Childress was wrong about that. Cecil Wyatt’s sister, Olivia Hebert, was not unhappy over her brother’s no-parking-on-the-drive edict: she was furious.
arrogant tyrant!” she exclaimed to her chauffeur as he drove through the gates behind three Range Rovers. at this driveway, Granger. Do you see any snow on it?”
, madam.”
is herding his guests around like sheep, just to prove he can!”
it would appear, madam,” her chauffeur of forty years replied, his voice quavering with age and indignation.
Satisfied that Granger understood and agreed, Olivia Hebert leaned back against the soft leather seat of her car, filled with impotent ire. Like everyone else who knew her brother, Olivia was all too familiar with Cecil’s habit of developing sudden, rigid ”—the ones he invented from time to time for no other purpose except to inflict his will upon his social equals, thus proving to himself, yet again, that he was still superior to one and all.
can’t believe that people still put up with his arrogant behavior after eighty years,” she said bitterly. fact, I’m amazed these people didn’t turn around and go home the instant they realized this drive is perfectly clear!” Olivia added, but that part wasn’t true. She understood exactly why Cecil’s guests were willing to put up with tonight’s pointless inconvenience. For one thing, Cecil was a generous benefactor who’d donated tens of millions of dollars to their favorite charities. For another, they’d come to join Cecil on his eightieth birthday not to help him celebrate but to help him get through an occasion that was marred by the disappearance of his beloved thirty-six-year-old grandson, William.
top of everything else, he’s taking advantage of people’s sympathy tonight, that’s what he’s doing,” Olivia added as they pulled up in front of the house and she watched people climbing down from the Range Rovers.
Instead of replying, Granger conserved his strength for the arduous journey around the front of the Rolls to her back door. His shoulders were stooped with age, his back and knees were severely bent from arthritis, his hair was a thinning fringe of silver beneath his black chauffeur’s cap, and his thin frame was swallowed up by a black overcoat that had lately gotten too large for him. He opened her door and held out his gnarled hand to help her out. Olivia put her gloved hand in his. “We shall have to see about getting your coat altered,” she said as she eased herself out of her car and reached for her cane. ’s a little large for you.”
’m sorry, madam.”
Gripping her cane with her right hand and clutching his coat sleeve with her left, Olivia let him guide her slowly toward the house, where Cecil’s butler was already waiting in the lighted doorway. “Do try to eat more, Granger. I used to buy a new car for what clothing costs these days.”
, madam.” As he helped her up the three flagstone steps that led to the front door, he said, will you let me know when you wish me to come for you?”
Olivia halted, stiffened, and glowered ferociously at him. not even consider leaving this driveway!” she warned. , at least, shall not accede to the whims of a petty tyrant. Park over there under the porte cochere.”
Cecil’s butler heard that and coolly countermanded the order as he reached out to help her remove her coat. car is to wait outside the gates, not under the porte cochere,” he informed her imperiously as Granger turned and began making his slow way back to the flagstone steps. instruct your driver—”
’ll do nothing of the sort!” she interrupted scathingly, thrusting her cane at him and struggling out of her coat herself. ,” she called after him.
Granger turned on the second step and looked at her, his silver brows raised inquiringly.
you are parked under the porte cochere, if anyone approaches you, you are to run over them with my car!” Satisfied, she gave the butler a frosty, satisfied stare. ’s a black foreign sports car parked under the porte cochere,” she said. whom does it belong?”
. Mitchell Wyatt,” the butler replied.
knew it would be his!” Olivia exclaimed gleefully, shoving her coat at the butler and snatching her cane out of his grasp. is not subject to the whims of a petty tyrant, either,” she proudly informed him. Leaning heavily on her cane, she began making her awkward way across the foyer’s uneven slate floor, toward the sound of voices in the living room. Behind her, the butler said, “Mr. Cecil said you are to await him in his study.”
Despite her brief show of bravado, Olivia was uneasy about confronting her formidable brother in private. He had an uncanny way of anticipating defiance, even before an outward act took place. Rather than go directly to his study, she angled toward the living room on the left. Stopping beneath the arched entry, she craned her head, hoping to catch sight of an ally—an exceptionally tall, dark-haired man who’d also defied Cecil’s order and parked his own car under the porte cochere.
The living room was crowded with guests, but there was no sign of Mitchell, nor in the dining room, where more guests were partaking of a lavish buffet. She was retracing her steps back through the living room when Cecil glanced up from the people talking to him and saw her. He stared at her with the cool, speculating expression of a long-standing opponent; then with a curt jerk of his head in the direction of his study, he ordered her to get herself there at once. Olivia put her chin up, but she complied.
Cecil’s study was on the opposite side of the slate hallway from the living room, beyond the main staircase and toward the rear of the house. Normally, the heavy paneled study doors were closed during large parties to discourage guests from congregating in Cecil’s private domain, but tonight a thin strip of mellow light glowed from between them. With one hand on the door handle, Olivia paused to give her legs and lungs a brief rest; then she straightened her back, lifted her head—and froze in surprise at the scene revealed to her in that narrow shaft of light.
Mitchell had his arms around William’s wife, and Caroline’s cheek was pressed against his chest, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. don’t know how much longer I can go on like this,” she said brokenly, lifting her face to his.
have no choice,” he said flatly, but not unkindly.
Olivia’s momentary shock gave way to sympathetic understanding. Poor Caroline looked as thin and pale as a waif. Naturally, she’d seek comfort and support from a male family member, but her profligate father was honeymooning somewhere in Europe with his fifth wife, and Cecil would offer her only more of his terse lectures on the need to show strength in times of travail. Caroline’s fourteen-year-old son needed all the comfort his mother could give him, and Caroline put on a brave face for him, but she had no one to lean on herself—no one except Mitchell.