by Mari Carr
And up. And up.
The man was huge—nearly as tall as Lancelot, but broader. He wore a plain black T-shirt, and his hair was cut in a fade—nearly shaved on the sides and close cut on top. He looked more like a bodybuilder than a computer geek, and the large black-frame glasses perched on his nose seemed like a sub-par disguise.
For a moment, Hugo wondered if Sylvia and this man were siblings in name only. Oscar had skin considerably darker than Sylvia’s, but when he smiled and reached for his sister, the resemblance was there. They had the same smile, and now that Hugo was looking for it, the same nose, same tilt to their eyes.
Oscar hugged his sister, the muscles in his arms straining the hems of his sleeves. He looked at Hugo and Lancelot and frowned. When he released Sylvia from the hug, he kept an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side.
Lancelot bumped his shoulder gently, and then whispered, “We may have a problem.”
“Who are these two?” Sylvia’s brother asked.
“Oscar, this is one of my college professors from Northwestern, Dr. Hugo Marchand, and his friend, Lancelot Knight. He’s a private investigator from England. Have you been taking your medicine?”
“Medicine?” Oscar asked, his gaze still locked on them. “What are they doing here with you?”
Sylvia retrieved the pills, then reached into a mini-fridge tucked in the corner and pulled out a bottle of water. “Don’t be rude. Dr. Marchand is in Charleston doing research for a book—he’s a political science professor—and he stopped by to visit me. He’s on my Christmas card list. I’m giving him and Lancelot a tour of the city. Take these.”
Oscar looked at the two pills she placed in his palm, then gulped them down without water. “You and that Christmas card list…” Oscar stared at Lancelot. “What kind of name is Lancelot?”
“Really, Oscar?” Sylvia said, her hands on her hips. “He’s an investigator. I was telling him how you’d managed to track down Mrs. Rutherford and he was impressed. Thought the two of you could talk shop.”
“A French professor and a British investigator traveling together?” Oscar gave his sister a look that told Hugo he worried about her innate kindness as well. Clearly, her brother thought he and Lancelot were here for some insidious reason. Which they were.
Hugo glanced at Sylvia, wondering if she was going to suddenly start distrusting them, now that her brother was so clearly dubious of them and their motivations.
Sylvia sighed and turned, sitting down at one of the smaller computer terminals set up on the desk/command center. He watched as she pressed her hand against a scanner beside the keyboard.
“And how’d you get Sylvia’s contact information?” Oscar demanded.
Lancelot stepped up. “I’m good at what I do. My friend wanted to stop and say ‘hi’ to his former student. Not hard to find.”
“It should have been,” Oscar said. “I made sure of it. She has millions of followers. I don’t want some weirdos tracking her down.” It was more than clear that they were the weirdos. “What did you use to find her?” he demanded.
Lancelot raised a brow. “You tell me what programs you use, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“Not likely. I write my own software.”
Lancelot shrugged and glanced around the ultra-high-tech workspace. “That’s fine if you don’t want to share. What kind of system are you using?”
Oscar didn’t take the bait. “Who did you say you worked for?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Well, now I’m asking. Who do you work for?”
“The London branch of Cohortes Praetorianae. Your sister seems to think you hacked into somewhere.”
“I think we both know I’m not confessing to that.” Oscar adjusted his glasses, and then folded his arms. “Proprietary tech.”
“Oscar. Everyone is not the enemy. They’re my friends and they’re here on a social visit,” Sylvia said, still looking at the screen. “What’s the name of that encrypted texting program you showed me?” she asked. “I bet Lancelot would love to see that.”
“I bet he would,” Oscar replied sarcastically. He briefly looked at his sister, but then quickly switched his attention back to them.
“Who do you work for?” Lancelot asked her brother.
“I work for myself.”
Lancelot snorted, and Hugo was impressed with how unruffled the knight was. Oscar was definitely trying to push his buttons. “Skills like that, I would have thought the CIA would’ve snapped you up.”
“I know how to stay off their radar. Or at least make sure they don’t get enough leverage on me to force me to work for the Company. Sylvia, get off my freaking computer!”
“Fine, fine. I’ll come back and get the information some other time.” She stood. “See you later, big brother. Please eat the soup, then go outside today. Get some fresh air.”
“What information? They’re not staying with you, are they?” he demanded in outrage. “They have a hotel, right?”
“None of your business.” Sylvia was a pretty good button pusher herself.
When Sylvia walked out, Hugo scampered to follow her. They kept going until they were out on the porch. The instant Lancelot stepped out, he scooped up the pipe he’d leaned against the doorjamb. Hugo cleared his throat, drawing Sylvia’s attention. “That was…interesting,” he said loudly. Lancelot winged the pipe out over the porch rail, where it landed in soft grass, a moment before Oscar stepped out, blinking owlishly behind his glasses.
“Sylvia, I don’t trust these guys.”
“Oscar, calm down. They aren’t strangers. Dr. Marchand was one of my favorite teachers at Northwestern. Visiting old friends is a pretty common thing with regular people. Not that I would expect you to understand that. Now, please take two more of those pills before bed.”
Oscar scowled.
Sylvia smiled slowly. The expression took its time, transforming her whole face. It was not a happy smile, but more a wolfish grin.
Oscar blinked and turned a tad green. “It’s never good when you smile like that.”
“I’m telling Mama you didn’t even offer us some tea.”
“Shit.”
“And cursed in front of a lady.”
Oscar groaned. “You’re not a lady.”
“Bye, big brother. Take care.” She swept her hand out, gesturing to the strange yard, then started down the steps.
Hugo cleared his throat. “Is that a Tesla coil over there?”
Oscar nodded.
“Can we turn it on?” Hugo asked.
“Let’s go.” Lancelot grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn or risk falling backwards down the porch steps.
Lancelot hustled Hugo back to the car, then hurried to open Sylvia’s door for her.
They all climbed in. Oscar stood on his porch, watching as they turned around and slowly drove out of the clearing where he had his odd mad-scientist compound.
Hugo leaned forward once more. “Your brother is a computer scientist?”
“He does a bit of everything. Hardware, software, tech development.” She held up the journal. “What’s important is that he was still running a search for Mrs. Rutherford.” She twisted in her seat to smile at Hugo. “You inspired me to make contact with her again. I’ll write her a letter.”
“You got her address from your brother?” Hugo asked.
“Not all of it. He was throwing that hissy fit—he’s always cranky when he’s sick. I think there’s some other command I have to put in to get an exact address. He showed me, but I never remember.”
Lancelot cleared his throat. “That sounds like quite a program he has. I’m sorry he wouldn’t let me take a peek at it. I wonder if he’s monitoring credit card purchases.” Lancelot was looking out the passenger window, his comments sounding more like a man thinking out loud than someone posing very direct questions.
Hugo was fairly certain if it were that simple, the Masters’ Admiralty would have found her.
“I don’t have a clue what his program is called, but I know it’s not credit cards. It’s something to do with going online and tracking behavior patterns like website visits. He says people have a routine to what they do online, and if you identify the routine, it can be like a fingerprint, so even if you change your email that pattern is still there.”
Hugo blinked. That sounded amazing and terrifying at the same time. Did he do the same thing every time he went online? Now that he thought about it, he did.
“Fookin’ A. Your brother is going to be a billionaire once he sells,” Lancelot breathed.
“I’m glad you didn’t tell him that. It would make him even more impossible to live with. Like I said, I’ll go back tomorrow and get the rest of the address.”
“The rest?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, the little map picture had her dot in Florida, but that’s certainly not enough to mail a letter.”
“Is that the one that looks like a dick?” Lancelot asked.
Sylvia tittered. “Florida is south of here. About three and half hours to the northern border.”
“Always so much driving in the States,” Hugo murmured.
Lancelot grinned back at him. “You haven’t driven anywhere yet.”
They were quiet as she navigated back onto the main road that would take them to the highway and the bridges they’d need to cross to get back to Charleston.
Lancelot shifted slightly in his seat, catching Hugo’s eye.
Hugo nodded once, and then cleared his throat. “Will you join us for dinner, Sylvia? We’d like to thank you for all your hospitality today.”
She smiled, and it was like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. “I’d like that.”
“So,” Lancelot said. “Where should we eat?”
Chapter Seven
Sylvia wasn’t sure what she’d done in a previous life to have two attractive men land on her front porch, but she assumed it had to be momentous. Like Mother Teresa momentous.
She suggested a seafood restaurant on the waterfront, pleased to be able to show off her beloved hometown to Hugo and his friend. Charleston had always been home, and though she longed to see more of the world, until that happened, she would appreciate the beauty of this city, with its complex history and distinct charm.
Lancelot placed a gentle hand on her back as they entered the restaurant, and Hugo pulled out her chair when they reached their table outside on the deck. When their server came by, she ordered a fried green tomatoes starter, enjoying the looks on both men’s faces.
“Green tomatoes?” Lancelot asked. “Doesn’t that mean they’re not ripe?”
Sylvia laughed. “Trust me.”
He shrugged good-naturedly. Lancelot struck her as the type of guy who never got too worked up about things. The type to just roll with the punches. Though given the size of his muscles, she was fairly sure if someone were so foolish as to punch the man, he’d simply shrug and then deck them with one powerful blow.
Hugo, perusing the wine list, sighed.
“I suppose it’s going to be hard to find a wine here to compete with what you drink in France,” she said.
Hugo glanced at her and smiled. No, smile wasn’t the right word. The left side of his mouth kicked up, and if not for the merriment dancing in his eyes, the expression might have been a smirk. “I am required by law to discredit all non-French wines.”
When she’d first met him, she’d thought of Dr. Hugo Marchand as a character from a Georgette Heyer novel—the reformed rake who would sweep her off her feet and do wicked things to her. Then he’d started lecturing, saying the most interesting and insightful things, and her feelings had morphed from heroine swooning at the sight of an unacceptable-but-oh-so-handsome man, to that of an acolyte, waiting on the scholar to reveal the secrets of the universe.
Lancelot took the wine list from Hugo and handed it to Sylvia. “Maybe you should suggest something you know is good. We don’t need a repeat of the chippie incident.”
“Chippie incident?” Sylvia asked.
Hugo tsked. “Lancelot had a craving for fish and chips. He located a British pub here in Charleston, but it was not, as you say, authentic. The meal didn’t end well.”
Sylvia laughed, then glanced at the list. “Chardonnay sound safe?”
She could tell from his face Hugo was a red man, but she preferred white with seafood.
“That will be fine,” Hugo said.
“Your brother is an interesting bloke,” Lancelot observed.
“That’s a nice way of describing him.” Sylvia adored Oscar, but seeing his house—the fact that it seemed more like a computer factory or mad scientist laboratory than a home—could be startling, if not downright alarming.
The waiter returned and they placed their orders.
A slight breeze moved the still air around them, blowing a strand of hair across her face. Lancelot reached over to brush it back, tucking it behind her ear. It was an innocent touch, but it packed a punch. Her skin tingled where his fingers had grazed, and while it was cool by the water, Sylvia suddenly felt very warm.
Luckily, Hugo wasn’t watching.
Luckily? Why had she thought of it like that?
Because she didn’t want Hugo to think she preferred Lancelot. Didn’t want Hugo to stop looking at her with a gaze that burned with the heat of a banked fire.
Hugo looked out over the water. Sylvia followed his gaze, watching a boat with two fishermen sail by, the two men waving at them as they passed.
Sylvia waved back.
“Do you know them?” Lancelot asked.
She shook her head. “No. Do you only wave at people you know?”
Lancelot rubbed his jaw, clearly considering that. The action drew her attention to his face—his strong cheekbones and the day’s worth of stubble there. He truly was a beautiful man, especially now as the last vestiges of sun skimmed the water, painting the surface in dark blues, pinks, and gold. The dying light had the same effect on Lancelot’s hair, pulling out so many different shades, everything from amber to toffee. He wore it long, the end of it curling at his shoulders. Sylvia wanted to reach across the table to touch it, to discover if it was soft like silk or coarser like twine. She even lifted her hand to do so, recalling how Lancelot hadn’t resisted that same urge when it came to tucking her hair back.
She placed her hand back in her lap when he started speaking.
“Let’s just say where I grew up, people are more guarded, less likely to engage a stranger. I think it’s the weather,” Lancelot mused.
“What?” she asked with a soft laugh. “The weather?”
“It’s sunny here, warm. Everyone is walking around in light clothing and it’s hard not to smile when you’re breathing in fresh, clean air, with the sun shining on your face. It rains in Liverpool. A lot. It’s a cold, drizzly rain complete with dark skies, so everyone is huddled under jackets and hats and umbrellas. Faces down to the ground, rushing from one place to the next, simply to get inside and out of that miserable chill. I guess we’re less free to…wave.”
The waiter returned and poured each of them a glass of wine. Hugo lifted his and they followed suit. “Santé,” he said.
“What about London? Do people wave there?” she asked, fascinated by Lancelot’s observation. She wanted to reach for her notebook, to sketch the picture he’d just drawn for her. In her mind’s eye, she could see Lancelot huddled, leaning forward, his gaze down as rain pelted him, drops of water clinging to the ends of his auburn curls. Unfortunately, her mother had told her countless times it wasn’t polite to drop out of conversations at the dinner table to write or sketch, so she resisted the urge.
“Och. London’s just a big city, isn’t it? It’s either locals rushing to work or tourists meandering about with their mouths hanging open.”
“I would probably be one of those tourists. I’ve dreamed of going to London someday. And Paris,” she said to Hugo.
“You would love Paris. Actually, Charleston remi
nds me of home. Some of the architecture, the atmosphere. They’re both inviting places that inspire romance and mystery at the same time.”
Sylvia nodded. She’d always felt as if her professor was a kindred spirit. He was an academic who took an interest in her writing. The two of them had engaged in some lively debates back at Northwestern. It had been thrilling to debate with him, to be treated as an intellectual equal by someone so brilliant. Of course, now she could look back on some of her ideals and see how naïve she’d been.
His mention of romance, however, sent her mind to a much less-intellectual plane. Her thoughts turned to the purely physical as she studied them. While Lancelot’s looks made her think rugged Scottish warrior, Hugo still looked like the rake she’d once likened him to. Black hair, crystal-blue eyes, a strong jawline. There was intelligence in his gaze, but also a bit of humor.
They sure did make their men hot in Europe.
“One of the things I love most about Charleston, in addition to the shrimp and grits, is how charming it is. The history blended with the sea…there’s just so much to see and enjoy. I wish you had more time to visit and explore. I love playing tour guide.”
Hugo asked about her books and then—be still her heart—actually asked to see some of her sketches, which let her off the hook with her mom. Surely Mom wouldn’t think it rude to pull out her drawings if she was asked to see her work. She took her spiral-bound drawing pad out of her tote and flipped through the pages, both men complimenting her talent.
Their food arrived. Lancelot had opted for the fish tacos after Sylvia insisted he’d love them, Hugo ordered salmon, and she’d selected shrimp and grits after both men admitted they’d never had the dish. She made both of them try it, pleased when they admitted it was quite delicious.
“Didn’t know there was spicy sausage in it, too,” Lancelot said, as if that was all it took to make it an acceptable dish.
“It’s not always included, but I’m a sucker for Andouille.”
The dinner conversation flowed easily as Hugo kept their wineglasses filled and they shared bites of food from their plates. While she’d never lacked for friends, or even lovers, there was something quite heady about sitting at a table with two attractive men who were genuinely interested in everything she had to say.
