A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(21)

“Yes. Justin Brooke. Do you know him, Simon?”

“Rather better than he’d like, if the truth be told,” Lady Helen said. “But he promises to behave himself, don’t you, Simon darling? No poison in the porridge. No duelling at dawn. No brawls on the drawing room floor. Just utter civility for seventy-two hours. What perfect teeth-gritting bliss.”

“I’ll treasure each moment,” St. James replied.

Lady Asherton laughed. “Of course you will. What house party could possibly be complete without skeletons swinging out of every closet and tempers on the boil? It makes me feel quite a young girl again.” She took Cotter’s arm and led the way into the house. “Let me show you something I’m absurdly proud of, Joseph,” they could hear her saying as she pointed to the elaborate tessellated entry. “This was put in just after our great fire of 1849 by some local workmen. Now, don’t you believe this for an instant, but legend has it the fire…” Her voice drifted out of their hearing. In a moment, Cotter’s laughter rang out in response.

At that, the churning in Deborah’s stomach lessened. Relief shot through her muscles like a spring releasing tension and told her how nervous she had really been about this first meeting of their parents. It could have been disastrous. It would have been disastrous, had Tommy’s mother been any other sort of woman save the kind who swept away the diffidence of strangers with a few amiable words.

She’s wonderful. Deborah felt the need to say it aloud to someone and without thinking, she turned to St. James.

All the signs of approval were on his face. The lines round his eyes crinkled more deeply. Briefly, he smiled.

“Welcome to Howenstow, Deb darling.” Lynley put his arm round her shoulders and led her into the house where a high ceiling and a mosaic floor made the air cool and moist, a refreshing change from the heat outside.

They found Lady Asherton and Cotter in the great hall to the right of the entry. It was an elongated room, dominated by a fireplace whose chimneypiece of unadorned granite was surmounted by the head of a wild gazelle. Pendant plasterwork decorated the ceiling, and drop-moulded panelling covered the walls. Upon these hung life-sized portraits of the lords and ladies of Asherton, representatives from each generation, who gazed upon their descendants in every kind of pose and every kind of dress.

Deborah paused before an eighteenth-century portrait of a man in cream breeches and red coat, leaning against a half-broken urn with a riding crop in his hand and a spaniel at his feet. “Tommy, good heavens. He looks exactly like you.”

“He’s certainly what Tommy would look like if we could only talk him into wearing those delicious trousers,” Lady Helen remarked.

Deborah felt Lynley’s arm tighten round her shoulders. She thought at first it was in response to the laughter that greeted Lady Helen’s comment. But she saw that a door had opened at the north end of the hall and a tall young man wearing threadbare blue jeans was padding in his bare feet across the parquet floor. A hollow-cheeked girl followed him. She too was shoeless.

This would be Peter, Deborah decided. Aside from his emaciated appearance, he possessed the same blond hair, the same brown eyes, and the same fine cheekbones, nose, and jaw of many of the portraits that lined the walls. Unlike his ancestors on canvas, however, Peter Lynley wore an earring through one pierced ear. It was a swastika dangling from a slender gold chain and it grazed the top of his shoulder.

“Peter. You’re not in Oxford?” Lynley asked the question smoothly enough—a demonstration of good breeding before the weekend guests—but Deborah felt the tension in his body.

Peter flashed a smile, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “We came down for some sun only to discover you had the same idea. All we need is Judy here for a sibling reunion, right?”

Fingering the clasp that held earring to earlobe, he nodded at St. James and Lady Helen and drew his companion forward. In a gesture that duplicated Lynley’s own, he put his arm round her shoulders.

“This is Sasha.” Her arm encircled his waist. Her fingers slid beneath his grimy T-shirt and into his blue jeans. “Sasha Nifford.” Without waiting for his brother to make a similar introduction, Peter nodded at Deborah. “And this is your bride-to-be, I take it. You’ve always had excellent taste in women. But we’ve seen that demonstrated well enough through the years.”

Lady Asherton came forward. She looked from one son to the other and extended her hand as if she would join them together in some way. “I was so surprised when Hodge told me Peter and Sasha had arrived. And then I thought what a lovely idea it was to have Peter here for your engagement weekend.”

Lynley replied evenly. “My thought exactly. Will you show our guests to their rooms, Mother? I’d like a few minutes with Peter. To catch up.”

“We’ve lunch planned in just an hour. The day’s so fine that we thought we’d have it outdoors.”

“Good. In an hour. If you’ll see to everyone…” It was far more an order than a request.

Hearing his cool tone, Deborah felt surprise. She looked at the others to gauge their reactions, but saw in their faces only a determination to ignore the unmistakable current of hostility that crackled through the air. Lady Helen was examining a silver-framed photograph of the Prince of Wales. St. James was admiring the lid of an oriental tea case. Cotter was standing in a bay window gazing out at the garden.