by Jane Cousins
Patricia finished her mineral water in one big gulp. That was just Luis talking. Except Cullen had used that annoying nickname he had for her, making it personal. She chose to ignore his comment. Though internally she was picking it apart, looking at it from every angle. What did he mean by that statement? Goddess, the fact they were wearing other identities this evening just added layers upon layers of possible nuance to his statement.
She gave up her analysis and shifted her attention back to the room. Patricia had never heard of the exclusive Knightsbridge Regent Club before this evening. But it was a breathtaking venue. The building displaying a rare mish mash of both staid and gothic elements that worked in a surprising pleasing manner.
Established in 1805, the former men’s only club was still an exclusive club. With notoriously expensive yearly fees that ensured the committee had the means to deny membership applications based upon an individual’s bank balance, rather than gender or colour. Certainly that was their story, and held up much better in court than any other argument.
The party for this evening was being held in the Westminster Room. Not just perfect because of the exceedingly long mahogany bar, but because some time in the last twenty or so years the rear wall of the room had been replaced with glass.
Tonight it was the perfect backdrop as light snow fell, coating the statuary and trees. Most apt as the jazz band off to the side began to play Let it snow. The abundance of white and silver Christmas decorations dripping from the high ceilings made the room seem doubly festive. The decorating committee deserved a pat on the back. As hundreds of small glass lanterns, twinkling with battery operated candles, made it seem as if the decorations were festooned with stars.
The only reminder that this was a Bailly Prive function at all was the large, yet tasteful poster near the entrance hawking the school’s coming Christmas Musicale.
The school had to be counting itself exceedingly lucky to have connections to such an exclusive club as the Knightsbridge Regent. But based on the list of attendees it wasn’t so surprising.
Wealth. This club all but reeked of it. As did the party-goers in that understated way only the very rich seemed to pull off so effortlessly. The women attending here tonight, their dresses might err on the side of classic, if staid, but in most cases they were one of a kind designs. And their jewellery, no one was wearing anything as large and gaudy as Patricia’s ring, but though understated, the necklaces, bracelets and in one case a small, but tasteful tiara, would probably send an insurance agent into shock.
“You know.” Patricia turned her head, smiling as she whispered into Cullen’s ear, acting as if she were issuing a naughty invitation. “If you wanted to launder money, the school would be the perfect tool. Look at the crowd here tonight, the list of countries they represent.”
“My thoughts exactly, that’s why I’ve been keeping an eye on the donation urn.”
“Donation urn?”
“Yes, over by the entrance.”
Patricia looked to the right, noting a large gaudy silver barrel type object located near the wide double doors, two large gentlemen standing on either side of it. Even as she watched a newly arrived couple walked by, the man dropping an envelop into it. “Seriously? With the school fees they charge? How much more do you think the parents are expected to shell out at a function like this?”
“I imagine the school stands to rake in millions. And not just tonight. They have an elaborate Easter function. An Autumnal feast. And a Summer regatta. More important is the fact that Mara joined the Parents’ Committee soon after her marriage and was appointed Treasurer.”
“Very interesting.” Patricia absently reached up, running an idle finger along the back of his neck.
Cullen tamped down on the urge to shudder, Patricia was only touching him because she was immersed in a role, he didn’t have her yet. Get your head in the game. “You know what else is interesting about Bailly Prive? In the past four years, seven children, along with their parents, have died. Five car accidents. A house fire. And a boating incident.”
“That sounds like an above norm statistic but some of these children do come from rather violent countries.”
“Ah, but here’s the other thing about the seven children. They were all under the age of seven, their first year of school, and all were attending Bailly Prive on scholarship. More noteworthy, not a single child’s body was ever recovered, just the parents.”
“That is suspicious. What do the police think?”
Cullen shrugged. “They have yet to make the link. Only one of the accidents took place here in England. The rest are spread out. France. Poland. Russia. India.”
“And you think Mara has something to do with these accidents and the missing, presumed dead children?”
“Maybe. Don’t ask me how. But yes. The timing? Her sudden involvement with the school. The first child died, went missing, just after she began dating that divorcee with the son attending Bailly. She either struck out with him or found a better patsy in the widowed Surgeon. And five months later she’s married, an instant mother and the Treasurer of the Parents’ Committee. I don’t like coincidences.”
A ripple of excitement went through the crowd, drawing their attention to a newcomer who sauntered into the party as if she owned it. Tall. Carelessly mussed black short hair. Flashing blue-green eyes. And dark coffee coloured skin, displayed to perfection by a figure hugging bright red dress. This woman was not only used to attention, she actively courted it.
“Who is that?”
“Lady Elena Carlyle, First Patron.” Cullen nuzzled Patricia’s shoulder but his attention was riveted on Elena Carlyle as she sauntered through the crowd. Something about the way she moved triggered all his instincts. Yes, she was inherently graceful. But it was more than that. The way the crowd parted for her, he was guessing on some sub-conscious level they realised what Elena truly was, a predator.
“First Patron?” Patricia queried, unsurprised when the newcomer came to a halt, joining Mara’s little circle.
“A title bestowed on the school’s biggest current donor.”
“And how long has Lady Carlyle held that position?”
“Approximately four years.” Cullen flicked through his mental files. He’d studied up on all those connected to the school. Lord Carlyle was a generous benefactor to a number of charities and institutions. When he’d seen the name it hadn’t raised any red flags. But now, watching Elena casually insert herself into the group with Mara, his inner alarms were all clanging.
“And the husband?”
“Carlyle? He’s in his late-eighties. Rarely leaves the family estate these days.”
“Have they been married long?” Elena Carlyle wore that red dress well, and from the smirking tilt of her lips Patricia was guessing she knew it.
“Not quite five years. First marriage for both.”
“Interesting timing.” Patricia murmured.
“Very.” Cullen murmured his agreement.
“You know what’s even more interesting? Mara’s husband, I think there might be something wrong with him.”
Cullen should have felt a little embarrassed. He, who missed nothing. But there were a lot of players, and a plethora of factors he was trying to assess, filter and store. It’s why he hadn’t baulked at bringing Patricia along on this potentially dangerous mission. She had a top notch eye for detail and anomalies.
Mara’s husband, Reni Ausson, didn’t look that different from many other husbands in attendance this evening. Vaguely bored. Probably wishing he was anywhere but here at this fancy party. But Patricia was right, there was something off about Ausson. He stood just slightly outside of the circle of women. Making no attempt to converse, or look around for more suitable companions to mix and mingle with.
Hmmm, Ausson seemed to lack… animation, if that were possible.
With Elena’s arrival the five women huddled in closer together than ever. The Headmistress, the executive assistant, the Head of the Parent’
s Committee, the Treasurer and their most generous donor.
Perhaps the group were congratulating themselves on a job well done tonight. Hmm, Cullen hoped his family were recording this. From his current angle it looked as if Mara were handing over something to Elena Carlyle, who leaned over momentarily and then lifted her head abruptly, searching the room. By The Mists, the way she moved, it reminded him of something but he couldn’t connect the dots.
The group of women abruptly broke apart. Elena stalking off, the Headmistress and assistant trailing her. Mara turned to her husband, grabbing his hand, suddenly Reni Ausson smiled, his eyes sparkling with awareness. The two moving towards the dance floor. Damn, Cullen would have liked to continue watching Elena Carlyle stalk through the room with obvious purpose, brusquely greeting people as she cut through the crowd, but Mara dancing? That was atypical.
“Can you dance?”
“Can you?” Patricia shot back, challenge gleaming in those blue eyes. Damn, he missed her copper flecked hazel gaze.
“Of course. My Aunt Mildred taught me and all the cousins. Said you never know when the foxtrot might save your life.”
“And has it ever?”
“Not the foxtrot, no. But the samba, now that’s a different story.”
Patricia laughed, allowing Cullen to pick up her hand and commence leading her towards the dance floor. Forced to shoulder his way through the quartet of men who had been hovering in their vicinity. Destined to be disappointed as he would never drop his guard when it came to Trix and her safety.
He wasn’t surprised to find his dance partner moved like liquid silk. Sequins radiating rainbows of sparkling light outwards as Patricia moved expertly in his arms. The tips of the feathers covering the straps of her dress swaying hypnotically along with her.
Cullen ensured there always remained at least three couples between them and Mara and her husband. Hmmm, Ausson was chatting to his wife as they danced, but she seemed distracted. Granting him the occasional mono-syllabic response but her attention was directed elsewhere. It was hard for Cullen to confirm, given his height and the crush of the crowd, but he had the distinct feeling that Mara was monitoring Elena’s purposeful stalking through the room.
He wished he had a better vantage point. And what he wouldn’t give to find out what Mara had handed Elena to have her stalking off with such purpose through the throng of party-goers. He had to console himself with the fact that at least two of his family members were tasked with taking footage of the entire room. Later, back at his hi-tech lair, he would be able to scroll through the footage at his leisure. For now though, he should concentrate on dancing. Not hard to do as Patricia added a little shimmy to her movements. A very Evangeline move. But his body’s response? That was all on him. He pulled her in close and took a deep breath, delighting in her scent, the one thing she hadn’t changed tonight: citrus, passionflower and Tahitian vanilla. That was all Trix.
He swung her to the left, then pulled her back in close. Delighted to hear her expel a small, surprised gasp. Moving her to the right, matching her as they twirled forward several steps then back in unison. That move brought them a little closer to Mara and her husband. Focusing their way he caught a glimpse, something… too brief to catalogue and assess, but Mara’s chin abruptly lifted and her eyes flared with interest. Cullen was about to twirl Patricia to the right to get a better view when off to their left came the sound of loud popping, accompanied by several brief, bright flashes. Screams sounded, the scent of smoke suddenly tainting the air.
What the hell? The crowd broke for the exits like a herd of startled sheep. More popping and flashes followed. Fire. Overhead great swathes of white and silver tinsel were aflame. The flames racing across the synthetic material like it had been soaked in gasoline. A hoarse male cry of pain reverberated from deeper in the room. And the crowd responded again. Surging harder for the exits.
Cullen would have liked to have fought the flow. But that would draw attention. So he made sure to pull Patricia in tight, elbowing away one large gentlemen who threatened to bowl them over in his panic.
More of the tinsel was aflame now, burning wisps and sparks hitting the bottle-necked crowd. Fresh gouts of fire flaring off to their right, sending that section of the crowd scattering, ramming into those trying in vain to likewise get to the exit doors. Another harsh cry of pain sounded, male, terrified, only to be abruptly cut off mid scream. What the hell was going on back there?
A lady struggled by, brutally pushing people out of her way, her eyes wide and full of stark horror, a splatter of blood arcing across the side of her face.
Common sense reared, despite his curiosity, Cullen couldn’t afford to break cover. Not when he had no idea how many adversaries were in play, what their targets were and how they were managing to create such widespread panic but still somehow manoeuvre the crowd. Case in point, as a flash of fire radiated from their right again. Sending the crowd surging sideways and forward.
This time though several of the heavy boughs of fiery tinsel broke, the ends trailing downwards. More screams echoed. He felt Patricia flinch beside him, but there was no time to ask if she was alright, as they were forced by the surrounding press of bodies out through the double doors and into the cavernous marble foyer. The fresh air hitting his face a relief. The crowd able to disperse better in this wider space, all moving fast for the doors leading to the street.
Studying the gaps and the varying speed of those around them Cullen was able to pull Patricia off to the side, heading towards the Transportal he’d established in the utility room under the main staircase leading up to the private dining room.
A glimpse of lavender caught his eye. Mara. He glanced back again as the crowd continued to spill out the double doors of the function room. For a moment their eyes met. Mara raised her arm. Gun. The crowd still jostling past them made it impossible to move. He could almost see Mara’s trigger finger flex, as the silenced gun made three small dull popping sounds and a man in a tuxedo, who had just cut in front of Cullen, went down with a hoarse gasp.
Fuck, his cover was blown. Could this Op be any more of a miserable failure?
Patricia let out a small, startled cry. Shit, Cullen turned lightning fast. The scent of blood filling his nostrils. No. No. Please, no.
Chapter Twelve
“Sit down, before you fall down.”
“I’m fine. I should be the one tending to you. You’re the one who was shot.”
“For the third and final time. I was not shot. I was just grazed by a piece of flying marble.” Patricia fussed with the tissue that she’d shoved into the bodice of her dress. Damn, the cut was still leaking. She heard Cullen groan, he looked suddenly very pale under all that fake tan. “Head between your knees. Unless you think you’re going to throw up?”
“I’m not going to throw up.” Was he? He’d never been upset by the sight of blood before, but something about that spreading stain across Patricia’s cleavage made him feel distinctly woozy. All his instincts firing at once. Wanting to kill someone in retribution. At the same time he was fighting the urge to find a fifty foot piece of cotton wool and wrap Patricia in it and tuck her away somewhere safe.
And his bloody magic refused to let it go. It kept re-running the logistics, the factors, the vectors. Each different scenario advising him what he could have done to avoid Patricia getting hurt. Which was annoying, and unhelpful. The past was the past. But his bloody magic was fixated upon re-winding the clock and un-doing the damage.
“I’ll be right back.” Patricia ducked into the master bathroom and ditched the soiled tissue, grabbing a big wad of toilet paper instead, folding it, and placing it carefully under the strap of her dress to keep it in place.
The cut stung a little, but if she was rating her aches and pains. Then she would be starting the list with her face, where the youth serum was really making its presence felt now. Grrr, it was currently set to a medium burn, and was only going to get worse if she didn’t do something about i
t soon.
Then there was her right ankle, the one she’d twisted slightly in the exodus. The shoes came in third, her feet, ouch. The dress and her eyeballs were vying for fourth place. It was all she could do not to scratch and scratch and scratch.
The cut, high on her right breast, was barely making the grade, except that it was choosing to bleed rather copiously. Thankfully Cullen’s reaction to the sight of her blood was proving both amusing and distracting. Who knew the master spy was a little phobic. Though he claimed he’d never had a reaction like this before. That it was the sight of her bleeding that was causing him to have issues.
Also nicely distracting was the fact that she was getting to have a good snoop around Cullen’s private quarters. He’d sensibly Transportaled them to his house, rather than the Annexe. Heavens, given the time difference, imagine the two of them stumbling into the Annexe dressed like this, Patricia bleeding. The grapevine would ignite.
Cullen’s master suite was designed along the same lines as the rooms downstairs. Dark wood floors, antique furniture, white walls, ceiling fans, and lots of green plants. The look gave off a very distinct British India vibe that was both chic and comfortable. She found herself liking it despite herself.
Returning to the bedroom she was pleased to see that Cullen was sitting upright on the large teak sleigh bed, his colour having returned to normal, an assessing look in his eyes as he catalogued Patricia’s well being with an intent look. “For the record, any injury incurred as the result of a ricochet still counts as being shot.”
“Excellent. Then I can cross that experience off my bucket list.”
Cullen stood up, grabbed Trix’s hand and made her sit. “You should get off that ankle.” He really did miss nothing.
“It’s fine, I’ll put some ice on it later. So… what the hell just happened?”
“Good question. I wish I knew. Somehow, Mara made me.” He remembered seeing her raise the gun in his direction… hmmm, something off there, he’d have to review his recordings.
