by Brenda Joyce
Surely Ian didn’t think, because Lionel Elgin had an older brother who was dead, and her father also had an older brother who was dead, that they were one and the same?
“Claire? What’s wrong?” Ian asked, pausing in the act of digging his fork into a piece of chocolate-chocolate-chip cake that looked mega-fattening.
“You aren’t trying to make a connection between my father and the fact that Elgin had an older brother who’s dead, are you?” She could hear how terse she sounded.
“It’s an interesting coincidence, but I wouldn’t make too much of it,” he said way too indifferently.
Claire put her hands behind her head, leaning back against the pillows, and stared almost blindly at the door. He had said that their lovemaking would complicate matters, and she had refused to listen. Claire tried to control her pulse rate, which had accelerated. It seemed impossible to remain calm now.
It really didn’t mean anything that both men had deceased older brothers.
But who was she fooling? What if it did?
“Hey, Screamer, pass over that bottle of wine.”
Claire turned and looked at him.
“Not even a tiny smile?” Ian asked, but his own smile did not reach his eyes.
“Ian, I just know that my father is not Lionel Elgin.”
He was silent.
Claire realized she was biting her lip. Worse, she saw on his face that he seriously considered her father a suspect and that nothing had changed for him. “Why can’t you trust me? On this one simple thing?”
After a pause, he said, “That’s not fair and you know it. First of all, there is nothing simple about this case. You’re too involved, Claire. Against my wishes and better judgment, I might add.”
Claire slipped out of the bed, standing and facing him. She said, low, “I loved my mother,” and saw the look of surprise flit across his face. “She was everything to me. She was an angel, Ian, a real, live, flesh-and-blood angel. She was so kind, so warm, so loving . . .” Claire had to stop. It was so hard to speak.
Ian looked down at his sheet-clad lap. “It’s okay, Claire. I think I understand.”
“Do you?” She shook her head, barely able to speak. “No, it’s not okay. It will never be okay again. Because one day she got sick. And then every day she was sicker than the day before. I was only eight when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. She died a few days after my tenth birthday. Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch your mother dying like that?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I still love her. I still miss her. I always will.”
He didn’t say anything; there wasn’t much he could say.
“My father is an aloof man. You’ve met him. He’s reserved and preoccupied with his world—art. But he’s my father. He raised me alone. And right now, he’s all I have.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Jean-Léon has never lied to me. He may have sucked as a dad, but he’s honest—through and through. Robert Ducasse was a hero of the French Resistance. He died a few weeks before the invasion of Normandy. Period. End of story.” She stared at him through blurry eyes.
Ian remained silent. He quaffed down some more wine.
Claire crossed her arms. “What makes you think that my father has been lying about his real identity all of these years, anyway? What could possibly make you think that Robert Ducasse is still alive?”
Ian hesitated. Claire stared at him unblinkingly and almost felt his mind race. She was certain he was deciding what to say—and what not to say. Why did he feel the need to hold back now?
“Have you ever been to St. Michele, Claire?” Ian finally asked.
She tensed. “Where my father and his brother were born? It’s a small village about fifty miles south of Paris. Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Actually, so have I.”
Claire didn’t like his answer. “When did you go there?”
“Three days after David’s death.”
Claire looked away. “Okay,” she said, fighting more anxiety. Then she met his eyes. “What did you find, Ian?”
“Every parish keeps records,” he said. Then he patted the bed. “Come sit down, Claire. We’re not adversaries. We’re lovers, remember? You owe me a Wonderbra.”
She did not move and did not crack even the slightest smile.
He sighed. When he spoke, his tone was very gentle. “There is a Ducasse family. It’s a huge family—siblings and cousins, and they’re all over the province. During the war, there were five brothers in that town who went off to fight, some in I’ Armée Française before Dunkirk, several slipping into Vichy to fight in the Resistance. I believe one brother remained behind after the German occupation, he was a butcher or something. There was a brother named Robert Ducasse. He did not fight the Germans in Vichy France. He was interned in a German POW camp for most of the war, where he died. His brother, Jean-Léon, died fighting the Germans in May of 1940. Neither one of them were ever in the Resistance. He died in northern France on the Belgium border, near Bruly-le-Pêche.”
Claire stared at him. “It’s a different branch of the family.” But she was sick in her gut.
He said softly, “I’ve done some research into the French Resistance in Vichy to double-check. Ducasse is a common name, but if Robert Ducasse existed in the whereabouts of Lyons, there are no records about him, no accounts, not even any myths.”
“The Gestapo imprisoned him for a week in Lyons early on in the war,” Claire said breathlessly. “He was released when they couldn’t prove any of the charges against him. That should be easy enough to verify.”
“There are no records, Claire,” Ian repeated softly. “Not in Vichy.”
It was simply impossible. “You haven’t looked hard enough.” She stared at him, light-headed all over again. It was hard to think clearly, rationally. What was he trying to say? That her father and his brother had stolen identities from these Ducasse brothers? She did not believe it. It could not be possible.
“Forget about it for now,” Ian finally said, throwing aside the sheet and standing. He came around the bed. “You don’t need it now. You need it like you need a hole in your head.”
“I have a hole in my head,” she muttered, the urge to cry overtaking her.
“No, you have a graze, which is a very different matter.” He took her hands in his.
She pulled away. “Jean-Léon, Robert, Ducasse—they’re all very common names.”
“Yes, they are,” he said.
“Now you’re patronizing me!” she shouted furiously.
“I’m not. All I want to do is . . .” He stopped.
“What? Tell me what it is that you want to do, Ian? Other than nail Jean-Léon or Robert or William and hang one of them like they hung the Nazis at Nuremberg?”
He stared somberly at her. “I want to protect you, and God, I am so sorry you are involved in this.”
She crossed her arms across her breasts. “You can’t protect me,” she said grimly. “No one can.”
He stared at her; Claire turned away. Then he said, “Look, it’s late and tomorrow is a big day.” They were flying home that night—Ian had an appointment with Frances Cookson, George Suttill’s girlfriend, who was finally returning from her visit to Florida. “Let’s go to sleep, Claire.”
Claire looked at him. She thought about the Ducasse family currently living in St. Michele, she thought about her breakfast with Elizabeth in the morning, and she thought about all the lovemaking they had just shared. “I’ve really complicated matters, haven’t I?”
“Yeah, you have.” He put his arm around her. “But you were right. It was inevitable. So don’t go blaming yourself now, Red.”
Claire tried to smile and for the first time in her life, found that she couldn’t.
CHAPTER 12
They paused on the wide steps before the entrance to the Berkeley Hotel. It was a cool morning, and Claire felt chilled. She was certain it had more to do with meeting Eli
zabeth and hearing her out than the weather.
“You’ll be fine,” Ian said, smiling at her.
She met his eyes, and a rush of warmth swept over her, but it was followed by dread and fear. This morning, after the night they had shared, she was dangerously in love—with the man who might, at any moment, destroy her father or her dearest family friends. Becoming lovers now was fraught with complications. She felt as if she were out on a limb that might be sawed out from under her at any moment.
“We’re meeting in the salon right off the lobby. Elizabeth suggested breakfast. That must mean other guests will be present.” As Claire spoke, she realized she was extremely anxious. Yet that was absurd. William would not be present, and Elizabeth would never hurt her—she considered Claire the daughter she had never had. Claire was also determined to believe that Elizabeth was blissfully ignorant of the extent of Elgin’s crimes—should Elgin be unmasked as William Duke.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Ian asked.
They had already discussed this. Ian felt Elizabeth would speak more freely if speaking with Claire alone. “No. I’ll be fine.” Claire smiled at him and turned to go.
“I’ll wait out here, and every now and then I’ll walk into the lobby and glance into the salon just to make sure you’re all right. We met only briefly at David’s party, and I’m sure she won’t be able to pick me out of a crowd.”
Claire nodded, about to leave, feeling as if she were about to face a firing squad, when Ian took her arm, halting her. Confused, she hesitated.
“Break a leg, O’Hara,” he whispered, kissing her on the lips.
Claire’s heart melted. “Thanks. I guess that means it’s show time.”
“It does.”
Claire walked inside. The lobby was small and brightly lit. Uniformed hotel staff were everywhere, smiling at her and murmuring crisp greetings. To her left was a bar in shades of blue that seemed to be closed. Claire turned to her right and saw the salon, a grandiose and old-fashioned room filled with plush couches, club chairs, and antiques. At the same moment, Claire saw Elizabeth and William. She faltered.
What was William doing there? She hadn’t expected him to be present. Ian had said Elgin wouldn’t dare to set foot in the U.K. right now. Did this mean he was innocent?
But why wouldn’t he dare? He had dared everything else—he had killed George Suttill and followed that murder by killing David under everyone’s nose during the party. And he had tried to kill them, for God’s sake. He had dumped Eddy’s body in a pond close to his home, Elgin Hall. He was arrogant and clever. He might very well dare to come back.
Claire was shaken, and worse, she was ill. The sick feeling was induced by a real and raw fear.
Elizabeth had seen her and was standing, smiling and waving. Her expression was clearly anxious, and now that Claire had been seen, she could not turn around and flee, nor could she procrastinate further. Filled with dread, she was unable to smile back at the woman she loved.
Elizabeth hugged her. The embrace was brief, but it seemed warm. As she pulled back, Claire looked into her blue eyes and saw more anxiety.
“Claire? I am so glad we found you!” Elizabeth cried.
Claire finally turned to face William. He was grim, and instead of hugging her as he might have, he pecked her cheek. She did not mean to pull away from him, but she did. The action was a reflex.
William started. “Claire? You don’t look well.” His tone was avuncular.
How could this kind old man be a killer? “I’m fighting a cold.”
“You’ve been under too much stress,” William said. “Whenever I am overloaded, the first thing that happens is I catch a cold. Take lots of vitamin C and echinacea,” he said.
“I will,” Claire managed.
“I’m so glad to see you. Claire, I have been so worried about you,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Let’s sit down. I ordered coffee, I know that’s what you drink in the morning, and we can order breakfast.” Her smile flashed. “Where is your Mr. Marshall?” Her gaze had strayed beyond Claire to the lobby.
“He’s not here,” Claire said as they sat down, Claire on the sofa, William and Elizabeth each in a flanking chair. A coffee table was in the center. The moment she sank onto the small, plush couch, Claire realized she had made a mistake and was at a disadvantage. She was a half a foot lower than the Dukes.
“I just spoke with your father,” Elizabeth said after signaling a waiter. “He is rather frantic, Claire. You must call him. How can you just disappear in this kind of situation? We’ve both been afraid that something happened to you when we didn’t hear from you.”
Claire hesitated, a game plan going through her mind. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize that silence might make it seem like I’m in trouble. But actually, that has been the case.”
“What?” Elizabeth gasped. “What kind of trouble?”
“I spent the night before last in a hospital. Someone tried to shoot me—kill me. And Ian,” she added. She regarded them both closely.
If they knew—if William had hired the assassin—Claire never would have been able to guess, not in a thousand years. Elizabeth seemed stunned. So did William.
“What happened?” he asked grimly.
“Someone tried to drive us off the road, up in Wales. He succeeded, actually—we wound up in the river Clwyd.”
The Dukes remained pale. “Dear God,” Elizabeth said, reaching for Claire’s hand and holding it tightly.
Claire looked from their joined hands to Elizabeth’s pale face and felt tears gathering in her own eyes. Claire squeezed her friend’s palm. “It gets worse,” she said softly. “We were chased on foot into some ruins—the driver had a gun. I got a graze just over my ear.” She lifted up her hair to show the Band-Aid and the small patch where her hair had been shaved around the wound.
“A terrible, terrible thing,” William said soberly. “You shouldn’t be involved in this, Claire. You must come right home.”
Claire twisted to stare at William. Was there a double meaning to his words?
“You did call the police,” Elizabeth said.
Claire met her gaze. “Of course.” She almost added, And Scotland Yard and the FBI and Interpol, but she refrained. Some things were better left unsaid. “How is Jean-Léon?”
“Frantic,” Elizabeth said. “You must call him immediately.”
“I will,” Claire said, meaning it.
“Dear, surely now you are going home. Surely after such a threat on your life, you will cease with this absurd investigation.”
Claire looked right into her blue eyes. “Actually, we are flying home tonight.”
“That is wonderful,” Elizabeth said in vast relief.
Claire turned to look at William, who was uncharacteristically serious. “How are you feeling, William?”
“Just fine,” he said. “Claire? Why are you so nervous?”
Claire stared, feeling how wide her eyes must be. “Nervous? Who said I’m nervous?”
“I have never seen you this jumpy. Of course, that’s understandable, considering that someone tried to kill you. But every time I look at you, you fidget and look away. Am I making you nervous?” William asked, his blue gaze direct.
Claire stared, and it seemed as if her ears were ringing. If the Dukes were involved with the attempt on her life, then she was in the midst of a nasty cat-and-mouse game—and she was in no way up to it. “William, how could you make me nervous? When I was a little girl, you read me bedtime stories—while I sat on your knee.”
He smiled fondly. “Yes, I did.” His smile faded. “I suppose it is that Nazi you are after. Does Marshall think he will strike again? And why, dear God, did he strike at you?”
Claire wet her lips. “He was after Ian. That’s what Ian thinks. I don’t know why he took a shot at me.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what to think,” she had to add. Then she was afraid she had given all of her suspicions away.
“Well, thank God you have c
ome to your senses and are going home,” Elizabeth said, taking her hand briefly again. “Nothing could make me happier, Claire.”
“Is that why you flew over to London? To make sure I go home?” Claire asked, too late realizing she had asked the question in such a leading way that the Dukes could seize on the obvious answer, getting themselves off the hook.
“That is one reason. Perhaps you should invite Mr. Marshall to join us now,” Elizabeth said. It was not a suggestion.
“That’s a good idea,” William seconded the notion. “We have information for him.”
Claire was startled. She looked from the one to the other, and in that short moment, as she stared at them, she tried to decipher their innermost thoughts and feelings. Was he a killer? Did Elizabeth know? Or were they innocent, her dear and cherished lifelong friends, whom she believed to have hearts of gold?
An answer eluded her. Any intuition she might have had was not forthcoming.
“Claire? Isn’t that Mr. Marshall in the lobby?” Elizabeth asked, breaking into her thoughts.
Claire leaped to her feet as William said, “Yes, that’s him. Fortunately, I never forget a face.”
Claire saw Ian as he paused in the lobby, a map in hand, looking very casual, as if he were a tourist and a guest. Claire waved at him.
He did a double take when he saw William, then slowly he came over to them.
Elizabeth stood. William, who seemed to be relying more heavily on his cane than he had in the past, did not. “Mr. Marshall. I believe we met briefly at David’s birthday party, and at his funeral.” Elizabeth extended her hand.
“I believe so,” Ian said, accepting the handshake. He gave Claire a brief glance, but when their eyes met, it was in silent communication. Claire responded with a slight shrug and knew he understood that she had not learned anything.
“I am a very good friend of Claire’s,” Elizabeth said, still standing. “I must tell you, I am quite bothered that you have dragged her into something she should not be a part of.” Claire gaped. The Dukes were very proper, and to set Ian down was completely out of character. “Like Jean-Léon, I want her to come home.” Elizabeth looked at Claire. “I am just speechless that she was shot. And I am thrilled that she is coming home tonight.”
