Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (16 page)

“O
NE MILLIONS POUNDS
?”
Dominic Alexander Montserrat, the tenth earl of Ashton, sank down in a chintz wing chair at the sunny corner of Nicholas Draycott's study. Below the window, Draycott Abbey's moat shimmered and danced, but Dominic barely noticed. “I don't believe it.”

Nicholas Draycott smiled broadly. “Then you'd better start. As a matter of fact, the solicitor tells me the figure might be closer to
two
million.”

Dominic's strong fingers, callused from months of stripping oak casks and pruning grapevines, dived through his long black hair. “But
how,
Nicholas? Why? And when—”

His old friend, now the twelfth Viscount Draycott and devoted inheritor of the beautiful Jacobean moat house called Draycott Abbey, interrupted with a laugh. “Hold on, Dominic. I realize this must be a huge shock—it bloody well was to me, too. At least
you
didn't have to go down and confront a skeleton that had been immured for two hundred years in your wine cellar.”

“I still can't believe it!”

“According to the date on the will, that's when he died. And this man Gabriel, your ancestor, was most precise in how he wanted that wine of his to be treated. With a million pounds at stake, I suggest that it's worth taking the trouble to comply with his conditions. Not to mention the fact that he threatened anyone who tried to obstruct his plans. ‘Whosoever shall tamper with
these words will feel the full force of my fury,' was how he phrased it.”

“Sounds damned Gothic.” Dominic's lean, suntanned face still carried signs of disbelief. “Look, Nicholas, I'm finding all this very hard to accept. Maybe I've been too long at my vineyards and I'm accustomed to hearing nothing but French morning, noon, and night.” There was indeed a hint of an accent in his voice. “Let's try it again, shall we? You're telling me that an ancestor of mine left a case of Château d'Yquem 1792 down in your cellars. A case of vintage Sauternes in perfect condition that could bring, even conservatively, over a million pounds at auction?”

“That's what I said. The man was Gabriel Ashton. The fifth earl of Ashton, to be exact.”

“Bloody hell.” Dominic ran his hands through his hair, burned by the French sun to a rich mahogany. “Since I was a boy I've heard stories about mad Uncle Gabriel. Many a night my sister and I went to sleep shivering from some horrendous tale our father had told us. The man was either a black-hearted scoundrel or the most reckless hero England ever knew, snatching French aristocrats from the very shadow of the guillotine. But no one in the family ever knew what happened to him. He simply vanished one day without a trace.”

“Well, now you know
where
he died, at least,” Nicholas said grimly. “The why remains a mystery, however.” He sat back, noticing how fit his old friend looked sporting a new set of muscles and skin baked copper by the French sun. The last time they'd met, Dominic had been guarding the Prince of Wales on a state visit to Thailand, and the strain of Dominic's work as a royal bodyguard had been all too apparent.

That vineyard he'd bought in France three years ago had to be good for him, Nicholas decided. La Trouvaille, wasn't it called? “That's it in a nutshell. And it's all yours, Dominic.” A speculative light entered Nicholas's green eyes. “Well, half of it at least.”

“Mad Uncle Gabriel. A million bloody pounds.” Dominic stared blankly at his glass of sherry. “My God, I could finally start setting in those new Sémillon vines that I've been wanting to get my hands on. Then maybe I'll commission some new oak casks for—” Abruptly his head rose. “
Half?
What happens to the rest of the money?”

“I'm afraid that's where things turn a bit tricky. As I said, your ancestor was most precise about how the funds were to be disposed of.” Nicholas cleared his throat, turning a jewel-studded Fabergé egg in his fingers.

“Out with it, Nicky. What do I have to do, spend a night down in that haunted wine cellar with Mad Uncle Gabriel's ghost?” Dominic laughed softly. “For a million pounds, I'd spend a
week
down there, ghosts and all.”

“You'd be surprised what you might find in this house, Dominic. But it's not so simple. Someone else is involved in the bequest. And I feel that the two of you are honor bound to solve the mystery of that skeleton I happened across.”

Dominic barked out a laugh. “I have to split with you, is that what you're saying? If so, out with it, my friend. After all, I owe you Draycotts something for keeping that wine safe all these years.”

“No, not me.” Nicholas looked at his friend, noting the calluses from hard field work and the little lines at the edges of his eyes. From days squinting in the sun, days of backbreaking physical labor setting in vines, stringing protective nets, and harvesting grapes, Nicholas knew.

If he didn't love Draycott Abbey so well, Nicholas would envy his friend, who had beautiful rolling acres of vines in one of the loveliest valleys in France. He worked hard, lived well, ate wonderfully, and the little lines at his eyes attested to the fact that Dominic Montserrat laughed often and hard. Life didn't get much better than that, Nicholas thought. Surely that was the right kind of work, healthy labor that made things grow where
before there had been nothing. Not like the other kind, the work that had carried Dominic to tense meetings with suspicious men in far-flung cities with unpronounceable names.

But Nicholas knew he couldn't put off the rest of his news any longer.

“So who's the lucky man? He's going to get one hell of a surprise when he finds he's just inherited a case of priceless sweet white Bordeaux.” Dominic's eyes crinkled at the thought. “
I
certainly did.”

“Not he,
she.
”

“That's better yet. Maybe she'll be so overcome with delight at the news that she—”

“It's someone we both know.” Nicholas's fingers tightened. “Donnell O'Neill's daughter.”

Dominic went very still, his eyes on the sunlight spilling through the study windows. “Cathlin O'Neill?”

“One and the same.”

The silence unraveled until the whole room was filled with it.

Dominic strode to the window and stared out at the moat. “Cathlin O'Neill, the girl whose mother died here? I remember your father was off in Brazil at the time, buying a copper mine. We were up at school when you found out. Bloody awful.”

Nicholas nodded grimly. “We never found out exactly what happened to the mother. When my father came back, the police told him it was probably a simple accident. Or…”

“Or what?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Or it might have been something else. Elizabeth Russell O'Neill was here to examine some textile samples that needed restoring. My father was very keen that it should be done right and had insisted on hiring the best authority, which Elizabeth O'Neill was. She'd brought her young daughter along with her for the weekend and even though Cathlin was only ten, she loved this place as much as her mother did.”
Nicholas turned the priceless jeweled egg, frowning as it caught the light. “You know the rest. That first night they were here, her mother went out and never came back. There were only a few servants on duty in my father's absence, but none of them saw or heard anything odd and there was no sign of foul play. But the next morning little Cathlin found her mother's body beside the moat, where she'd plunged from the roof.”

“Good God.” Dominic looked at his friend. “Possibly suicide?”

Nicholas shook his head. “She had no history of instability and she was happy in her marriage, by all accounts.”

“And there's nothing more? You never discovered how it happened?”

“Never. The girl remembered nothing—the result of trauma, we were told. At the time there was some talk of a political connection, since her father had been involved in government work. But nothing concrete ever turned up. I can't believe this is all coming up again.” Nicholas glared out the window. “I'm almost tempted to pitch that wine into the moat, since the last thing I want is all this muck dredged up again. Believe me, the press will have a field day when they find out.” He sighed and set down the jeweled egg. “I don't want Kacey and little Genevieve upset by this either.” Nicholas studied a framed photo of his laughing wife and five-year-old daughter. “I think it best we leave as soon as the conditions of your ancestor's will have been put into motion. Perhaps some digging in London will turn up new answers about the mystery of Gabriel Ashton.”

“But what do Cathlin O'Neill and I have to do with this wine? I don't understand.”

“Your ancestor insisted that the two eldest living descendants of himself and one Geneva Russell spend seven days and nights here at Draycott Abbey. Then—and only then—the wine would be theirs. Cathlin is the oldest living relative of that Geneva Russell, through her mother.”

Dominic stared at his friend. “You're kidding, aren't you?”

“I'm afraid not. And this will was quite specific, Dominic. In fact, the legal terms are enforceable even today. You can see why I feel I have to carry out those terms exactly as Gabriel Ashton asked.”

Dominic cursed softly. Already he could see his hopes of expansion at La Trouvaille vanishing like early morning mist in the French sun. “But what's all this business about seven days and nights?”

“Assuming that these descendants are of an age of independence and of sound mind and body, they must spend seven nights together here at Draycott Abbey. It was Gabriel's express wish.”

“Isn't this all rather farfetched, Nicky? The man's been dead for two hundred years and from all I've heard he was far from a saint himself. Why not just forget all this folderol?
He
certainly isn't going to know.”

A frown worked down Nicholas's handsome face. “He won't, but I will. Dominic, the man wrote his will as he lay dying. He signed his name in his own blood. How can I ignore such a request?”

“It's probably some kind of trick one of your demented ancestors thought up. You Draycotts seem to have a damned morbid sense of humor, especially that ghost you always talked about as a boy.”

“This is no trick, Dominic. I had an architect in to look at that wall, and the bricks were authentic for their period, and the mortar was brittle with age—two hundred years of age.”

“I don't
believe
this.”

“You'd better start. La Trouvaille's future is going to depend on how seriously you take what I'm telling you. A great old vintage like that Château d'Yquem is worth a fortune now.”

Dominic's jaw hardened. “You don't have to tell
me
what a rare Sauternes is worth!”

“Stop it, Dominic. I know this is hard for you, but it's the very thing to get you back on your feet at La Trouvaille. That vineyard has drained your pockets since day one, and you know it. Your
father left you damned comfortable, but a million pounds will buy a hell of a lot of new vines and every kind of technology you could ever want.”

“But why do we have to go through with this farce about the will? I've got grapes to tend and wine to get into cask. Can't we just take the wine and sell it now?”

“Out of the question. The heirs of Adrian Draycott were assigned to oversee the terms of the will, and I mean to comply with the man's wishes.” A challenging gleam lit Nicholas's eyes. “Which means I'll just have to toss the wine off the abbey roof and leave it in the moat to feed the fish.”

Dominic went still. “The will specified
that?
”

“Afraid so.”

The earl of Ashton rubbed his jaw, calculating exactly how many oak casks, stainless steel distilling vats, and computer-scanned irrigation pumps he could buy with half a million pounds. “Damned expensive fish food.”

“Isn't it though.”

Dominic muttered something low and graphic and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to think about how much good that money would do at La Trouvaille.

“There's something else you should know, Dominic.”

“Sweet God, what
now?
”

Nicholas looked grim. “This kind of news is going to interest a whole lot of people. I'll try to keep the wine secret as long as I can. I've already paid the plumbers to keep their mouths shut, in fact, but eventually one of them is bound to let something slip. And since the will is a legal document, I will eventually have to see that it is publicly recorded. When I do…”

“Go on, Nicholas.”

“Let's just say that I suggest you find Cathlin O'Neill and get her up here where you can keep your eye on her.”

“You think she's in danger?”

“It's only logical, considering the value of this wine. Wouldn't you be interested in possessing such a treasure?”