hadn’t even had a chance to take her case up to her suite and unpack, never mind eat or take a shower. Right now, though, the number one thing she needed was a drink. Heading for the hotel bar through the lobby and the library with its roaring open fires and thickly comforting red velvet upholstery, she couldn’t help but notice the way that staff scurried out of her way like terrified rats. Even the guests looked distinctly ill at ease. By the time she clambered up onto a bar stool and ordered her Scotch on the rocks she was starting to feel about as popular as Lady Macbeth.
“Tell me,” she turned to the middle-aged man sitting next to her, “can you see the blood on my hands? Or am I imagining things?”
“I’m sorry?” He looked perplexed, and she instantly regretted being so obtuse. Partly because he was probably a guest and the last thing she could afford to do right now was alienate another paying customer, and partly because he was, she now realized, distinctly attractive, in a gravelly, distinguished, older-man sort of a way.
He was wearing a slightly threadbare tweed jacket and corduroy pants, giving him the air of a somewhat countrified Cary Grant. Until Honor had accosted him, he’d been reading Stephen Hawking’s
A Brief History of Time
, which for some reason she found both surprising and endearing. Somehow it wasn’t what you expected in East Hampton, or at least not in the Palmers’ bar.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m talking gibberish. It’s been a long day.”
“Well.” Putting his book to one side, the man smiled, revealing a row of slightly crooked teeth. Even those seemed to suit him. Perfect dentistry would have clashed with the whole academic Indiana Jones vibe he had going on. He reminded her a bit of her Harvard professor, although perhaps not quite as gentle.“Why don’t you let me buy you that drink, and you can tell me about it.”
Honor waved her hand in protest, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“A woman shouldn’t drink alone,” he insisted. “Especially not whiskey.”
In another place, with another man, Honor would have taken umbrage at this sort of sexist pronouncement. As it was, she merely smiled and offered him her hand. She hadn’t the stomach for another battle this evening. “Well, in that case, I’ll accept the offer, thank you,” she said. “I’m Honor Palmer.”
For some reason this nugget of information seemed to throw him off stride. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all. When he did speak again, it was hardly the most articulate of responses. “Honor Palmer. Good God.” He kept shaking his head, mumbling to himself like a lunatic. “Honor Palmer. After all these years.”
“Er, have we met?” Now it was Honor’s turn to look baffled. Just her luck that the only attractive man in the hotel should be a nut job. It was turning out to be that kind of day.
“We have, yes,” said the man. He was smiling again now. “But I don’t expect you to remember. You must have been, oh, about eight at the time. Sitting on your mother’s knee in the garden just out there. I’m Devon Carter,” he added belatedly.
Carter. Honor turned the word over and over in her mind, like an interesting pebble, searching for some clue to its meaning. Devon Carter. It did ring a bell. But she couldn’t quite place it.
“My family’s from Boston too, originally,” he explained. “We’ve been coming out here in the summers for over a century, just like the Palmers—although sadly we never did quite as well in the Hamptons as your family. My father and your grandfather were good friends.”
Honor snapped her fingers. “Evelyn. Your dad was Evelyn Carter, right?”
Devon nodded. “Exactly. Apparently our great-grandfathers used to play poker together back in Boston. My dad used to say that old man Palmer died owing his grandpa a fortune. But maybe that’s apocryphal.”
Honor laughed. “Well, if you’ve come looking for your
“Tell me,” she turned to the middle-aged man sitting next to her, “can you see the blood on my hands? Or am I imagining things?”
“I’m sorry?” He looked perplexed, and she instantly regretted being so obtuse. Partly because he was probably a guest and the last thing she could afford to do right now was alienate another paying customer, and partly because he was, she now realized, distinctly attractive, in a gravelly, distinguished, older-man sort of a way.
He was wearing a slightly threadbare tweed jacket and corduroy pants, giving him the air of a somewhat countrified Cary Grant. Until Honor had accosted him, he’d been reading Stephen Hawking’s
A Brief History of Time
, which for some reason she found both surprising and endearing. Somehow it wasn’t what you expected in East Hampton, or at least not in the Palmers’ bar.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m talking gibberish. It’s been a long day.”
“Well.” Putting his book to one side, the man smiled, revealing a row of slightly crooked teeth. Even those seemed to suit him. Perfect dentistry would have clashed with the whole academic Indiana Jones vibe he had going on. He reminded her a bit of her Harvard professor, although perhaps not quite as gentle.“Why don’t you let me buy you that drink, and you can tell me about it.”
Honor waved her hand in protest, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“A woman shouldn’t drink alone,” he insisted. “Especially not whiskey.”
In another place, with another man, Honor would have taken umbrage at this sort of sexist pronouncement. As it was, she merely smiled and offered him her hand. She hadn’t the stomach for another battle this evening. “Well, in that case, I’ll accept the offer, thank you,” she said. “I’m Honor Palmer.”
For some reason this nugget of information seemed to throw him off stride. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all. When he did speak again, it was hardly the most articulate of responses. “Honor Palmer. Good God.” He kept shaking his head, mumbling to himself like a lunatic. “Honor Palmer. After all these years.”
“Er, have we met?” Now it was Honor’s turn to look baffled. Just her luck that the only attractive man in the hotel should be a nut job. It was turning out to be that kind of day.
“We have, yes,” said the man. He was smiling again now. “But I don’t expect you to remember. You must have been, oh, about eight at the time. Sitting on your mother’s knee in the garden just out there. I’m Devon Carter,” he added belatedly.
Carter. Honor turned the word over and over in her mind, like an interesting pebble, searching for some clue to its meaning. Devon Carter. It did ring a bell. But she couldn’t quite place it.
“My family’s from Boston too, originally,” he explained. “We’ve been coming out here in the summers for over a century, just like the Palmers—although sadly we never did quite as well in the Hamptons as your family. My father and your grandfather were good friends.”
Honor snapped her fingers. “Evelyn. Your dad was Evelyn Carter, right?”
Devon nodded. “Exactly. Apparently our great-grandfathers used to play poker together back in Boston. My dad used to say that old man Palmer died owing his grandpa a fortune. But maybe that’s apocryphal.”
Honor laughed. “Well, if you’ve come looking for your
Similar Books
