Despite Paul’s “barring road works”—a ritual incantation in August, in England—we were faced with a veritable Maginot Line of construction barriers on our way to Cloverly House. With a foresight remarkable in a people that had been around long enough to know better, the English regularly tore up and repaired their main highways and interchanges during the very month in which most of them took to the road for extended vacations, and this August was no exception. My nap was intermittent at best, and the cumulative delay put us at the entrance to Cloverly House precisely one hour past the closing time posted on the gates.
“Damn and blast,” I growled as Paul turned the limo and drove back to the main road.
“Why, madam,” Paul scolded, “what would Mr. Willis say if he heard you talk like that?”
“If he were here, I wouldn’t have to talk like that,” I grumbled, pushing the tartan blanket aside and squirming out of my tweed jacket. Although cool breezes wafted from the air conditioner, I was uncomfortably warm. “I hate the thought of wasting an entire evening we could’ve spent looking for him. Do you know if there are any hotels around here?”
“Lady Eleanor’s seen to that, madam,” Paul informed me.
Nell gestured toward the cellular phone. “I made some calls while you were asleep, and found a place where we can spend the night. It’s not far. I told Mama about the deed and Julia Louise and Sir Williston and Lord William. And she said to tell you that she’s put the filing cabinets in the shed with the photocopier and the fax machine.”
“Filing cabinets?” I said.
Nell nodded. “Two of them. They’re black and lockable and they have four drawers each.”
If Nell had been able to reserve a hotel room, discuss the Willis family feud, and get a detailed description of Willis, Sr.’s latest indulgence in office furniture without disturbing my slumber, I’d clearly slept more soundly than I’d thought. Which was strange, because I still felt tired, and my legs ached a bit. My stomach wasn’t doing too well, either. I’d never had a problem with motion sickness, but I was beginning to think it had been a mistake to mix watercress sandwiches, rich petits fours, a pair of fat red puddings, a bag of greasy ...
“Paul,” I said urgently, “stop the car.”
I’d always admired the hedgerows of England for their leafy beauty and for the protection they afforded small birds and wild animals. Now I was grateful for the handholds. The sausages had been a big mistake, and by the time I finished atoning for it, I was as limp as a rag doll. Paul helped me stagger back to the limo, where Nell put a handkerchief dampened with mineral water on my forehead and repeated her assurance that the place where we would spend the night wasn’t far from Cloverly House.
It was, to be precise, next door. I stared blearily out of the window as we cruised down the long drive, past a lake and through a small, landscaped park, to a pleasantly symmetrical redbrick Georgian that was either a small hotel or a large B&B. I didn’t much care.
The front door opened before Paul had brought the limo to a full stop, and two men in black suits hustled forward to open the car doors for Nell and me, and to confer with Paul about the luggage.
A third man remained on the doorstep. He was tall, spare, and distinguished-looking, with a beautiful mane of silvery hair combed back from an attractive, deeply lined face. He wore an elegant navy-blue sportcoat, tan slacks, a light-blue shirt, and an ascot. I’d never really believed that people wore ascots outside of films, but this fellow looked as though he’d been born with one already in place. Great, I thought, pushing my curls back from my damp brow, we’re bunking with an ex-prime minster.
“Sir Poppet,” Nell said, nodding graciously to the man on the doorstep.
“Lady Nell, how good to see you.” Sir Poppet made a formal bow in Nell’s direction, but greeted me with a grin. “And you must be Ms. Shepherd. How d‘you do? Sir Kenmare Poulteney, at your service.” He stretched out a hand to grip mine, and took a closer look at my face. “I say ... Here, Ms. Shepherd, take my arm. You’re not looking at all well.”
There are times when furniture, paintings, rugs, and wallpaper simply do not matter, and that night was one of them. I could have been in the Taj Mahal or a shack in the Australian outback and I wouldn’t have noticed a thing. If Bill had somehow magically appeared at my bedside, I‘d’ve told him to take a running leap into the deepest part of Little Moose Lake.