Streaking. Brian Stableford
admitted, “although I look a little younger than I am. Daddy’s first marriage was a complete disaster—his description, not mine; I never met the lady. There were no more kids after me, even though the second was better. I suspect that he was glad to stop, once the continuity of the family name was assured. Other titled families take out insurance by having younger sons, then have to send them into the army or the church to get them out of the way, but not the lucky Kilcannons. One’s almost always been enough for us, and we’ve never been excessively afflicted by daughters.”
Canny realized that his determination to fill up conversational space without exposing himself to too many questions was making him babble like an idiot, and wondered yet again whether the old man’s impending death had disturbed him more than he cared to admit, but he put it down to the fact that he wasn’t used to sitting this close to women as beautiful as Lissa Lo. He’d always tried to avoid fantasizing about such encounters, but he’d never been entirely successful. He’d always been prepared to tell himself that the rules had been soured by traditional misogyny, and that his father’s recent conservatism in that regard must have been caused, or at least excessively influenced by the failure of his first marriage.
He wondered, briefly, whether his father had seen a dark streak before the tumors started to reclaim his flesh, and whether, if so, he’d guiltily attributed it to his own failure to keep the rules in his youth—but he set the thought aside and hauled himself back into the moment. It was impossible to think of a lift in Lissa Lo’s hired jet as anything but a generous stroke of fortune, and one worth following up as far as he might be allowed.
He studied Lissa’s face as she paused, having no new question ready. He had always thought her exceedingly beautiful, whenever he had caught a glimpse of her at Henley or the palace, but now that he was so close to her—without a roulette wheel to distract him—he realized that there was something about her beauty that was just as magical, in its own way, as his own gift. Canny was used to the close proximity of lovely women, and had thought that long practice had accustomed him to the necessity of withstanding most of their beguilements, innocent and ingenious alike, but he could see very clearly that Lissa Lo was in a class of her own.
“I suppose you’ll have to start thinking about the next heir now?” the model observed, when their search for conversational inspiration had dragged on a few moments too long. If it had been any other woman in the world—even another of her own seriously spoilt kind—Canny would have taken that for a blatant tease or a baited hook, but from Lissa Lo it easily passed for polite and disinterested conversation.
“The old man is certainly going to say so, in no uncertain terms,” Canny admitted. “He might well get very intense about it, no matter how much morphine he’s on.” He hesitated, but eventually decided that he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try, and bit the bullet. “Would you like to take a look at the estate while you’re in the neighborhood? The house isn’t in Harewood’s league, but it’s got some interesting features.”
“I’d love to,” she said. “I might not be around long, though. My agent’s fixed up something in Venezuela.”
“Tonight, if you like, when you finish the shoot,” Canny said, indicating with the slightest possible shrug of his shoulders that he wouldn’t be offended by a polite refusal.
“I’d like that,” she said, with all apparent sincerity. “I don’t know what time we’ll finish, though—photographers are an exceedingly unreliable breed.”
“That’s okay,” he assured her. “Come if and when you can. No need to call ahead—cook’s always able to stretch dinner if unexpected guests turn up, or lay on a little late supper. Shall I draw you a map?”
“It’s not necessary,” she told him, flatly. She didn’t even bother to ask for an address; she was obviously the kind of person who took it for granted that she’d always be able to find her way to wherever it was that she wanted to go. Canny couldn’t help wondering exactly where she did want to go, and why. A man in his position had to be even more careful about reading too little into coincidence than he did about reading too much.
“Don’t expect too much of a welcome,” he warned her. “Daddy will be delighted to see you, if he’s conscious, but Mummy’s bound to be a bit distracted.”
“No problem,” she said serenely. “Is there anything I shouldn’t mention?”
Even that could have passed, just about, for a polite and disinterest enquiry—but this time, Canny got the distinct impression that there was something not quite right about this entire situation, and that he was being pumped for information that he’d be better off keeping to himself.
“You mean the bet I placed?” he said. “Well, yes—it might be as well if you didn’t mention that. Mummy would think better of me if she were allowed to assume that I came straight home rather than sitting down for one last dip on the roulette wheel. Stevie Larkin will probably be spreading the story all along the coast for the next six months, but Mummy leads a sheltered existence, so it won’t get back to her any time soon if you and I keep quiet about it.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said.
He might have made a joke about lipstick, but he didn’t. She was, after all, one of the ten most beautiful women in the world—and her best assets were perfectly natural.
CHAPTER SIX
Having been forewarned of his arrival, Bentley was waiting with his namesake at Church Fenton. The butler was chatting amiably to the drivers of the two hire-cars that were waiting to collect Lissa Lo’s party and whisk her away to Harewood House; he watched the company disembark with an affected air of quiet amazement.
Customs and Immigration were less officious than usual, even though their people had been called out. Canny’s bag was the one they elected to rummage through in search of illegal stimulants; he knew better than to joke about it, and simply stood patiently by until they had gone through the motions.
After the dry and artificial atmosphere of the plane the Yorkshire air seemed cool and fresh enough, but it wasn’t moist and the sky was clear. The heat wave hadn’t relented yet. Lissa and her entourage were already busy loading up their vehicles, and Lissa couldn’t tear herself away to bid him a fond farewell. She did wave, though, and flashed him a smile as bright as any benign streak. Canny did his best to reciprocate.
“You were fortunate to obtain a lift, sir,” the butler observed, when Canny finally settled into the passenger seat beside him.
“Careful planning,” Canny said. “It’s always best to have a supermodel and a private jet standing by, just in case one’s cancerous father happens to take a sudden turn for the worse.”
“Of course it is, sir,” the butler agreed, effortlessly matching his sarcasm. “Is the lady an intimate friend?”
“That’s not the kind of question loyal servants are supposed to ask,” Canny pointed out, “Even if they have known the young master since he was in nappies. I’ll be the Earl of Credesdale soon enough—I might have to make some changes around here if I can’t get the respect my position demands.”
“Yes sir,” Bentley said. “Would you like me to make out a list of suggestions, or should I leave all that to the village elders?”
“No—I’m relying on you to keep the village elders at bay. And no, she’s not an intimate friend—but I have invited her to pop round tonight when she’s finished her shoot. I don’t know what time she’ll arrive, and I’m not absolutely certain that she’ll arrive at all, but I’m sure the staff can cope if and when she does.”
“The staff can cope, sir,” Bentley assured him. “It’s your mother you have to worry about. And I hope you’ll remember to tell your father that you don’t know the lady intimately. He’s not well enough to be allowed to jump to distressing conclusions.”
“I suppose he’s instructed you and Mummy to draw up a list of eligible brides for me?”
“If