“Cheers, John. Here’s to us.”
His hand stayed immobile on the armrest, refusing the glass.
“You’re not drinking?”
“I see no cause for celebration.”
Brindy eyed him with silent calculation.
“Why are you still so cold to me, John? Isn’t it time we had a détente?”
“Tell me about the photographers in Capri, Brindy. I just can’t figure what there was to gain by tipping them off.”
Her smile stayed easy, but her shrewd eyes hardened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do.”
She picked up the glass and drained it in a single swallow. When she finished, she extended her empty glass as if to command the steward to appear. The man brought over the bottle wrapped in a white linen towel. Her dark eyes watched the pale liquid foam, and she didn’t answer until the steward had left again.
“How did you figure it out?” she asked.
“Only four of us knew about Victoria in Capri—me, Charles, Cordelia, and you. I have to assume Luca and Karl were too busy with their own plans to care much about tipping off the paparazzi.”
“You were always so smart, John. I’ll give you that. How long have you known?”
“I won’t play guessing games with you, Brindy. Just tell me why.”
“I figured with your reputation in tatters, you’d have fewer options, and I might catch your interest again.”
She smiled, as if waiting for him to applaud her clever scheme. He felt a surge of almost uncontrollable wrath.
“Brindy, I can’t believe you would go to those lengths to have me back.”
“You should be flattered,” she laughed.
“And you should be arrested,” he seethed, glancing over at Luca.
He kept his voice low. The last thing he wanted was for the boy to see them fighting.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Brindy hissed. “It was all done with good intentions. I was thinking of Luca.”
He shook his head, furious and disgusted.
“Brindy, I swear, if those sapphires weren’t around your neck, I’d strangle you.”
She smiled at his idle threat. “No, you wouldn’t. You could never kill anyone, John.”
“Don’t be so sure,” he said and looked out the window.
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON
Cordelia Stapleton sat in the second-floor library of her townhouse in Mayfair, trying to write introductory remarks for her lecture at the Royal Geographical Society. The nib of her pen glided over the paper with a rhythmic scratching. She paused to reflect, looking up into the filtered sunlight.
Every time she worked here, she could feel the presence of her great-great-grandfather. Elliott Stapleton had planned his famous arctic travels from this very map table. The room was filled with artifacts of expeditions past: walrus tusks and Inuit art, compasses and leather journals, antique celestial and terrestrial globes by John Newton & Sons.
Somewhere in the fringe of her consciousness, she heard the door open and slam, and there were muffled voices.
Her attention sharpened. Charles? His footsteps were always rapid and light, but this was the sound of a heavy tread on the stairs. After the break-in, she was always nervous.
John appeared in the doorway, rumpled and gorgeous, blue eyes against tanned skin.
“Hello, Delia.”
The Gladstone bag dropped to the floor, raising a cloud of dust. He was dressed in expedition clothes—loose khakis and a white shirt rolled to the elbow.
“You’re back!” she exclaimed.
“Finally,” he said with a tired smile.
His expression was enigmatic—the joy of seeing her was mixed with a shadow of sadness.
“How’d everything go?” she asked. “Did you get the necklace?”
“It was tough. But everything fell into place …”
The answer was terse, but that was to be expected. His stoic nature never allowed him to dwell on any difficulties.
“You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“No, I’m fine … the necklace is on its way back to Victoria.”
He looked up and realized she was waiting and held out his arms to her.
“Come here, darling. I missed you so much.”
It only took her three strides to close the distance, and she stood on tiptoe, throwing her arms around his neck. His shirt smelled slightly of jet fuel and verbena aftershave.
“I missed you, too,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck.
The hug lifted her off her feet. He held her against his body for a moment before putting her down and then pulled back to look her in the eye.
“Delia, I don’t want to ever fight again. It absolutely destroys me.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve been an absolute fool for not letting you know how much I love you.”
He planted a kiss on top of her head, and his voice shifted to a more conversational pitch.
“So, I hope you don’t mind. I brought a houseguest for a few days. This is Luca.”
She turned. Luca Brindisi was hovering in the doorway, a nervous smile on his face.
“Oh! Come in, come in,” she invited. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Sinclair drew the boy over, and the two of them stood before her grinning. She was unprepared for such physical beauty. Luca had pitch-black hair, enormous brown eyes, and the long elegant limbs of the Roman aristocracy.
“Luca wanted to spend some time here in London before school starts, and I thought it would be a lot safer than climbing volcanoes.”
“Volcanoes! I think you should stick to the British Museum. I’ll take you there myself.”
“He promises not to be too much trouble.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s no trouble at all. Besides, who would object to two handsome men in the house?”
Luca blushed and ducked his head.
“Thank you for having me,” he said politely.
Sinclair ruffled Luca’s hair and then walked away toward the butler’s tray. It was set with Waterford crystal decanters, heavy cut-glass tumblers, and a variety of his favorite brands of Scotch. He reached for the Laphroaig.
“Tell me, how’s Kyrie?” he asked, pouring a measure.
“Doing a lot better. The vet says she can come home tomorrow.”
Sinclair held the glass up to the light and regarded the few inches of amber liquid, then added two ice cubes from the bucket.
“I’ll go over there this afternoon to see if they can release her early.”
“She’s doing well. They just want to monitor her kidney functions. The police told me to be more careful about leaving lights on in the house when I go out in the evening.”
“I’m sure that would help,” he said, lowering himself into his favorite chair. “And now I’m here, so nobody is going to hurt you. They’ll have to go through me first.”
She smiled at his bravado.
Sinclair yawned. “Darling, if you don’t mind, I’m going to rest for a moment. It’s been a rough couple of days, and I haven’t had much sleep.”
“Oh. Please, John. Go ahead.”
“Would you mind asking Malik to get Luca settled?”
Cordelia walked over to the boy and picked up his duffle.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll show him around myself. Back in a minute, John. Then we can catch up.”
A spiral staircase led from the library to the floors above, and she and Luca went up to the guest suite. The fourth floor of the townhouse was like a private apartment. There was a sitting room, a few bedrooms, and a laundry—all tucked under the eaves of the gambrel roof. Furniture was upholstered with chintz slipcovers, and there were original Victorian brass beds. The view from the window dormers was a perfect vantage point over the slate rooftops of Mayfair.
Luca followed Cordelia around, as she told him about the air conditioner and how to coax hot
water out of the shower. When she turned to go, he thanked her for her hospitality.
CLIFFMERE ESTATE, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
The Contessa Georgiana Brindisi drove up from London in a red Ferarri FF. It had been leased from a dealership in South Kensington. She rented, borrowed, and purchased cars as frequently as other women changed purses. In her opinion, there was no point in motoring anywhere in a second-rate automobile.
The drive from London took about an hour, and the Ferrari purred to a stop in the front courtyard of the Cliffmere estate. Brindy stepped out of the car and looked around.
This was a beautiful spot, deep in the English countryside. The sky was darkening rapidly for a storm, and the heavy atmosphere accentuated the green foliage, turning the lawn into green velvet. A classic border garden was still in full bloom—snapdragons, alyssum, lavender, hollyhocks, lupins, phlox, foxglove, and delphiniums—so different from the arid beauty of the Mediterranean.
It was quiet as she crunched her way across the pebble drive. There was nothing except the slight chirp of crickets and the ping of the exhaust manifold shield as the engine cooled off. Just as she reached the front door, Victoria called to her from the courtyard.
“Brindy! Over here!”
Brindy turned. The princess had clearly been horseback riding. She was dressed in fawn-colored jodhpurs and high black boots. As she strode toward her, she looked marvelous, softer, and more womanly. No belly bump yet—at eight weeks, the princess was still not showing.
“Hello V, do you like my necklace?” Brindy asked, greeting her with an air kiss.
Victoria gasped. “You’re wearing it!”
“Darling, how else do you think I could get it through the airport?”
“Didn’t they spot it?” Victoria asked.
“I wore the lowest neckline I could find. Believe me, the customs officer never even noticed the jewelry.”
“Did they give Sinclair any trouble?”
“No, they checked his passport and searched his bag, but they didn’t detain him. He’s under instructions to call Scotland Yard as soon as he gets home.”
“I’ll tell them the necklace has been found in a pocket of my suitcase.”
“That should fix things,” Brindy agreed.
Victoria hesitated. “Have you seen Charles?”
“I haven’t,” Brindy said. “I’ve been dying to ask. Does he know about the baby yet?”
“No. I couldn’t find a suitable time to tell him.”
Brindy laughed. “Oh darling, there’s never a good time to tell a man you’re pregnant. Just do it.”
Victoria sighed. “I know. He’s coming up for the weekend, I think. And I hear that you are going to stay with us for a few days.”
“I would love to,” Brindy said with a smile. “Luca is in London with Sinclair, so I’m free as a bird.”
“Good afternoon, Contessa,” a voice behind her said.
Victoria and Brindy turned to see an older woman, dressed in an expensive tweed jacket and slacks, standing behind them.
“You must be Marian Skye-Russell,” the contessa exclaimed. “Delighted to meet you.”
“Please come in. Charles mentioned you would be joining us at Cliffmere for a couple of days.”
“Yes, if you’ll have me. I’ve always wanted to experience English country life.”
“It would be our pleasure to have you.”
Brindy swept into the front hall and stood inside, looking around at the magnificent carved oak staircase and the stained-glass windows. Tapestries hung on the walls, and a suit of medieval armor dominated the landing of the staircase.
She turned to her hostess. “What a beautiful house you have. Perhaps later you would be kind enough to give me a tour?”
An hour later, Marian led the way down the dim corridor, stepping carefully over frayed oriental rugs and turning on overhead lights. The Cliffmere estate evoked a feeling of timelessness. With its architecture ranging from Elizabethan to Palladian, almost every period was represented. The corridors were crammed with antiques. Large formal portraits gazed down with austere expressions. They passed by many closed doors, each adding to the mystery of the old house.
The day turned rainy, and the plaster walls smelled slightly of damp. At intervals, there were large windows that gave a glimpse of the inclement weather. A violent rainstorm pelted the garden. Sharp cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning produced a gothic atmosphere.
“Does it always pour like this in England?” Brindy asked.
“Usually only in winter. But we’ve had the most peculiar weather this summer.”
“So have we,” Brindy informed her. “I think it must have something to do with that volcanic eruption in Iceland.”
“Hopefully, we will have a few good days while you are here,” Marian said, her bright blue eyes twinkling.
“Thank you again for inviting me,” Brindy replied. “It will be nice to catch up with Victoria again. I haven’t seen her since Capri.”
Marian took a large ring of keys out of her pocket and opened an ornate carved door.
“I’ve picked out a special room for you. The Tudor Bedroom. They say Queen Elizabeth I stayed here once, during her reign in 1588.”
They stepped into an ornate room with crimson draperies and precious furniture. There was a mahogany four-poster bed with a richly embroidered canopy. The French doors opened out onto the terrace and offered a sweeping view of the ornamental pond and the yew hedge beyond.
“How lovely.”
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here. It is very quiet on this side of the house.”
“Thank you,” Brindy said. “With all this fresh air, I’m sure I’ll sleep like the dead.”
VENETIAN BEDROOM, CLIFFMERE
Princess Victoria lounged on her bed after waking up from her afternoon nap. She had entered a sleepy phase in her pregnancy and simply couldn’t keep her eyes open after lunch. But there were no excuses for putting unpleasant things off any further.
It was time to deal with Scotland Yard.
Her parents would be greatly relieved to have the necklace back in the royal coffers. She dangled it in her hand, holding the stones to the light. What an ugly old thing, so ornate and bulky. Who would want to steal it?
The private number they had given her for Scotland Yard was answered on the second ring. The inspector sounded relieved when she told him the news.
“I assume you will drop your investigation of John Sinclair?” Victoria asked.
The inspector assured her that her “companion” would be cleared of all suspicion, and she thanked him profusely.
She put the heirloom in the suitcase at the foot of the bed and let the whole matter drift out of her mind. The necklace had been found. Sinclair was exonerated. Now everything would go back to normal.
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON
At the Stapleton household in Mayfair, it was the cook’s night off, but a torrential rainstorm had dissuaded Cordelia from venturing out for dinner. Sinclair stood at the range, fixing his standard stay-at-home meal—Turkish spiced lamb, grilled vegetables, and rice.
Cordelia nibbled Greek olives and drank a light white wine as he prepared the meal. Luca was on the floor, playing with Kyrie. The elkhound had fully recovered from what the vet said was a “toxic event.” Now her favorite squeak toy punctuated the conversation.
Cordelia picked up a cube of feta from the salad and popped it into her mouth. Her appetite was back now that Sinclair was home again. She let her eyes linger on his well-shaped form. As he lifted the cover off a dish of vegetables his shirt pulled taught at the shoulders. All that digging at archaeological sites paid off.
“What will you have for dessert, John?” Cordelia asked with just a hint of innuendo.
Sinclair glanced over at Luca, then back at her. “Well, it’s my first night back. I’m looking forward to a little indulgence.”
“Oh, I totally agree.”
Luca popped his head up, picking
up something in their tone. He looked at Sinclair with curiosity.
“What are you talking about?”
“Dessert … I’ll make up some traditional Turkish almond pudding with grated pistachios,” Sinclair deadpanned.
“That sounds good to me,” Delia agreed. “Or if you want something simple, there’s some of that lemon sorbet in the freezer.”
Luca went back to playing with the dog, and Sinclair gave her a surreptitious wink and continued cooking.
Dinner was almost done. A drift of steam wafted toward Delia, carrying with it the spicy smells of the Mediterranean. She had a sudden memory of another evening in Capri only a few weeks before.
Cordelia watched him take a knife and slice through an onion with meticulous care. Sinclair was a much more disciplined cook than Charles. He always held the glass measuring cups up to the light to make sure the amounts were correctly poured and leveled off his teaspoons with a knife. In contrast, Charles whirled around the kitchen like a dervish, never measuring, and seasoning to taste. They had such different personalities. How funny that they should be such inseparable friends.
Suddenly the front doorbell rang, breaking into her thoughts.
“That’s probably Charles,” she said, putting down her wine and crossing over to the kitchen stairs.
“Check through the slot before you open the door,” Sinclair cautioned. “You need to be more careful now.”
Delia skipped up the narrow passage and across the black-and-white marble foyer. When she looked through the eyepiece, Charles was standing out on the step in the pouring rain. Beads of water dotted his beautifully cut jacket. He gave her a grin through the viewer.
She pulled open the door and kissed his cheek in greeting. He folded up his umbrella and stepped inside.
“Salut, chéri. Did you have a good day?”
“I was working on my new hydrothermal vent project in the Mariana archipelago.”
“That sounds exciting,” Charles said, brushing the raindrops off his jacket.
“It looks like we might be able to get organized for next year,” she told him.
Summer of Fire Page 22
