Kaye Dacus - Stand-In Groom

“From Anne’s expression? She’s usually so good at hiding what she’s thinking, even from those of us who know her best.”

“I think Ms. Hawthorne is suspicious of the nature of my relationship with Miss Landry. And with every right to be so. Why would a man forty-one years old be marrying a girl half his age— less than half his age?” Especially a man like me at whom no woman would ever look twice? George shook off the negative thought and turned the leased Mercedes Roadster convertible into the driveway that should lead to his employer’s nineteenth-century home.

“Anne’s pretty open-minded. I mean, she does have high morals, but when she takes on clients, she doesn’t let things like age differences in the couple interfere with her job.”

Enormous oak trees lined the narrow road, creating a canopy overhead that allowed no sunlight through. George removed his sunglasses and slowed the car. After five nights in a hotel, he hoped all the plumbing repairs were indeed completed. He didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with water dripping on his head, as Forbes told him the leak had been over the basement service quarters.

Anne might be open-minded, but he’d seen the look of pure astonishment in her eyes for a split second before she’d slipped into her professional persona. “Look, mate, she’s your cousin, and you know her better than I do. I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt because of this.”

The tree-shaded drive rounded a corner to reveal a magnificent mansion, just like the kind used in movies about the American Civil War. “Love a duck,” George breathed, stopping the car to drink in the view.

“I beg your pardon?” Humor laced Forbes’s baritone voice.

“Oh, sorry. I’ve just seen the house.”

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say.” Red brick with a white-pillared porch dominating the front, the manse loomed ever larger as he drove closer.

“Listen, you focus on getting settled in and don’t worry about Anne. If she has a problem with you or the situation, believe me, you’ll know about it. With Anne, you don’t have to guess.”

George bade the lawyer farewell, ended the call, and followed the paved carriageway to the separate garage building in the back. The land sloped down toward a large pond, exposing the basement level of the house. Mrs. Agee, the housekeeper, had moved in yesterday, but when George tried the main service entrance, it was locked. He punched in the security code Forbes had given him on the panel beside the door and entered.

“Hello?” His voice echoed through the shadowy interior of a cavernous kitchen fitted out with enormous commercial-grade appliances set in redwood cabinetry with gray granite countertops.

“Someone there?” A woman’s voice came from a hall to his right, and bright lights blazed, momentarily blinding George.

“Mrs. Agee?”

An African-American woman entered the kitchen—tall, softly built, her gray hair kept back from her angelic face with a flowery scarf. “I’ve been expectin’ you for a couple of hours now.” She crossed the room, right hand extended. “I’m Keturah Agee, but you can just call me Mama Ketty.”

Now he was almost certain he’d stepped out of real life and onto a movie set. He shook her hand. “George Laurence.”

“Let’s get you settled in, baby, and then we can discuss business matters.”

He followed her through the stone-arch doorway into a hall with gleaming wood floors. The corridor extended the same short distance to the left and right of the doorway.

“I’ve taken up residence in the suite on the left.” She pulled a key out of the pocket of her khaki pants.

The antique brass key was heavy in his hand. “Is locking the doors necessary inside the house?”

“It will be if there’s ever a party here and this lower level is swarming with caterers and day-hires.” She looked at the gold pendant watch hanging from a long chain around her neck. “It’s nearly three. Can I make you some tea?”

Teatime really wasn’t until four. “I’d love some.”

She smiled, showing a full set of straight, white teeth and dimples in both cheeks. “I’ll put the water on while you get yourself settled in.”

By the time he’d gotten his two suitcases and hanging bag out of the car, the teakettle whistled, drowning out Mama Ketty’s humming. She winked at him as he wheeled the luggage through the kitchen. He paused at the door to his room, hoping it was large enough that he wouldn’t be tripping over the end of the bed, as in his room in the New York town house.

The door swung open on silent hinges. The dark wood flooring continued into a long but very narrow room. Well, if he was going to have to stay in the tiny space, at least it had a large window overlooking the back lawn and the pond. He opened the door to his left, expecting an equally small bath, and entered a second, much larger room.

In relief, he sank onto the queen-size bed that sat on a plain metal frame under another large window. Dark wainscoting gave way at waist height to walls painted hunter green. Two more doors revealed a walk-in closet and a large private bath.

He’d have to go furniture shopping, but the size of the suite more than made up for being sent into exile for nearly five months.

The sweet aroma of cinnamon and vanilla drew him back out into the kitchen. He sat in one of the tall chairs at the bar on the back side of the island. Mama Ketty set a white cup and saucer in front of him along with a dessert plate piled with sweets and pastries.

He’d just bitten into an oatmeal cookie when a chime reverberated through the room.

Mama Ketty looked perplexed. “Someone’s at the front door.”

“I’d best go see who it is.” He stood, then looked around. He didn’t know how to access the main portion of the house.

“Beyond the pantry.” Mama Ketty indicated the opposite side of the kitchen from their suites. “Enter the security code before you open the door at the top. The upstairs is on a different zone than down here.”

He jogged up the enclosed wooden staircase and found himself in another kitchen—smaller but still well appointed. He crossed to the swinging white door and exited into a wide foyer. The hall ran the length of the house, the front door on the opposite end. Two figures stood on the other side of the etched oval glass; he entered the security code and slid the dead bolt lock open.

“Miss—”

“George!” Courtney stepped forward and hugged him. “Mama had to come by and see the house.” She gazed at him with wide eyes begging him to maintain his fictitious identity.

Forcing a smile, he stepped back and motioned the two women in. The only similarity between daughter and mother was their chestnut hair. Courtney, about average height, possessed a natural grace and a dancer’s figure. Her mother, however…

The cloying odor of an entire flower garden preceded the woman into the house. Dressed in a bright pink sateen jogging suit, she sported overly large sunglasses, which she pulled down to the tip of her nose with claws painted to match her outfit.

“Mrs. Landry.” He took her proffered hand, hoping her nails wouldn’t impale him. “It is nice to finally meet you.”

She looked him over from head to toe and raised her painted-on eyebrows. “So you’re the cause of this. To think, my own daughter springing a surprise like this on me. She used to tell me everything, you know. Humph. I expected you’d be—”

Younger. So had Anne Hawthorne.

“Taller.” Mrs. Landry brushed past him.

Courtney shrugged and cocked her head to the side in an apologetic gesture. He followed along behind as Courtney explored the house with her mother. He’d served in some of the largest estates in Britain yet was impressed by the obvious care taken in the restoration of this property.