“I’m saying no for the moment. Could you stand by? Look, here’s another number you can ring if you can’t get me here.” He gave her Adelaide’s number. “That’s the local vet. You can leave a message with him or his daughter. Phones out here are rarer than hen’s teeth. Lily, I must go. Stomachs are rumbling. Any last comment?”
Lily hesitated and then plunged in: “Yes. There’s something you shouldn’t leave out of your calculations. He loves her, Joe.”
A splutter of outrage then, puzzlingly, “Another poor clown caught flapping his wings and heading for the cliff edge! Hah! Serves the bugger right for tormenting the animal kingdom!”
ALEXANDER TRUELOVE, SERIAL persecutor of nannies, Oxford reject, failed banker, and consumer of dubious stimulating substances over many years, was putting on a show.
Joe could not but admire the effort the young man was making to join the party now that he had actually staggered as far as the Great Hall. Cecily had greeted him with a maternal coo of concern and, at a look from her, the footman in charge of the drinks table had stepped forward and placed a glass of something fizzy—Perrier?—with a slice of lemon into his hand. To everyone’s relief, he had managed to remember the names of most of the guests he’d met before and exchanged appropriate comments and reminiscences. A genuine, clear-headed feat of memory, or had Cecily spent some time rehearsing him? Whatever the cause, they seemed flattered by the effect.
As one would be, Joe thought, by the attentions of this peacock. Cecily had misled him. In this and in how many other matters? he wondered bitterly. He’d imagined something on the lines of a Dorian Grey portrait: dissolute, lined, prematurely old, a face better hidden away. But here was a handsome youth, fair and slender, looking less than his twenty-five years when seen against the middle-aged and elderly guests surrounding him. If Dorcas had been of the company, Cecily would have sent them both off to play marbles. When he brushed aside the hair that flopped over his forehead in a blond quiff reminiscent of Rupert Brooke and turned his melting blue eyes on the ladies, they were as charmed by him as they were by the resident King Charles spaniel that skulked, quivering, about the place, begging for caresses and violet creams.
Joe had seen that unruly hair and those eyes before. Adam Hunnyton was a hand or two taller, a stone or two heavier and a decade or two older, but the two men had recognisably the same father.
The blue eyes had lost some of their openness when Cecily introduced him to Joe. “A friend of James?” he’d questioned, with a curl of the lip. “What are you saying, mother? My brother doesn’t have friends. He has victims, dupes, prey. Which one are you, Commissioner?”
“I’m sure James would like to think—all three of those.” Joe’s tone was relaxed, his lips gently smiling, but the sudden narrowing of the icy grey eyes gave quite a different message.
Alex laughed. “Lesson one: how to duck a direct question. They warned me you’d had training with my godfather Jardine. The power behind the throne in India. Terrifying old bird! He talked me out of joining the diplomatic service, I remember.”
“Very persuasive gentleman, Sir George.”
“Indeed! Compelling. But you survived his ministrations to pound the beat another day? Clearly made of sterner stuff than the rest of us. Though why you’d choose bobbying over an apprenticeship in the dark arts from the master and a leg up the greasy diplomatic pole, I can’t imagine. Can’t say I’ve ever met a Scotland Yarder before … Socially that is.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever exchanged views over a drink with a banker before. Though I have slipped the cuffs on one or two,” Joe said genially.
“Well you still haven’t,” Alex admitted. “The City has severed all contact with me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are there better prospects on the horizon?”
“No. I’ve auditioned several careers in what Mama calls my short life, even selected one or two for a starring role, but in the end, they’ve all turned me down. Unlike you, I’ve never been chosen, Sandilands. If Mama does not exaggerate …” The innocent eyes teased him for a moment. “Sir George rather saw you as his young alter ego—someone to be trained on. Perhaps we’d better all watch out!”
“Sir George taught me many things. One of the most useful—always check that your guests have a full glass. I note that Sir Basil is running on empty. Would you like to …?”
If Joe was hoping to free himself from Alex’s spiky company he was disappointed. The young man hadn’t finished his interrogation. Alex paused to signal to a footman, then, tweaking Joe by the sleeve, he led him to the periphery of the knot of guests who’d gathered in the centre of the room, chattering and laughing.