She sat up, startled, and discerned Simon in the arched doorway. He held a beer bottle. “Father and I are watching television in the drawing room. Would you like to join us?”
“Where’s Sylvie?” said Cleo.
“Where’s Danny?” said Simon.
She met his gaze. They came to a silent understanding—no more questions. “Come have a drink,” said Simon. Cleo followed him, her Prada hiking boots thunking on the tile floor, into a cozy den with plaid furniture and a bright fire. Simon’s father, in a wheelchair and wearing a kilt, was yelling at a TV show on an old television—Snooker: World Championship.
“May I present my father, Simon Rampling, Senior,” saidSimon. “He goes by Mac. His original surname was MacLeod. Da, this is Cleo, Sylvie’s sister.”
“Welcome to the Wild West of England,” said Mac, who appeared to be drunk or heavily medicated (perhaps both). His complexion was pallid, but he seemed to be making a valiant effort to charm her.
“I’m happy to meet you,” said Cleo. She’d meant to change for dinner, but her cashmere turtleneck dress was warm and comforting, a relief from her usual severe, tight-waisted attire.
“We’re so far North you may as well be a Scotsman, which in point of fact, I am,” said Mac. Cleo caught Simon’s gaze and he shrugged. She noticed that he, too, looked wan. “They tried to keep us out, but here I am, the owner of the goddamned castle!” said Mac.
In truth, the castle was owned by a shell company laundering dirty money, but Cleo kept her mouth shut.
“You’ll forgive me for not rising,” continued Simon’s father. “My legs don’t work and I only have days left on this earth. I am—in fact—on many strong painkillers.”
“Of course. I’m Cleo.” She extended her hand and Mac kissed it. His lips were dry and warm.
“Get this gorgeous creature a drink!” said Mac.
Cleo was wary of lecherous men, but Mac seemed benign. He was remarkably loquacious for someone who was very ill. Could he be pretending to be sick? Cleo shook her head, trying to stop her wary scanning. “Do you have whisky?” she asked.
Simon’s father laughed. “Break out the Lagavulin, son,” he said. “I could meet my maker any moment and you’ve been dumped by another American…on the eve of your wedding.”
“Definitely time for the Lagavulin,” agreed Simon. He moved to a bar in the corner of the room and poured single malt Scotch into crystal tumblers.
“What do you mean, dumped by an American?” said Cleo.
“He told the truth, the eejit,” said Simon’s father.
“Can we have a drink first?” said Simon. “Please?”
“So you told her about Thisbe’s money.”
Simon dropped a glass of whiskey.
“Och! Son!” cried Mac. “That’s the good stuff!”
“How do you know?” said Simon.
“My best friend, Isaac,” explained Cleo. “He’s an investigative journalist withThe New York Times.”
“I never wanted to take the money,” said Mac sadly.
“If it weren’t for Thisbe’s money, we would have had to sell,” said Simon. “This castle was my mother’s. We promised her we’d keep it in the family.”
“That we did,” said Mac. “But who’s going to run things when I’m gone?”
“I’ll sort it,” said Simon tersely.
No wonder Simon hadn’t wanted to be honest with Sylvie—this castle was an albatross around his neck. Simon would know that the last thing Sylvie would want would be to inherit an ancestral castle and move to the sticks. From the day Sylvie had landed in Miami, she had never wanted to leave, not even for a vacation.
Cleo heard a voice call “Yoo-hoo!”
“Emma?” Cleo followed her sister’s voice into a wood-paneled dining room with a massive stone fireplace that was surmounted by a coat of arms. A table that looked to be seventeen feet long was set with gleaming silver and peach-colored flowers that matched the upholstered walnut chairs. From gilded frames on the wall, the faces of dozens of Simon’s male relatives watched them sternly. Emma’s boys and Penelope were already seated, tucking into rolls.
