“We need help to get Cordelia to the car,” Charles said.
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s no time to explain,” Charles whispered. “Sinclair, go! We have it under control. Don’t keep everyone’s attention on us.”
Sinclair gave a curt nod and walked to the podium. Up at the front of the room, he raised the microphone higher and spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, forgive the interruption. First, let me begin by thanking you for attending our annual event.”
Charles pulled Jude aside for another hurried conference.
“We need to get Cordelia to the car. First, I’m going to go check the door. You follow with Delia. Keep a sharp eye out for trouble.”
“Sure thing. But how are we going to get Cordelia out of the room without her raising a fuss? She’ll never leave without Sinclair.”
“Use your charm,” Charles said and winked.
Jude sidled up to Cordelia and spoke quietly.
“I have to talk to you.”
She turned, confused.
“Not now. John is just starting his speech.”
“Exactly. It’s a perfect time to talk alone.” Jude took her arm. “I have something I need to tell you. It’s urgent.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes.
“We’ll just step outside. This way,” he said and walked her quickly through the crowd and down the central stairs to the exterior of the building.
Jude assessed the situation. The courtyard of Burlington House was dark and shadowy. There were a hundred places for a gunman to hide. Any person emerging from the party would be outlined in the light—a perfect setup for an assassination. They had to find shelter quickly.
Jude didn’t tarry on the steps. Instead, he walked with Cordelia toward a dozen black limousines. The drivers were standing around in clusters, smoking and exchanging stories.
“We can sit inside your car,” he said.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Delia, please,” he begged, “Where is your car?”
She pointed out a limo parked at the curb, and Jude opened the back door.
The driver noticed them and cast his cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out.
“You’re back early, aren’t you?” the man asked, checking his watch.
Cordelia gave him a wave. “We’re not leaving. We’re just going to sit for a moment.”
She entered the car, and Jude climbed in after her and slammed the door. Inside it was dark, and the windows were tinted. Jude exhaled. They were safe.
“So what’s this all about?” she demanded, arranging her gown.
“I wanted to ask you about something.”
“I hope this isn’t some misguided attempt to make a pass at me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Delia. I may be rough around the edges, but I have more class than that.”
The door opened, and Charles climbed in on her other side.
“Charles! What’s going on?” Cordelia gasped.
“Mondragone is here,” he said, slightly breathless.
“The gangster?” Cordelia struggled for the door handle. “I can’t believe you two just hustled me out and left Sinclair on his own.”
“Sinclair asked us to get you out,” Jude countered.
“Well, that’s just ridiculous. I’m going back in.”
Jude reached over and grabbed her wrist.
“Not so fast, Delia.”
“Jude, let go of me, or you’ll regret it,” she threatened, struggling in his grip.
Charles spoke up, his tone exasperated. “Jude, let her go. Delia, cut it out. Sinclair is coming out in two minutes. We all have to get out of here.”
Five minutes later, Sinclair stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around, face haggard in the streetlight. Charles lowered the limo window and flagged him.
Sinclair sprinted to the vehicle and slid in, taking the reverse banquette opposite Charles, Jude, and Cordelia.
“Let’s go,” he said, loosening his tie and pushing the intercom to tell the driver to head home.
“You still need me?” Jude asked.
Sinclair looked over, realizing Jude was still there.
“Oh, sorry. We can drop you off. Where are you staying?”
“The Goring. But look, why don’t I stick around? You might need another pair of hands if you’re in a tight spot.”
“Actually, we could use all the help we can get. We have a situation with Salvatore Mondragone.”
Jude’s expression became serious. “Charles told me. If you need help, I’m in.”
“Let’s all go back to the house and figure out our next move,” Sinclair suggested. “Jude, you should stay over. We can send for your bag from the hotel.”
“Your call,” Jude agreed.
Sinclair noticed Cordelia’s studied indifference in the conversation. Was she interested in Jude? He had no time for that right now. They needed extra manpower. And Jude was more than capable of holding his own, if push came to shove with the Camorra.
“Keep a sharp lookout for anyone following us,” Sinclair said to Charles as he signaled the driver to go.
Charles looked nervously out the back window. “Listen, I think I should take Cordelia up to Cliffmere as soon as possible. She can stay with my sister and Victoria.”
“Good idea,” Sinclair nodded.
“The nerve of you two!” Cordelia gasped. “Don’t I get a say?”
“I was just thinking out loud,” Charles protested.
“Don’t be difficult, Delia,” Sinclair told her firmly. “Everyone is concerned for your safety.”
She sat back, fuming. “Why can’t I stay in London with you?”
“I’m Mondragone’s target,” Sinclair explained. “And I don’t want you anywhere near me while this is going on.”
“And I don’t want you wandering around by yourself with a crazy gangster trying to kill you,” she shot back.
Sinclair sighed. “We’re going to have to compromise, Delia. You go to Cliffmere with Charles and Jude. I’m going to report all this to Scotland Yard, and I promise I will drive straight up there afterward.”
“No. Absolutely not. I’m staying.”
Sinclair leaned forward and took both her hands in his.
“Let’s not fight about it. I need you to help me. Please. Go with Charles and Jude. I’ll join you as quickly as I can.”
Cordelia sat back in the limo seat, resigned.
“Fine.”
“So you’ll go?” Charles asked, astonished at her capitulation.
“Yes, I’ll go. But don’t underestimate me, gentlemen. If I find out you have double-crossed me and have exiled me with the ‘women’ at Cliffmere, you won’t have to worry about Salvatore Mondragone. I will kill all three of you!”
There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Jude spoke up.
“I don’t know about you guys … but personally, I’m terrified.”
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON
At 8:00 a.m. the next morning, the townhouse dining room was empty. Jude entered in search of breakfast and looked around the beautifully appointed room with its long mahogany table and dozens of carved Hepplewhite chairs. He seemed to be the first person up.
The discussion about Mondragone went late into the night. Sinclair, Cordelia, and Charles were still sleeping. Uncertain what to do, he stood staring out the window, watching the traffic pick up outside in the street. Eventually, the housekeeper came in, bearing a salver of toast covered with a linen napkin.
“Breakfast is ready, sir,” she said, pointing to sideboard dishes. “Please eat hearty. I don’t like to see men go out of my house in the morning without a proper fry-up.”
She handed him an empty china plate and lumbered out. No other invitation was necessary. Luscious scents were coming from the chafing dishes, so Jude went to investigate, lifting each silver dome.
From the look of things, breakfast was lavish in the Stapleton household: There were scrambled eggs, Scottish sa
lmon, kippers, bangers and rashers, as well as fruit and pastry. He filled his plate liberally and sat down to eat. The scrambled eggs were rich, fluffy, and perfectly seasoned.
“Hello. You’re up early,” Sinclair remarked as he came into the room.
Jude turned. “I woke up at six. A late-night conversation about the Camorra tends to cut into REM sleep.”
Charles arrived right behind him, perfectly turned out, as if he were going to be photographed for a men’s magazine.
“Hey, how’re you Charles,” Jude said, surveying the clothes. “Going somewhere fancy?”
“Don’t mind Charles. His sister is a fashion designer,” Sinclair explained with a laugh. “He doubles as one of her mannequins.”
Charles ignored the jibe. “As a matter of fact, Victoria will be at Cliffmere, and I wanted to look nice.”
Jude nodded. “Oh, yeah. I guess when you’re dating a princess, you have to wear snappy clothes all the time.”
“Something like that,” Charles said and picked up a plate.
Sinclair patted Jude on the shoulder as he walked by on the way to the sideboard.
“I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”
“No problem,” Jude said, continuing to eat.
“Everything OK with the food?”
“Your cook is fantastic,” he said, swallowing.
Sinclair sat down with his plate and opened the Financial Times. One article had a feature photo of the eruption of Mount Katla.
“Mind if I take a look?” Jude asked, trying to see it upside down.
“Of course,” Sinclair said, handing him the paper.
The front page gave all the latest details: After decades of being dormant, the Katla volcano was now erupting in a spectacular manner.
“Is it bad?” Sinclair asked.
“Very. I’ll show you something,” Jude said, reaching for his pen. He found a clear margin on the newspaper and began to draw.
“What’s that circle?” Charles asked, looking over at his scribble.
“It’s the caldera. See, it’s like a gigantic bowl, six miles across. The word Katla means ‘kettle’ in Icelandic.”
“Mmm … hmm,” Sinclair said moving his chair to see it more clearly.
Jude kept sketching. “The Katla crater is about two thousand feet deep and filled with ice. It’s part of the Myrdalsjökull glacier.”
Jude drew wavy lines down the slopes.
“So when Katla erupts, the ice melts and a huge amount of water pours down the mountainside.”
He looked up at both of them. “In 1755, the flood discharge was nine million cubic feet a second, equivalent to the flow of the Amazon River.”
“That’s incredible! So what’s happening now?” Charles asked.
Jude began drawing broad strokes through the center of the crater.
“Helicopter pilots have sighted cracks like this in the ice. That tells us subglacial activity has begun along the southeastern rim. And just yesterday there was a basaltic eruption recorded in the fissure swarm to the northeast.”
“Hold on,” Sinclair interjected. “Too much jargon. What are you talking about?”
“Sorry,” Jude apologized. “Simply put—the eruption melts the glacier into water vapor. That changes into sulfur dioxide gas and creates a toxic cloud filled with ash.”
“Where is it drifting?” Sinclair asked.
“Good question. Toward Bergen, Norway, then across the continent to Germany and France.”
“Will it reach here?” Sinclair asked.
“Absolutely,” Jude nodded, recapping his pen.
“But why now? We’ve had other eruptions in Iceland that didn’t do as much damage.”
“Well, here’s where it gets technical. There are two kinds of volcanic eruptions: effusive and explosive. Etna was explosive, which as you know, usually shoots up into the stratosphere and then disperses.”
“And this one?”
“Katla is an effusive eruption, a slow leak. So it’s worse for the environment.”
“So the debris will just keep coming.”
“Exactly. Most of the gas and ash will stay in the lower troposphere. So with the high-pressure system over Europe, the output of the volcano will scatter all over the continent.”
“For how long?” Sinclair asked.
“Months. Maybe a year.”
“A year!” Charles said.
“That’s not inconceivable. In 1783, the Laki fissure continuously erupted for four months—from July through October.”
“I guess we won’t be flying anywhere soon,” Sinclair observed, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
They all sat ruminating on the turn of events.
Charles spoke up first. “I hate to change the subject, but we have bigger problems than the weather.”
“I agree,” Sinclair said, putting his cup down and wiping his lips with a monogramed linen napkin. “After sleeping on it last night, I’ve made some decisions.”
“What are you thinking?” Charles asked him.
“I have decided to tell Scotland Yard everything about Mondragone. The entire story.”
“How can you do that?” Charles objected. “You’re already accused of stealing the necklace.”
“And you tried to kill him,” Jude added.
Sinclair took a sip of coffee. “It was self-defense. And since Mondragone survived, no crimes were committed. He’s hardly going to press charges on assault.”
Charles shook his head doubtfully.
“I want you to run it by our lawyer first.”
“Fine, I’ll call Jim and brief him before going to Scotland Yard.”
“And then meet us at Cliffmere?” Charles asked. “I don’t want to be responsible to Delia if you don’t show up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll come. In the meantime, keep her busy.”
“Happy to do that,” Charles nodded. “She can feed the chickens with Princess Victoria and my sister.”
Sinclair laughed. “Somehow I can’t picture that. And speaking of, what are you going to do about Victoria?”
“What do you mean?” Charles asked, flushing bright red.
Sinclair persisted. “I know it’s not really my business, but it seems my fate is closely tied to hers these days. Are you going to continue to see her?”
Charles reached into the pocket of his blazer and took out a small ring box. He put it on the table in front of Sinclair.
“Take a look,” he said. “I bought it yesterday at Van Cleef.”
Sinclair opened the lid and removed a ruby ring.
“Very nice, Charles. So this is it?”
“I’m going to propose,” Charles said modestly. “I hope she accepts.”
Jude nodded. “She’ll accept. That ring is a beauty! You didn’t spare the budget, that’s for sure.”
Charles took the ring from Sinclair and held it up to the light. The crimson stone sparkled like liquid flame.
“It’s called a ‘Pigeon Blood Ruby.’ It reminded me of the element of fire.”
“It’s great,” Sinclair approved. “I’m glad. Marriage is a wonderful institution. And it’s better for the baby, of course.”
Charles looked at him with a shy smile.
“We’re just getting engaged. I don’t anticipate children for a while. Victoria is pretty young for all that.”
He lowered the ring and placed it carefully in the box. There was a deep silence. Sinclair stared at him.
“Are you saying that you don’t know about the baby?”
Charles looked at Sinclair in confusion.
“Wait … is Victoria …?”
Sinclair nodded.
“Oh, shit,” Jude mumbled as he pushed back his chair and walked quickly over to the coffee urn.
Sinclair leaned forward and put a hand on Charles’s arm.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”
“How did you find out?” Charles asked.
His expression was complet
e shock.
“Luca let it slip. Brindy told him. I … I thought you …”
Charles threw up a hand for silence and then sat staring at the wall with sightless eyes. Embarrassed, Sinclair picked up the paper and pretended to read. Over on the other side of the room, Jude made a big production out of putting sugar in his coffee.
The silence lengthened until Charles finally managed to recover his composure.
“I’m sorry … you see I had no idea. It changes things a lot.”
Sinclair smiled sadly. “How so?”
“Well for one thing, I know she’ll have to accept my proposal.”
Jude turned back from the sideboard. “Well, there you go. Look on the bright side.”
Charles nodded. “Thanks, Jude. In fact, I would appreciate it if you would drive this morning. I’m a little shaky at the moment.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Well, at least take my car,” Sinclair suggested.
“Take your car where?” a voice asked.
They both turned, and Cordelia stood in the doorway, dressed in elegant black slacks and a sweater. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her face looked fresh and rested.
“Cliffmere,” Sinclair told her. “Jude and Charles are driving you up there this morning.”
“Where will you be?” she asked.
“We went though this already. I have to deal with Scotland Yard. I’ll come up later this afternoon.”
“Can I go, too?” Luca said entering the dining room.
Sinclair clapped his hand to his forehead.
“Luca! I totally forgot. Of course you should go. Your mother is there already.”
Cordelia turned to the boy. “You could go horseback riding. They have wonderful bridle paths all over the estate.”
“I’d love that,” Luca grinned, glancing over at Jude. “Is Jude coming too? Wow, this is really going to be fun!”
Cordelia glanced over at Charles.
“What’s wrong? You’re so quiet.”
He looked up, suddenly aware of her presence.
“No, I’m perfectly fine.”
SOUTH KENSINGTON, LONDON
Salvatore Mondragone sat in the dining room at the Ritz Hotel in central London with his accountant. They were enjoying their normal three-course breakfast. Their topic was extraordinarily important. Mondragone wanted to know how many of his operations could withstand regulatory scrutiny.
Summer of Fire Page 24
