Silverbridge (21 page)

“That’s blackmail,” Meg said hotl
y.

Tracy looked at Harry. “Maybe.”

Everyone looked at Harry, who was regarding Tracy with that grimness still around his mouth. “I hate hospitals.”

“I know you do,” she replied matter-of-fact
l
y. “But we can’t trust you to remain in bed if you stay home.”

Meg waited for Harry to explode. He didn’t. Instead he turned his eyes to her. “What do you think, Meg? Will you agree to this bargain?”

“But you don’t want to go to hospital,” she blurted.

“No, but even more than not wanting to go to hospital, I want you to eat.
So if you will agree to this…
blackmail”—here he shot Tracy a look—“then I will too.”

Meg clenched her fists, rigid with the battle that was going on inside between the part of her that wanted to get well and the part of her that needed her illness and didn’t want to give it up. It was the pain on Harry’s face that decided her. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll agree.”

“Good.” Tracy turned to the doctor. “I really think he should have some painkillers before he gets into your car.”

The doctor placed his black leather case on a table. “I’ll give him a shot right now.”

At that point, the door opened and Tony looked into the bedroom. He was dressed in one of his expensive, perfectly tailored suits, and a look of surprise crossed his face when he saw Dr. Webster. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m taking your brother to hospital,” the doctor replied as he extracted a syringe from his bag. “He has a concussion, and he must be kept quiet.”

Tony leaned against the door. “Bravo, Doctor. You have done what no one else could do. I was sure you’d have to knock Harry out to get him into hospital again.”

“You can thank Miss Collins for changing his mind.” The doctor was filling the syringe with a clear fluid.

Tony looked at Tracy and gave her a mocking smile. “Harry has always been a sucker for redheads.”

Meg said, “Don’t be an ass, Tony. Tracy got us to agree to double blackmail: Harry is going to hospital, and I have promised to eat three meals a day while he is gone.”

Tracy said, “I really object to being called a blackmailer.”

“It sounds like blackmail to me,” Tony retorted. He grinned. “But it’s brilliant blackmail, Tracy. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she returned.

“All right now, Harry.” Dr. Webster was approac
hing the bed with his syringe. “
This should work almost immediately, then we can get you downstairs and into the car.”

“You can shoot it right into my head if that will help,” Harry said.

Tony winced.

“Your arm will do admirably.” He pushed Harry’s cotton shirtsleeve up, revealing a well-muscled upper arm.

Tony said, “I say, if you don’t need me here, I think I’ll be running along. Got a dinner date I’m already late for.”

“Go right ahead,” Dr. Webster said, the needle poised over Harry’s arm. As the needle plunged into flesh, Tony hurriedly left the room, Tracy averted her eyes, and Meg watched.

After he had emptied the syringe and removed the needle, the doctor turned, and said, “Lady Margaret, perhaps you could pack a bag for your brother.”

Tracy said to Harry, “Do you want Meg and me to go with you?”

“No.” Harry’s reply was uncompromising.

“Okay.” Tracy gracefully acceded to his wishes. “We’ll come to see you tomorrow.”

“Um,” he said.

“All right, let’s get him out of bed before the Demerol puts him to sleep,” the doctor said.

Ten minutes later, Harry was sitting in the front seat of the doctor’s BMW. Tra
cy and Meg watched as the car
drove off, then went back into the house.

21

B
y the time Harry reached the hospital, his head was still pounding, but the shot had made him drowsy. Dr. Webster pulled up in the parking lot right across from the hospital building and came around to help him out of the car.

“Don’t need help,” Harry said fretfully, and attempted to stand up on his own.

The ground swayed under his feet, and he felt Webster’s arm come around him. “Don’t be an ass,” the doctor said. “You’re knocked out from the Demerol.” Together the two men began to walk across the hospital driveway to the front door.

Harry was too groggy to understand exactly what happened next. All he knew was that he heard the screech of tires, and then he was lying sprawled between two parked cars, with Webster on top of him.

The doctor jumped to his feet, pulled open a car door,
and leaned on the horn. Almost immediately, two security men came running down the hospital steps.

The rest of the night would always remain a blur to Harry. He remembered getting into a wheelchair, but he didn’t remember the trip from the front door to the hospital bed. He did remember asking Webster, while an IV was being put into his arm, “What happened out there?” and he thought the doctor replied, “Someone tried to run us down.”

Then he knew nothing.

D
r. Webster called Silverbridge from the nurses’ station once Harry was asleep. When Meg answered the phone, he asked for Tony. When he learned that Tony still wasn’t home, he hesitated, then asked for Tracy. Briefly he recounted to her the car incident and recommended that she get someone to keep an eye on Harry while he was in hospital.

As he was walking out to his car, he tried to figure out why he had confided Harry’s plight to Tracy Collins.

I didn’t want to put this burden on Meg, and Miss Collins was the only adult in the house.
But she’s not there as a friend, she's only there became of the movie.
Still
…

There was no question that, during the brief time he had spent with Tracy and Harry, he had received the unmistakable impression that they were somehow connected. It wasn’t in anything they had said.
It was just an impression, but it was very strong—so strong that he had turned to her as the logical person to keep Harry
safe. It might sound crazy, he decided, but he felt confident that he had made the right decision.

T
racy put down the telephone and turned to Meg, who was regarding her anxiously. “What was that all about?” she asked.

Tracy debated whether or not to tell Meg. Obviously Dr. Webster did not think she should be told, or he would have done it himself. Would the news that her brother’s life was in danger overload her fragile grasp on health, or would it perhaps shock her out of her obsession with her illness?

It could go either way, and Tracy thought it would be best to wait. The words, once spoken, could not be recalled. So she said, “Dr. Webster wants us to put someone on with Harry full-time, to make sure he stays in bed.”

“A nurse, do you mean?”

The two of them were standing in the morning room next to the telephone. Tracy said, “I doubt that a nurse would be sufficiently intimidating for Harry. I’m thinking we’d do better with a security person.”

“We could call Tom Edsel,” Meg said. “He’s a private detective in Warkfield, and I remember that he did a job for Harry last summer.”

“He sounds perfect.” Tracy turned back to the telephone. “I’ll get on to him right away.”

“It’s late,” Meg protested. “He won’t be at his office. Better to call him in the morning.”

Tracy thought about Harry lying helpless in drugged
sleep, and said, “I’ll call him at home. Where’s the phone book?”

Meg found the number for her, and Tracy called. By the time she hung up, she had arranged for someone to go to the hospital right away to be with Harry, and for regular shifts to be set up for as long as necessary.

Meg was clearly puzzled by how adamant Tracy was about having a person go directly to the hospital, but Tracy didn’t try to explain any more than she already had. Instead she said, “It’s late, and we should go to bed. I’ll take you in to see your brother tomorrow.”

A bewildered Meg followed Tracy down the corridor to their respective bedrooms.

Tracy might have recommended sleep to Meg, but once she herself was in bed, sleep was hard to come by. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the image of a car bursting out of a dark night and hurtling toward Harry.

If
something should happen to him
…
She thought once again of Scotty, and the anguish she had known when she lost him.
I can’t bear it again. Not Harry. Please God, not Harry.

The way to keep him safe was to discover who was behind his “accidents.” Tracy fought down her terror and tried to look at the situation logically.

Somebody knew he was going to be in the hospital parking lot at that particular time,
she thought.
If I can narrow down just who had that information, then perhaps I’ll have the culprit.

She thought back to the scene in Harry’s room and visualized all those who had been present: herself, Meg, Dr. Webster, and Tony.

Tony,
she thought.
Tony was in Harry’s bedroom, and he left when Harry was getting the shot of Demerol. He had enough time to get to the hospital before Harry and try to run him down.

There was something about Tony that Tracy distrusted, but she found it difficult to believe that he was capable of cold-bloodedly murdering his brother.

He would have to be desperate to do such a thing.
She stared at the ceiling and thought about the things that could make a man desperate.
Perhaps he has huge gambling debts. If he became the earl, he could get a large amount of money by selling Mauley the Silverbridge land he wants.

Tracy frowned into the dark.
Maybe I should have Tony investigated.

The more she thought about the idea, the more she liked it. Its only flaw was her realization that Harry probably wouldn’t like it at all.

I won’t tell him,
Tracy decided.
If Tony is clean, then Harry will never have to know about it.

She felt better once she had come up with a course of action and snuggled her cheek into her pillow.
I’ll get Gail to find someone in the morning,
she thought, and finally went to sleep.

T
racy called Gail before she went down to breakfast and made arrangements to hire a private investigator. She was due in makeup at nine, and it was a little after eight when she walked into the Silverbridge kitchen and found Gwen Mauley sitting at the table drinking coffee.

“Good morning, miss.” The housekeeper greeted Tracy with a friendly smile. “The usual?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”

Marshal and Millie had gotten off the sofa when Tracy came in, but once they saw she wasn’t Harry, they both climbed mournfully back into their nests. Tracy turned her attention to Gwen, who looked very striking clad in black breeches with a full leather seat, black high boots, and a white turtleneck sweater. “Good morning,” she said.

Gwen didn’t bother to return the greeting. “Harry and I had a lesson scheduled this morning, and I went to the stable but he wasn’t there. Mrs. Wilson tells me that he’s got a concussion and is supposed to stay in bed.” Gwen drummed long, blood-red fingernails on the table. “If he’s in bed, I want to know who is riding my horse.”

Tracy took a seat across the table from Gwen. “I’m quite certain that Harry has made arrangements for your horse to be ridden.”

Gwen’s voice sounded edgy. “Yes, and I’m sure those arrangements were for Ned to ride him. I don’t have anything against Ned, but he’s not Harry. It’s Harry I paid for, and Harry I want. He has a magic touch with horses.”

Tracy looked into Gwen’s green eyes and thought,
Spoiled brat.
“I’m afraid that he won’t be able to train your horse for a few days at least,” she said coolly. “He’s in the hospital.”

Gwen turned her green glare on the housekeeper, who was approaching with Tracy’s fruit and cereal. “Mrs. Wilson told me he just had a concussion! Athletes get concussions all the time, and it doesn’t stop them.”

With difficulty, Tracy restrained herself from throwing her cornflakes into Gwen’s face. Instead she said crisply, “Harry has a severe concussion, and the doctor put him in the hospital to make certain he remains quiet.”

Gwen slammed her coffee cup into its saucer. “That’s just great. I’m signed up for a show next week, and now Dylan won’t be ready.”

“Perhaps you could work with him yourself,” Tracy suggested.

Gwen’s eyes shot green sparks. She looked like a cat about to spit. “That’s the problem. That’s why I brought him to Harry. I can’t work with him by myself.” She stared angrily at her empty coffee cup, and said, “I’d like more coffee.”

The housekeeper replied without expression, “Certainly, Miss Mauley.”

Tracy speared a piece of melon with her fork, and asked, “Why can’t you work with Dylan on your own?” The housekeeper poured more coffee in Gwen’s cup and put a fresh cup in front of Tracy.

Gwen said bitterly, “Because I don’t think he likes me.”

Tracy took a bracing swallow of black coffee. “Why do you say that?”

Gwen exploded. “Because he won’t obey me! Every time I ask for something, all I get is backing and bucking and
…
and
…
resistance! He goes like a charm for Harry, but whenever I get on, he turns into a pig.”

“Maybe you just need to spend more time with him,” Tracy said.

Gwen leaned forward and glared at Tracy. “Let me tell you something, Miss Collins. I am an excellent rider. I have ridden and I have won at Grand Prix level in many well-known shows. There is nothing wrong with my riding. It’s the bloody horse that’s the problem.”

Tracy remembered the words of her old riding instructor,
Beware of the rider who blames his horse and not himself.
She ate a strawberry and inquired mildly, “What does Harry say?”

“Hah!” Gwen folded her arms defensively across her chest. “He keeps telling me that Dylan is a Thoroughbred and that I can’t ride him the same way that I ride my warmbloods. ‘Be tactful,’ he tells me.” She did a fair imitation of Harry’s clipped, upper-class voice. “ ‘Don’t demand. Ask
.
’ ” Gwen snorted. “When I tell a horse to do a canter pirouette, I expect him to do it! I’m not going to waste my time coaxing him.”

“Thoroughbreds do have to be ridden with a light touch,” Tracy said.

Gwen’s glare increased in intensity. “I ride the way I ride. If that doesn’t suit the horse, then I’ll get rid of him.”

Tracy’s heart leaped when she heard those words. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes. I do. I went over to Germany on Tuesday and saw a magnificent black Hanoverian—that I can ride just fine! I’ve decided I’m going to sell Dylan and buy the Hanoverian. But I wanted to take Dylan to this show to shop him around.”

Tracy said, “I’ll buy him from you.”

Gwen stared in astonishment. “You?”

“Yes.” Tracy smiled pleasantly. “I’ve always been interested in dressage
, and I grew up riding Thorough
breds. I think Dylan would suit me very well.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think this is a way to cozy up to Harry? Do you have a fancy to be a countess, Miss Collins?”

Tracy said, “How much do you want for him?”

“I’m asking forty thousand pounds for him.”

It was far too much money. Tracy knew it, and Gwen did, too. “I’ll give you twenty- five,” Tracy said.

“Thirty-five,” Gwen came back.

“Thirty,” said Tracy.

“Thirty-two and we have a deal.”

“Done,” Tracy said. “How soon can I have him?”

“You can have him today, as far as I’m concerned,” Gwen said. “I’ve already got a bid on the Hanoverian.”

“I’ll write you a check, but I’ll want all of his papers.”

“They’re in my London flat. I’ll have them by tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed again. “His board and his training fees are due on Monday.”

“How much are they
?
”

The sum she named caused Tracy’s eyes to widen.
Harry certainly doesn’t undervalue himself,
she thought with a trace of amusement.

Gwen stood up. “Well, I wish you luck with Dylan. But I wouldn’t count on making any points with Harry
for buying him.” There was a distinct note of warning in her voice.

A thought struck Tracy. “How long have you been in Wiltshire?”

“I came yesterday.” Gwen’s voice took on a tinge of sarcasm. “I was expecting to have a lesson this morning.”

Tracy tried to think of how she could phrase her next question so it didn’t sound nosy. There wasn’t any way, she decided, so she came right out and asked, “Was your father at home last night?”