The Anscombe Riding Center, as Emma and Derek called their creation, had proved to be a great success, in part because of its fine facilities and splendid rural setting but to a much greater degree because of the skill and talent of its stellar stable master, Kit Smith.
Kit had an uncanny way with horses, and he was pretty good at teaching humans, too. He knew when to be patient and when to crack the whip—at the humans, that is, not the horses. I’d never seen Kit scold a horse, let alone use a whip on one. Even the most ill-mannered mounts seemed to obey him, not out of fear but because they didn’t want to disappoint him.
Clients came from far and wide to board their horses at the ARC
and to take lessons from Kit. Most of the clients were wealthy— riding is an expensive hobby—so I was accustomed to seeing an array of pricey cars parked on the gravel apron at the end of the long drive. I was not, however, accustomed to seeing cars that looked as though they’d popped off the pages of a racing magazine.
“What’s with all the sports cars?” I asked as the manor house came into view.
“Didn’t Emma tell you about the cars when she came over the other day?” Annelise asked.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
41
“She never got around to it,” I said. “Our conversation was interrupted by the telephone call from Miss Archer.”
“After which you went to pieces,” Annelise said, nodding.
“I became . . . distracted,” I admitted.
“Right, then,” said Annelise, “I’ll fi ll you in. The sports cars belong to the new stable hands. Emma’s hired quite a few since Nell came back from France. None of them need to work for a living, but they’re queuing up for jobs all the same.”
I put the words “Nell,” “stable hands,” and “sports cars” together and came to the obvious conclusion. “The new stable hands wouldn’t happen to be rich but pathetically lovesick young men, would they?”
“They would,” said Annelise. “Lucca’s not too happy about it.”
“Poor kid,” I murmured.
Lucca was one of Annelise’s many brothers. He’d had a major crush on Nell Harris for years. Most girls would have welcomed Lucca’s attentions—he was as sweet-natured as he was gorgeous— but, sadly for Lucca, Nell wasn’t most girls.
“Poor fool, you mean,” said Annelise, with an older sister’s casual ruthlessness. “Let’s face it, Lori, Lucca’s kidding himself if he thinks the new arrivals will hurt his chances with Nell, because he never had a chance. Nor have the new boys, come to that. No one’s ever had a chance with Nell but Kit, and the sooner Lucca realizes it, the sooner he’ll be able to get on with his life. I’ve told him time and again that Nell’s not the only girl in the world.”
“Maybe not,” I said quietly, “but she’s the only Nell.”
Annelise gave me a rueful glance and nodded her agreement, then parked the Rover between a fire-engine-red Ferrari and a gleaming silver Porsche. We climbed out of the Rover, helped the twins down from their booster seats, and walked sedately after them as they made their usual mad dash for the stables.
“Who owns the Porsche?” I asked, hitching my day pack’s straps onto my shoulders.
42 Nancy Atherton
“Friedrich,” Annelise replied. “He’s from Berlin. He met Nell at the Sorbonne and followed her home.”
I had to smile. Annelise made it sound as if Friedrich were a stray dog.
“Nell takes no notice of him,” Annelise went on. “Friedrich drives here from Oxford every day, and all he gets for his trouble is heartache and a pair of smelly wellies.”
“Good grief,” I said.
“He’s not the only one,” said Annelise. “There’s Mario from Milan and Rafael from Barcelona and a handful of French boys with names I can’t pronounce. Honestly, Lori, I think the Sorbonne lost half its male undergrads to Oxford when Nell came home from Paris, and half of them are skiving off classes to work here. How they’ll ever get their degrees, I don’t know.”
“It depends on what they’re studying, I suppose,” I said.
“I know what they’re studying,” Annelise said portentously, “and they don’t give degrees for it at Oxford.”
We were ten feet or so from the stable yard’s open gate when I caught sight of the blossom that had attracted so many ardent bees to Anscombe Manor. It always took me a moment to catch my breath when I saw Nell Harris. She was quite simply the loveliest young woman I’d ever seen. When I tried to describe her to those who’d never encountered her, I always ended up mumbling feebly, “Have you ever seen Botticelli’s Venus? Nell’s like that, only more so.”
Eleanor Harris was tall and willowy, with a halo of golden curls framing a flawless oval face adorned with features so pristine and delicate that they might have been carved out of marble. Her darkblue eyes were as fathomless as the night sky and as brilliant as the stars sprinkled across it. She was as graceful as a nymph, as regal as a queen, and as beautiful as Botticelli’s Venus—only more so.
It didn’t matter that she was wearing a nondescript navy-blue nylon jacket, a fairly ratty pair of fawn-colored riding breeches, Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter