She followed him into a large circular room with high ceilings and lovely old beams supporting the domed roof. In the fireplace, a blazing fire took the damp chill off the room. The views of the ocean and sky beyond the terrace were beautiful in the evening light. The sun had set over the turquoise sea, leaving a stage backdrop of brilliant pinks and corals.
“May I offer you something to drink, ma’am? A cocktail, perhaps? I’ve been accused of making a mean Dark and Stormy, if I may say so.”
“Lovely. But I’ll have vodka and tonic. Over ice, please.”
Pelham nodded and went behind the curved monkey-wood bar. There were two sturdy bamboo stools, and she perched on one while he fixed her drink.
“Slice of lime for you, then?” Pelham asked, regarding her out of the corner of his eye.
“Why not? So. How many are you two expecting this evening?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“How many other guests for dinner?”
“Just you, Madame.”
“Just me?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Oh. Well. I thought it was to be more of a party.”
“I’ve no doubt it will be, Madame.”
“Ah. Well, then.”
“Here you are, a lovely vodka and tonic. I hope it will prove satisfactory.”
Pelham went silently about his mixology as she sipped her drink, tidying up, slicing some more limes, getting out a beautiful old sterling cocktail shaker, filling it with shaved ice, black rum, and ginger beer.
“Interesting pictures,” Asia said, leaning forward to look more closely at a particular photograph. Any number of black-and-white framed candid shots hung on the raffia-covered wall adjacent to the bar. The old photos, mostly of American and English film stars, were faded and water-stained and looked as if they’d been hanging right where they were for centuries.
“Errol Flynn, isn’t this one?”
“Yes, ma’am. All former tenants and guests at the cottage, mostly. The subject of a good deal of gossip, I gather.”
“I adore gossip,” she said, and downed the rest of her drink. She slid the empty glass toward him. “Any of the good stuff left?”
“A pleasure,” Pelham said, reaching for the Stolichnaya. For the first time, he noticed her long red fingernails. He was acutely aware that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, prodigiously possessed of what they used to call, in his day, animal magnetism. Suddenly, a good deal of his lordship’s recent behavior came into somewhat sharper focus.
“Pelham, may I ask a rather personal question?”
“I endeavor to be candid on any subject, Madame.”
“How long have you two been-together. You and Alex, I mean.”
“Together?” he said, seemingly surprised by her choice of words.
“Yes. Together. I mean, how long have you and Alex been…close? I’m just curious about the length of your…relationship. The duration. Roughly speaking, of course.”
“Well, I can be very precise about it. Come December 24, at precisely seven o’clock in the evening, it will be thirty-three years to the minute, Madame.”
She put down her drink, a little vodka sloshing over the rim of the glass.
“Thirty-three years? Is that what you said?”
“Precisely. I was present at his birth. He was born at home. His mother was having a rather difficult time, you see, and the doctors required me to-”
“His birth?”
“Yes, Madame. How time flies. Hard for one to believe that his lordship will turn thirty-three in just-”
“His what?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry. What you just called him. Called Alex. I thought I heard you use the phrase ‘his lordship’?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Charming. A joke between you two?”
“I beg your pardon, Madame? A joke?”
“One of your pet names for each other, I mean. I know couples do that after years together.”
“Couples? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Madame. I don’t wish to be rude, but I must say this conversation is-”
“You don’t mean to say he’s titled?”
“Indeed, Madame.”
“My beautiful beach boy is, in fact, Lord Hawke?”
“He is Lord Hawke, indeed. I’m hardly surprised you were unaware of it. He prefers not to use the title. If I may be so bold, I suggest you refrain from using it yourself, Madame. I myself absolutely insist upon this form of address, only as I believe it de rigueur for someone of my station.”
“And what, if I may be so bold, exactly is your station, Pelham?”
“I am in service, ma’am. I should have thought that much, at least, would have been somewhat obvious. I’ve been in service to the Hawke family for most of my eighty-four years. As, I daresay, were my father before me and his father before him.”
“In service. A butler, do you mean?”
“Rather more than that, Madame, but I suppose that appellation will suffice.”
“So you’re not…roommates? Partners?”
“Roommates?” Pelham said, almost choking on the word. His starched collar suddenly seemed far too tight, and indeed his face had turned a startling shade of red.
“Are you all right?” Asia asked, fearing he might be suffering from a coronary event or worse. She hurriedly poured him a glass of water.
Summoning every ounce of his dignity and with his exquisite patina of noblesse oblige barely intact, Pelham was able to croak in a strangled voice, “Hardly roommates, Madame.”
At that moment, Alexander Hawke strode into the room. He was naked save a small towel wrapped precariously around his waist. His body and his dark hair were still damp from the recent shower, and he wore a creamy white beard of shaving cream. In his hand was an old-fashioned ivory-handled straight razor.
“Oh, terribly sorry. I’d no idea you’d arrived,” he said, glancing at Anastasia. His eyes moved to Pelham, who seemed a bit rattled and was shakily knocking back a goblet of water or perhaps something stronger.
“My fault entirely,” Ansastasia said, swiveling her stool toward him. “I thought I’d get lost finding you, so I arrived far too early. Pelham and I have been having a grand time.”
Hawke and Anastasia stared at each other for a few long moments, neither of them willing or able to speak. Finally, Hawke’s face broke into a wide grin.
“Ah. Good. Good for you two to have some time to chat. Get to know each other a bit. Well. Perfect. I’ll be with you shortly. Pelham, you don’t have something brewing back there with my name on it, do you?”
“Indeed, m’lord,” Pelham squeaked.
Pelham came out from behind the bar with a frosted silver julep cup on a silver tray. Hawke took it and smiled at Asia. “My ‘dresser,’ you see. I always have a wee cocktail while I’m suiting up for dinner.”
“Good idea,” she said, smiling. “It’s reassuring that you haven’t finished dressing.”
Hawke looked at her, then down at his towel, seeming to have momentarily exhausted his gift for dialogue.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me ten minutes or so. You look stunning in red, by the way.”
She nodded and watched him disappear down the hallway that led, she imagined, to his bedroom. When she turned her glance back to Pelham, her eyes were softer than before.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked her after a few moments of silence.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining.
“There’s an awful lot of little boy in that big man.”
“Most perceptive of you, Madame Korsakova.”
“A sad little boy, I’m afraid. What was he like, Pelham? As a child? Was he a very sad little boy?”
“His boyhood? Sad? Indeed, I suppose it had some of that, as everyone’s does.”
“Would it be terribly indiscreet of you to talk about him? You hardly know me, after all.”
“I know you well enough, I think, Madame. At least, where he’s concerned. We do have a few minutes before he returns.”
“Tell me a story, Pelham,” Anastasia said, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands. “About the little boy you knew.” Her green eyes, shining and moist, had a lustrous depth, Pelham noticed for the first time.