Nancy Warren: British Bad Boys

“God, yes. Killing people was, as far as we can tell, his only hobby. He shot or stabbed three men, badly wounded two. Drink made him crazy. Luckily he didn’t live very long.”

“Too bad he doesn’t walk around at night rattling chains or something,” she said, disappointed in the ninth earl.

“Well, I could show you the spot where he killed his mistress’s husband in a duel. Would that help?”

“Are there bloodstains?”

He chuckled. “Better. The mistress, who was a most unwilling one, by the by, kept a diary.”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “You haven’t got it?”

“In a glass case. Upstairs.”

“Is it good stuff?”

“Oh, there’s everything in it. Love, loss.” He gave her a steady glance. “Sexual longing.”

How could the walls of a castle suddenly feel like they were closing in on a person? Even though the castle was chilly, she felt the heat of his gaze on her and the zing of attraction she’d experienced when she first set eyes on him.

“All the ingredients that keep a documentary interesting, then,” she said lightly.

“And that keep life interesting,” he said softly.

By the time she’d seen the diary, toured everything that was of interest in the house, and met the house staff, she had so many scribbled notes she’d given herself a severe case of writer’s cramp. Outside, the dismal day had turned even grayer as the afternoon aged.

“I need to get going,” she told the earl. She needed to get to her hotel and type up her notes. And then tomorrow she’d be up early to head to the next location.

“Thank you so much for all your help and for giving up so much time to me today.”

“It was my pleasure. I hope we’ll spend more time together in the near future.” He might have been talking about the shoot, but the undercurrent to his words was clear. Of course, she didn’t have sex with the subjects of her documentaries. At least, she never had. It seemed like such a bad idea, not to mention complicating an already complicated business.

But then, she’d never met anyone quite like George before.

“We won’t make our final choices for a few weeks, but I have to tell you, I’m very excited about Hart House. Very excited.”

She shook his hand, and as she was leaving, heard him say under his breath, “I’m feeling quite excited myself.”

She was definitely going to have to do some research on this earl.

“Blimey,” George said, after he’d shut the door. He felt a bit stunned. He’d imagined a gorgeous, sun-kissed L.A. girl in a bikini and got a gorgeous L.A. girl in a power suit with an attitude. Much more appealing than a bikini-though he wouldn’t mind seeing her in skimpy two-piece. Or, in fact, nothing at all. “That was sudden and possibly extremely inconvenient.”

“Just so, sir,” said, Wiggins, who happened to be passing.

Maxine was in a snit. She admitted it, accepted the fact, knew she should wait to confront his bloody lordship in the morning, except that she didn’t feel like being wise, and restrained, and sensible.

This was her second day at Hart House. The first she’d spent on preproduction stuff, making final decisions on locations, pulling together a list of scenes. Today, she’d been getting ready, writing the script, preparing for the crew, which would arrive tomorrow. She wanted to walk George through his duties tomorrow. He was going to be on film, telling the story of the house, the story of the ninth earl, the murder, the unwilling mistress, the mysterious drowning. Sure, George’s stories would be off the cuff and in his own words, but she needed his full attention while they rehearsed.

Instead, he’d most charmingly put her off again and again. First there was a crisis on the farm, an accident with some equipment. She didn’t completely understand what business it was of the earl’s, but he had a noblesse oblige thing going on that was kind of appealing.

Then they’d started to talk about the history of the house and which parts he should talk about, when his banker called. It seemed the banker was an important person in George’s life. Fair enough.

She’d accepted his invitation to stay at Hart House in one of the guest rooms mainly so she’d have easy access to him, but it seemed this was not to be. She’d eaten alone in a cozy room known as the family dining room since the earl had gone to the hospital to visit the injured farm worker.

Tomorrow was looming and she needed the first day of shooting to run smoothly. They only had a week on location, and she wasn’t paying a crew to hang around while the earl figured out what to say on camera. Oh, no.

So she went searching for the man. A pretty futile effort in a house that boasted so many wings and rooms that she could get lost for years. At last she stumbled on Wiggins the butler wandering by with a load of his lordship’s shirts.

“Where is he?” she asked as pleasantly as she could considering she really wanted to growl and hiss.

“He’s round the pub, madam.” And the way the butler gave the information with bland-faced terseness told her he didn’t appreciate that his lordship had skipped out and gone to the pub either.

Injured workers and bankers she could appreciate, but if his friggin’ lordship wanted a pint, he could do it next week, when she and her very expensive film crew were gone.

“Thank you,” she said. “Which pub?”

“I would imagine he went to the Royal Oak, madam. The village local.”

“Okay. I think I’ll go and find him.” And bring him back whether he likes it or not to face his responsibilities.

The Royal Oak was on the main street of the tiny village outside the castle gates. In Hart House terms, it was one of the closest neighboring buildings. In actual getting-there terms she had to stomp down miles of roadway to reach the end of the earl’s land before she could cross the street to the pub. She slipped on her sneakers, grabbed a sweater and her purse, and headed down the drive at a speed-walk. Halfway to her destination it began to rain.

Naturally. When did it do anything else in this country?

The drizzle wasn’t heavy enough to soak her, merely wet enough to be annoying, dampening her hair so she knew it would frizz, moistening her face so her makeup smudged. The air smelled of freshly mowed fields, of the damp wool of her sweater, and a little bit like horse.

When she got to the pub, she’d at least marched off the worst of her temper, but George Hartley, nineteenth earl of Ponsford, better not push her buttons or he’d discover she had a temper-and was enough of a republican to let him have it, earl or no earl.

When she dragged open the heavy door of the pub, she was hit by the feeling of warmth and cheer, the sound of laughter, and the smell of beer and centuries of smoke.

There were about three generations of people who had to be related, since so many of them sitting round the big table in the middle sported the same beaky nose; a group of young people laughing and flirting at the bar; a couple more interested in their drinks than in each other; and a few assorted tables of guys who must be mates and a raucous group at the dartboard.

No George.

Her eyes swept the pub once more for his lordship, and only then did she see him rise and take three darts. She blinked. He was part of the boisterous bunch of dart players. Imagine. His company wasn’t exactly Buckingham Palace fare. They were working men, and they seemed as comfortable with his lordship as he seemed with them. A new picture of George Hartley sprang up in her mind, and she experienced the zing in the pit of her stomach that helped her in her work.

She could visualize this scene in the documentary: the earl playing darts with the lads down at the pub showed off a wonderful contrast to the man who could stand on camera in his Saville Row suit and explain, in his I-went-to-Oxford-and-you-didn’t accent, the famous paintings in his gallery, including those of his own ancestors painted by the greatest artists of their day.