the King of Siam, or been captured by pirates and unable to escape.
Wild, childish hopes and dreams.
But why the missing death certificate?
Was she not dead? Had she run off and stayed away? Life with Sebastian had to have been pretty confining for a young woman, but damn it—why leave him behind? He remembered it so clearly. She’d kissed him, tucking a Penguin in his hand as a treat for being a good boy, and promised to be there when he came out of school. Every other day she’d been waiting at the gate. That day she wasn’t. Where the frigging hell had she gone? And why?
James twisted the swivel chair from side to side, frowning to himself. It was enough to send him back to the bottle, but he’d sworn off the stuff a year ago after he’d woken up, on his back, in the middle of a field with no idea how he’d landed there and suffering the worst headache of his life. His sudden temperance earned him a ribbing for a while at the Barley Mow, but hell, that little incident had scared him sober.
And now…What had happened to his mother? Might almost be worth a visit to ole Uncle Sebby, except James knew before he even dismissed the idea that even if Sebastian were in one of his sane moments, he would tell James nothing.
But there were ways of finding out…
He pondered the wisdom of contacting one of the private agencies Sebastian had used from time to time but decided he had better plans for Sebastian’s money now that he had power of attorney, when the phone at his elbow rang.
“James?” He recognized the panicky tones of John Rowan, a member of Uncle’s erstwhile coven. “We need to get together. There’s trouble. These damn women.”
“What damn women?” Given that he’d just decided his mother had abandoned him, the adjective seemed apropos to the entire sex.
“Emily, Ida, and Mildred!” Ah, John was having wife problems again. Stupid man should give her bingo money and shove her on a bus to Leatherhead.
“And you expect me to do something?” Let alone even care. Old biddies!
“Listen, James, this is serious. Ida’s got them all steamed up. They’re all up in arms over the new people at Orchard House.”
“And…”
“Ida says the one she spoke to is a witch, and Ida thinks she’s here to take over the coven. Ridiculous I know, but with all the trouble last year, we need to…”
“John, I don’t give a flaming damn what you or the rest of the blasted coven do. I want nothing to do with you. Do you understand?” His voice rose, echoing in his ears, but he didn’t care. “Whatever does or does not happen to any of you is no concern of mine. I wash my hands of the lot of you! Don’t ever call me again. Understand?”
He slammed down the receiver with shaking hands. Those old fools! He was having nothing more to do with them. Ever. It was Sebastian’s association with the coven, starting with those old crones down at Orchard House, that had him fixating on power and magic. The obsessions that drove him loony in the end.
Come to that, his mother had spent hours up there. Seemed half the trouble in the world started in that house and the damn coven.
James stood up. Might as well go out in case John called back—or even worse, decided to come racing over, hell-bent on dragging him back into the coils of the blasted coven. Never!
Locking the door behind him, James strolled down the drive and turned right toward the village. A good walk and a bit of fresh air might help clear his whirling thoughts.
“Hi”—Elizabeth looked up from the computer as Antonia opened the kitchen door—“been on a tour of the entire Mole Valley?”
“Never left the village.” Antonia pulled out the other chair and sat down. “But I did find two potential clients. Both great.”
Elizabeth listened. Attentively at first but as Antonia waxed lyrical about the potter on the common, she couldn’t hold back a grin.
“He sounds tasty in every sense of the word.”
“For Abel’s sake! He’s not just a handy vein! He’s a wonderful craftsman. We’ll be damn lucky to handle his work. He’s…”
“Decorative? Worth the bother?” Elizabeth ignored the raised eyebrows and frown. “Bedworthy?”
“Like to live dangerously, do you, ghoul?”
“No, just picking up clues. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading vampires the last few months.”
Antonia rolled her eyes. She’d have sighed if her lungs still worked that way. “He’s…interesting and, I can’t deny, attractive. A nice, healthy mortal who won’t miss the odd pint or two.”
No point in getting squeamish. She was a ghoul who was pretty much committed to another vampire, and her dining habits weren’t exactly the sort to get herself invited to Buckingham Palace. “You really are serious.”
Antonia nodded. “Why not? I’d do better to keep the blood bags for emergencies. He lives in the back of beyond. I can visit unobserved. I’ll not harm him, Elizabeth; you know that.”
She did. Why was she objecting? Something about the light in Antonia’s eyes suggested this Michael whatever his name was might be more than sustenance. And if so, why not? Antonia was certainly old enough to look after herself. “I know. Look, while you’ve been gallivanting over the common, I’ve been working. Tom called with all sorts of wonderful advice I may or may not follow.” Much as she loved the vampire, he had to get used to the idea that they were not joined at the hip. “And best of all, Stella called. Seems Sam’s cricket coach broke his leg and won’t be coaching Sam after all, so they are on their way…or will be in the morning.”
“I’ve got a job for her already—finding and interviewing staff. Can’t wait to see her.” Neither could Elizabeth. One disadvantage of setting up house in London with Tom was not seeing Sam very often. She’d developed a big soft spot for the ten-year-old. “Anything else?” Antonia asked.
“I need to eat. I’ve eaten everything we brought with us, except your blood bags, and I don’t much fancy liquid dinner. Let’s try out the Barley Mow. Wouldn’t mind the walk either. I’ve been glued to this chair all afternoon.” She pushed back the chair and shut down the computer. “Want to come?”
“For the company?”
“So we can both order large, rare steaks for me.”
The Barley Mow was pretty much as Dixie had described it—an old, tile-hung building with low ceilings, beams, and horse brasses all over the place and a wide, now empty inglenook fireplace. The bar filled one corner, the menu was written on a blackboard in neat handwriting, and a well built man with salt and pepper hair polished glasses behind the bar.
“Evening,” he said, nodding in their direction. “What can I get for you ladies?”
“Are you Alf?” Elizabeth asked.
“Right you are.” He inclined his head and smiled. “You have the advantage of me there.”
“I’m Elizabeth Connor.” She held out her hand. “Dixie LePage told me about this pub.”
His rosy face broke into a grin. “Well, I never! You’d be American, too, I gather.”
“Oh, yes.” Might as well get that straight. “Dixie said to say hi and told me you’d have something great for dinner.”
He gave her a questioning glance. “You ladies wouldn’t be more vegetarians, would you?”
Little did Alf dream…“No way.” “I’m not either.” Antonia obviously decided it was time to chip in. “I’m Antonia Stonewright. I just bought the house from Dixie.”
Alf reached over and shook her hand. “Well, I never.