Oh dear, Pru thought. This man must be old-fashioned. Nay, ancient.
In fact he was thirty-four and so her assumption was correct.
“Ah, the young lady is already softening toward me. I can tell. A relief to not be shot.”
“I’m not softening!” she said. “You still haven’t explained why you’re trespassing!”
“I do apologize. You startled me.”
“I startled you?”
“I thought the property was empty,” he said. “I saw the lady of the manor motor off into town in her little black car. She has a license to drive that thing?”
“She drives it all the time.” Pru sniffed.
“Yes, well, I’m quite certain I just saw her mow into a herd of schoolchildren. She was laughing. The children were not. So. You haven’t told me your name?”
“You’re trespassing on my property and you want a name?”
“Your property, is it?” he asked with a squinch.
“Well, I mean, not exactly. But I live here. Did I mention you’re a trespasser?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
He grinned, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Win was attractive, but in a lazy sort of way, like he’d never had to work too hard for anything. As though he’d been mollycoddled all his life, which was the general status of things.
“I’ll fess up,” he said. “I’m a trespasser. But also a writer, which means I’m a danger to no one but myself.”
“Okay, Seton,” she said. “Mr. Seton. If you’re a writer, why do you dress like you’re on a hunting safari?”
She pointed to his crisp white shirt and khaki trousers.
“The lady of the manor, as you call her,” Pru went on, “positively hates shooting animals for sport. In fact, before large hunts she used to sneak out at dawn and scare the animals from bushes and trees. So if you saw the ducks or foxes and think there’s shootable game on this property, think again. Also, it’s cold. You’ll probably catch pneumonia in that getup.”
Win laughed again.
“So sweet of you to be concerned with my health!” he said. “And I am familiar with the lady’s antihunting sentiment. She used her infinite spaniel collection to flush out the prey, did she not?”
“How did you know…”
“She has a million stories,” Win said. “A few of them might even be true. And her affinity for tall tales, fair one, is why you find me standing before you.”
“Come again?”
“As mentioned, I’m a writer. And I’m here to pen the biography of the woman who lives here.”
“Mrs. Spencer’s biography?” Pru said, a little baffled. “I must tell you, I don’t think she’d be too keen on the idea.”
“We’re all mates here.”
“Not exactly…”
“Enough with this ‘Spencer’ rubbish. Let’s call her what she is. Gladys Deacon. The dowager duchess. Lady Marlborough.”
“She insists she’s not the duchess.”
“Oh yes.” Win smirked. “I’m sure she does. Now, please kindly show me to the home. Let’s wait for your ‘Mrs. Spencer’ to return. She will not be shocked to see me.”
Twenty-three
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 1972
“Is it your habit to let strange men into the house?”
Mrs. Spencer dragged them into the parlor. She backed Win and Pru up against a cupboard using a chair and what appeared to be some sort of spear.
“Mrs. Spencer, calm down,” Pru said.
“Lord Almighty! Americans! No wonder you get yourselves enmeshed in pointless, stupid wars!”
“I thought you were expecting him?”
Pru could feel the man’s presence beside her. She moved several paces to the right.
“Mr. Seton told me you knew he was coming,” Pru said.
“Yet he had to sneak onto the property while I was out. Does that sound like someone I was expecting? Use your brain!”
The woman had a point.
“But he said…” Pru tried.
She felt a tickling by her ear and turned to see a cat peering out from behind a book. Conrad. The Duel.
“I don’t give a cow’s tit what he said!” Mrs. Spencer crowed. She tossed the chair against a wall. “For Christ’s sake! Do you even know the first damned thing about him?”
“Well, not exactly…”
“He’s probably some sort of confidence trickster, wanted throughout the U.K. But you don’t care.”
“I care, Mrs. Spencer. I do.”
“Charmed the pants right off you, no doubt, with those good looks of his. I guess you’re headed for betrothal number two. I’ll host the party here at the Grange.”
“Betrothal? He’s a thousand years old!” Pru said. Then she turned to Win: “Sorry, it’s just—”
“No apologies necessary.” He put up both hands. “A spade’s a spade and all that. One thousand years exactly. Lady Marlborough—”
“MRS. SPENCER!”
“First off, let me say that this is a marvelous room,” he said, gesturing. “You have an unparalleled collection of books and art.”
“Which you want to steal, presumably.”
“No! Not in the least. But where’s the rest of it?”
“Rest of what?”
“Now, now, don’t be coy.”