“I don’t get it,” Pru said. “I understand why Edith would care about Mrs. Spencer’s mental health. Or at least feel some sort of obligation toward her. But why do the Marlboroughs care if she’s wasting away in some ramshackle house? Heck, you’d think they’d want her dead. A duchess no more.”
“You have compassion for miles.”
“I’m serious. Tell me, Win. Why do they care?”
“How am I to know?”
“Well, you are of their kind,” Pru said with a snort. “Seeing as how you’re a peer.”
“I’m not a duke. Furthermore, Marlborough and Winton are hardly the same. No Blenheim for this crew. Thank God.”
Pru jerked away. As Win reached for her, she rolled over to face him. Their noses were but five centimeters apart.
“Blenheim,” she said, green eyes shining in the stream of streetlight coming through the window. “You told me that place is a money pit.”
“Yes. Blenheim costs more to run than most countries. And it doesn’t even have its own army anymore. If the Grange is a money pit, Blenheim is ruinous.”
“Maybe that’s what they want,” Pru said. “Her money. You’ve seen the diamonds. And the minks.” She flicked her hand in the direction of the master bedroom. “If they declare her incompetent can they get access to her estate?”
“Huh, that’s not out of the question,” Win said, noodling on the concept.
“If those are her traveling diamonds, can you imagine her black-tie jewels? And the Grange might be a total heap but it has to be worth something.”
“And the paintings,” Win said. “Nearly incomprehensible value.”
“You mean the Boldini? The one that disappeared from the dining room?”
“Yes. That. But also.” His gut began to churn. “The barn. Tom’s. It’s, I think, filled with artwork. Pieces stacked wall to wall.”
“You went into Tom’s barn? You are even stupider than you look.”
“That barn is how I accessed the property the day I met you. Tom wasn’t in there, thank heavens. Probably would’ve bludgeoned me with a hammer if he had been. Nevertheless, given the nature of my visit—”
“Trespassing, you mean.”
“Precisely,” Win said, his smile glinting in the dark. “Due to the trespassing, I didn’t tarry. But along the way I pulled back a few drop cloths. Artwork, prime artwork, each with a personal note from the artist wedged into the frame. The first three I checked: Degas, Monet, Gauguin. One. Two. Three.”
“Holy crap,” Pru said.
“Holy crap is right.”
“Maybe that’s what the Marlboroughs want,” she said. “The sale of those pieces could keep the old homestead running for a few more years. Who knows, maybe even the books would draw a pretty penny. There must be thousands in that library of hers. Most are first editions, and signed.”
“An influx of cash would definitely be welcome by that crew. No more cafeteria lines and tourists in their backyard.”
“You have to talk to him!” Pru said. She swatted Win on the shoulder. “You have to call Gads tomorrow.”
“Gads? Why? Do you have a puppet show you’d like to produce?”
“Gads is a Marlborough! He can tell you what’s going on.”
Win deliberated this.
In addition to being a Marlborough, Gads was also a barrister. Whether he might be on the side of his family or on the side of law, Win couldn’t guess. Gads had never been particularly motivated by integrity. On the other hand, he called any gathering of three or more family members “the arse and pansy show.” And he was not above doing something out of spite.
“I’ll reach out to him in the morning,” Win said.
“Brilliant.” Pru yawned. “As you would say. Simply brilliant, ye olde bloke.”
“I would not say that.”
Pru let her eyes go heavy.
“You’re really going to sleep here?” she said and yawned again. “Next to me?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she said with another yawn, wider this time.
“Fair enough. Well, the answer is yes. I do plan to sleep here.”
She nodded, her hair scrunching against the pillow.
“Good night, Lord Winton,” she said.
“Good night, sweet Pru. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
A simple concept, a short-term promise, a word to throw away almost. If only Win and Pru had understood the problem with tomorrows. Namely, that they had so very few of them left.
Seventy
?LE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
FEBRUARY 1973
As it happened, Mrs. Spencer’s floor-length sable was merely the start.
It was as though with one step off the train and into Paris, the woman returned to her former splendor, the Gilded Age all over again. Oh sure, Mrs. Spencer’s movements were sometimes jerky and crude. Her eyes flashed between maniacal twinkles and clouded blue confusion. But damn, the old bird was back.