“Want quiet, or want me to tell you about my day?” Her voice seemed to help Acton fall asleep, as she gabbled on about nothing-in-particular; it had worked last night, when he’d woke up exhausted from yet another nightmare. Since mindless gabbling was basically her stock-in-trade, it was no hardship for her to talk about whatever happened to cross her mind.
“Please,” he said, and wearily closed his eyes.
She settled into the chair with the baby, and began, “Well, I’m back in the harness—the self-same harness that’s yoked to the fair Munoz, for the time bein’—but I don’t mind; I’m longin’ to do somethin’ useful, and put my brain back to thinkin’ about somethin’ other than formula and baby cereal.”
Propping Edward up into a comfortable position, she offered him his bottle whilst he gazed into her face with supreme contentment. Nothin’ like havin’ a baby think you’re the best thing ever, she thought, and smiled back at him. “Munoz says she’s been assigned a MAO, which makes me wonder if that’s your doin’, husband, to make sure she’s got a bodyguard-of-sorts.”
Acton’s eyes remained closed, but he was yet awake, and he said only, “Yes.”
She nodded, as this confirmed her conclusion. “I know you’re not goin’ to tell me about whatever-it-is, so I won’t be askin’ you, but I want to thank you for takin’ care of Munoz. I think she’s a bit shook, beneath all her devil-may-care.”
With a hopeful air, she paused to see if he’d offer anything of interest on the subject, but he did not respond, and did not open his eyes.
Contemplating the baby again, she continued, “She’s goin’ to have a showin’—an art showin’, that is—and she’s that pleased about it, but tryin’ to act as though it’s nothin’ important.” She paused, and offered a bit apologetically, “We’ll probably have to show up and wave the flag, so brace your loins, or gird them, or whatever it is that’s done.”
She paused, but she could sense that he was still awake, and so she continued, “I think Munoz doesn’t like Gabriel as much as he likes her, which is a shame—I thought they’d make a go of it. She said he’s got a draw-back, but doesn’t want to air the laundry, so I don’t know much more than that.”
Thinking about it, she jostled Edward gently, hoping he’d take more formula before he fell asleep. “I also think Gabriel’s that fashed about it, and wants me to give him advice, but I’m the last person to give anyone advice—and I definitely don’t want to be stuck in the middle—so I’ll try to side-step him for the foreseeable future. Besides, I’ve got Munoz’s caseload to help sort out, not to mention that the mighty Commander Tasza is forming a stupid task-force, and has asked me to join up.”
Slowly, Acton’s eyes opened, and he contemplated the ceiling. “Has she indeed?”
Doyle raised her brows in surprise. “You didn’t know this?”
“I did not.”
Doyle sighed and carefully lifted the bottle from the baby, who’d fallen asleep despite her best efforts. “Well, I suppose that only confirms my suspicions. Since I’m the last person anyone would ever recruit for a task-force, I imagine she’s tossin’ me atop the heap on the fond hope she’ll catch a glimpse or two of you, in the process.”
Doyle had gained the impression, the few times she’d encountered the MI 5 Commander, that the woman was—very discreetly—carrying a torch for her husband. Not that anything would ever come of it; Acton was immune to such, and as for the Commander, she was all business, and not the type to allow a crush on a compatriot to distract her from the important work to be done.
Thoughtfully, Acton continued to contemplate the ceiling. “The Commander catches glimpses of me quite often, actually.”
“Oh?” Doyle teased. “Is there somethin’ the wife of your bosom should know?”
“A necessary evil, I’m afraid. I have to participate in ongoing strategy sessions with respect to counter-terrorism, and she helms the committee.”
“Oh—of course she does. Then mayhap instead of hopin’ to see you, she’s cooked up the task-force so as to have a chance to shove me down a well, or somethin’.”
“Mayhap,” he replied, imitating her.
Doyle couldn’t hold back a pleased smile—Acton hadn’t teased her about her accent in a while; she hadn’t realized it before, but now—now it seemed a good sign. “Well, just don’t let the Commander command you into bed, husband.”
“I’d make a harassment claim,” he replied.
Very pleased that her husband’s grim mood seemed to be lightening, Doyle observed, “She’d not stoop to harass you, Michael; she’s the type who admires from afar—an ice-maiden, she is.” Pausing, she thought about it. “Our Tasza is smart, and rather ruthless, and doesn’t have a lot of interest in all this silly ‘romance’ business.” Smiling, she carefully reached over so as to take his hand without waking baby Edward. “Which means, I suppose, that she’s the exact opposite of me.”
He pulled her hand to his mouth, to kiss its back. “There’s only one you—thank God.” He didn’t relinquish her hand, and ran a thumb over her palm in a very familiar gesture. “Is Edward asleep?”
Brightening, Doyle declared, “He is indeed—let me sniggle out from underneath without wakin’ him up; I’ve got it down to a science.”
This was yet another excellent sign; aside from eschewing alcohol, Acton had also been neglecting their sex life—or not exactly neglecting it; instead, he was going through the motions, but she could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. And as had been the case with everything else lately, she didn’t know how best to handle this turn of events—whether to back off, and treat him with kid gloves, or instead throw him onto the floor and insist that she have her way with him. It was a much-appreciated change that he was the one insisting, today.
At the conclusion of a rather subdued don’t-wake-up-the-baby round of sex, Doyle emerged from the bedroom in much better spirits than she’d gone in. Reynolds had not brought in the lunch tray—presumably after listening at the door to the carnal goings-on within—and so she went over to eat her lunch at the kitchen table whilst Acton headed over to his desk.
With some optimism, she watched her husband open his laptop and then settle in to review his caseload. He’d left Edward in the bedroom to continue his nap, and Doyle was filled with a cautious sense of relief, as this also seemed a good sign—ordinarily he kept the baby within the crook of his arm at all times.
Why, I believe he’s better, she thought; there’s nothing like a noontime shag to right one’s ship. And hopefully, she’d get some much-needed advice when they traveled to Trestles this coming week-end; that, and Acton would get some much-needed sleep.
Reminded, Doyle said to Reynolds, “Have you packed your bags, Reynolds? You’ll finally get a chance to sweeten-up Acton’s mother, and if you manage such a feat I’ll build a shrine to you on the very spot.”
Regretfully, the servant paused in pouring her coffee. “I’m afraid I have another obligation this weekend, madam. Colonel Kolchak has suggested that I look into joining the Orthodox Church, so that I may accompany Miss Gemma on Sundays. It is important to him that she practice her family’s religion.”
Doyle stared at him. “Oh—oh, well; that’s nice.” She’d never had the sense that the butler was religiously inclined, but it was true that he was devoted to Gemma, the nanny’s stepdaughter. They’d discovered recently that Gemma was actually a long-lost member of the Russian Imperial family—one of the last few survivors—and that the little girl had been spirited out of her home country because there were powerful people there who were not big fans of the renewed interest in the Romanovs.
Delicately, she ventured, “What does Mary think about this?” Mary, the nanny, was RC, like Doyle, and—one would think—not best pleased by this wrinkle.
He paused, and then offered, “Miss Mary has no objection, madam. Indeed, she would like me to accompany Miss Gemma, also.”
A bit troubled, Doyle addressed her meal. The nanny’s stepdaug
hter had been a loose-end child that Mary had taken-in until Colonel Kolchak had tracked her down and revealed the little girl’s astonishing secret. Kolchak belonged to a royalist group who wished to restore the royal family to preeminence in Russia, and—as Gemma was one of the few members of the bloodline who hadn’t been murdered in the last century—the little girl featured as an important component to such plans.
Naturally, those who were currently in power could not look upon such a plan with complacency, and so the girl had been hidden in London for the time being—where she’d been so well-hidden the royalists had lost track of her. When the Colonel had finally found her, they’d all decided she should stay where she was— matters were quite volatile back in Russia, and she’d managed to fall into a safe haven, living here within the protections of the House of Acton.
Since the girl viewed Mary as her mother, Doyle assumed the nanny would be included in any future plans, but this latest development—sending Gemma to an Orthodox church instead of a Roman Catholic one—seemed to indicate that Mary was to have little voice in Gemma’s life.
It was unfortunate, but there seemed to be nothing for it, and so Doyle tried not to dwell on Gemma’s fate overmuch—they were lucky she was alive, and safe. “Well, we’ll miss you at Trestles, Reynolds. Hudson’s not one to steer me right—thinks I’m too exalted, and such.”
“I do not ‘steer’ you, madam,” Reynolds corrected with some firmness. “I only offer my assistance where needed.”
With a gleam, she cast a glance at him sidelong. “Well, you could best assist me by steerin’ the Dowager into the duck pond—we could see if she floats, like a witch.”
But the servant was not going to make a rejoinder to such a provocative statement, and so he ignored it. “Is there indeed a duck pond, madam? I was unaware.”
“It has a gazebo,” Doyle added darkly. “And one of those bridges that pretends to be useful but is really just for show.”
“A folly,” he pronounced with satisfaction. “No doubt the handiwork of Capability Brown.”
Annoyed, Doyle stabbed at her quiche. “I wish you’d speak English, Reynolds, and at least give me a fightin’ chance.”
But at this juncture, her phone pinged, and Doyle was reminded by the text that she was late to accompany Munoz on a witness interview.
“Mother a’ mercy, I hate playin’ second fiddle,” she complained, as she quickly walked over to kiss Acton goodbye and take one last peek at Edward in the bedroom. “Give me my own caseload, husband—what’s the point of bein’ married to a DCI if I can’t get a few strings pulled?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he soothed, which were weasel-words if she’d ever heard them.
She headed for the door, where Reynolds was holding her coat. “I should be home in a few hours, then—hopefully this assignment will be somethin’ straightforward, for a change.”
The servant handed over her rucksack. “Very good, madam.”
She cautioned, “Watch yourself, Reynolds; don’t start puttin’ up icons, or waving incense around, whilst I’m gone.”
“Certainly not, madam.”
Smiling to herself, Doyle hurried down the hallway.
Chapter 14
While they were at it, he’d give Sergeant Ruppe a tip-off. He still felt a bit sorry for her, despite everything. She’d paid a terrible price.
Doyle was a few minutes late, so Munoz was waiting impatiently at the curb in an unmarked police vehicle. The doorman had sauntered over to have a word, since he’d met Munoz on previous occasions and was apparently as susceptible as the rest of the male population when it came to tempestuous beauties. It boggled the mind, truly.
Doyle had to interrupt by tapping the man’s shoulder, and thus prompted, he quickly opened her car door and tipped his hat. “Where’s your MAO?” Doyle asked the other girl, as she slid into the front seat. “Never say you’ve scared him off already.”
“He’d going to meet us at the assignment; he’s coming in from the race-course.”
Doyle raised her brows. “Havin’ a little lunch-time flutter, then? He sounds like he’s a bit o’ fun.”
Munoz made a face, as the doorman orchestrated an opening in the street traffic. “I doubt it, he’s not the fun type.”
There was a slight nuance underlying the words that made Doyle’s antenna quiver, although she wasn’t certain why—could it be that Munoz was attracted to the un-fun MAO? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask a follow-up question, but then she paused; better to be as subtle as a serpent—it was never easy to pry personal information out of Munoz.
The doorman made a smiling point of waving them off, and Doyle teased, “Now, there’s a husband-candidate, Munoz. You’d always know where he was.”
“No; he meets a lot of wealthy, lonely women,” she pointed out. “Too risky.”
“Ah. Hadn’t considered that angle.”
“Consider it considered.”
Doyle offered fairly, “On the bright side, he’d know all the good gossip.”
Munoz watched the road as she reached for her coffee cup. “It wouldn’t be good gossip unless it was about people you were interested in, Doyle. No offense to Acton, but I think it’s a pretty dull building, with all that old money. If I wanted good gossip, I would marry the Desk Sergeant at the Met—he’s somebody who hears everything.”
Doyle paused, her scalp prickling. Oh, she thought; Oh—
Munoz glanced at her, the coffee cup poised at her mouth. “What?”
Doyle closed her eyes and tried to catch the elusive thought, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “Nothin’. It was somethin’ about the Desk Sergeant, but now I’ve lost it.”
Munoz eyed her with interest. “Do you know some gossip about him? That would be hard to believe—he’s another one who’s not much fun.”
Frowning, Doyle considered the faded dashboard before her, and wished she knew what it was that had caught her attention. “No—no, I don’t know much about him at all.”
Munoz shrugged and returned her attention to the road ahead. “I don’t think there is much to know; talk about someone who’s married to his job.”
“Aye, that,” Doyle agreed. “I can’t hold a candle.”
They drove for a few moments in silence. Thinking to return to the Munoz-and-her-complicated-love-life subject, Doyle offered, “I saw Gabriel this mornin’ at the Deli.”
“Did you? I’m surprised, Tasza is keeping him busy, lately.”
“He did seem a bit pulled-about,” Doyle ventured, hoping for insights.
No insights were forthcoming, however, as Munoz only said, “He’s working on some massive project—under wraps, of course.” This went without saying; MI 5 work was necessarily kept very secret—all the better to surprise the terrorists, and put a spike in their evil schemes.
Doyle offered, “He said he wants to meet up with me and hear about Ireland, but I can only assume that he’s bein’ nice—no one ever truly wants to hear about your holiday.” That, and the fact that when Gabriel had made the aforesaid statement, it hadn’t been true.
But Munoz only drew down a corner of her mouth. “More like he wants to probe you about your techniques.”
Surprised, Doyle raised her brows. “What techniques are those?”
Munoz shrugged slightly. “Gabriel’s like Williams—he thinks you have good hunches. He was asking me about it—asking if I’d noticed, and so I gave him the same speech I gave Williams; we can’t waste resources on hunches.”
With a mighty effort, Doyle tried to contain her extreme alarm. “Oh—oh, is that so? Faith, Munoz—I don’t think my hunches are any better or worse than everyone else’s.”
“No, they’re better,” Munoz reluctantly admitted. “You have solid hunches, and a lot of them pay out. Gabriel was telling me about it—about how you saved him from walking into a trap, once, because you had a hunch.”
Hastily, Doyle explained, “Oh—oh; that it was when the ACC was settin’ up a tr
ap for you too, Munoz—remember? It wasn’t so much a hunch as I just realized they were doing the same thing to Gabriel.”
“Well, he’s a fan.”
“Only as a friend,” Doyle hastened to assure her.
“Of course, only as a friend,” Munoz replied impatiently, somewhat insulted that Doyle could even imply it could be anything other.
Seeing an opening, Doyle tentatively probed, “How are things goin’ with him? If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but if you do, that’s fine too—sometimes it helps to have a listenin’ ear, when you want to sort things out.”
But Munoz seemed to find this amusing, and glanced Doyle’s way with a small sound of derision. “You’re not really one to give advice, Doyle. Did you ever have a boyfriend, before you married Acton?”
“No,” Doyle admitted. “But marriage takes a bit of sortin’ out, too.”
There was a small pause, and then Munoz acknowledged, “I just don’t feel the—the allegiance, I guess is the word. I wish I did.”
Doyle nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. Faith, she’d transferred her allegiance to Acton practically the first moment she’d met the man, and had done so without a qualm, despite always having kept to herself, for obvious reasons. On the other hand, it was her trusty instinct that had told her he was worthy of her allegiance in the first place—not all women had such an advantage, as they saw in this business all too often. There’d be a lot fewer homicides if everyone could gauge who was loyal, and who was not. Her scalp prickled yet again, but she was already annoyed because she didn’t understand why it had prickled the first time, and so she ignored it.
Munoz continued, “If Gabriel’s not the one, then I don’t want to waste any more time. But then I’m not sure if I’m throwing away a good prospect trying to obtain something I’m never going to find.”
Doyle nodded in understanding, as this was a perpetual dilemma for many a fair maiden. “For what it’s worth, Munoz, I think it’s never perfect—everyone’s got flaws. Instead, you need to feel that allegiance, just like you said. Once you feel that allegiance, the flaws aren’t a big problem—they just make it interestin’.” Acton, of course, being an excellent case-in-point.
Murder in Just Cause Page 8
