The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

Chapter Eight

Voices in the foyer jolted me out of Amy’s world.

Expecting to hear only waves lapping against the keel of a boat, the sound of laughter in the next room knocked me unwillingly back into the twenty-first century. I blinked to rid myself of the last phantom images of tarry decks and canvas sails. It took me a moment to remember where I was; my head felt as muzzy as though I’d just taken a double dose of cold medicine. A quick glance around informed me that I was still sprawled out on the Persian rug in Mrs. Selwick-Alderly’s drawing room and the fire next to me had burned down to mere embers from lack of tending. I had no idea what time it was, or how long I’d been reading, but one leg seemed to have gone numb, and there was a vague ache in my shoulders.

I was experimentally stretching out one stiff leg—just to make sure it still worked—when he appeared in the doorway.

It was the Golden Man. He of the photograph on Mrs. Selwick-Alderly’s mantel. For a moment, in my befuddled state, caught between past and present, I half fancied that he’d just strolled out of the photograph. All right, I know it sounds silly, but I actually took a quick look to make sure the man in the picture was still where he ought to be, frozen in perpetual laughter next to his horse. He was. And on a second glance at the man in the doorway, I picked up the differences I had missed the first time around. The man in the photograph hadn’t been wearing gray slacks and a blazer, and his blond hair had been bright with sun, not dark with wet.

He also hadn’t been wearing an unspeakably chic woman on his arm.

She was about my height, but there the resemblance ended. Her long, glossy dark brown hair floated around her face as though it was auditioning for a Pantene commercial. Her brown suede boots were as immaculate as if she had just walked out of the Harrods shoe department, and her smart little brown wool dress screamed Notting Hill boutique. They made an attractive pair, like something out of Town and Country: Mr. and Mrs. Fabulously Fabulous Show Off their Gracious Home.

It was enough to make one feel like a miserable mugwump.

I was so deep in mugwump land that it took me a moment to realize that not only was the smiling, golden man of the photograph not smiling, his expression was positively explosive. And it was aimed at me.

“Hi!” I struggled to my feet, a few yellowed pages tumbling from my lap as I levered myself up with one hand, the other hand clutching the bundle of letters. “I’m Elo—”

Golden Man stalked across the drawing room, snatched up the papers I’d left on the floor, flung them into the open chest, and slammed the lid shut.

“Who gave you leave to take those papers?”

I was so shocked by the transformation of the friendly man of the photograph that my brain and my mouth stopped working in partnership.

“Who gave me . . . ?” I glanced down dumbly at the papers in my hand. “Oh, these! Mrs. Selwick-Alderly said—”

Golden Man bellowed, “Aunt Arabella!”

“Mrs. Selwick-Alderly said I could—”

“Serena, would you go fetch Aunt Arabella?”

Chic Girl bit her lip. “I’ll just go see if she’s ready to leave, shall I?” she murmured, and hurried off down the hallway.

Golden Man plunked himself down on the chest, as though defying me to snatch it out from under him, and glowered at me.

I stared at him in dismayed confusion, automatically clutching Amy’s letters closer to my coffee-blotched sweater. Could he be under some sort of misapprehension about my intentions towards his family papers? Maybe he thought I was an appraiser from Britain’s equivalent of the IRS, come to charge his aunt great gobs of money for possessing a national treasure, or a rogue librarian, come to steal the papers for my library. After all, if there was art theft, maybe there was document theft, too, and he thought I was a dastardly document thief. I didn’t think I looked particularly dastardly, just disheveled—it’s hard to look dastardly when one has wide blue eyes, and one of those easy-to-blush complexions—but maybe document thieves came in all shapes and sizes.

“Mrs. Selwick-Alderly said I could look at these papers for my dissertation research,” I tried to reassure him.

He continued to eye me as though I were a Victorian scullery maid caught parading around in the mistress’s best diamond tiara.

“I’m getting a PhD,” I added. “From Harvard.”

Why had I felt the need to say that? I sounded like one of those intolerable academic types who wore leather patches on their tweed jackets, affected horn-rimmed spectacles, and pronounced “Hahvahd” without any Rs.

Golden Man clearly thought so, too. “I don’t care if you’re David bloody Starkey,” he snapped. “Those papers aren’t open to the public.”

Forget golden. He was being rapidly demoted to bronze. Tarnished bronze, at that.

“I’m not the public,” I pointed out as Chic Girl slipped unobtrusively back through the open doorway. “Your aunt invited me here, and offered me the use of these papers.”

“Damn!” he cursed explosively.

“Really, Colin,” she of the enviable boots broke in, “I don’t think—”

“Colin?” I took a step forward, eyes narrowing as a nasty suspicion began to form. “Not Mr. Colin Selwick of Selwick Hall?”

Suddenly, it all made sense.

I dropped the disputed bundle of papers on an overstuffed chair. “Not Mr. Colin Selwick who likes to send nasty letters to American scholars?”

“I wouldn’t say—” he began, looking harried, but I didn’t let him get any further. After all, if I was going to be flung out of the house like a disobedient Victorian scullery maid, I might as well go out with style.

“ ‘Badgering private persons with impertinent requests for personal papers may be appropriate on your side of the Atlantic’?” I quoted triumphantly.

Chic Girl looked horrified. “Colin, you didn’t!”

I began to think I could forgive her the boots. “Oh, yes, he did.”

“I was having a bad day,” Colin Selwick muttered, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden chest. I hoped he was sitting on a splinter. Make that several splinters. “Look, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the—”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said sweetly. “You were quite, quite clear, Mr. Selwick. Oh, wait, wasn’t there also something about academics who have nothing better to do than waste taxpayer money on dilatory pursuits that are about as much good to the public as a moldy ham sandwich?”

“I never—”

“I just added the moldy ham sandwich bit,” I clarified for Chic Girl’s benefit, “since I’m afraid I don’t remember just which thrilling analogy Mr. Selwick employed to describe my utter uselessness to human existence.”

“Do you always memorize your correspondence?” he demanded in exasperation, pushing off from the trunk.

“Only when it’s as memorable as this one was. You have quite a knack with the poison pen.”

“And you have quite an overwrought imagination.” With two long strides, he bridged the swath of carpet separating us.

“Are you saying I’m making this up?” I yelped.

Colin Selwick shrugged. “I’m saying you’re exaggerating wildly.”

“Right. I’m sure your behaving like a boorish lout just now was all a product of my hyperactive imagination, too.” I had to tilt my head back to glower at him.

From my vantage point just beneath his chin, I could see the muscles of his throat constrict. Swallowing some choice Anglo-Saxon words, no doubt.

“Look,” he said in strangled tones, “how would you feel if you saw a perfect stranger pawing through your private possessions?”

“This isn’t exactly your underwear drawer. And as far as I can tell, these papers aren’t even yours.”

Mr. Colin Selwick didn’t like that. Underneath his sportsman’s tan, his face was turning a mottled red. “They belong to my family.”

A slow smile spread across my face. “You don’t have any authority over these documents, do you?”

“Those. Papers. Are. Private.”

I’d never actually seen anyone speak through gritted teeth before. No wonder English dentistry was in such a dreadful state.

“Why?” I demanded recklessly. “What is it that you don’t want me seeing? What are you so afraid of?”

“Colin . . .” Chic Girl tugged anxiously at his arm. We both ignored her.

“Did the Purple Gentian sell out to the French? Have a thing for women’s underwear? Or maybe it’s the Pink Carnation you don’t want me finding out about? Ha!” An involuntary twitch—perhaps a repressed attempt to strangle me?—gave me the clue I was looking for.

I shoved my hair back behind my ears and leaned forward for the kill, never taking my eyes from his. “I’ve got it! The Pink Carnation was . . . French!”

At that inconvenient moment, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly hurried in, dressed for going out in black and pearls. We all froze like naughty schoolchildren caught brawling in the playground.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, dears! Colin, I see you’ve met Eloise?”

That was one way of putting it.

Colin mumbled something in the general direction of the carpet.

Draping a cashmere stole around her shoulders, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly added, “Eloise is working on a fascinating project about the Pink Carnation. You must tell Colin about it sometime, Eloise. The Pink Carnation has always been something of a passion of his.”

“So I gathered.” My tone was as dry as well-aged sherry.

Colin sent me a sharp look.

I permitted myself a slight, sardonic smirk.

Colin returned the smirk with interest. “Too bad she has to be going.”

Going. My smirk disintegrated faster than the embers of the fading fire. He who smirks last . . . There was no denying that Colin Selwick had won that round. Of course, I should have realized that if Mrs. Selwick-Alderly was going out, I would have to go home, home to my lonely basement flat, and my frozen Sainsbury’s dinner, and the All-England televised darts championship. And if Colin Selwick had his way, I would never be invited back.

What time was it? Late, said the midnight-dark sky beyond the cream-colored drapes. At a guess, it was dinnertime at least, probably later. I cast an agonized glance at the half-read papers on the chair—not only was I no closer to the identity of the Pink Carnation, but I was dying to know if Lord Richard ever did kiss Miss Amy Balcourt. Did he tiptoe over to her side of the boat in the dead of night, stand on his tiptoes . . . and smooch Miss Gwen by accident? It was like being torn away midway through an episode of The Bachelor.

But Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, stole around her shoulders, was clearly ready to leave.

“I’m so sorry.” I turned penitently to Mrs. Selwick-Alderly. “I probably should have left ages ago, but I was so wrapped up in Amy’s letters that I lost all track of time. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and hospitality.”

“We wouldn’t want you to be late for an engagement,” Colin Selwick broke in impatiently.

“That would only be a problem if I were going somewhere.”

“In that case . . . ,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly began.

“Well, we are,” Colin said rudely. “Good-bye.”

“In that case,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly repeated, with a look of gentle reproach for her erring nephew. “There’s no reason you can’t stay.”

It was like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny all rolled into one. “Do you really mean it? Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience?”

“No reason?”

“It’s not an inconvenience at all. Serena, would you show Eloise to the spare room before we go? There should be some old nightgowns in the wardrobe.”

Colin made a low, grumbling noise. “Aunt Arabella, are you sure this is wise?”

She met his agitated gaze serenely. “You know the contents of that chest.”

“But the Pink—”

Her head swayed infinitesimally in negation. “The one doesn’t necessarily lead to the other, you know,” and in her voice was both reassurance and warning.

She slipped quickly back into the prosaic. “Now, Eloise, the bathroom is the third door to the right, and you’ll find the kitchen straight back and to the left. Please don’t hesitate to help yourself to anything in the cupboards. And don’t worry about the washing up; Consuela will be here in the morning to take care of that. Is there anything I’ve forgotten?”

Colin mumbled something. It sounded like, “Common sense.”

Mrs. Selwick-Alderly ignored him. So did I.

“I’ll take very good care of the papers,” I promised, eyes shifting to the treasure chest in the corner. All those lovely letters to read . . .

“Be sure that you do,” Colin Selwick said shortly. “Aunt Arabella?”

He did a very good job of stalking from the room, back straight, head high. But he spoiled it with a backwards glance over his shoulder. His face was rigid with frustrated anger, and I could tell that he wanted nothing more than to sling me over his shoulder and fling me out the nearest doorway. Or window. He didn’t look like he was in the mood to be picky about the means of egress.

I wish I could say that I met his gaze with level dignity. I didn’t.

I grinned—an honest-to-goodness, gum-baring, playground grin.

Turning on his heel, Mr. Colin Selwick slammed out of the room. A moment later I heard the front door close—not quite emphatically enough to be a slam, but with enough wrist behind it to imply that somebody was more than a little bit miffed.

Still grinning, I sank back down onto the Persian rug. Round two to Eloise. It might not be dignified, but, oh, it did feel good to see Mr. Colin Selwick seething and helpless. Leaving aside his unpardonable rudeness to a guest, I’d been longing for revenge ever since I’d opened that insufferable letter of his. Did I mention that the envelope gave me a paper cut? Just to add injury to insult.

What on earth was his obsession with family privacy, anyway? I wondered, as I stretched out an arm to snag the papers I’d dropped on the armchair. You’d think he’d caught me reading his diary.

It was curious that he had felt the need to curb his temper in front of his aunt. Maybe he stood to inherit from her and was afraid of incurring her ire? It was a classic television drama plot: elderly, eccentric relative, bad-tempered young heir. That could put a whole new complexion on Mr. Colin Selwick’s explosive reaction to me. Maybe it wasn’t really about the Pink Carnation papers at all. Perhaps his real fear was that I’d worm my way into his aunt’s good graces through my interest in the family history and oust him from his inheritance.

It was an amusing image. I pictured myself in a smartly cut black dress and a 1920s hat with spotted veil, perched on a little gilt chair while a gray-faced solicitor droned, “And the bulk of my estate I leave to Miss Eloise Kelly.” Colin Selwick, in spats and slouch hat, would curse loudly and storm from the room, his hopes forever thwarted. That would teach him to write rude letters. An amusing image, but Colin Selwick would have to be more than a little bit mad to see a potential rival in every little American grad student who wandered into his aunt’s flat. And the inheritance theory failed to explain the intolerable rudeness of his letter to me well before he had seen me cozily ensconced in his aunt’s parlor.

Not that it mattered. Mr. Colin Selwick’s psychoses—and I was sure a good psychiatrist could diagnose him with quite a few—were his own concern. In the meantime, I had the trunk of papers all to myself, and a whole night to read them in. Why waste time speculating about insufferable modern men when one could read about swashbucklers in capes and knee breeches?

Even if, from Amy’s letters, it appeared that Lord Richard Selwick was quite as infuriating as his obnoxious descendant.

At least Lord Richard had a good excuse, I decided charitably. Hiding a secret identity must put a considerable strain on a man.

Setting the precious bundle of papers down next to me, I tugged off my gangrenous boots, tucked my feet up under me, and leaned my back against the side of the armchair. Ruffling through the documents in my hands, I selected one from Lord Richard Selwick to his friend Miles Dorrington and resumed reading.

I would give Lord Richard a chance to prove himself more congenial than his aggravating descendant. . . .