stay awake for it.”
“I probably should,” Victoria said with a yawn. “If nothing else, I should make sure everything’s ready.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Megan said. “Mrs. Pruitt runs the place like a boot camp. Everything will be in order.”
Victoria looked at her sister and had to shake her head, though she didn’t do it too vigorously; jet lag wasn’t all that bad from New York to London and beyond, but she hadn’t had all that much sleep in the previous seventy-two hours, so she wasn’t exactly fully functional.
But in spite of her impaired mental state, she did manage to look at her sister and marvel at the change. At twenty-nine, Megan was three years younger than Victoria and had been struggling to find her place for years. She’d worked at all kinds of jobs; gone to and moved past college; tried her hand at all the family businesses, including Victoria’s theater troupe and their mother’s clothing company. Nothing had fit. Then Thomas had sent her to England to check out the castle he’d bought himself, sort of as a last-ditch effort to give Megan something to do.
Instead of failing yet again, Megan had wound up owning a little country inn and marrying some titled Brit who was so filthy rich that even Thomas genuflected when they met.
That had been a serious deviation from the script, but since it was Megan’s life and not hers, Victoria hadn’t said anything about it. Of course, she wouldn’t have the tolerance for that kind of detour herself, but to each her own.
She found herself distracted by the countryside as they wound their way through it and then up a small road to what was indeed a quaint, Tudor-style inn. They pulled to a graceful, dignified stop.
“Like it?” Megan asked.
“It’s wonderful,” Victoria said honestly.
“You were here before, you know,” Megan pointed out. “For my wedding.”
Victoria yawned. “Megan, I flew in the morning of your wedding, went straight to the church to put on my brides-maid dress, watched you get married, vaguely remember lunch at a very dark pub in the village, then I got back on a plane to close a very satisfying run of Romeo and Juliet .”
Megan laughed. “I suppose you never made it this far, did you? It’s probably just as well.”
The chauffeur opened Megan’s door for her. Megan leaned over and whispered, “It’s haunted,” before she leaped gracefully from the car as if she hadn’t spent the first five months of her pregnancy eating and puking for two.
Victoria sat there for several moments with her jaw hanging down before she realized that if she didn’t do something soon, she was going to drool on her shirt. She shut her mouth, clambered out of the car on shaky legs, and looked at the inn in front of her.
Haunted?
Perhaps all that smog in London had gone to Megan’s head and withered her brain. Then again, hadn’t their dad warned her there were otherworldly things going on here? She’d assumed he’d been kidding . . .
She hoisted her bag farther up on her shoulder and made her way uneasily through the front door. And then she came to a sudden standstill.
She stood in the entryway of a place that looked as if it had been lifted straight from a movie set. The furniture and paintings were perfectly period. The carpet was less so, but who was she to quibble? The innkeeper, doubtless the intrepid Mrs. Pruitt, was holding her feather duster over her shoulder like a bayonet and commanding a hapless teenager to be about settling Lady Blythwood as quick as might be.
Victoria realized with a start that Megan was Lady Blythwood. If all the people who had fired Megan over the years could have had an earful of that . . .
“That’s my sister, Victoria,” Megan was saying. She retrieved Victoria from the doorway and pulled her over to the reception desk. “Vikki, this is Mrs. Pruitt. She’ll be keeping your actors in line for you while they’re staying here.”
Mrs. Pruitt put her free hand over her
“I probably should,” Victoria said with a yawn. “If nothing else, I should make sure everything’s ready.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Megan said. “Mrs. Pruitt runs the place like a boot camp. Everything will be in order.”
Victoria looked at her sister and had to shake her head, though she didn’t do it too vigorously; jet lag wasn’t all that bad from New York to London and beyond, but she hadn’t had all that much sleep in the previous seventy-two hours, so she wasn’t exactly fully functional.
But in spite of her impaired mental state, she did manage to look at her sister and marvel at the change. At twenty-nine, Megan was three years younger than Victoria and had been struggling to find her place for years. She’d worked at all kinds of jobs; gone to and moved past college; tried her hand at all the family businesses, including Victoria’s theater troupe and their mother’s clothing company. Nothing had fit. Then Thomas had sent her to England to check out the castle he’d bought himself, sort of as a last-ditch effort to give Megan something to do.
Instead of failing yet again, Megan had wound up owning a little country inn and marrying some titled Brit who was so filthy rich that even Thomas genuflected when they met.
That had been a serious deviation from the script, but since it was Megan’s life and not hers, Victoria hadn’t said anything about it. Of course, she wouldn’t have the tolerance for that kind of detour herself, but to each her own.
She found herself distracted by the countryside as they wound their way through it and then up a small road to what was indeed a quaint, Tudor-style inn. They pulled to a graceful, dignified stop.
“Like it?” Megan asked.
“It’s wonderful,” Victoria said honestly.
“You were here before, you know,” Megan pointed out. “For my wedding.”
Victoria yawned. “Megan, I flew in the morning of your wedding, went straight to the church to put on my brides-maid dress, watched you get married, vaguely remember lunch at a very dark pub in the village, then I got back on a plane to close a very satisfying run of Romeo and Juliet .”
Megan laughed. “I suppose you never made it this far, did you? It’s probably just as well.”
The chauffeur opened Megan’s door for her. Megan leaned over and whispered, “It’s haunted,” before she leaped gracefully from the car as if she hadn’t spent the first five months of her pregnancy eating and puking for two.
Victoria sat there for several moments with her jaw hanging down before she realized that if she didn’t do something soon, she was going to drool on her shirt. She shut her mouth, clambered out of the car on shaky legs, and looked at the inn in front of her.
Haunted?
Perhaps all that smog in London had gone to Megan’s head and withered her brain. Then again, hadn’t their dad warned her there were otherworldly things going on here? She’d assumed he’d been kidding . . .
She hoisted her bag farther up on her shoulder and made her way uneasily through the front door. And then she came to a sudden standstill.
She stood in the entryway of a place that looked as if it had been lifted straight from a movie set. The furniture and paintings were perfectly period. The carpet was less so, but who was she to quibble? The innkeeper, doubtless the intrepid Mrs. Pruitt, was holding her feather duster over her shoulder like a bayonet and commanding a hapless teenager to be about settling Lady Blythwood as quick as might be.
Victoria realized with a start that Megan was Lady Blythwood. If all the people who had fired Megan over the years could have had an earful of that . . .
“That’s my sister, Victoria,” Megan was saying. She retrieved Victoria from the doorway and pulled her over to the reception desk. “Vikki, this is Mrs. Pruitt. She’ll be keeping your actors in line for you while they’re staying here.”
Mrs. Pruitt put her free hand over her
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