“Who is, Janna?”
“No, my...” He waved a hand, the car bouncing hard when we hit a pothole, and then clutched the steering wheel with both hands. “My sister-in-law.”
“Ah. That must be nice,” I said agreeably, wondering what that had to do with the price of tea in China.
Vandal was silent for a few seconds, then gestured awkwardly, his voice growing more hesitant and stilted as he said, “I suppose if you’re going to stay for a bit that I should warn you that the house is bound to be fairly uncomfortable. It needs a lot of work.”
“That’s OK. I’m used to roughing it.” I slid a look at him out of the corner of my eyes. Had I said something to offend him? All of a sudden, he sounded... off. Like he didn’t want me there. “My folks sent me to camp every summer, and you learn fast how to cope with a camp bed and a tent.”
“Just so. I...” He coughed, and inadvertently jerked the car, slamming the brakes on, then muttering an apology before gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white. The car lurched forward again as he said, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mercedes Starling, but everyone but my dad calls me Mercy. Wow.” I leaned forward when the road curved to the left, suddenly revealing the house where it sat surrounded by rather wild green lawns and hedges. “That’s... that’s impressive. Much more than I was expecting.”
“Itispretty, isn’t it?” Vandal said, his voice warming as he pulled to a (smooth, this time) stop so we could admire the view. He gazed at it, his attention wholly focused on the sight before us, and I couldn’t blame him for staring. The house was old, as I’d expected, made of a lovely soft gray stone, with lots of recessed, narrow arched windows. The main entrance was setunder a tower bedecked with a gorgeous series of stained-glass windows. To the right, a wing had been added—probably at a later date, since the windows didn’t match that of the main house, but it, too, was of the same gray stone. Tall chimneys dotted the roofline, and I counted six pillars that seemed to be an afterthought of the designer (or, more likely, a later owner).
“It’s lovely, just lovely,” I agreed. We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. “How old is it?”
“Mid–fifteen hundreds, for the main house. The front wing and the block to the north were added a century later. Evidently there was a south block that housed a power generator, but that blew up more than thirty years ago, so now the house is a bit off-balance, architecturally speaking. But still very nice, don’t you think?” Vandal suddenly seemed to recall himself, for he shot me an unreadable look, cleared his throat, and, with a grinding of gears that had us both wincing, drove forward. I clutched the dashboard when we came to an abrupt stop at the entrance to the house. He looked like he wanted to say something, his Adam’s apple bobbling up and down a couple of times, but after making an inarticulate noise of frustration, he simply got out of the car.
Great,I thought to myself.Now he’s back to being annoyed with me, and I don’t have the slightest clue why.
Vandal stared up at the house, his hands on his hips, as I got out of the car and hesitantly took a few steps toward him. I half expected him to say something brusque, but the look on his face was one of sheer pleasure. No, not pleasure—contentment, a quiet, soul-deep contentment. I had no idea why he was so happy all of a sudden.... Perhaps he had mercurial mood swings? Or maybe he liked houses? Or it could be that he wassimply tired of being in the car, and was glad to be at his destination.
“There’s a lot to be done to bring it up to a point where it can be lived in,” he said, his eyes still on the house. I had a feeling he was talking more to himself than to me. “But to be honest, I’m looking forward to the work.”
“You’re going to work on thehouse?” I asked, pulling my duffel bag out of the car, and moving around the end of it to join him at the bottom of five shallow steps that led up to the double-door entrance. “Why?”
He shot me an irritated look. “Because it needs it. Evidently the previous owner did little with it other than have it wired for electricity, and installed bathrooms at the insistence of his wife. It’s quite a daunting prospect, isn’t it? Not the sort of thing that the casual person might wish to take on as a holiday.”
I blinked at him for a second before turning back to consider the house. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always felt that places like this have a presence of their own, a soul if you will. Something this old doesn’t witness the parade of humanity going through it without absorbing a certain amount of it, don’t you think? I imagine restoring it to its glory would be very satisfying.” I reached out and patted the mossy stone balustrade that lined the steps. “I think the place would like to be done up. It has an air of genteel decay about it, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not decayed,” he said, bristling, leaving me to momentarily mull over what I’d said to offend him now. “It just needs some work. And I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”
What a very odd man he was. “OK,” I said slowly, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Why hadn’t I checked up on this Hard Day’s Knights organizationbefore I offered myself for the job? “I see your point, but I guess I just don’t understand why you are so interested in working here. Is it some arrangement you made with the owner so you could hold your medieval fair here?”
“Medieval fair?” He turned to face me, his expression showing his confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The medieval fair,” I said slowly, beginning to have serious doubts about this job. “You know, the one you hired me for.”
He blinked a couple of times, then ran a hand through his curly brown hair. “I didn’t hire anyone, and I don’t have a fair, medieval or otherwise.”
“You’re not Vandal?” I asked, taking a firm grip on my purse, prepared to snatch the container of pepper spray should the man go completely bonkers.
“No. I’m Alden Ainslie. I own this place.” He frowned. “I take it that you were not sent here to be... er... be my...”
To my surprise, a faint dusky pink darkened his cheeks when his words frittered away to nothing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a man blush. I was amused by that, but my mind was focused on more important facts.
So this was Alden Ainslie, the owner of Bestwood Hall. How very interesting. “I don’t know what you think I was sent here to do, Alden Ainslie, but I can assure you that I do not have any immoral or illegal intentions.”
His cheeks darkened as he stammered, “No, I... that’s not what I... I wouldn’t presume...”
“It’s OK,” I interrupted, feeling a man who could blush like that was not someone who was trying to pass off innuendos as commonplace conversation. “Forget it. What I’d like to know is where Vandal is.”
“Who is Vandal?”
“The guy running the medieval fair that’s taking place here.”
“What?”His embarrassment clearly faded, because he added in a testy tone, “There is a medieval fair being operated on the grounds of Bestwood?”
