The Charmers: A Novel(12)
“Quite right, Madame, it’s cheerful,” he said, inspecting Verity closely. “And she looks as though she needs cheering up a bit.”
English understatement as always from Alfred. Good servants know their profession and they should never be underrated. It’s a job in which they rightly take pride, as does a good waiter.
But Verity stood still, seemingly rooted to the top step, peering through the wide double doors fashioned from a rare oak felled in a thunderstorm when the villa was built, and with a large heart-shaped brass door-knocker, indicating, it was said, Jerusha’s welcome to her guests. I wished the guests had all felt the same way about their beautiful and generous hostess, Jerusha. Obviously some had not. It puzzled me as to exactly why this was, and I was determined to find out the truth. But truth is elusive when it comes to the past; everyone has their own story and with the passing of time even those become distorted.
We walked into the hall and Verity said, surprising me again, “Jerusha was a friend of my grandmother. I remember seeing her photo on the table next to the sofa in Gran’s boudoir. I always picked it up to look at it because she was so lovely, in a long flowing dress that swept to one side in a train. Glamorous, I suppose she was, though to a child she was simply beautiful. How I wished I could be like her, I remember saying that to Gran and her telling me with a sad look on her face that I should not wish any such thing. She wouldn’t tell me why but she removed the photo, put it away somewhere I suppose because I never saw it again. And of course I never asked why.”
“Well, now you know,” I said. “Jerusha was a killer. Rotten to the core. Seduced men, they said, simply because she could.” Verity stared at me, bug-eyed, and I took pity on her. “Of course, those were only rumors, there are always tales about a woman as lovely and famous as that. You’ve only to look at some of today’s stars, hounded by the press, false stories made up about their goings-on.”
“But that’s so unfair.”
I shook my head, smiling at Verity’s naivety. “Hon,” I said, “that’s life. Anyhow,” I added, remembering our own recent dice with death, “I’ve always wanted to find out the truth, and now you are here to help me. Your grandmother knew Jerusha; she must have told you stories about her.”
Verity looked doubtful. “None that I remember, just her name, and that maybe she killed someone, and about the villa. There was a picture of it, you see. Gran took it herself when she stayed here. You know the kind where all the houseguests are assembled in front of the house, like in a school photo. And now I remember, the king stayed here with Jerusha, when he was still king, before he abdicated and became one of us.”
“Well, not exactly,” I said. “Even though Edward VIII was downgraded to a duke he was not ‘one of us.’ But he was said to have an eye for a pretty woman. Plus he was known to be an entertaining guest so I’m sure Jerusha would have loved him.”
We both turned our heads, hearing the roar of a car’s engine and the spurt of gravel as it pulled to an abrupt stop. A reckless driver, I thought. We heard footsteps approaching on the path, then a man appeared at the doorway, silhouetted against the sun so we could not make out who exactly he was, though I was certain it was no one I knew.
I met him on the stoop, annoyed at his impertinence. “Who are you? And what do you mean by walking in here like you own the place?” My anger showed in my tone of voice.
His coldness showed in his, sending a chill though my bones.
“I might,” Chad Prescott said.
He stepped forward so I could see his face: lean, handsome, lightly tanned, an outdoorsman’s face—sporty, horses, fishing; things like that. I felt myself melt.
It was the doctor. Ohh, I thought. Another charmer.
8
I dragged my eyes away, looking down at the parquet floor but not seeing it. In the short time available I had managed to take in the floppy blond hair, the network of lines around his eyes, blue eyes in fact, much like my own, as well as the stubble on that firm chin, and a nice-looking underlip, full and sweet enough for a bite. But what was I thinking? This man, this doctor, had just claimed he owned my villa. I should want to smack him across his too-good-looking face. But I’m not the smacking kind, I’m a giver not a taker, a softie at heart, and I do have a heart though at the moment it seems to have stopped. Taken a break. I hope it begins to beat again soon, I’d quite like to breathe.
There! I was breathing after all. And smiling at this outrageous man who had just put claims on my villa. Aunt Jolly’s villa, that was. And before that, Jerusha’s.
My shoulder hurt, bruised in the crash, and I put up a hand as though to protect it from his gaze, but he was not even looking at me. He was looking at the villa, assessing its value I’d bet.
“So who are you anyway?” I put enough frost in my voice to kill any nice summer day.
He did not so much as glance around, so intent was he in taking in what he claimed was his property. “Name’s Chad Prescott.” He did not offer his hand, though, silly me, I did. Good manners can be the ruination of you; someone once told me that. It had to have been a man.
“Though you have not asked, my name is Mirabella Matthews.” I waited for a response, the oh really, of course I know your books. It did not come.
Verity came and stood tall beside me. “And I am Verity.” She did not mention her second name, obviously still confused as to which one it was, the single or the married. Not that it mattered.