A Bitter Feast(28)

Ivan garaged the car, and as they walked back across the drive he stopped for a moment, scanning the sky and raising his nose to the wind. “So far, so good,” he told Kincaid. The day was still fine, and warm enough to encourage shirtsleeves. “Fingers crossed.”

A handsome woman dressed in elegant but efficient-looking dark trousers and blouse met them at the open door. “Sir Ivan. We were getting quite worried about you.” She gave Kincaid an interested look as she stepped aside.

“We had some things to attend to,” said Ivan easily. “Duncan, this is Rosalind Dunning, my wife’s personal secretary. Where is Lady Addie, Roz?”

“In the garden. Almost everyone has arrived.”

“And Viv?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Well, hold the fort. There are some stragglers coming in now.” Ivan headed for the kitchen and Kincaid followed, curious.

There was no mistaking the woman who stood at the stove, her back to them. Tall and slender, she wore a white chef’s jacket and houndstooth trousers. Her short blond hair was platinum pale and stood up on top as if she’d been raking her hands through it. Kincaid thought he heard her mutter, “Bloody caramel,” before she turned, whisk in hand, and gave a little gasp. “Sir Ivan. I didn’t hear you.”

“Not to worry, Viv. I know you’re rushed off your feet. I just wanted to say I was sorry about your friend.”

“I— He wasn’t— But thank you.”

Kincaid thought that under other circumstances, Viv Holland would be more than attractive. She had the good bones necessary to carry off the boy-short hair, and her very fair skin and light blue eyes suggested that the platinum hair might be natural.

At the moment, however, her eyes were red-rimmed and she rubbed the back of her whisk-free hand across her cheeks. “Sorry,” she added, with a glance at Kincaid. “I didn’t mean to be rude. You look as if you’ve been in the wars.”

“This is Duncan Kincaid,” said Ivan. “I think you’ll have met his wife, Gemma.”

“Yes, Gemma’s been a brick. Nice to meet you.”

Kincaid realized Viv Holland must have no idea he’d been in the accident that had killed Nell Greene and Fergus O’Reilly, and now was certainly not the time to tell her.

“We’ll get out of your—” he began, when he heard a door bang and his son came barreling into the kitchen.

“Chef Viv—” said Kit, then stopped when he saw them. “Dad!” He reached Kincaid in two long strides and threw his arms round him as if he were Charlotte’s age.

“Ow,” Kincaid managed, on an indrawn breath. “I’m glad to see you, too. But take it easy, sport.”

Kit stepped back. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—” He took in Kincaid’s bandaged hand and head. “You’re really hurt.”

“I’m fine. Just a bit sore. I—”

“Oh, of course, you’re Kit’s dad,” said Viv. “How stupid of me.” She beamed at him then, her obvious pleasure erasing the stress lines from her face. “Kit’s the best. He’s been my sous-chef today. I’d never have managed without him.”

Kit colored with what Kincaid guessed was embarrassment and pride. “Anyone could have done it,” Kit mumbled, retreating towards the scullery. To Viv, he said, “Lady Addie sent me to tell you that all the trout pots are on the tables. She’s going to seat people in just a few minutes.”

“That’s our cue, I think,” Kincaid was saying, once again trying to make an exit, when the sound of raised voices came from the front hall.

A moment later, a large man entered the kitchen. Kincaid registered broad shoulders constrained in a navy sports jacket, and as the man’s glance raked him, vivid blue eyes in an outdoorsy tanned face.

“Viv.” The man almost knocked into Ivan as he came to a halt, but he seemed oblivious. “Viv, I’ve been trying to reach you. What the hell is going on? What’s this about some bloke who was in the pub being in the car with Nell?”

“Mark!” The smile on Viv’s face vanished. “What are you doing in here? I can’t—I can’t talk about this right now.”

Roz Dunning appeared, from the hall. “Sir Ivan, I told Mark that Viv was busy—”

“It’s all right, Roz. Just mind the door and make certain everyone gets headed to the garden.” Then Ivan turned to the interloper, putting a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Mark.” Kincaid’s fuzzy brain made the connection. This was the man with the collies. But what did he have to do with Viv Holland? “I’m sure you and Viv can get this all sorted,” Ivan continued, “but Viv has had a bit of a shock, and she needs to concentrate on the lunch now.”

“But I don’t understand—”

“The one thing I completely understand is that Addie will have us strung up if we don’t get out of Viv’s way and join the party. Let’s get a drink, shall we?”

Adroitly, he used his grip on the man’s shoulder to turn him round and head him out of the kitchen. Following, Kincaid saw Mark send a last troubled glance towards Viv Holland.



Standing at the far edge of the terrace, Melody surveyed the party in progress. She had to admit that her mum had managed to pull it off. In spite of the tragedies, an injured guest, a traumatized chef, and a visit from the police, the luncheon was going swimmingly.