I her,” Nick said. And he meant it.
“But back to your mother…” And that introduction he wanted.
“The answer is still no,” Amy said.
Nick shrugged, not really surprised, given Amy’s feelings about people using her familial connections as an in—to anyone. He smiled, not the least deterred. “Then I guess I’ll have to find another way to achieve what I want, won’t I?” he said.
Chapter Three
While Dexter napped and Nick worked out of his sister’s cottage, Amy headed for her afternoon appointment. As usual, her aunt’s handsome British butler, Harry Bowles, answered the door. Harry had been with Winnifred since shortly after Winnifred’s husband had been killed. He and Winnifred were so close they could read each other’s mind. In Amy’s estimation, only two things kept them apart. Harry’s age—he was five years younger than Winnifred—and Harry’s station in life. He had spent his entire adult life working for the wealthy. She was one of those to-the-manor-born. If the two did decide to run off together someday, as Amy suspected both Harry and her aunt Winnifred had at one time or another been tempted to do, the repercussions would continue for years. Because if there was one thing the residents of Charleston, South Carolina, loved, it was a good love story—or a scandal. As had been evidenced by the retelling of her long-lost great-aunt Eleanor’s romantic debacle, that had been fodder for the gossips for years. And thanks to the sudden reemergence of the long-presumed-dead Eleanor Deveraux just the week before, it still was.
Amy breezed through the portal of the historic mansion in time to see her beloved aunt emerge from the front parlor. Pretty and elegantly dressed as always, the social doyenne of Charleston glided toward Amy, her arms outstretched, as Harry excused himself wordlessly and disappeared.
Amy paused to hug the dark-haired woman. “Hi, Aunt Winnifred,” Amy said, aware that, as always, just being with her aunt made her happy.
“Amy, darling—” Winnifred squeezed her back affectionately “—I’m so glad you could fit us in this quickly.”
“Where’s Great-Aunt Eleanor?” Amy asked as she shifted her oversize canvas briefcase from her shoulder to her hands. Eleanor Deveraux was the reason for Amy’s visit. The elegant eighty-year-old woman had been found in the historic district, with a sprained ankle, delirium related confusion, brought on by her fever and illness, and the beginnings of pneumonia, and admitted to Charleston Hospital by Amy’s brother, Gabe, a critical-care doctor there. At the time, no one in the Deveraux family had any inkling that the genteel elderly Jane Doe was related to them. Nor had they known, until Eleanor’s identity was revealed by Charleston private investigator Harlan Decker, that Eleanor Deveraux was still alive—since everyone had been told Eleanor had died of a broken heart many years before. As Eleanor had recovered and begun to trust them, the mental confusion that they had first mistaken for amnesia had lifted, and Eleanor finally acknowledged her true identity, shocking everyone.
“Has she stopped resisting the idea of letting us take care of her permanently?” Amy asked. Although she had few choices, Eleanor had been adamant about not being a burden to her relatives.
Winnifred shook her head, looking distressed. “I’m hoping if Eleanor stays here long enough, she’ll let me take care of her from here on out. But right now,” Winnifred confessed sadly, “she’s only agreed to stay until her ankle heals enough for her to get around on her own again.”
Aunt Winnifred led the way to the servants’ quarters, which were the only bedrooms on the first floor.
The door to one tiny room was open. Harry was seated in a chair next to the narrow bed.
“So this is where you disappeared to,” Amy teased. She’d wondered where Harry had been off to in such a hurry. Usually he hung around to talk a little with her, too.
Harry winked at Amy. “Rude of me, I know, but I had some serious business to attend to.”
“So I see,” Amy murmured back just as playfully, while Winnifred grinned, shaking her head at what was still going on.
Harry was holding a hand of playing cards. Eleanor was propped up against the pillows. Her silver hair coiled atop her head, she was wearing one of Winnifred’s elegant satin bed jackets. Eleanor’s color was better than the last time Amy had stopped by to see her, at the hospital, but you could still tell from the gaunt angles of Eleanor’s face that she had been sick.
Eleanor smiled at Amy and Winnifred, then turned her attention back to Harry. Spreading her cards out in front of her, she announced triumphantly, “Gin!”
Harry shook his head ruefully, then shot Eleanor an admiring glance. “You really must tell me your secret someday.”
Eleanor smiled coyly and remained mum.
Harry stood and looked at Winnifred. “Tea and cookies for three?” he asked formally as he straightened his tie.
“Thank you, Harry.” Winnifred smiled as she pulled up another chair beside the bed and motioned for Amy to sit in the one Harry had vacated. “That would be lovely.”
Once again all business, Harry exited quietly. But Amy wasn’t fooled. She had seen the brief but intimate looks he and her aunt Winnifred had given each other. There was more going on between them than they wanted anyone to know, or she would eat her shoe.
“I’ve asked Amy to help us redecorate your new quarters to your liking,” Winnifred told Eleanor.
Eleanor’s eyes took on a troubled gleam and she held up a staying hand. “My dear Winnifred, I’ve told you that redecorating the carriage house on my behalf isn’t necessary. This room is lovely and I’m not planning to be here that long. Just another few days.”
It was also claustrophic, Amy thought, looking at the windowless walls. So much so that no one had slept in any of the little rooms of the servants’ quarters for years. Even Harry had quarters upstairs on the second floor.
“Where are you going to go?” Winnifred asked plaintively. “You’re supposed to stay off your feet as much as possible until your ankle heals completely, and Gabe said that will be another week at the very least.”
Eleanor was silent. She turned her glance to the wheelchair and walker next to her bed, then looked down at the ice-blue damask coverlet across her lap. “I think I’ve brought enough hardship to this family already, without adding any more,” Eleanor said in her cultured voice.
“If you’re talking about what happened years ago,” Amy returned gently, “everyone in the family has agreed it doesn’t matter to any of us what happened then.”
“I don’t know how you can say that.” Eleanor speared Amy with a troubled gaze. “I was involved in an illicit love affair. I brought shame to the family name and caused the death of someone I loved very much. My entire family was miserable in the wake of the tragedy, and everyone blamed me.”
“If you’re talking about the curse Dolly Lancaster hired a Gypsy to put on you and Captain Nyquist—” Amy said, but was interrupted by Eleanor.
“As well as the entire Deveraux family! There hasn’t been a happy marriage or an enduring relationship since.” Eleanor looked at Winnifred. “Your husband died within a year of your marriage. Grace and Tom divorced.”
“But
