were all aware that the anniversary of Marti’s death was approaching.
Three years ago Brent’s wife had started complaining about nonspecific problems, mostly lethargy and tiredness, nothing she could put her finger on. Athletic, bright and perpetually cheerful, she had captured Brent’s heart thirty seconds after they’d bumped into each other, literally, in the college library. They’d gone together for two years before getting married right after their graduation, he with a degree in animal husbandry, she with a double major in English and sociology.
Since their twin daughters had just started kindergarten, Brent and Marti chalked her sluggishness up to her missing the girls being home all the time. He suggested she start a new project to keep herself busy.
Six months later, she died of cancer.
He’d lost her, and that loss still lay heavy on his heart, dominating his every private thought. If only he’d insisted she go to a doctor sooner… If only…
He’d spent countless hours harboring that guilt but precious few wallowing in it. He had his beautiful twins to guide through their grief and sorrow. It was a purgatory no parent ever wanted to suffer, yet it surprised him to realize that somehow he’d succeeded. He was proud of his daughters. They made him want to go on.
“What about the girls?” Jenna asked. “School starts next week.”
“I’ll take them with me,” Brent told her. “I don’t want to be separated from them right now.”
“I’ll talk to the school principal,” his mother said. “Althea’s very accommodating about children taking trips with their parents.”
“Where are they this morning?” Andrew asked. “Surely not sleeping late. That’d be a first.”
“They went down to the stables with Granddad to see Raleigh’s Rascal, Isabella’s new foal. They should be back any minute.”
Just then they heard a commotion at the back door, the high-pitched excited voices of young children and the low rumble of a mature man. A moment later two identical eight-year-old girls burst into the room.
“Isabella let us touch her baby,” Rhea exclaimed. “Rascal is so soft.”
“And he hasn’t got any teeth yet,” Katie added, “just like a regular baby.”
Their ponytails were held back with yellow ribbons to match the bright yellow polo shirts they were wearing with red jeans.
Their great-grandfather stood behind them. Tall and lean, with a fuzzy head of white hair, at eighty-six, Hugh Preston still had the power to dominate a room simply by walking into it.
At his heel stood Seamus, a steely-blue-gray-colored Irish wolfhound whose shoulders came to the man’s knees. Hugh patted him on the head, then pointed to the corner, where the dog contentedly lay down with a slight groan to observe the activities of the humans around him.
“I figure sixteen hands,” Hugh said about the foal. “A bay now, but I’m hoping he’ll gray out like his sire.” He poured himself coffee.
“I want orange juice,” Rhea said, racing over to the marble counter and reaching for the nearly full pitcher. Katie was beside her, competing for it.
“Whoa.” Brent rose from his seat. “I’ll pour. First, how about showing some manners by saying good morning to your grandparents?”
“Good morning,” they sang in unison.
“And Uncle Andrew,” Brent prompted.
They wished him a good morning, as well. Immediately Rhea asked, “Can we have our juice now?”
Suppressing a smile, Brent poured it for them. “How would you girls like to go on a trip?”
“To Disney World?” Rhea asked, wide-eyed. “Jennifer and her mom went there over Christmas. She said it was awesome.”
“I was thinking of England.” He handed them each a medium-size glass only half-full.
“I don’t want to go to England,” Katie told him with a pout. “I want to go to Disney World.”
“You’ll get to see the Tower of London,” Thomas told them.
“And we can hear the clock strike,” Rhea contributed. “Bong, bong, bong—”
“That’s Big Ben,” Andrew said. “The Tower of London is a castle.”
Katie frowned. “Then why do they call it a tower?”
“It’s where the queen keeps all her jewelry,” Jenna explained.
“You mean the queen lives in a tower?” Katie asked. “Like Rumpelstiltskin?”
“No,” her sister said impatiently. “She lives in Buckingham Palace.”
“But why doesn’t she keep her jewelry with her at home, like other people?”
Exasperated, Rhea said, “Because she’s not like other people, silly. She’s the queen, and she’s got so much jewelry she doesn’t have room for all of it in her palace.”
“When do you plan to leave?” Thomas asked his son.
“I don’t want to go to England,” Katie repeated, clearly not enticed by the lure of seeing a tower full of jewelry.
“In the next day or two,” Brent answered, “if I can make the arrangements.”
As they settled down to family breakfast, Brent mentally reviewed the other reasons he wanted to investigate Nolan Hunter, the Viscount Kestler. Over the past week Brent had learned that Marcus Vasquez, Melanie’s fiancé and Quest’s former trainer, was actually Nolan’s illegitimate half brother. Marcus had also confided to Brent that he suspected Nolan was not being completely up front about the breeding scandal, though he could offer no proof to support his allegation. Brent might have dismissed it as sour grapes over the issue of the Spaniard’s paternity, had he not overheard Nolan’s phone conversation.
A horse in Dubai owned by Lord Rochester had purportedly been sired by Apollo’s Ice. Not long after the Sandstone Derby, the horse was found dead. Poisoned. DNA tests revealed the stallion had not been sired by Apollo’s Ice, but by the same mysterious stallion that had sired Leopold’s Legacy. Brent had discussed the matter on the phone with Lord Rochester, but the Englishman had no idea who could be behind the fraud.
“What’s your game plan in England?” Thomas asked, after the girls had been excused to return to the barn to see the new pony again.
“I thought I might start at the Jockey Association in London, see what I can pick up there.”
“Marcus mentioned that Nolan’s younger sister Devon teaches in a private girls’ school near Oxford,” Jenna commented. “Briar Hills Academy, I think he said. You might contact her to see what light she can shed on the situation.”
“If you need help, son,” Thomas said, “all you have to do is call. You know that. One of us…all of us…can be on the next available flight to Heathrow.”
