Henrietta snorted.
“—to clean them properly for you before you leave,” Mr. Bellamy continued, ignoring Henrietta and holding the bundle out to us. “Miss Charlotte offers these garments to you to wear while your own are being cleaned. She has also expressed an interest in Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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conversing with you and would be most grateful if you would join her in the music room.”
Henrietta let loose an astonished squawk, but her astonishment was nothing compared to mine and Kit’s when we realized that the bundle Mr. Bellamy had presented to us was, in fact, a pair of bathrobes and two pairs of bedroom slippers.
Kit looked as though he’d rather die a slow and painful death than take his clothes off within a hundred miles of Henrietta, but I would have worn a bathing suit and flippers if it meant we could have an audience with Miss Charlotte. When Kit opened his mouth to express what I was sure would be a resolute refusal, I deftly beat him to the punch.
“How thoughtful of Miss Charlotte,” I said, jumping to my feet.
“Where do we change?”
Fourteen
I changed in the servants’ bathroom, Kit in the butler’s pantry, and we met afterward halfway down the adjoining corridor, where Mr. Bellamy stood waiting for us. He took our “besmirched” hiking clothes from us with a faint moue of distaste and conveyed them at arm’s length to the kitchen.
“You are brilliant, ” I said to Kit in an ecstatic whisper when the kitchen door had closed behind the butler. “Hiking over here in the rain, climbing that horrible hill—strokes of genius! We couldn’t have looked more authentically awful if we’d tried! And Shakespeare himself would have cried his heart out if he’d heard your tragic soliloquy at the front door! Your plan is working perfectly!
Look at us! We’re on our way to see Miss Charlotte in the music room!”
Kit was clearly unmoved by my panegyric. He stood with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, looking utterly mortifi ed.
“Yes, look at us,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’re wearing dressing gowns. ”
I nodded happily. I had a hunch that Mr. Bellamy had come up with the idea of asking us to change into clean garments—he hadn’t wanted us to muddy his precious floors with our boots, so it stood to reason that he wouldn’t want us to soil the music-room furniture with our filthy trousers—but I didn’t much care whose idea it had been. I loved my robe so much that I wanted to sneak it out of Aldercot Hall in my day pack when we left.
Mr. Bellamy—I presumed—had selected for me a fluid, floorlength, kimono-like gown made of silk woven with a pattern of snow-white cranes in flight on a silvery background. It wasn’t the sort of thing I could wear while frying bacon for Bill or scrubbing Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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mud off the twins, but it satisfied my girlie side in a way that blue jeans and sweaters never could. I felt as though I shimmered when I walked. Kit’s plum-colored paisley silk dressing gown was classy, but not nearly as beautiful as my kimono.
“How could you do this to me, Lori?” he demanded in a highpitched, outraged whisper.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” I flapped a hand toward his robe. “It’s not as if you’re naked under there.” I hesitated, then asked uncertainly, “You’re not, are you?”
“Of course I’m not,” Kit said irritably.
“Neither am I,” I said. “So why are you making such a fuss? At least your slippers are practical sheepskin models. Look at the slippers Mr. Bellamy picked out for me. ” I lifted the kimono’s hem and held up a foot to display a confection of beaded midnight-blue velvet trimmed in fluffy blue feathers. “They have pointy little heels, for pity’s sake. What woman in her right mind wears bedroom slippers with pointy heels? ”
“If Henrietta comes after me,” Kit murmured, casting a hunted look over his shoulder, “I’m going to use your pointy heels to fend her off.”
I scarcely heard what he was saying, because the sight of my slipper had inspired a magnificent new scheme to spring, fully formed, into my mind. I peered up at Kit and explained excitedly, “If I sprain an ankle because of these stupid slippers, Miss Charlotte will have to let us stay overnight. We’ll have all night to search the house from cellar to—”
“Don’t even think about it,” Kit broke in, looking daggers at me. “Rendor may not be a vampire, but Henrietta Harcourt is, and I’m not spending the night with her scratching at my bedroom door.”
“I’ll protect you,” I whispered, giggling.
“I don’t think she’s afraid of garlic,” Kit said glumly. “I’ve tasted her sausages.”
132 Nancy Atherton