by Shéa MacLeod
“Perfect. Thank you, Mr. Singh.”
Mr. Singh bowed.
“Water skiing?” Aunt Butty sailed into the room. “Oh, I am dying to give that a go!”
“You’ll no doubt be dying if you do,” I muttered.
“What’s that, Ophelia?” Aunt Butty said tartly.
“You’ll break your neck,” I replied. “It’s dangerous and you’re...” I trailed off before I said something stupid. Too late.
“Too old?” she snapped. “Is that what you were going to say?”
I took a fortifying sip of my drink. It was perfect. God bless Mr. Singh. “No, Aunt. I would never say such a thing.” I decided changing subjects was the better part of valor. “I thought you were taking a siesta.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“You should have one of these,” Chaz said, lifting his glass. “Mr. Singh makes an excellent bijou.”
Without even being asked, Mr. Singh busied himself at the bar, preparing my aunt a cocktail. The man really was a treasure.
“Aunt Butty, tell me more about this Sir Eustace person,” I asked as she dropped into a comfortable armchair.
“Oh, him. Such an annoying little man.” She took the proffered glass from Mr. Singh who bowed and left the room. “Chip on his shoulder.”
“Why a chip?” Chaz asked.
“Well, I’ve never met him, as I said, but word does get around. He’s the second son of a minor baron, but of course he always felt himself far superior to his older brother and thought he should be the one to inherit.”
“Except that’s not how it works,” I murmured.
“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “And when his father died, he ended up with no title and no money which infuriated him no end.”
Chaz sipped his drink. “I thought second sons usually go into the clergy or some such thing.”
“Usually, but he flat out refused. Felt himself above such things.” Aunt Butty’s sniff gave away just what she thought of that.
“But they’re rich. And he has a title,” I pointed out.
“Newly won knighthood. Some charitable cause or other. And she has all the money. Elenore. Family trust so he can’t get his grubby hands on it. Only gets an allowance from it. And from what I hear, she holds the purse strings very tightly.”
“That’s surprising,” Chaz said. “I ran into them on the ship. She was pleasant, but he was an utter boor. Treated her appallingly. You’d think he’d have sense enough to realize being kind to her would make her more willing to dole out the dosh.”
“You’d think, but some men don’t have the sense God gave a turnip,” Aunt Butty said dryly. “Not when it comes to women. And definitely not when it comes to their wives.”
“How interesting.” I glanced out the open doors. I could no longer see the neighboring garden or Sir Eustace, but it felt almost as if a dark cloud hovered next door. Which was nonsense. Or so I told myself.
THE AMERICANA WAS NOTHING like the jazz clubs I’d frequented in London. They’d been the height of posh, decorated to the teeth and dripping in wealth. Only the affluent attended. Except for that one tiny hole in the wall where Hale had taken me. The Americana was much more of that ilk.
The club was located in the heart of Nice down one of those incredibly narrow streets lined by buildings decorated in black wrought iron and painted in ice cream colors, looming toward each other like so many cheerful dominoes about to fall. Pale shutters were closed against the night air, and cobblestones illuminated by the soft glow of electric street lamps.
The entrance was halfway down an even narrower alleyway in the basement level of a haberdashery. We could hear the music before we even took the half dozen steps down and opened the door.
Inside was a small room, barely bigger than the drawing room of my villa. In one corner crowded the band playing a zippy tune I didn’t recognize. In the corner opposite was the world’s smallest bar. And crammed around the edges of the room were tiny bistro tables meant for two, but which were currently serving five or six people each. The center of the floor was dedicated to dancing, and numerous couples squeezed into the small space in a vain attempt to show off their moves.
“Good heavens,” Aunt Butty said, mopping her brow. The place was quite warm despite the lazy whirl of a couple of ceiling fans. “What a crowd! I don’t think there’s anywhere to sit like a civilized human being.”
“Hale said he’d saved us a spot,” I said, straining to see any such place. As far as I could tell, all the seats were taken. I tugged her sleeve. “Come on.” I led her to the bar where a bartender with a pencil moustache was throwing together drinks with effortless abandon.
“Pardon me!” I called over the music. “Parlez vous anglais?” My French was virtually non-existent, my vicar father thinking it a frivolous language meant only for heathens. I could, however, make out quite a few words of ancient Greek and the odd phrase in Hebrew.
The barman gave me a blank stare. Well, that tore it. I was about to launch into wild pantomime when Aunt Butty took over, rattling off rapid-fire French as if she were born to it. The barman’s face lit up and he said something back, gesturing wildly to the band. Aunt Butty shot back something else. I caught “bijou” followed by something else incomprehensible. Good thing. I was positively gagging for a drink. Within moments the three of us were handed martini glasses of golden liquid and shooed toward the band.
“I did not want a bijou,” I complained. “Gin isn’t my bag, darling.”
“Stop complaining,” Aunt Butty snapped. “I didn’t know ‘highball’ in French.”
“Whiskey is whiskey in every language,” I muttered.
“Don’t be a drip, Ophelia. Come along,” Chaz said.
I followed them through the crowd and right up until we were practically in the musicians’ laps. There was a single table with three chairs and a sign that read “réservé.” That, at least, I could figure out.
Hale Davis was seated at the piano, long, elegant fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys. He caught my eye and sent me a wink, then a slow, meaningful smile. I swear I could feel myself blushing. Which was ridiculous. I am a grown woman who does not blush. I focused on my beverage.
“This is lovely, don’t you think?” Aunt Butty asked, taking a sip of her cocktail. “Just the sort of thing to lift one’s spirits.
“I wasn’t aware our spirits were in need of lifting,” I muttered.
She ignored me. “I do so love to dance. I believe I shall convince one of these handsome young gentlemen to show me about the floor.”
There were plenty of handsome young gentlemen, but naturally Aunt Butty set down her drink and made a beeline for the handsomest—barring Hale and Chaz, of course. Her selection couldn’t have been more than twenty with dark, poet eyes and ink black hair that tumbled over his pale forehead in waves. His movements were fluid and cat-like with a languidness that might fool the less astute. He didn’t hesitate one whit when Aunt Butty approached him and instead quickly whirled her into an energetic dance.
Another young gentleman—this one blonde and English—asked me for a dance, but I refused. I did, after all, have a date, even if he was currently busy.
I alternated the evening between amusing myself with Aunt Butty’s antics, chatting with Chaz, and exchanging smoldering glances with Hale.
It was late, nearly closing, and the band was packing up their instruments. Someone had switched on a radio. Chaz was out dancing with a local woman, and Aunt Butty was regaling a group of young men with stories of her past exploits, so I was alone when Hale stopped by my table.
“It’s good to see you, Ophelia.” His eyes held worlds of meaning.
My heart quickened, and my breath suddenly came in little gasps as though the room had lost its air. “You, too.”
“Drop you home tonight?”
“Yes.” I didn’t bother being coy. We were both too old for such games.
His smile sent a shot of heat straight through me. “Good
. Give me a few minutes.”
I nodded, suddenly unable to speak, but I did watch him walk away. Good heavens, that man could fill out a pair of white linen trousers.
Aunt Butty and Chaz finally made their way back to the table. Both were looking a wee bit soused.
“Ready to go, love?” Chaz asked loudly.
“Sorry, darling, Hale’s going to bring me home.”
“Is he now?” Aunt Butty asked, waggling her eyebrows. Chaz snickered.
I ignored them both. “Mr. Singh is waiting for you.” Sure enough, the gentleman stood quietly by the door waiting for his charges.
“Yoohoo! Mr. Singh! Be right there!” Aunt Butty shouted over the music of the radio and the voices of the patrons left. She collected her handbag, Chaz helped her into her wrap, they both gave me a kiss, and then out they went, safe in the hands of Mr. Singh.
“Now we’ve got rid of them, are you ready?” Hale had come up behind me and his hands lay strong and warm on my shoulders.
“Yes.”
The walk to the car was silent, but the tension between us was almost palpable. Not a bad kind of tension. But the kind where the persons involved were rather close to ripping each other’s clothes off.
We got into Hale’s very dodgy looking car and he headed off down the coast in the general direction of my villa. At some point he pulled off onto a lookout and parked. I suppose in the day, the view would have been marvelous, but it was too dark to see the water. The stars, however, were giving us a fine show.
We sat for a moment, staring at those stars before Hale put one arm around me. “I’ve missed you.” Simple. Sincere.
“Same.” It came out breathier than intended.
“What are we going to do about it?” His meaning was clear.
I pulled his head down and kissed him. So was mine.
Chapter 3
Chaz came down late for breakfast on the veranda the next morning looking a little rough around the edges. Aunt Butty, still in a garish dressing gown of green and yellow, kissed both his cheeks before swanning off into the house.
“Where’s she off to?” Chaz asked, sinking into the chair across from me and shoving a pair of dark glasses on his face. Mr. Singh appeared as if by magic to pour him a cup of coffee before melting away.
Chaz frowned at the cup. “Coffee, old thing? You do remember we’re English?”
“And there isn’t a decent cup of tea to be had in the whole country of France,” I reminded him. “So drink up. How are you feeling?”
“Ghastly. I really must refrain from drinking gin. It never agrees with me.” He sighed and took a sip, making a face before snatching up a croissant and staring at it. “How was last night?”
“Whatever do you mean?” I played the innocent.
He lifted a brow. “Come on. Spill.”
“Nothing to spill. He drove me home, as you well know.”
“No soft declarations of love? Passionate embraces?”
I snorted. “Don’t be daft.” Of course, there’d been a passionate embrace or three. But no declarations. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted them, to be completely honest. I adored Hale. I maybe even loved him. But I’d no intention of marrying again, and we had such different lives. It wouldn’t be long until he was off touring again and I’d be back to London. How in blazes were we supposed to carry on any sort of relationship?
Chaz slid his glasses down his nose and gave me a long look. “I thought this whole trip was about you two figuring things out.”
I gave a slight shrug. “It is, rather. But there hasn’t been time. I only arrived yesterday.”
“Right. And he’s in town for how long this time?”
He’d already been playing at The Americana for a month. There wasn’t much time left on his contract. “Two weeks. Maybe more, depending on how busy they stay. It’s the tail end of the season.”
“Plenty of time.”
I gave him a narrow look, but his face remained as placid as a pond. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Though, knowing him, it was likely he was. I also knew I hadn’t fooled him one bit. He’d likely heard me sneak in at dawn.
“What’s the plan then?” he asked, changing the subject.
“We’re off to the beach today. Aunt Butty is dying to get her feet wet. I’m going to enjoy the sun and a novel. Mr. Singh will pack us a lunch prepared by that marvelous cook he found for us.”
“And tonight? The Americana again?”
“We’ll see,” I said. Not to be coy, but because I simply wasn’t sure. Hale and I hadn’t made plans beyond the vague see-you-soon variety.
Movement at the edge of my vision caught my attention and I turned. Through the narrow gap in the bushes, I could see Sir Eustace puttering in the garden, carefully trimming some sort of plant or other. He seemed very relaxed and happy, not at all like the man I’d met on the ship.
“That Sir Eustace?” Chaz asked, straining for a look.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s looking quite cheerful.”
“How unlike him.”
“Yes, indeed. Oh, look, here comes his wife.” I stuffed a bite of croissant into my mouth and chewed eagerly.
Lady Scrubbs stepped out onto the patio in a very modern two-piece bathing suit that did nothing for her rather dumpy figure, partially covered by an exotic silk kimono. It reminded me very much of the frothy peach confection she’d worn on the ship. Far too young for a matron of her age. Almost as if she’d grown up without money and suddenly had too much and no one to advise her. Except, if Aunt Butty was correct, she was the one with the funds. Maybe she simply had no taste?
“Crikey,” Chaz murmured. “What a ghastly outfit.”
Lady Scrubbs said something to Sir Eustace. I couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was one of inquiry. Sir Eustace turned around, gave her a horrified once over, and then replied. His tone was definitely nasty. The two proceeded to argue, but in typical British fashion, it involved a lot of stiff outrage and low hissing rather than outright yelling, which meant I couldn’t hear a word either of them said. Pity.
“It’s obvious Sir Eustace doesn’t appreciate his wife’s fashion sense,” Chaz said.
“Clearly,” I agreed. “Poor woman. He is never very kind to her.” I remembered how he’d ignored her at dinner on the ship.
With a final, parting shot, Lady Scrubbs stormed back into the house. I felt sorry for her. Frankly, I thought a woman should dress exactly as she pleased without comments from anyone else, but that wasn’t the way of the world. And unlike her husband, Lady Scrubbs seemed a kind soul. At the very least, she knew how to smile, though she wasn’t smiling now.
“You know, I should invite her to tea,” I said. “Get to know the neighbors and all that,” I mused.
“Ophelia.” Chaz’s voice held a note of warning. “Don’t get involved in other people’s business.”
I fluttered my lashes. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Well, don’t blame me if it all goes pear-shaped.”
“Why would it? We’re all just having a lovely holiday. Nothing sinister going on at all.”
"GOOD GOSH," CHAZ SAID slouching on a beach chair beside me. He was wearing a pair of impossibly tight swim trunks and his dark glasses. He looked very sophisticated and European. "Is that Butty waterskiing? She was supposed to wait for me."
I glanced up from the book on my lap and peered over my own sunglasses. "My aunt waits for no man. You know that."
My aunt was currently zooming about the Riviera on a pair of narrow boards tugged behind a motorboat. She was wearing a swimsuit that was at least two decades out of date and a bright yellow rubber cap on her head. Frankly she looked ridiculous, but she was clearly having the time of her life.
"It does look like fun," Chaz mused, pulling a cigarette out of God-only-knows where.
I glanced over at my best friend. "She did try to convince me to go."
"You refused? The great Ophelia, Lady Rample refused such adventur
e?" His tone was ever so slightly mocking.
I lifted a brow and gave him my up-tilted nose. "It isn't ladylike." Said most primly. The reality was that the very idea of waterskiing gave me the heebie-jeebies. It would be just my luck to embarrass myself in public with an unladylike tumble. One, no doubt, that would find its way to the pages of the London tabloids.
"As if that ever stopped you," he scoffed.
I laughed. "Only too true. Perhaps I should give it a try after all.”
“I dare you.”
“Challenge accepted. Once Aunt Butty is done with her fun.”
We both watched as Aunt Butty swished back and forth across the water, sending up spray in her wake. We couldn't hear her shrieks of laughter over the rumble of the motor, but it was clear she was having the time of her life.
The roar of the motorboat suddenly cut out, and I realized Aunt Butty had disappeared. "Where is she?" I jumped to my feet, the hot sand scorching the bottoms. I had kicked off my sandals. Not very ladylike, but I didn't consider shoes on sand the done thing. I preferred to go barefoot.
"She fell off," Chad said calmly. He nodded toward Aunt Betty's yellow-capped head, bobbing in the waves. "No worries. She's too feisty to drown. "
Astonishingly, Aunt Betty immediately struck toward the boat, cutting through the waves with long elegant strokes. "I didn't know she could swim."
Chaz laughed. "I guess there are still things to be learned about Butty. What a woman. I want to be just like her when I grow up.”
“Face it, darling. You’ll never grow up.”
“Quite likely,” he admitted with enormous delight. “Looks like it’s your turn.”
I turned to see Aunt Butty trudging onto the sand, ripping off her cap as she went. “Yoohoo! Chaz dear, have you come to ski? It’s marvelous fun! Although smashing one’s face in the water stings a bit.”
Oh, Lord, what had I gotten myself into? “No, Aunt Butty. I’m next.”
Her eyes widened, then she burst out laughing. “This I’d pay to see.”
I scowled at her. “Let me borrow your cap.”
