“I have had many thoughts for their welfare, but I am also responsible for the estate, and everyone employed by it, as well as the many tenant farmers. Mum, I’m sorry, but there’s no other way. If I don’t cut out the deadweight, we’ll be foreclosed upon, and I don’t think anyone wants to see that happen.”
“But your brothers and sisters! What are they to do? How will they live?”
He smiled grimly. “Just like the rest of us. They’ll have to get real jobs.”
She gasped in horror. “You plan on throwing everyone to the wolves?”
“Hardly that. Dixon’s job as the estate agent is quite secure—I couldn’t do half the work he does. Gunner has employment elsewhere, so he doesn’t come into the equation. Gabrielle is excellent at managing the tour guides and gift shop, so her job is safe. Assuming she comes back from wherever she ran off to. But the others will simply have to find jobs outside of the castle.”
“You are not the man I thought you were,” his mother said, giving him a look filled with righteous indignation. “I would wash my hands of you except I believe that one day your sanity will return to you. I just hope you haven’t destroyed the family before that time.”
With a dramatic flourish, she exited the room.
* * *
“One down,” Elliott said with a sigh. He eyed his brother.
“This one will cost you a tenner,” the little blighter had the nerve to say.
Elliott fought the urge to sigh again, and gave in to the roguish charm that won Bertie so much admiration from the local teenage female population. He dug a ten-pound note out of his wallet. “Mind this lasts longer than the last one I gave you. I’m not made—”
“—of money. I know, I know,” Bertie said with a laugh. He tucked the cash away and gave Elliott a friendly buffet on the shoulder, saying, in a bizarre mix of British and American slang, “But you’re the only one of us that has any dosh. Thanks, bro. You da man.”
The door closed behind Bertie with a satisfying thud.
“Alone at—”
“Elliott, I remember now what it was I came to tell you before you began speaking so cruelly of all your helpless siblings,” Lady Ainslie said, her head popping around the door just as Bertie left the room. “The man wishes to speak with you.”
“Man?” Elliott ran over the mental list of men he knew who might show up at the castle and demand an audience. “What man? One of the builders?”
“No, no, the Irishman. The one you went to school with. He’s on the phone for you.”
“Patrick?” Elliott patted his pockets, realized that he didn’t have his mobile phone, and followed after his mother as she disappeared down the dark corridor. “Mum, how often have I asked you not to answer my mobile phone?”
“But it was ringing, dear. And it might have been someone important.”
When his mother turned right at the long galley, Elliott turned left and raced down the back stairs to the small room on the east side of the house that used to be known as the ladies’ withdrawing room. In it was a comfortable, if eclectic, collection of furniture retrieved from the attics, and which made up the family’s sitting room.
“Hullo?” He expected to see the phone turned off, but it was still active, and he could hear voices emitting from it. Picking it up, he said, “Patrick?”
“—and don’t forget t’make an appointment with the agent. I want the condo sold no later than March. What? Elliott, is that you? Had t’send t’the back forty for you, did they?”
“Back forty what?” Elliott asked, confused.
“It’s an American expression.”
“Ah. To what do I owe the honor of this call? Oh, hell, that sounded rude. Ignore me—I’m in a foul mood. It’s been a nightmare around here gearing up for some renovations, and I’m late getting started on a new book. Let me start again. Nice to hear from you, Patrick. How are you doing?”
Patrick laughed, and said something under his breath to his secretary about moving a meeting to the following week. “No need t’apologize. Your foul mood is why I’m calling. Your sister was talking about you the other day, and she suggested you be the one t’take the tickets, rather than my secretary trying to flog them on Craigslist.”
Elliott sat in his favorite armchair, the one that was stained with decades of ink spilled by some long-dead literary ancestor. “My sister? Tickets? Craigslist? Christ, now I sound like a deranged parrot. Which sister, and what tickets are you talking about?”
“The tickets for my prewedding trip down a couple of rivers in Europe t’that city in Czechoslovakia. You know the place.”
“Prague?”
“No, no, the other place. The one with that big bridge that gets all the attention.”
Elliott thought. “Budapest?”
“Yes, that’s the place. The river tour goes from Amsterdam t’Budapest.”
“Budapest is Hungary, not the Czech Republic.”
“Same difference,” Patrick said with an airy lack of concern. “I’ve parted ways with Alice, so I don’t need the tickets, and since your delicious sister swore it was bad juju for her t’take the place of an ex, she thought that you could do with the trip. Since I hear all hell is about t’break out at Ainslie Castle, that is, and of course, your straitened circumstances.”
There was a tinge of satisfaction in Patrick’s voice that Elliott ignored. Before he could respond, he heard someone yelling for him. No doubt it was yet another minor crisis. He sank down farther into the chair, asking, “Who’s Alice?”
“My ex. It was past time t’let her go. You know my rule.”
“Two years with any given woman, and not a single day more,” Elliott said, making a face at nothing in particular. He’d always thought Patrick’s method of conducting his romantic affairs particularly coldhearted.
“That’s right. As a matter of fact, I broke that rule by sticking with Alice for three extra months, but where did that get me? She called me a bastard. She said that half the condo was hers. She claimed I misled her. Me! It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so damned unpleasant. It was a sign, I tell you, Elliott, a sign that it doesn’t do t’go against the rule. If you don’t move on when you’re supposed to, nothing good will come of it.”
“I’ll be sure to remind my sister of that,” Elliott said smoothly. “Which sister will I be informing of your intentions two years hence? You’ve met all three of them over the years, although one wouldn’t give a fig for you. At least not romantically speaking.”
Patrick laughed again. “Don’t be such a wet blanket. Who knows, Jane could be the one that breaks the rule. Regardless, I’ll e-mail you the ticket information. Alice said she wouldn’t go on the trip if I paid her to, so you’ll have the cabin all t’yourself. Boat leaves next Monday. Don’t worry about paying—it’s no hardship to me, and I know you’ll appreciate the largesse. You’ll have a fortnight floating around rivers, which your sister says will give you peace and quiet you won’t have at home. Regards t’Lady Ainslie. She sounds as distracted as ever. What’s that? Yes, yes, I’ll take that call. I’m done here. Elliott, must ring off. Your sister Jane and I are off t’Paris in the morning, and I have an important vendor from Australia on the line.”
“Wait a moment, what—”
The connection ended, leaving Elliott to stare in confusion at his phone.
“Mum says the builder needs you. Something to do with wanting more money.” Gunner paused and stared at Elliott. “You all right? You look even more harassed than usual.”
“I just had an odd call from Patrick.”
“Daft Irish bastard Patrick?” Gunner asked, coming into the room and setting down a duffel bag that had been slung over one shoulder.
“Yes, although he’d bloody your nose again if he heard you calling him that.”
Gunner grinned. The first child adopted by the baron a
nd baroness, he was a self-defined mutt of a man, with a mix of ethnicities that ranged from African to South Pacific, and even some Slavic. “He could try. I haven’t seen him in . . . hell, eight years? Nine? What’s he done now? Don’t tell me he’s found some new way to flaunt his wealth in front of you.”
Elliott shook his head, then changed it to a nod. “He can’t help it; he’s got an inferiority complex when it comes to me. Actually, he’s doing me a favor. I think.” He explained about the cruise.
“Nice,” Gunner said with a low whistle. “I wish I had mates who’d give me trips to the Continent like that.”
Elliott eyed the scruffy duffel bag. “Aren’t you leaving today for Spain?”
“Yes, but that’s work. I’ll be baking in the hot Spanish sun taking pictures of abandoned factories while you’re swanning around on some cruise ship. The life of an industrial photographer is not a posh one. Not like that of writers.”
“You know exactly how un-posh my life is,” Elliott answered. “Did you know Jane was in the States? The last I heard she was in Ottawa working for an Internet firm.”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me that Patrick managed to find and acquire her. He’s been dying to hold a relationship with one of the girls over you ever since his balls dropped.”
“I don’t give a damn who he dates,” Elliott protested.
“You and I know that, but Patrick clearly views it as a way of scoring against you. You have a title and an aristocratic family that I can’t ever have, so I’ll bang your sister. That sort of thing.”
“A title that’s bound by debts, and a family that’s driving me insane before my time.”
Gunner glanced at his watch. “Patrick will never see that. You going to take the tickets?”
“I don’t know. It does make me feel a bit beholden to him—”
“Elliott! Come quick, Mum says the renovation man wants another check. Something about the cost of stone going up.” Bertie appeared briefly in the doorway, jamming a motorcycle helmet on his head, clearly on his way out to spend the ten pounds. “Oh, and one of the hothouses is on fire, but it’s the one with the aubergines, so no loss there. Later, brothers!”
“I like aubergines,” Elliott started to say, but stopped when Gunner laughed aloud.
“Sounds like you’d best take Patrick’s offer, El. You’ll go mad if you have to stay here for the next few weeks.”
“There are times when I wish a portal would open up right here at my feet, one that would transport me to another place, one without demands for money I don’t have, and time I can’t waste. But reality persists in being unhelpful, and I always remain right where I am.”
Gunner scooped up the duffel and slung the strap across his chest. “Two weeks, El. No phones, no distractions and endless interruptions, no demands for more checks . . . just the blissful lapping of water against the side of the ship, and the quiet of a cabin all to yourself.”
“It does sound like heaven.”
The distant sound of a fire truck reached their ears. Gunner gave his brother a friendly punch in the arm, and left, saying, “I’m off to Spain, followed by a jaunt to Portugal to photograph the inside of a partially collapsed mine. And possibly Bulgaria, if my employers can smuggle me into an old radium factory.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy.”
Gunner shrugged. “There is an interested bidder on the property, but the Bulgarian government isn’t too wild about letting people photograph it. If I can sneak in, then I’ll get some shots. Otherwise, I will be home in a week.”
Elliott waved absently, making a decision right then and there. He’d take the trip that Patrick offered. A cruise down Europe’s most famous rivers couldn’t be any more disruptive than home, after all.
Chapter 2
Diary of Alice Wood
New Diary Begins: Day One
“Tell me that you’re not going to give in to the douche-canoe and let him ruin what will be a perfectly fabulous vacation. Tell me you’re not going to do that, Alice.”
I kicked at an empty cardboard box as I wandered from a minuscule kitchen to an equally minuscule bedroom, hopping and swearing when it turned out the box wasn’t empty after all. “Son of a sea biscuit!”
“Chill, babe,” came the slightly offended voice of one of my oldest friends. I jostled the phone in order to apologize and rub my hurting toes. “I was just expressing my opinion. You’re a big girl. If you want to save up for a dream vacation for more than four years and then not take it, then that’s your business.”
“Sorry, Helen, I wasn’t sea biscuiting you. I stubbed my toes on a box full of books.”
“I thought you’d unpacked already?”
“I did some unpacking. Most of the stuff is in storage because this place is so tiny.” I sank down on a worn futon, my spirits as flabby as the futon’s stuffing. “Moving is hell.”
“Yeah, well, I told you to fight the douche-canoe’s dictates. You guys moved into that condo together, so it’s just as much yours as it is his. He had no right to demand you vacate the premises just because he went mental and broke up with you.”
I smiled sadly at my toes. It was really nice that Helen automatically took my side in the breakup of a two-year relationship, but I had a terrible feeling that the fault didn’t totally lie at Patrick’s door. “Unfortunately, he was the legal owner of the condo, and he was the one who made the payments on it, so I really don’t have grounds to make any demands. Besides, I couldn’t live there with him in a roommate capacity. That would be too awkward.”
“I hear you. And I’m not saying you should; I’m simply saying you shouldn’t be a doormat to his stupid whims. And that includes giving up your dream vacation. You said he isn’t going on the trip, right?”
“His actual words were, ‘I’d rather have my scrotum tattooed than spend a single day on vacation with you,’ so that seems pretty clear that he’s not going to use his tickets.”
“There you go, then!” Helen’s voice, normally warm and empathetic, took on a slightly tetchy quality when she covered the receiver and yelled a demand that her daughter be home in time for dinner. “Sorry, Edison is being unusually difficult. Where were we? Oh, yes, if Patrick stays home, then why shouldn’t you go spend two glorious weeks on a fancy river cruise boat allowing the staff to bend over backward to make you feel like a princess?”
I shrugged even though no one was there to see it. “It just feels kind of callous. I mean, I’m devastated by Patrick’s betrayal. One day we were fine, happy as little clams, and the next day he’s insisting that we both need to move on—and, in my case, to take that literally.”
“There’s devastated, and then there’s devastated,” Helen said. “You paid for your share of the trip, Patrick isn’t going, and you don’t have a job to hold you back from taking two weeks off.”
“That’s another thing.” I slumped back into the futon, wishing it would swallow me up. “I should be looking for a job. One that does not come with a handsome boss who will two years later kick you out of your home.”
“Mmm, well, we can debate the wisdom of dating an employer later. Right now you need to pull yourself out of the self-pity pool, and pack up your swimsuit, a fancy dress, and some comfortable walking shoes, because Europe beckons. That’s what your therapist said, yes?”
“Not really. She said I should keep a diary of all my emotions and thoughts and feelings about . . . well, basically everything, and then use that as discussion points in our sessions. I have to say, Helen, it’s weird talking to a stranger about all that inner stuff going on.”
“Weird good, or weird weird?”
“Weird good, I suppose. I’m going to start the diary today. She said it was very important to pick a day and make that your first day, so that all the emotional baggage crap is behind you, and you get a fresh start. So I thought I’d start today.” r />
“Good for you. It’s especially pertinent if you decide to take the trip you paid for, and which you’d be an idiot to throw away just because an asshat loses what few bits of intelligence he had.”
Using my abused toes, I nudged aside a collection of mail that I had picked up from my former home, until the glossy brochure advertising a glorious two-week trip down the Danube, Main, and Rhine rivers lay exposed. I had to admit, the temptation to take the trip regardless of my unemployed state was great. “You don’t think it looks like I’m desperate or anything, do you?”
“Desperate?”
“Yeah, you know, all single ladies go to Europe hoping to meet some handsome James Bond–cool European man who will sweep her off her feet with his delicious accent and expensive Italian shoes. And courtly old-world manners. The kind that holds chairs for women at casinos, and offers them lifts in tiny little sports cars that cost as much as a nice house. Although, I have to admit that would make for some great diary entries.”
Helen’s laugh rippled out of the phone. “Honey, you haven’t been to Europe lately if you think that’s what the men there are like. I hate to disabuse your idea of old-world courtliness, but your average European guy isn’t going to have expensive Italian shoes or a fancy sports car. So no, I don’t think you will look desperate by taking the trip. On the contrary, I think it sends quite a firm statement to He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
“You named him a minute ago,” I couldn’t help but point out.
“Stop harshing my mellow. Take the trip, enjoy having a fancy cabin all to yourself, meet a James Bond if you can—although usually his women don’t end up well as I recall, so maybe go for someone whose job isn’t quite so dangerous. Write all about it in your diary, and let Patrick suck on the idea that you’re not in the least bit bothered by the fact that he’s an idiot to let you go.”
“Patrick was James Bondian when I first met him,” I said forlornly. “It was at the benefit for the library, and all the women were gaga about him because he has that sexy Irish accent, and those blue eyes and black hair and, oh hell.” Anger, never slow to start when I thought of my recent ex, fired up with an intensity that had me sitting up straight. “He really is a bastard through and through.”