Honor’s Revenge: Masters’ Admiralty, book 4

by Mari Carr

  Lancelot gave her a smile that only made him look even more attractive. Hugo was once more surprised by the flash of attraction to his companion. It had started on the plane and grown with each passing day.

  “Thank you,” Lancelot said. “I’m sorry about the poem.”

  “And you’re British? Wow. You’re the trifecta, aren’t you?”

  “Sylvia Hayden, may I introduce you to Lance Knight?” They’d decided to shorten the knight’s name to something more common.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “Same,” Lancelot replied, nodding his head.

  “How have you been, Sylvia?” Hugo asked.

  “I’m just fine. I can’t tell you what a nice surprise this is. What on earth are you doing in Charleston? How did y’all know how to find me?”

  “I’m in Charleston for a few days doing research on a new book, about the influence, and counter-influence, of French culture and law abroad. After this, we’re going to New Orleans.” The idea for this book had started as a cover story, but it wasn’t a half-bad book idea. Inspiration always struck at the oddest times. “Lance is helping me with the research.”

  Sylvia blinked in surprise. “He’s a…grad student?”

  Hugo smiled. “No, no, no. He works for a security company. He does some personal security, but also is a trained investigator, and his English is better than mine. He helps me with interviews,” Hugo lied. Not that he would say this to Lancelot, but Hugo was fairly certain his spoken English was more grammatically correct than the other man’s.

  “Jack of all trades,” Lancelot added, oozing charm.

  “It sounds fascinating. I hope you’ll fill me in on more of the details.”

  Hugo nodded. Maybe by the time they left America, he would have not only the answers they needed to stop the Mastermind, but a solid outline for a new book. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by. I wasn’t sure how long we would be in Charleston, so I didn’t want to make plans I could not keep.”

  “And I’m guessing you found my address, since you’re the investigator,” Sylvia said to Lancelot.

  “I did,” Lancelot confirmed.

  “If this is not a good time…” Hugo let the words trail off.

  “It’s perfect. I hope you weren’t just sitting here all day.”

  “We’ve only been here a few minutes.”

  “I’ve thought of you so often over the years, Dr. Marchand. You were such a wonderful professor.”

  “Hugo,” he corrected. “I think it’s time you started calling me Hugo.”

  She grinned as she said, “Hugo.”

  “If you do not have plans, perhaps we could converse?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Excuse my manners. Keeping you both out here in the yard. Please come in.”

  Hugo had already discovered after just a few short days in South Carolina, conversations weren’t rushed and they didn’t happen without some sort of refreshment being served. Primarily cold, sugary tea, called “sweet tea,” though just the thought of drinking that made his stomach turn.

  “I have some lemonade in the refrigerator,” she said as they mounted the steps. “Or maybe you’d like tea?”

  If only she meant a nice cup of hot tea. Iced tea was bad enough, never mind sweetened to the extreme. A slight grumble from Lancelot proved his friend had the same disdain for sweet tea that he did.

  “Lemonade sounds…lovely,” Hugo said.

  “You live here alone?” Lancelot asked as they reached the door.

  Sylvia nodded. “Yes. My parents are terrible worriers though, so for their peace of mind, I’ve got security cameras set up all around the place.”

  “What security cameras?” Lancelot demanded, looking around, until Hugo elbowed him. “Professional curiosity,” he quickly added. “I didn’t see any security.”

  “That pretty hummingbird feeder is actually a camera.” She pointed to a red and yellow item hanging from the large oak tree.

  The whole time they’d been sitting on her porch, they’d been on camera.

  Lancelot stepped closer to examine it. “This is next level. Who made it?”

  “Actually, my whole security system is custom-made. Come on in and we’ll have a proper chat.”

  She swung the door open and entered. Lancelot reached out a long arm and held the door open so Hugo could enter. The house wasn’t large by any means. It was one story, but it had a nice open floor plan that made it seem bigger than it was. Large windows covered with sheer white curtains filled the space with bright, cheerful sunlight.

  She continued walking until the three of them reached the kitchen. Sylvia reached for a kettle on the stove, holding it up. “Hot tea, not cold, right?”

  Lancelot smiled as if she’d offered him a steak dinner. “Hot tea would be perfect.”

  She filled the kettle with water, and then went to the refrigerator. “And how about you, Dr. Mar…Hugo? Lemonade? Hot tea? Or tea as God intended it—sweet and ice cold?”

  Hugo chuckled. “At the risk of offending your gracious Southern hospitality, I’m afraid I’m with Lance,” he just caught himself before saying Lancelot, “on this. Hot tea, please.”

  Hugo glanced around the kitchen as she put two Lipton tea bags in mugs while they waited for the water to boil. “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Just a drop or two of milk,” Lancelot replied.

  Hugo nodded to indicate he’d like the same.

  “Sacrilege,” she teased.

  He had always found her Southern accent incredibly charming.

  She sighed over their lack of desire for sugar, but she did so with a pleasant smile that caught the attention of parts of him that shouldn’t be involved in this conversation. A quick peek at Lancelot proved the knight was just as taken by her.

  Once their hot tea was prepared, and she’d poured herself a tall glass of the dreadful sweet version, she led them to the living room. The house was tidy, though not overly clean.

  She must have noticed Hugo looking around. “I apologize for the house. I tend to live by the lick-and-a-promise style of cleaning. My grandma was the neat freak, and without her…” Her words drifted away.

  Hugo couldn’t exactly say that he already knew her grandmother had died a year ago, so instead he said, “I remember your fondness for your family. Particularly your grandmother.”

  “She was an amazing woman.”

  “I believe you have several poems about her in your second book.”

  Sylvia’s cheeks pinked a little. “You’ve read my books?”

  “Of course. You were a skilled wordsmith, even when you were younger.”

  “Everything I wrote back then was a bit naive, a bit romantic.”

  Hugo shrugged as he smiled. “I am French. I see no problem with romance.”

  “Well, thank you for reading my work. I’m honored. And you’re right, several of the works in the second book are about her.” Sylvia glanced at Lancelot, turning her smile on him. “And how do you like being an investigator?”

  “It’s interesting. Always something different. What I’m doing with Hugo is nice. Not dangerous. I also freelance for the London office of Cohortes Praetorianae.” Should Sylvia decide to check, Cohortes Praetorianae was a very real security firm, that in part acted as the public face for the security officers of the territory of Rome. Lorelei arranged for Lancelot’s name, picture, and a fictitious bio and email address to be posted on the Cohortes Praetorianae website.

  When Hugo had asked Lancelot why they didn’t use whatever company was the equivalent front for England’s security officers, Lancelot had said that involving multiple countries with different languages would add layers of complexity if Sylvia became suspicious and decided to check their story.

  Hugo was going to make sure that didn’t happen. He was also going to make sure that their coming here and talking to her didn’t result in Sylvia ending up in danger.

  “I bet you have some wonderful stories,” she said.

  Lance
lot grinned. “Not that I can tell you about.”

  Sylvia pursed her lips. “Now that is certainly intriguing. I might just have to make you talk. I’ll put sugar in your tea until you spill the beans.”

  Lancelot laid a protective palm over the top of his cup. “Bloody Yanks.”

  “I am certainly not a Yankee. You take that back.”

  They shared a chuckle, then sipped in companionable silence. Hugo remembered this about her—that she seemed very at home in her own skin, and was therefore easy to be around. She stood. “I’m getting a refill. Can I offer you more tea? I promise, no sugar.”

  Lancelot eyed her suspiciously.

  Sylvia laughed as she walked into the kitchen, calling out, “Hugo, do you do much guest lecturing these days?”

  Hugo raised his voice to reply. “No. Most of my time is spent in research and writing. Though I do miss teaching sometimes.”

  “You were a wonderful teacher. You and Mrs. Rutherford, a teacher I had in high school, were my two favorites.”

  He and Lancelot shared a speaking glance, but shifted back to polite smiles when she came back with a tray bearing the pitcher of sweet tea, teapot, and a small creamer that looked like a cow.

  “Mrs. Rutherford?” Hugo asked casually, fighting not to look at Lancelot. They’d spent nearly an hour last night debating how best to question her about her former teacher. Now, within moments, she was dumping the opportunity right on their laps.

  “Alicia Rutherford,” Sylvia said. “She was my English teacher at Exeter, so you wouldn’t have known her.”

  “And what made her a favorite?” Lancelot asked casually.

  “She was the first to suggest I write poetry, and over the years, we’ve remained in touch. She’s become my mentor. She taught me more than just how to use words to express myself, but taught me how to listen, and how to really understand people. Then she was the beta reader for my first two books, offering critiques and comments.”

  “She sounds wonderful. You went to school here in Charleston, correct?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes, Exeter isn’t far from here at all.”

  “Ah, then you must see her regularly, how nice.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hugo saw Lancelot’s eyebrows rise a little. He was impressed. Hugo was frankly impressed with himself.

  Sylvia shook her head. “No. I haven’t seen her in years.” Then she crinkled her nose. “This will probably sound funny to y’all, but we correspond through letters. I know most people consider that an archaic practice, but we both believe letter writing is a lost art form.”

  Hugo had to look away from Lancelot after he gave Hugo a what the fuck look that almost made him laugh.

  Sylvia must have noticed as well. “You can laugh,” she said to Lancelot. “My family teases me all the time about my old soul.”

  Lancelot gave her a questioning look that she answered. “That means I’m a big fan of things that were in vogue when my grandmother was my age. I write letters to friends rather than text or email. I have a cell phone, but it’s typically in my purse and—to my mother’s dismay—usually turned off or the battery’s dead. I never remember to charge the damn thing. I use it more like a camera than a communication device. I prefer to write my poems by hand, only typing them into the computer once they’re complete, because my editor is not an old soul.”

  She smiled ruefully. “I say that, but I love Instagram. Posting pictures of my sketches, and my poems, on there is how I was able to make a career of doing what I love. And I think it’s beautiful that I can share my art with people all over the world. Before, going to a museum, buying a book of poetry…those were things that required some level of access and privilege. So many people rail against phones, and true, I would rather write a letter than a text, but the accessibility of information—art, science, politics—is unprecedented in human history.”

  Hugo had a vivid flashback to standing in front of the small seminar-style class while she answered a question he’d posed with a clarity and insight that had been almost intimidating.

  “I like Instagram,” Lancelot said. “It seems like a nicer place than Facebook.”

  Hugo wasn’t sure when or where they’d lost control of this conversation, but he couldn’t figure out how to ask her when the last time she’d talked to Alicia had been without the question seeming odd, and potentially alerting her to their ulterior motives.

  Sylvia stood up and walked to a decorative cardboard box. It was pink with a floral design that did, indeed, look very grandmotherly. Taking off the lid, she withdrew a stack of letters, still in envelopes that were tied together with a ribbon. “See? I know it’s a bit cliché with the ribbon, because they aren’t love letters. These are my correspondences with Alicia.”

  Lancelot stood and walked over to her. He ran his finger over the flowery box with a grin. “This looks like something my nan would have had.” Then he glanced at the envelopes. “Even the stationary does. I swear my nan had that very pattern. Flowers on the inside of the envelope. She thought it was very classy.”

  She pulled out the topmost letter with a laugh, then flipped up the slightly torn backflap to reveal the floral paper within. “Your nan had excellent taste. And actually, this type of floral pattern is back in fashion. Though I’m not sure it was ever out of fashion here in the Carolinas.”

  Lancelot took the envelope, pretending to peer at the floral lining. When Sylvia glanced away, he flipped it over to check the postmark, his face serious for a moment before the smile was back in place. He handed Sylvia the envelope.

  “Is she still teaching?” Hugo asked, making sure to keep the question casual, like he didn’t care about the answer and was just trying to keep the conversation going.

  “No. She retired a few months ago. Out of the blue, really. I’ve only spoken to her once since then.” Then Sylvia looked up at Lancelot. “You’re very tall, aren’t you?”

  Lancelot flashed her a smile. “According to me mum, there must have been a giant or two swinging around on our family tree.”

  “I like that.” Sylvia walked back to her notebook, jotting something down.

  “What are you writing?” Lancelot asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “The inspiration for my poems comes from others. My dad calls me a professional eavesdropper. I love listening to people talk, tell stories, or share anecdotes, then I try and understand the why of it. Why they decided to tell that story. Why they felt the way they did. I try to hear what they don’t say, see what they can’t. Like the giants on your family tree. That’s such a clever concept, turn of phrase. I can almost see those two giants, swinging from the branches of your family tree.”

  “That’s cool,” Lancelot said. “I don’t think that way. Mum made that giant comment a million times while I kept growing taller. Never once imagined the actual giants. Now I am.”

  “The real question will be, what are the giants?”

  “Oh, uh, so not real giants.”

  “Of course real giants, but not just physical giants. What is it that’s in your family tree—your past, your inescapable genetic code—that defines you? Your height is one of the things that defines you, but how has that shaped you? Why is it the first thing I noticed when I looked at you? Why is it that stories of giants—people larger than average—are so prevalent in different cultures’ stories and mythologies? What is it about tall people that we both revere and fear?”

  Lancelot and Hugo both looked at her. Lancelot cleared his throat. “I think my grandad was just really tall…”

  Sylvia smiled, but didn’t look up from her notebook. “I’ll title it ‘Lance and the Giants’ just for you.”

  Lancelot shook his head. “Lancelot.”

  Sylvia sucked in a soft breath. “Is that your given name?”

  Lancelot cast Hugo a quick glance that told him he hadn’t meant to reveal that. The knight was falling under her spell. He couldn’t fault the man for it. He was becoming quite enamored as well.

/>   Hugo shrugged casually.

  “Uh, yeah. Bit silly though, so—”

  “That is the greatest name ever! You should go by that. Lance just doesn’t evoke the same romantic, tragic feeling, does it?”

  Sylvia was…refreshing, and Hugo recalled why he’d enjoyed their political debates so much.

  They had spent hours last night plotting their subterfuge, Lancelot assuming Sylvia would operate with the same level of paranoia as them. The meeting with the Trinity Masters, and then Eric’s “you’re behind enemy lines” statement, had fired off some pretty fanciful ideas in their minds, and while Hugo had known her when she was seventeen, he’d wondered—worried—if she’d changed.

  She hadn’t. Not a bit.

  She was just as open and thoughtful as she’d ever been. And while Hugo admired those attributes, part of him worried about people in the future taking advantage of her kindness.

  “Lancelot and the Giants,” Sylvia murmured as she wrote it in her notebook. She glanced back up at him. “I…should…”

  Her eyes had gotten a faraway look to them, one that Hugo recognized instantly. Sylvia was itching to sit down with her notebook and actually start the first draft of her poem. He often disappeared into his mind as well whenever he was working on a journal article or developing a new academic theory or model.

  Lancelot, however, did not recognize the look. “You should what?”

  Sylvia blinked a couple of times before managing to shut down the creative side of her brain that was dying to write. “I’m afraid I’m easily distracted. What were we talking about?”

  “Your old teacher,” Lancelot supplied. “I think it’s a shame the two of you haven’t seen each other in so long.”

  “Well, life happens, doesn’t it? And she’s had some sadness. The last time we spoke, she called and told me her husband had passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Hugo said.

  Sylvia shook her head. “She called one night a month or so ago to tell me that Mr. Rutherford had died rather unexpectedly. She had to get off the phone quickly, said someone was at the door. I tried to call back the next day, but the number was disconnected.”