Emma was beside herself with delight and chattered happily as we made our way back to the house.

"Can you believe it, Lori? The original Derek Harris. And Derek-my Derek-doesn't know he's here. I'm not going to tell him, either. I'm going to bring him to the workshop and stand back. I don't know if I can wait until tomorrow morning to see his face. He'll be so pleased."

"Is Mr. Harris the good news you wanted to tell Derek?" I asked.

"What?" Emma looked at me blankly, then shook her head. "No, that's something else entirely, though Derek will be glad to hear it. Did you manage to find him?"

I told her that Derek was waiting for her in their room and watched her fly upstairs to meet him. I thought it best to keep my concerns about Nell to myself until I had something concrete to offer. At the moment I had nothing but suspicion.

I wanted to return to the nursery, to examine the children's books, but a glance at my watch told me that lunch would be served shortly, so I headed for the dining room instead. I opened the door and stopped dead on the threshold, astounded to see Bill there, on his own.

My husband stood with his arms folded, gazing out of the window. He was the only person I'd seen so far, apart from Giddings, who hadn't dressed down for the day. Bill's three-piece black suit and crisp white shirt reminded me that our visit to Hailesham Park was, for him, a working holiday.

I gazed at him in silence, admiring the snug fit of his waistcoat, the soft drape of his trousers, the pleasing contrast of the white shirt against his tanned skin. I could tell by the way he held his shoulders, though, that something was amiss, and when he finally turned around, I wasn't surprised to see that his face was as stormy as a March morning.

"Oh, it's you, Lori." His eyes slid away from mine. "Sorry I've been so busy. You must be bored out of your skull."

"Bored?" If there was one thing I hadn't been since we'd arrived at Hailesham, it was bored. "No, I've managed to keep myself entertained. Where's Gina?"

"Working." He glanced at his watch. "I should get back."

"You're not staying for lunch?" I asked.

"Not hungry," he replied.

"You've got to eat sometime," I pressed.

"I'm not hungry," he said sharply. He put a hand to his forehead, as though to calm himself. "You don't understand, Lori. Gina and I . . . the past three months . . . I thought it would blow over, but it's only gotten worse."

I steeled myself for a confession I wasn't quite prepared to hear. "What's gotten worse, Bill?"

He hesitated before muttering, "Lord Elstyn."

I blinked. It wasn't the answer I'd expected.

"I wish Derek hadn't told him about Nell and Kit," Bill went on, speaking half to himself. "It's made my job a thousand times more difficult."

"Your job?" I echoed. "It's your job that's gotten worse?"

"It's become much more . . . complicated." He put his head down and strode past me. "I'll be working late tonight," he said over his shoulder. "Don't wait up for me."

"I won't," I said, but my words were drowned out by Claudia's entrance.

I sank into a chair at the table, too distracted to respond to Claudia's greeting or do more than nod when Oliver and Nell arrived. My first meeting with my husband in nearly twenty-four hours had left me feeling totally befuddled.

I'd never seen Bill in such a perturbed and unsettled state. Everything he'd said was open to interpretation. He'd been on the verge of telling me about the three months he'd spent working with Gina but had switched over at the last minute to expressing vague concerns about Lord Elstyn. Why had he stumbled from one subject to the other? Was he buckling under the pressure of work-or suffering the pangs of a guilty conscience?

"Would Madam care for oysters?"

I emerged from my tangled thoughts to find Giddings standing over me, offering a serving dish filled with shucked oysters on ice. Dimity's etiquette lessons kicked in and I helped myself to the oysters, then made a game attempt to pay attention to the general conversation.

Claudia was holding forth on the irresponsibility of the gardeners, though she acknowledged the efficiency of their cleanup efforts.

"They've cut away the burnt bits," she observed. "It'll look frightfully gappy until the new shrubs are planted. Such a pity, but what can one expect of students?"

"Students?" I said.

"From the local agricultural college," Oliver clarified. "They maintain the gardens under the supervision of Walter, the head gardener. It's part of a work-study program."

"Like the apprentices in the workshops," I said.

Oliver nodded. "Uncle Edwin established the workshops years ago. He was ahead of his time in wanting to preserve traditional skills. Without them, of course, a place like Hailesham would be impossible to maintain."

Claudia had evidently tired of the topic because she turned to ask Nell's opinion of Simon's new horse.

"Deacon's an angel," Nell replied airily.

"An angel?" Claudia gazed at Nell in disbelief. "It wasn't too terribly angelic of him to refuse the fence this morning."

"Deacon was startled," Nell said. "He needs a strong hand to guide him."

"No one has stronger hands than Simon," Claudia pointed out. "In my opinion, Deacon's a foul-tempered beast. I won't be a bit surprised if Simon sends him back to the sale rooms." She looked at Oliver. "Where is Simon, anyway?"

"I believe he's conferring with Uncle Edwin," said Oliver.

"Simon's in with Gina and Bill?" Claudia t.i.ttered. "What an awkward place for him to be."

"What do you mean?" I demanded, more heatedly than was strictly necessary.

Claudia scarcely looked up from her sole a la meuniere. "I mean that poor Simon is no match for Gina and Bill when it comes to brain power. They're such clever clogs and they take things so seriously. They're more suited to each other than-"

"The weather's remarkably fine for this time of year," Oliver put in hastily. He was staring at my knife, which had somehow pointed itself in the direction of Claudia's throat.

I relaxed my grip, but it wasn't until I'd worked my way through a small pool of cuc.u.mbers in parsley sauce that I could bring myself to inquire politely, "What does your husband do for a living, Claudia?"

"He's a member of Parliament, one of the party's rising young stars," she replied. "Quite a catch for a girl who couldn't pa.s.s her O levels. Uncle Edwin was terribly proud of me. One can never have too many MPs in the family."

I caught Oliver's eye and a look of understanding pa.s.sed between us. Claudia might be an insensitive, indiscreet moron, but, like Simon, she'd proven her usefulness to the family. Between the two of them, they'd brought a top-notch attorney and a rising young member of Parliament into the fold. If the Elstyns had been a corporation, they would have gotten bonuses.

Lemon tarts appeared, we made them vanish, and the meal was over. As I rose to leave, Claudia asked how I planned to spend the afternoon.

"I'm going to check in with my sons' nanny," I told her, "then catch up on some reading."

"How thrilling," she said. "I'm off to visit an old school friend in Westbury. A pity you can't join us. Tea's at four-thirty in the drawing room, if you can bear to tear yourself away from your book."

"Books," I muttered, and headed back upstairs.

Twelve.

I stopped in my bedroom and called Annelise on my cell phone, to thank her for sending my shoes and to make sure that peace reigned on the home front. Will and Rob got into the act with a breathless account of a goat that had strayed into our back meadow, and though Annelise a.s.sured me that the animal's owner had retrieved it, I had a sneaking suspicion that goats would reappear when it came time for the boys to compose their Christmas wish lists.

I returned the cell phone to my shoulder bag and changed into a pair of soft wool trousers with roomy pockets so I wouldn't have to carry Simon's poison-pen note in my skirt's waistband anymore. I was retying my shoes when I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

I went to my door and listened. The footsteps paused outside my room, then moved on to Simon's. A moment later I heard his door open and close.

Was someone playing post office again?

I slipped into the hallway, tiptoed to Simon's room, and pressed my ear to his door. At first I heard nothing, then, faintly, came a distinct moan, as if someone was in pain. I recognized the voice.

"Simon?" I called. "Are you all right?"

A moment later the door opened and Simon appeared. His face was pale and drawn, and his black sweater was no longer tucked neatly into his gray trousers.

"It's kind of you to look in on me, Lori," he said, "but there's no need."

"Uh-huh," I said doubtfully, eyeing the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

He put a hand on the door frame, as if to steady himself. "I'm indulging in a bit of a lie-down, that's all. It's been a rather taxing morning."

As he turned to go, I grasped the hem of his sweater, lifted it, and gasped. An ugly, misshapen bruise splashed his fair skin, as if he'd been struck in the side with a sledgehammer.

"Dear Lord," I said, aghast. "What have you done to yourself ?"

"I landed badly when Deacon tossed me," he confessed. "It'll be all right. I just need to rest."

He pulled his sweater down, took a step into his room, and swayed, as if his legs were about to give way. I came in behind him, closed the door, and helped him to sit on a divan at the foot of his bed.

"You've been in that stupid meeting for nearly four hours," I fumed. "Didn't Gina notice that you weren't your usual bubbly self? Didn't your uncle? As for Bill, I'll give him such a clout-"

"Bill sensed that something was wrong," Simon broke in. "He tried to cut the meeting short, for my sake, but Gina insisted that we carry on, and I didn't object. I didn't want anyone to suspect that I was injured because . . . It's happened again, Lori." He motioned toward his dressing table.

I crossed to the table and saw a half-sheet of white paper that resembled the death threat in every way except for the message: "I found it on my pillow when I came up to change out of my riding clothes," Simon explained.

"It must have been pasted together pretty quickly," I said. "Or prepared ahead of time." I pocketed the note and turned to Simon. "Do you think someone tampered with Deacon before you took him out?"

"Horses aren't like cars, Lori. You can't drain their brake fluid." He took a shallow breath and winced. "My persecutor is mocking me. He's every right to. I'm an excellent rider. The fall was embarra.s.sing."

"The fall was painful." I returned to the divan. "It could have been fatal."

"No one dies of bruised ribs," Simon muttered.

"Your ribs may be broken," I insisted. "You could have a punctured lung or . . . or a concussion. If you go to sleep now, you could slip into a coma."

Simon wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I did see stars as I hit the ground."

"That's it. I've heard enough." I took him by the arm. "Come on, we're going to the hospital."

"Don't be stupid," he protested.

I bent down to look him straight in the eye. "You have two choices, old bean. Either I take you to the hospital or you go there in an ambulance. What's it to be?"

He held my gaze briefly, then bowed his head and murmured, "I don't want the others to know."

"Gina's bound to find out when she comes to bed," I said.

Simon sighed impatiently. "Do you see any sign of Gina in this room?"

I looked around and noticed for the first time that there was no connecting door leading to the next room.

"My wife and I haven't shared a bed in years," he said wearily. "Not since our son was born. She'd rather I find my amus.e.m.e.nt . . . elsewhere."

It was hardly the time to a.n.a.lyze Simon's marriage, but my next question popped out before I could stop it. "Why did you marry her?"

"Someone had to make a good match," Simon snapped. "Derek hadn't, so it was left to me." He grimaced and held a hand to his side but went on with forced nonchalance. "Though if Derek had been available at the time, I've no doubt Gina would have set her sights on him. She's always regretted marrying the wrong Elstyn."

I didn't know what to say, but further discussion was out of the question anyway. Simon's face had gone from pale to ashen.

"Okay," I said briskly, "here's the plan. If anyone asks, I'll tell them we've gone sight-seeing. Where's the nearest hospital?"

"Salisbury," he replied.

"I've been to the cathedral," I told him. "I've climbed the cedar of Lebanon in the cloisters. I'll have no trouble convincing people that we went there to see the sights."

Simon managed a weak chuckle. "I'd give a lot to see you climb the cedar of Lebanon."

"Maybe you will, one day," I said. "But today it's X rays and an MRI for you."

I used the phone on the bedside table to call Giddings, arranged to have the Mercedes brought around to the front entrance, and asked him to tell the earl not to expect us for dinner. Even if we got back in time for the evening meal, I doubted that Simon would feel up to sitting through it.

I helped Simon don a brown suede jacket, stopped in my room to grab my coat and shoulder bag, and kept a close watch on him as we descended the staircase.

"Why did the meeting go on for so long?" I asked.

"Gina gave me an excruciatingly detailed report on Hailesham's debts and a.s.sets," he replied, "compared to which an MRI seems like jolly good fun."

The closest I came to seeing Salisbury's sights was a distant view of the cathedral's floodlit spire. The rest of my visit was spent in the hospital, where, after nearly five hours, the doctor on call managed to allay my worst fears: Three of Simon's ribs were badly bruised, but none were broken, and there was no sign of concussion. Dr. Bhupathi prescribed pain pills, recommended bed rest, and absolutely forbade further excursions on Deacon for at least a week.

I picked up some barley soup and cold chicken sandwiches at a cafe on our way out of Salisbury, so it was nearly nine o'clock by the time we reached Hailesham. Since lights were blazing in the dining room, Simon directed me to a discreet rear entrance and a secondary staircase, where we'd be unlikely to meet anyone.

Our stealthy return was witnessed only by Jim Huang, who was on his way to his room in the servants' quarters, still clinging to his ma.n.u.script box and laptop computer. Fortunately, the dark-haired archivist was more concerned with scolding me for leaving Mansfield Park on a table in the library than with taking note of Simon's appearance.

Simon was running on empty. He'd refused to take a pain pill on the way back, on the grounds that it might knock him out so thoroughly that I'd have to call for help to haul him from the car. By the time we reached his room, therefore, he was shuffling along as feebly as old Mr. Harris.