” Charles assured me. “They were tremendously entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” I said doubtfully. “In what way were Charlotte and Honoria entertaining?”
“They’re like a pair of wicked schoolgirls,” Charles said happily. “All dolled up and simply oozing with nastiness.”
“I wasn’t entertained by them,” said Grant. “I found them—” He broke off and regarded me apologetically. “Forgive me, Lori. I don’t wish to criticize your relations, but—”
“They aren’t my relations,” I broke in emphatically. “They’re Bill’s aunts and he can’t stand them.”
“Amelia doesn’t seem to be keen on them, either,” Grant observed. “They were expecting her to join them for brunch, but she scurried off to Oxford instead.”
“Coincidence?” said Charles, eyeing me waggishly. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s going to be a long three weeks for Amelia,” said Grant.
“It’ll be a long three weeks for all of us,” I said. “Except William. He is fond of them. Heaven alone knows why.”
“They amuse him,” said Charles. “I could see it in his eyes. They’re the king’s jesters. Jesters can get away with anything.”
“Almost anything,” I corrected him. “If they take things too far with Amelia, King William will have their heads.”