She pictured Gus, sitting across the table, or beside her at the bar. Gus with his wavy, white hair, his pressed trousers, that slippery smile. She recalled how he’d tip his head toward her when getting to the good stuff, taking on and off his glasses as he spoke.
The glasses. He wore them to read the newspaper, or a transcript, or the bar tab from Ned. But he never needed glasses to read the book. He didn’t have to. The words were his.
“Damn,” she said. “I like to think of myself as pretty perceptive. But I honestly never figured it out.”
“No worries. The bloke’s a roguish sort.”
“In my defense,” Annie said. “Gus … Win … whatever his name is, he told me that the writer lives in Paris. Plus he was always so disdainful of the guy.”
“My brother is his own worst enemy.”
Annie reached deep into her pocket.
“Here,” she said and tossed the luggage tag onto the table. “I found this at the Grange. It appears to have your name on it.”
“No!” Jamie picked up the tag. He held it to the light. “Well, I’ll be. Those two bastards used my very nice set of matching baggage for their return trip to the Grange. Brought it back worse for the wear, as you can see.”
Jamie kissed the tag and then dropped it into his own pocket. Annie bristled. That was supposed to be her good-luck charm, even if his name was on it.
“So they went back?” she asked. “Win and Pru? To the Grange?”
Jamie nodded.
“They did,” he said.
“Because of Tom.”
“Criminy, I forgot about that old Pole.” Jamie chuckled. “That’s what old age will do to a person. But, yes, his call precipitated their return.”
“When they arrived,” Annie said, “were the Marlboroughs there, too?”
“Those are the events as I know ’em.”
Jamie moved to a larger pot and examined the potatoes boiling inside. This dinner was starting to look more Virginia and less Paris.
“So that was it, then?” Annie said and took another sip of wine. “They went to the Grange, end of story.”
“End of story?” Jamie said. “What makes you think that?”
“The Marlboroughs were at the Grange.”
“They were.”
“They—and Edith—wanted to have the duchess hospitalized.”
“They did.”
“If Mrs. Spencer ended up in a hospital, there was no reason for my mom to stick around. And we both know that she ended up back in the States, alone.”
“Your mum did return to the States,” Jamie said. “But not right away. Their story went a little longer. You see, Win and Pru managed to find their way back to Paris. Thanks to a little help from a bloke named Gads.”
Seventy-five
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
MARCH 1973
The duchess was at sixes and sevens when she saw their two faces show up in her parlor-turned-veterinary-clinic.
“Get out! Scram!” she howled, chasing after Win and Pru with some ungodly combination of pitchfork, broom, and backhoe. “Get off my land!”
“Mrs. Spencer,” Pru pleaded. “It’s only us.”
“I know it’s you! What in Sam Hill are you doing in England? You think I dragged you to Paris for my own good health? You were supposed to stay there. ALONE. Jesus. How come people can’t accept a goddamned gift when they’re given one?”
The cleaning and yard implements were one thing, but the collection of guests was no less threatening. For one, there was Tom. And Gads. And a butler named Murray, there at the behest of the duchess’s niece. Pru recognized him from her initial trip to the Grange.
All that and Gads had with him his brother, the eleventh Duke of Marlborough, and the duke in turn had his crew of solicitors and physicians. Wife number two was also present due to some vagary of their prenuptial agreement. She herself brought her own legal battalion.
“Greetings, comrades!” Win said, grinning like a dope. “Holy hell. There are a lot of you.”
“Why are you here?” Mrs. Spencer demanded.
“We were worried about you,” Pru said. Her eyes scanned the room. “For good reason, it seems.”
“You should be worried about yourself! I can take care of these buffoons. You need to leave immediately. You’re so close to screwing everything up, you have no idea!”
“But, Mrs. Spencer, your niece hired me to look after you,” Pru said. “She expects me to be here. I apologize for my misstep but I’m sticking with you from here on out.”
“Jesus, don’t do me any favors,” Mrs. Spencer grumbled.
“Hello there,” a man said and stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, Laurel. The name’s Gads.”
Pru smiled wide and shook his hand. Gads was short and raggy-haired, every bit the aging scamp she pictured. She adored him on sight.
“George,” his brother warned. The man was a duke but looked like an ordinary bloke, including the “terminally weak chin” Mrs. Spencer described. “I’ve asked you seven times not to get involved.”
“As Lady Marlborough’s solicitor,” Gads said. “It’s my very duty to get involved. Now, dear brother, I have to ask you to leave the premises.”
“If she is the Duchess of Marlborough, then I am the duke, and that makes all of this mine.”