Last Chance Beauty Queen (Last Chance #3)(24)
Author: Hope Ramsay

As if Hugh needed more problems. “What is it?”

“Bascomb has lost the engagement diary for the house.” Bascomb, the steward at Woolham House, was nearly eighty-five and had a bad hip and a wandering mind. Petunia kept him on even though he was entirely useless in keeping the place up. Granddad would have fired him years ago.

Hugh should have fired him years ago, but he hadn’t.

“And why is this a problem?” he asked.

“Well, we’re all in a dither because we’re not sure if we have a wedding here next weekend or not.”

“You don’t. There aren’t any weddings scheduled until September.”

“Oh, good, how did you remember?”

He didn’t want to be unkind, but they only booked three or four weddings a year at Woolham House. Unfortunately, Woolham House’s dated kitchen precluded them from booking any more than that. Weddings were a source of much-needed income for the estate. He would have booked one every weekend, if he could have afforded to fix up the kitchen and hire a staff.

“Well,” Petunia said, nattering on as she often did, “now that worry has been laid to rest. How is your business trip, dear? Have you bought the land you needed?”

“There are complications.”

“Oh, goody, I do like complications. They are so much fun.”

He gripped the phone a little tighter. “I beg to differ. These complications are not fun. And this is not like one of those murder mysteries you love so much.”

“Well, of course it isn’t, unless there’s a dead body. You haven’t found one of those, have you?”

“No. Only a rather eccentric gentleman with a miniature golf course, who is refusing to sell me his land.” He left out the part about Elbert’s dishy daughter.

“A mini-golf course?” Petunia said after a moment. “How utterly unexpected.”

“Yes, exactly. George seriously underestimated the difficulties involved in buying this piece of land.”

Petunia cleared her throat. “Pardon me, dear, but there was something a little dodgy about George. I’m terribly sorry that he bought it in that plane crash, but I think you may be well rid of him in the end.”

“Yes, well, he’s certainly created a problem for me here. I don’t think I can make a go of things unless I can convince Elbert Rhodes to sell me Golfing for God.”

“What?”

“Golfing for God. I’m afraid the mini-golf is themed on the Bible. The fiberglass statues are brilliant. Aunt Petal would love the Tower of Babel. For some inexplicable reason, the tower has balconies populated by an entire tribe of sprites, fairies, elves, and gnomes.”

“How delightful.”

“Yes, well it is rather,” Hugh said. “The place is currently out of business because of storm damage, but I asked Elbert to show me his business plan. I doubt he will. But it did occur to me that a mini-golf down at the nature center near Woolham House might be an additional source of income for us.”

“Hugh, that’s a marvelous idea.”

“Do you think Petal would allow us to move some of her little people from the garden?”

“Hmmm. Perhaps. If we asked her to help with the landscaping.”

“Well, it’s something to think about if things fall through here.”

“You sound worried.”

He sank back against the pillows. “I am worried,” he admitted.

“Just as I thought,” Petunia said in what Hugh always thought of as her no-nonsense voice. “I knew I needed to call you. The spirits were definitely telling me that you were in trouble.”

Hugh knew better than to say one word of challenge to Petunia’s spirit guides. The woman fancied herself some kind of witch or Druid or some such irrational nonsense. When Granddad had been alive, he’d kept Petunia in check. But after Granddad died, she’d come out, so to speak, telling the vicar that she was the lead witch in a Wiccan coven. That had not gone over very well in the village.

People had expected him to put Petunia in her place.

But how could he? He was only fourteen, and he loved Petunia. She had been the only real mother figure he’d known.

“So did your spirits give you any idea of how to get me out of my current predicament?” he asked. He didn’t really believe in her spirit guides, but out of kindness, he humored her.

“No. You know it doesn’t work that way. If you’re in trouble, it’s because you need to learn something. Tell me, what precisely is the matter?”

He took a deep breath. He would have to tell her something or she would nag him to death. So he gave her an abridged version of the truth that included Elbert Rhodes and his angels, and Cissy Warren and her billions. He mentioned Caroline and her difficult situation, but omitted the bit about the swampland he had unwittingly purchased, as well as his moment of weakness when he’d kissed the dishy Miss Rhodes down by the river.

“Oh, dear, it is a muddle, isn’t it? Just like an Oscar Wilde play,” Petunia said when he was done.

“No, it isn’t.”

Petunia ignored his petulance and cut right to the chase. “So this Cissy person, you say she is wealthy?”

“Yes, very. Richer than Lady Ashton and not nearly as horsey.”

“Well, that is something, isn’t it?” Petunia paused for a long moment. It was, in every respect, a pregnant pause. Hugh tried to read this little hesitation and failed utterly. He wasn’t sure whether Petunia was suggesting he should pursue the cool and rich Cissy Warren, come home and marry Victoria, or continue on with his quest to build a loom factory.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said into the silence.

“And this Caroline? She sounds a sensible sort of girl, doesn’t she?” Petunia countered unexpectedly.

There was no mistaking the tone in Petunia’s voice. She had entered the nosy zone. He said nothing. He wouldn’t give up anything about Caroline or the way she looked like some otherworldly goddess and tasted like something from the land of faerie.

“And haven’t you put the poor girl in a bit of a situation?” Petunia said into the silence. Hugh heard the censure in Petunia’s voice. She had lived with Granddad and knew all about his dalliances, too.

“I reckon I have,” he said.

“Hugh, dear, you need to be careful.”

As if he hadn’t already figured that out.

Chapter 13

Caroline uttered a filthy swear word as she hobbled up the walkway to Christ Church. Two hundred bucks she’d shelled out for these gently used Christian Laboutin numbers in an auction on eBay, and the heel on the left shoe hadn’t lasted the short walk from Momma’s house.

So much for her plan to appear strong, professional, and well put together for the confrontation she intended to have with Baron Woolham after services.

Caroline was angry at more than the shoe. She was furious with herself. Nothing rankled more than making a stupid mistake. She should have investigated Hugh’s financial situation before even embarking on this mission for Senator Warren. She had made an assumption, and she knew good and well that making assumptions was stupid.

Almost as stupid as allowing his Lordship to kiss her yesterday.

What had she been thinking?

Not anything rational, that was for sure.

Muffled organ music drifted on the warm summer wind when she finally pushed through the doors and into the vestibule at the back of the sanctuary. The air-conditioning hit her perspiration-damp blouse with the force of a blizzard. Holy smokes, someone had really cranked that thing up, hadn’t they?

The place was packed. Momma was there already, having left early to get Haley to Sunday School. She sat in a pew way up at the front with Lizzy beside her. There wasn’t any space for Caroline.

Dash was sitting on the other side of the aisle with his aunt. There wasn’t any space there either.

A quick scan of the congregation told her that Bubba was missing in action. That was probably good. She wouldn’t have to obviously cuddle up to Dash after services.

Rachel was there, sitting with her momma and daddy. She looked tired and hollow-eyed. The trouble at the chicken plant was really taking a toll on her, wasn’t it? And the poor thing had had to put up with Bubba last night. Caroline felt bad about leaving Rachel to deal with that problem on her own. No wonder she looked worn out this morning.

Boy, it was a good thing it was Sunday.

Because between the mistakes she’d made and the lies she’d told, Caroline needed all the forgiveness and divine guidance she could get.

Eugene Hanks, standing in the back and looking like the very definition of an usher in his blue suit, handed her the printed program for the day’s services. He gestured toward an open seat in the last pew. She took the program and slipped into place.

“Morning.” The greeting was whispered into her ear by a deep, masculine voice with an unmistakable accent. His breath simultaneously feathered across her face and torched her insides.

The Right Honorable Hugh deBracy, Baron Woolham, was turned out in his most impeccable tropical weight worsted. All that sartorial excellence made last night’s lust suddenly reappear.

Her face flashed red hot despite the subzero setting on the air-conditioning. She snuck a glance at him.

He was sneaking his own glance at her.

Uh-oh. Not good.

His eyes sparked with mischief as he handed her the hymnal, which was turned to the proper page for the first hymn of the morning: “Songs of Praise the Angels Sing.”

Oh, the irony. Clearly Hugh was enjoying the joke, judging by the semismirk on his lips. Caroline was not amused—at him or herself. She needed to get a grip on her hormones.

She took her side of the book and stood ramrod straight, looking ahead. They stood side by side, shoulders almost touching. She glanced down at the book and couldn’t keep her eyes off his long-fingered hands.

They were well shaped and sexy as hell.

But wait a minute, they didn’t look very aristocratic. His nails were cut to the quick, and his right thumbnail bore an unmistakable blood blister right in the middle, as if he’d banged it with a hammer or mashed it in something. That little imperfection was almost perfect. It made his hands look well used and competent.

Caroline battled an untimely case of dry mouth just as the organ music swelled and the time came to sing.

Songs of praise the angels sang,

heaven with alleluias rang…

The congregation broke into song. And Hugh sang along with them in the most amazing baritone. He didn’t swallow up the words either, but sang them out beautifully as if he was completely familiar with them. Which, on reflection, shouldn’t have surprised her. He was English, which probably made him an Anglican. And Anglicans were practically like Episcopalians. He certainly knew this hymn, that was for sure.

The hymn ended, and Reverend Ellis said the collect, and finally everyone was allowed to sit. The pews at Christ Church were not built for comfort, but this morning, Caroline’s discomfort had nothing to do with the hard oak under her backside.

Hugh deBracy sat slightly too close. His leg pressed against her skirt, and his shoulders took up too much space. He smelled good enough to eat, and as usual, Caroline had skipped breakfast and was ravenously hungry.