The Earl's Secret

The Earl's Secret by Kathryn Jensen Page B

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Authors: Kathryn Jensen
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“If you want to return to your flock before daybreak, we’d better get a move on. There’s a more proper WC on the floor below, if you want to freshen up.”
    She hurried after him, all the way down what shewas sure must be a hundred steps to the ground floor. After a quick stop at the bathroom, she met him outside.
    The early-morning mists off the lake had sparkled the grass and flowers with dew. It still wasn’t quite light, and the air held a milky quality, a thickness that made her want to reach out and gather soft handfuls of it. She breathed deeply of its sweetness, so different from the air surrounding her dear old Baltimore, as often rich with exhaust fumes as the scent of blooming honeysuckle. Here, the atmosphere begged to be inhaled, savored, held in memory.
    â€œI’m not a rich brat,” Christopher said after they had driven a mile or so.
    She slid farther down in the supple leather of the Jag’s passenger seat and yawned lazily. “Did I say you were?”
    â€œYou implied as much back at Donan. What was your description of my life? Loose and perverted?”
    â€œWell, you do live in a castle,” she stated accusingly.
    â€œThat’s not a crime or indication of decadence. Donan is my legacy from my ancestors. I could let it crumble, sell it or sink a lot of money and back-breaking labor into restoring it, which is what I have been doing over the past few years.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally. You should have seen its condition before I moved up from London. When the place is fully renovated and furnished, I hope to open it as a museum and memorial to both the Scots and English men and women who gave their lives fighting for it. It’s never too late to mend fences, don’t you agree?”
    She considered this new side of him. “Your friendsare all in London, at least that’s where their permanent homes are?”
    â€œMost of them, yes.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just hire workmen to handle the restoration while you run along to whack polo balls with your chums? You obviously can afford it.” She had wanted to tease him, but he seemed not to take the remark with the good humor it had been intended.
    His eyes turned stormy. Long fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I have my reasons!”
    She observed his expression. Something told her she should stop right now, but she couldn’t. “Is one reason your daughter? The little girl in the picture.”
    Christopher didn’t answer for several minutes, but finally resigned himself to admitting what she had already guessed. “Yes, that’s Lisa. And she is my daughter.” He steered the Jag onto A7, north toward Edinburgh. “Now, if you please, we won’t talk anymore of her.”
    The terrible thought occurred to Jennifer that the child might have died, and she’d innocently reminded him of the pain of losing her. Or perhaps something else had come between them. For a moment she was horrified by her thoughtless questions. But then she replayed his words in her mind: “That’s Lisa.” Present tense. And the photo looked quite recent. So at least it wasn’t death that caused him such anguish.
    She ached to ask him a thousand questions, but his icy glare had locked on the highway, and she knew that no amount of prodding would elicit another word from him on the subject of the child in the photograph. His face held that closed expression. Just as it had the day she’d mistakenly driven up to Donan, thinking it was Bremerley. No trespassing.
    They arrived at the hotel just after the sun had fully risen above the horizon, chasing away lingering pastel wisps of morning’s first light. Neither had spoken for the remainder of the drive. Sadly Jennifer reached for the Jaguar’s door, but before she could slip off the leather seat to the ground, his hand closed around her wrist.
    â€œWait, Jenny.” There was a

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