“I don’t see what age has to do with it. You’ve heard the snide way she speaks about Berenson’s wife even though they were once friends. She doesn’t do that with Coon and Coon was married to the duke!”
“Coon never tried to crowd her spotlight,” Win said. “If she had, well, she would’ve been done for. You and I, case in point. Not until she found you in my bed did Mrs. Spencer begin to entertain my queries. She’d rather give me attention than allow my attention to wander to you.”
Pru blanched.
Attention? Was Win giving her “attention”? It’d been so long Pru didn’t even know what romantic interest was supposed to look like when it flashed on her.
“Your mere presence incensed the lady of the manor,” Win said. “She needs to be the nucleus of everything, not outshone by some runabout, confused American girl.”
“Hmm.” Pru smiled tightly. “I don’t know that I’m confused. Or runabout. And didn’t you just finish telling me that there was nothing between her and Berenson because of the fifteen-year gap? Or are you saying that you’re closer to Mrs. Spencer’s age than that?”
“Hilarious. Yes. I’m in my late eighties. My liver looks like it in any case.”
“Even if I agreed with your hypothesis,” she said, “that she viewed me as competition, what would a ninety-year-old woman care about snaring a young man’s appreciation? I use the term ‘young’ loosely, of course.”
“Of course! You see, Miss Valentine, that’s the problem with getting old. Your body changes but your heart does not. Lady M wants the same things that she always has.”
“Mostly I think you like to fancy yourself the center of romantic intrigue.”
Win dropped his head back and laughed.
“Oh, my new friend,” he said. “You’ll make this endeavor worthwhile, no matter what I manage to wheedle from Mrs. Spencer.”
Suddenly, Win grabbed for her hand. The effect was far more startling than any gunshot that had ever echoed across the property. As his hand beat inside of hers, Pru took in a sharp breath, hoping he didn’t hear the gasp that escaped her mouth.
“Come,” he said. “Come inside with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
Speechless, Pru allowed herself to be pulled along across the heather and thyme. As they went, she squinted toward Mrs. Spencer’s bedroom. The wet dogs would be okay for a little while.
Then suddenly she noticed movement in the window. Pru blinked once, and then a second time. She looked down to navigate a series of fallen logs. When she glanced up again, Pru could’ve sworn she saw Mrs. Spencer’s flinty stare shimmering against the glass.
Forty-six
THE GRAND DINING HALL
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
“You wanted to show me the dining room?” Pru said. “Thanks but I’ve seen it approximately nine hundred times, mostly while carrying wet dog.”
As they stood in the doorway, Win slipped his hands from hers. Pru tried not to frown. It was probably for the best. Mrs. Spencer would throw a wobbler if she witnessed bona fide physical contact between them. And she would be down, any minute now.
“I should be getting back…” Pru started.
“Shh! Just hold on a moment. First, this is not a mere dining room. It’s the Grand Dining Hall.”
He pointed to a placard above the door frame.
“Can’t you see?”
“Grand,” Pru said. “That’s a stretch.”
The room wasn’t small, but neither was it “grand.” In it was a dining table that somehow seemed too narrow and too large for the space simultaneously. Around the table was seating for exactly four guests, provided they were of small-to-medium build and one guest didn’t mind a stool.
“I’ll allow that the room itself is not particularly impressive,” Win said. “But that.” He pointed to the portrait above the fireplace. “That is a masterpiece.”
“Is it…?” Pru took several steps closer. “Is that Mrs. Spencer?”
She’d walked past the painting countless times over the last few months. The Grand Dining Hall was an excellent shortcut between the kitchen and the nesting places of several packs of pups. The painting was sublime, yes, but it had never occurred to Pru that the woman was the same one who motored through town wild-haired, demon-eyed, and screaming at children.
“It is the duchess herself,” Win said. “Or Mrs. Spencer, if you please.”
The portrait was a flare of color, a winter’s sunset of pinks and silver and white. In it Gladys Deacon sat on an upholstered bench, the cushion dipping beneath her. She wore a dress of pink organza, off-the-shoulder, with roses tumbling down the front. Her hair was pulled back in finger waves and secured at the nape of her neck. She rested against a pink pillow, white and black feathers splayed out behind her. The hint of birds, Pru thought with a droll smile. How appropriate.
“She’s stunning.” Pru felt a little breathless.