“I don’t know.” He replied, his tone noncommittal, “I learned about her mother’s death by pure fluke. If I hadn’t put my foot in it, she probably wouldn’t have mentioned it. She was the perfect hostess.”
“Typical!” Chloë exploded. “I wish she’d loosen up. It was that marriage to that prick, Christian, that made her clam up like that.”
“She’s married?” He felt an inexplicable stab of disappointment.
“Not anymore, thank God,” she added darkly, taking a long, thoughtful sip of her drink.
“How long were they married?”
“A couple of years.”
“What happened?”
“Now who’s being nosy?”
“Mere curiosity.”
Chloë frowned. “He dropped her like a hot potato for a German heiress, a Princess von something-or-other, when he found out that Lady El had pretty well got through Indy’s father’s fortune. Hopeless with money, poor Lady El. I can’t think why India’s father didn’t leave it in trust for them, but anyway, he didn’t. So that was that as far as the dashing Comte de Monfort was concerned.” She looked up, her eyes full of anger. “The coward didn’t have the guts to tell her outright. He wrote her a long rambling letter—he even had the bloody nerve to say he owed it to his family to preserve the family fortunes and the purity of their lineage. Can you believe it?”
“What a jerk,” he said, feeling unaccountably angry on India’s behalf.
“Yes, and now all she ever does is work. I could murder Christian for what he did. It was the last straw. It affected her more than she’ll admit. That’s why she’s thrown herself into La Dolce Vita so intensely. That and the fact she needed to make money or she would have lost Chantemerle.”
Jack listened intently, dying to ask more, but knowing it would only excite Chloë’s curiosity.
She yawned. “I’d better go and phone Indy, poor darling, then I’m off to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“Good night, brat.” Jack rose and handed her the fur coat.
“Brat indeed,” Chloë sniffed as she picked up her bag.
“You need a guy who can keep you in line, young lady.”
Chloë stuck her tongue out at him and left.
Jack turned back into the room, smiling. He picked up a book left open on the table next to the sofa and glanced at it. It was the latest Grisham. That should keep him busy for the evening.
Making sure the fire was out, he turned off the lights. Then he walked into the hall and slowly up the main staircase, his mind straying back to India. By the time he reached his room, he’d persuaded himself there was nothing unusual about his interest. It was just an interesting set of circumstances and frankly, he’d feel sorry for anyone in her situation—it was only natural.
He glanced at the book wryly. It was a long time since he’d needed anything to keep his mind from straying to a woman. Don’t get involved, Jack. It’ll only mean trouble, a little voice inside him warned. But his gut told him otherwise, and Jack always followed his gut.
3
The visceral attachment to Dunbar that India was experiencing had caught her wholly by surprise. Considering she’d never lived or spent any long periods of time here, she was unable to fathom why everything felt so strangely familiar. She hadn’t been back much since her childhood, yet she felt at home, as though part of her being had remained fettered here all these many years. It was like a colorful tapestry and she a silken thread, woven into the intricate pattern that reached deep into Dunbar’s soul.
She wandered through the picture gallery and gazed up at the portrait of Lady Helen, her great-grandmother. Something in the soft hazel eyes spoke of wisdom and understanding, as though Lady Helen were telling her not to worry, to go on her way in peace. India found herself smiling back.
Moving silently in the early-morning hush, she went from room to room, etching each detail to memory. This was a special moment, possibly one of the last she would ever spend here.
The thought of the estate being sold made her cringe. Walking through the house with Jack yesterday had brought home just how much Dunbar really meant to her, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what its final destiny would be. Even if Serena inherited, would she be prepared to keep up the property, to put in the time and work it would take? She considered her half sister for a moment and sighed. Probably not. If the past was anything to go by, Serena would sell and be out of there before she could say Jack Robinson.
She reached her mother’s bedroom, gently twisting the handle of the large oak door. The tranquillity within the lavender-scented room remained intact, as though Lady Elspeth were merely out for a while. The bottle of Yardley’s scent she’d perfumed her handkerchiefs with stood on the skirted dressing table. Beside it stood the Charles of the Ritz face creams, next to the crystal container of cotton wool.
India trailed her fingers nostalgically over the chintz counterpane, stopping to gaze around the room, reliving for a heartfelt moment the ever-present images of her mother. Then she looked through the frosty panes at the fresh snow covering the lawn. The white blanket shimmered under the silver rays of winter sunshine, playing a silent game of hide-and-seek with the ponderous clouds traveling south toward the hills beyond. It was a peaceful sight and she stood for a while gazing at the Dunbar oak, standing regal and alone.
William, the first Dunbar to settle here, had planted the tree in 1280. Suddenly she remembered her mother repeating his pledge, which had been handed down from generation to generation: While the oak tree stands, a Dunbar will always walk this land.
India drew her eyes away sadly. If the property were sold, William’s vow would be broken. The scene reminded her of the Constables and other paintings hanging on the drawing-room walls. One in particular came to mind, and she wondered how many of them would have to be sold to cover the taxes and death duties she knew would be crippling.
As she was about to leave, India caught sight of the small writing desk Lady Elspeth had used for her private correspondence. An uncapped fountain pen lay on a sheet of half-written writing paper. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be an unfinished letter, realizing with a start that it was addressed to her.
My dearest India,
I am sending this off to you today, for I am most distressed. I am suffering from a dreadful dilemma and need to speak to you urgently. Please come to Dunbar as quickly as you can. I’d call, but I’m afraid I will be overheard. You need to be aware—
The letter was cut short, as though Lady Elspeth had been interrupted. India frowned, glancing at the date. The letter had been written on the day of her mother’s death. What could possibly have been troubling Lady Elspeth so deeply? What was this fear of being overheard? India took the note and, folding it carefully, slipped it into her jacket pocket, frowning. She couldn’t allow herself to think about this now. Later, after the funeral, she’d try to piece things together.
The house was still quiet as she descended the main staircase and headed to the breakfast room, trying to
