Lemon Pies and Little White Lies (35 page)

“Next class, you two will drill the entire time while your mother learns a new kick.” He turned to Butterworth, who’d just finished pummeling a practice bag. It was still jerking on the end of its chain as if it had been electrocuted. “Mr. Butterworth? Would you be so kind as to demonstrate a spinning hook kick?”

“Certainly,” said Butterworth. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his left leg. In a flash, he whipped his right leg around in a sweeping one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. When he struck the bag with the ball of his foot, Jane was sure he’d knock it clean off its chain.

Sinclair tapped his own temple. “Because Mr. Butterworth has excellent flexibility, strength, and power, he aimed his kick high. If that bag had been a person, Mr. Butterworth would have made contact with his opponent’s head. A well-aimed kick can unbalance your enemy and give you the chance to run.”

“Or finish him off,” Butterworth said. “Observe.” He attacked the gyrating bag with a roundhouse kick and then swiveled and drove his elbow into its padded body.

“I will not be teaching you how to administer elbow blows until you are much more responsible,” Sinclair told the sulking twins.

Jane decided she’d like to learn that particular attack sooner rather than later. Driving her elbow into someone’s windpipe or solar plexus looked far easier than performing a spinning hook kick. She shared this thought with Sinclair.

“You need to train until that kick is second nature,” Sinclair said. “I could call out a dozen different offensive maneuvers to Mr. Butterworth and he’d execute each and every one without pause.”

Jane didn’t think she’d ever achieve the level of mastery Sinclair was striving for, and though she was delighted that she’d broken the board, she was done training for the day. What she wanted most was a hot shower and a second cup of coffee. She and the twins had risen quite earlier than usual to get their training in. They had scurried across the back lawn, heads bent against the chill February air, before most of the resort’s guests were even stirring in their beds.

“Perhaps that kick should wait until after the Romancing the Reader week,” Jane said. “I don’t want to pull a muscle before the Regency Fashion Show. I’d be a poor representative of the Grande Dame if I limped down the catwalk in the gown Mabel has toiled over for months.”

Amusement glimmered in Sinclair’s eyes. “Ah, yes, the fashion show. I’d nearly forgotten about that particular event—probably because every female under our roof can speak of only two subjects: the male cover model competition and the habits, interests, and whereabouts of Mr. Lachlan.”

Taking the broken pieces of wood from Sinclair, Jane laughed. “Weeks before Lachlan first stepped foot on our property, you predicted that many ladies would fall in love with him.”

Sinclair sighed. “Indeed I did. I also assumed that, after two months, his allure would have dimmed somewhat. Obviously, I underestimated Mr. Lachlan’s appeal.” He shot her a sly glance. “How do you find him?”

Jane made a shooing gesture at her sons. “Run home and change. If you get your chores done in time, I’ll hand over your allowance before we drive to the village. A little bird told me that the Hogg Brothers are hosting an indoor picnic lunch and special contest for all kids twelve years old and under. The winner will receive a new bicycle from Spokes and a bike basket filled with treats from the Pickled Pig.”

The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks and raced off. Butterworth followed at a more dignified pace, his spine straight and his shoulders squared. Jane recognized that Butterworth was leaving his role of combat expert behind in favor of his butler persona, and Jane wondered if such a marked change came over her when she finished one of her training sessions.

I doubt it
, she thought.
I’m still getting used to living a double life. Sinclair, Butterworth, and Sterling have been doing it for decades. And now, Lachlan has joined our secret circle.

Once the sound of the boys’ shouts and jostles faded, Jane finally answered Sinclair’s question. “I find Lachlan a bit of an enigma. He’s hardworking, courteous, and organized. He’s also a master salesman. For such a quiet person, I’m amazed by his ability to talk people into sleigh rides, cross-country-skiing ventures, and ice skating. Usually, wintertime means less business at the activities desk, but not since Lachlan’s arrival. He’s certainly increasing our revenue.”

“I’d hazard a guess that our female guests would happily risk losing the feeling in their extremities if it meant spending time with Mr. Lachlan.” Sinclair flicked a switch on the wall and the practice bags began to rise to the ceiling. “Are you immune to that shy smile, that roughish hair, or those striking blue eyes?”

“He’s quite attractive,” Jane admitted. “But I have no real sense of him. He doesn’t volunteer an ounce of personal information, and he’d rather traipse through the woods than socialize with the rest of the staff. I know he’s an outdoorsman, but I hadn’t realized he’d be so . . . hermitlike.”

Together, she and Sinclair walked to the door where they’d left their shoes and socks. Once their bare feet were covered and they’d bundled up in wool coats, Sinclair locked the door behind them. “Mr. Lachlan was an Army Ranger. He saw action in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as a host of covert missions in between. I was well aware of his history before casting my vote in favor of hiring him. I don’t think his past will impede his performance as head of recreation, and he’s an excellent asset when it comes to guarding you and your family. However, he’s unlikely to join the Storyton Players in the near future.”

Sinclair hurried up the stairs, checked to see that the coast was clear, and waved for Jane to step through the narrow gap behind a workbench. After she was through, he pushed a button obscured by a rusty saw blade and the workbench swung back against the wall.

Jane had only learned about the surprising number of hidden rooms and passageways located around Storyton Hall and its outbuildings during the past few months. Until last October, she’d been completely ignorant of the fact that certain people she’d known her entire life were a part of a group called the Fins. These men had pledged to protect the members of the Steward family with their lives. And since Jane had been born into a family that had been guarding a secret library and its treasures for centuries, she and her sons were also under the Fins’ protection.

The first time Sinclair had led Jane to the attic turret and pushed open the door to the fireproof and temperature-controlled vault, Jane had nearly fainted. It wasn’t every day that one discovered the existence of unpublished Shakespeare plays, gilt-covered Gutenberg Bibles, or the endings of famous but incomplete novels. Treasures entrusted to the Stewards for all sorts of reasons—to keep them from being stolen, damaged during wartime, or sold on the black market.

There were also books deliberately kept from the public eye—radical works filled with disturbing and dangerous ideas. Jane had read a few lines from one of them and was shocked and angered by the author’s proposition that women were vastly inferior to men. The author went on to encourage mass sterilization of any female lacking a genius IQ. Considering the book had been written by a prominent English scientist during the first stirrings of the women’s emancipation movement, its publication could have crippled an entire gender.

After that unpleasant read, Jane had stuck to perusing the secret library’s incredible selection of rare fiction. A voracious reader since early childhood, it galled Jane that she didn’t have enough free time to delve more deeply into the astounding collection stored in airtight containers in a nearly inaccessible room hundreds of feet above the ground.

It had taken Jane several weeks to reconcile herself to the fact that it was more important that she protect the library’s contents than examine them. After all, to a lifelong book lover, the library was the Eighth Wonder of the World, and Jane referred to it as such when speaking to her great aunt and uncle or to the Fins.

Suddenly, the thought of her aunt made Jane start. She glanced at her watch and let loose a small cry. “I’m going to be late! Aunt Octavia will be furious if she doesn’t get the best seat in the house for Edwin Alcott’s soft grand opening.”

Sinclair arched a brow. “Soft?”

Jane quickened her pace, striding across the brittle lawn toward her cottage. “It’s practice for the real grand opening on Saturday. Sorry, but I need to run.”

Jane jogged around the building that had once served as the estate’s hunting lodge. The lodge was so spacious that Jane’s uncle had divided it into two residences. Sterling, the head chauffeur, lived in the front half, while Jane and her sons inhabited the back. Jane loved the privacy this arrangement afforded her little family. She loved her side-door entrance that led into her bright, cheery kitchen. She loved the open living room with its comfy sofas and book-lined walls. She loved her herb and flower gardens, which were protected from prying eyes by a tall hedge. Most of all, she loved how the house had seemed to open its arms to her after her husband’s tragic death. A pregnant widow, Jane had returned to Storyton Hall in search of comfort and a
fresh start. She’d found both within its walls and in the hearts of its people.

Now, bursting into her cheerful, yellow kitchen, Jane cast a longing glance at the coffeemaker and then bounded upstairs to change.

“Boys!” she hollered as she ascended. “I hope you’re dressed. I also hope your beds are made. If that room’s a mess, you’ll get a smaller allowance.”

Indignant cries came from behind the twins’ closed door, and Jane knew they’d opted to put off their chores and were now regretting that decision.

“And I
will
be checking under your beds,” she added for good measure as she hurried through her bathroom and into her small walk-in closet. “What to wear? What to wear?”

Being a Friday, Jane would normally dress in a work suit, but since there was a teacher workday at the twins’ school, Jane and the boys had a long weekend. Jane would love to pretend it was Saturday and throw on jeans and a sweater, but she knew casual attire wouldn’t do. Edwin’s guests were sure to wear their Sunday best.

“Especially Aunt Octavia,” Jane murmured to herself. “She’ll be dressed as if she were attending a luncheon for minor royalty.”

After selecting a pencil skirt in gray wool, a cowl-necked sweater, and a pair of riding boots, Jane fastened her strawberry blond hair into a loose chignon, added a pair of hoop earrings, and then dabbed on gardenia-scented perfume. Satisfied by what she saw in the mirror, she exited the bathroom and yelled, “Fitzgerald and Hemingway! Prepare for inspection!”

There was a crashing sound from the boys’ room, and when Jane pushed open the door, her twins cast guilty looks at the closet.

“We’re ready, Mom!” Hem said, throwing his arms around her neck. “You smell nice.”

“And you look pretty,” Fitz chimed in.

Jane knew perfectly well that, should she peek inside the closet, a cascade of toys, books, and dirty clothes would tumble out, but she was running too late to do anything about it. Glancing down at her sons, she tousled their hair and said, “I will delay the inspection until this afternoon in exchange for a kiss.”

Because the twins were in the “girls have cooties” phase, Jane knew she was asking for a significant boon. After a brief hesitation, her sons gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then immediately held out their hands.

“Can we have our allowance now?” Hem asked. “Please?”

“I don’t keep dollar bills in my boots. I’m not a—” Jane stopped herself before the word “stripper” rolled off her tongue.

Fitz cocked his head. “Not a what?”

“A walking bank,” Jane said, and ushered the boys downstairs.

Five minutes later, the trio arrived, red-cheeked and panting, in Storyton Hall’s main lobby.

Aunt Octavia was already there, of course, looking regal in an indigo coat with a fur-trimmed collar, cuffs, and hem. She made a big show of examining her watch and then glanced across the room at the grandfather clock, and muttered, “‘I wasted time and now doth time waste me.’”

Oblivious of meaning of the reference from
Richard II
, Fitz tugged on one of her fur cuffs. “Is this from an endangered animal, Aunt Octavia?”

“That would be bad,” Hem said, echoing his brother’s stern tone. “Our teacher, Miss Bedelia, told us how people used to kill seals and otters to make fur coats. She was really upset.”

Aunt Octavia bent over, leaning heavily on her rhinestone-studded cane, and whispered, “Miss Bedelia has no need to worry. This fur is one hundred percent fake. In fact, I’m probably suffering from chemical exposure. That’s just what I need, following my diabetes diagnosis.”

“I hope Mr. Alcott’s café is a salubrious establishment,” Butterworth said to Aunt Octavia as he held open the front door for their little party. “Mrs. Hubbard is most concerned that your healthy eating plan will be compromised.”

Aunt Octavia glowered at the butler. “She’s just put out because she wasn’t invited. Mrs. Hubbard is a fine woman, but she’d like nothing more than to gossip about the event to anyone passing through the kitchens of Storyton Hall.”

Butterworth was smart enough to drop the subject. Instead, he informed them that their car was ready and wished them a pleasant lunch. No one would have guessed that the butler, impeccably dressed in his blue-and-gold Storyton livery with his hair neatly combed and his shoes polished to a high shine, had been mercilessly pummeling a practice bag less than an hour ago.

The twins jumped into the back of a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow while Jane settled Aunt Octavia in the passenger seat. Behind them, Sterling was helping an elderly couple out of his favorite Rolls, a Silver Cloud II. He tipped his cap at Jane. She waved and then drove down the resort’s long, tree-lined driveway.

At the end of the driveway, Jane slowed as the car approached the massive wrought-iron gates bearing the Steward crest—an owl clutching a scroll in its talons. The family motto, which could also be found on the guest-room key fobs, had been inscribed in an arch-shaped banner over the owl’s head.