Jude smiled. “Is it that obvious?”
Charles nodded. “Absolutely.”
CLIFFMERE ESTATE, OXFORDSHIRE
The Land Rover turned into the gates at Cliffmere, and the chauffeur-driven car with Salvatore Mondragone and Tito were right behind.
“A lot of people in that car,” Tito remarked.
“One of them has to be Sinclair,” Mondragone replied.
The glowing red taillights of the first vehicle receded down the long line of elms in the direction of the house.
“Pull in,” Mondragone told his driver. “Put it there.”
They drove over the grass, tires bumping. If they parked between the trees, no one could see the vehicle from the house. Mondragone stepped out, noticing that a dusting of soot was beginning to cover the grass. It was like fine gray flour on his leather shoes.
The natural disaster was working in his favor. With the volcanic debris shutting down roads, authorities would not be out looking for him. In the next forty-eight hours there would be a window of opportunity to flee the country. Police would be occupied with other emergencies.
He slammed the car door shut and walked under the canopy of leaves. Tito climbed out, limping over to join his boss.
Mondragone watched the man struggle across the uneven lawn. His ghoulish appearance and white hair were even more noticeable out here in the country.
“You need to stay with the driver,” he instructed.
“Why?” Tito demanded.
“I need you to keep an eye on the front gate and watch the car.”
“OK, boss.”
“Stay out of sight. Sit in the front seat like you’re having a smoke.”
“You got it,” Tito said, smiling, through crooked yellow teeth. “I’ll be there.”
Mondragone set out on foot for the enormous mansion.
All this seemed a lot of trouble. A real long shot. But if he could get his hands on the sapphires, it would be well worth the effort and provide enough money to set himself up for life in Brazil, Colombia, or Argentina.
Finding the gems would be tricky. He’d have to locate the bedrooms. And in this huge house, it might be difficult. He might have to force someone to tell him where the sapphires were. He fingered the gun under his left arm. No problem. He came prepared.
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON
John Sinclair walked into his garage in the lower level of the London townhouse and unlocked the Aston Martin DBS. It was a shame to take it out in this weather; the volcanic ash might damage the paint. But the Triumph Speed Triple motorcycle certainly wouldn’t work; in conditions like this, he would need an enclosed vehicle.
Just before he started the ignition, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket to feel for his wallet. His fingertips met with another small object—smooth and round. It was the ancient Roman ring he had taken from Mondragone. He had picked it up this morning to return to Scotland Yard, but the discussion had turned serious, and it had entirely slipped his mind.
He put it back into his coat pocket, reminding himself to turn it in at another time. And Scotland Yard had something of his also: There was the matter of the diamond engagement ring the police had taken from his drawer. After this weekend, he’d take care of all the unfinished business. Right now, the police needed to focus on finding Mondragone.
The Aston Martin eased out of the garage into a foggy mist. Visibility was worse than he imagined, and there were very few cars out on the street. He’d take the shortcut and be there in less than an hour.
They all needed a nice calm weekend: Cordelia, Charles, Princess Victoria, and Luca. So much had happened. Jude especially deserved a respite; he had a terrible time on Mount Etna. And they could never thank him enough for saving Luca.
Of course, Jude was trying to endear himself to Cordelia. Sinclair smiled to himself. He’d overlook that little flirtation. Go ahead Blackwell, just try to win her over. With his Kiwi accent and ruffian manners, he was the classic “bad boy.” These types were great for women’s fantasies and terrible as husbands. Cordelia was too smart to fall for that kind of thing.
He was determined to make this a happy, relaxing weekend. After what he had been through in the past few days, a weekend in the English countryside would be welcome, no matter how bad the weather.
People always talked about London fog. This was the worst air quality he had ever encountered. He could barley see the road. Once out of the city, the back roads were treacherous. It wasn’t so bad with the hedges on either side of the road; he could keep his eye on the wall of shrubbery. But when the road was flanked by open fields, the odds of ending up in a ditch were much worse.
He tried rolling down his window to see out the side, but the air was not breathable, stinking of sulfur and full of ash. He sealed up the car and cranked the air conditioner. The system would be ruined, but at least he’d survive the trip.
After an hour of tense driving, Sinclair pulled into the lane at Cliffmere. He’d made good time on the back roads. As he drove down the avenue of elms, he noticed a new Maybach coupe between the trees. That was a curious place to park. He’d ask Marian which of her acquaintances was foolish enough to leave their car outside during this kind of acidic ashfall.
Marian walked across the pasture to see how the men were getting on. The visibility was declining rapidly, as the ash rained down in small, almost invisible particles.
As she walked up to the fence, two farmworkers in neoprene pollution masks struggled to corral the sheep. There was a wooden ramp that led into the back of the truck with one man on each side. A black-and-white border collie worked as a header, in the lead, keeping the animals in a group and occasionally circling back to stop any movement away from the ramp.
The ashfall coated the wooly animals, leaving them muddy gray. Their eyes and snouts were pink and running, already irritated by the chemicals in the air and on the ground.
“Good morning, ma’am,” one of the men greeted her.
“Good morning. I hope this is not too difficult for you?” she asked.
“It’s fine ma’am. But we have the Dishley Longhorns in the west pasture that we still have to tend to.”
“I’d rather you just pressed on,” she said, looking at the sky. “I think it’s going to get worse.”
One of them agreed. “It’s so cloudy now, I can stare straight at the sun.”
Marian shook her head sadly. “It will be a miracle if any of these animals live. I’ve never seen pollution like this in my whole life.”
“I hope it rains. Maybe all this will just go away,” one man offered.
“There’s no chance of that. It’s dead calm,” the second farmhand said.
“Well, we can only do what we can,” she encouraged. “Thanks ever so much.”
Marian strode back across the pasture; her hunter green wellies looked like they were coated with plaster. The men got in the cab of the truck with the border collie and started the engine. As they drove off, the dog began to whine.
LIBRARY, EAST WING, CLIFFMERE ESTATE
Sinclair felt his tension fall away when he entered the elegant manor house. Cliffmere always felt like home. He and Cordelia had known the Skye-Russells for years. He’d spent plenty of time on the estate while he was courting Cordelia. And every time he came back, the magic was still there.
When you got right down to it, Cliffmere was the perfect spot to propose. He should have thought of that before. Cordelia’s family had roots here. Her great-great-grandfather, Elliott Stapleton, and the owner of Cliffmere, Sir Mark Skye-Russell, had been friends. They had gone on many polar expeditions together in the early 1900s.
Maybe he and Delia would have a moment alone this weekend, so he could ask her to marry him. He’d better do it soon, especially with Jude Blackwell lurking around trying to catch her eye.
As he entered the library, he looked around, savoring the memories. This section of the house was a throwback to the Victorian era: The light levels were dim the double-heig
ht glass-enclosed cases were filled with tales of adventure and exploration.
Sinclair walked over to greet Marian. The woman was diminutive and jolly, the quintessential English gentlewoman—dressed in a soft, heather wool, tweed blazer, her white hair piled up in a prim bun on top of her head.
“So nice to see you, Marian,” he said, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. “By the way, there’s a car parked out at your gate.”
“Oh, sometimes tourists stop to photograph the entrance,” she said, dismissing his concern.
“I can’t imagine any tourists today. I could barely see the road.”
“I know. We’re all terribly worried about this ash,” Marian fretted. “The animals might make it, but the crops will be ruined. There’s nothing we can do about the fruit and vegetable gardens.”
She turned to Cordelia. “But enough about the weather. Delia and I were just catching up. Why don’t you pull up a chair and join us?”
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Sinclair declined politely.
Marian and Cordelia settled themselves in the large crimson wingchairs by the bay window. Marian and Delia were the closest of confidants.
As the women talked, Sinclair wandered around, scanning the shelves. Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was still where he left it on the last visit.
“Hello, down there,” a voice called from above.
Sinclair looked up and saw Jude on the second-level balcony, perusing the shelves.
“You just can’t resist climbing things, can you,” Sinclair laughed.
“There are some great books on volcanoes up here,” Jude called down.
“Enjoy,” Sinclair said, and ambled over to the heavily draped window to check the weather.
Sediment coated the lawn like frost. There would be no romantic walk in the garden with Cordelia today. He’d have to propose here in the library. Suddenly, he remembered another proposal that was supposed to take place today—Charles and Victoria. What a fun coincidence. Tonight they could have a double engagement party.
“Delia, where’s Charles?” he called over.
“He went out to the barn to find V.”
Marian chuckled. “Victoria ran upstairs to change when she heard he was coming.”
“Why change?” Sinclair asked.
“Clothilde had a notion that Victoria should wear a simple country frock, to look like a milkmaid or something.”
They all laughed.
“I guess having a fashion designer in the house makes life complicated,” Cordelia said.
“To say nothing of a princess,” Marian sighed. “We’re all under terrible pressure to be chic. I’ve stowed all my ratty cardigans until Victoria and Clothilde leave.”
“I wonder if I packed something fancy enough for dinner,” Cordelia mused.
“It should be a great evening,” Marian declared. “I’ll have to remember to put some more champagne on ice.”
“Who else is staying for the weekend?”
Marian counted off on her fingers.
“Charles and Victoria, Mr. Blackwell, Luca, and the Contessa Brindisi.”
“Where is Luca by the way?” Sinclair asked. “Not getting into trouble, I hope.”
“No,” Cordelia smiled. “We sent him to the stables to find a horse.”
“I don’t think he should stay out long,” Sinclair observed. “The air quality is terrible.”
Jude spoke up. “The pollution is bad for the horse as well. The fluorine gas can turn into hydrofluoric acid and cause terrible sores on animal hides.”
Marian nodded. “If he doesn’t come back in a few minutes, I’ll send someone out to look for him.”
She turned to Jude, who held a slim volume in his hands.
“I see you found a book that interests you, Mr. Blackwell. That was given to my great-grandfather by the author himself.”
He smiled.
“Yes, I can’t believe you actually have a signed first edition of Frank Perret’s work on Vesuvius!” he said.
“Who’s Frank Perret?” Cordelia asked, glancing up.
“He is the father of modern volcanology. He ascended Mount Vesuvius during an eruption in 1906 and took photographs.”
Jude sat with the volume in his hands as if he had found the Holy Grail.
“I expect that book has been on the shelf ever since Sir Mark put it there,” Marian said, clearly charmed by Jude.
She walked over and sat next to him on the bench, watching as he thumbed through the photographs.
“Jude is one of the best volcano photographers in the world,” Cordelia told her. “He just climbed Mount Etna while it was erupting.”
Marian turned to him appalled. “Young man, I don’t think that was a very prudent thing to do.”
They all laughed.
Marian continued. “Why don’t you take this book with you and return it the next time you visit.”
“I couldn’t possibly …” Jude demurred.
“But I insist,” Marian replied. “And if you are interested in volcanoes, I have some other interesting things to show you in the portrait gallery. Why don’t we all go?”
They all followed her into the next room, which was a long gallery of portraits and landscapes. There were at least a hundred paintings hung on the walls in a dense pattern, all the way up to the rafters.
“Have you ever heard of the ‘Volcano School’?” she asked, walking along the row of gilt-framed canvases. “Sir Mark was enthralled with that genre of painting.”
“Yes!” Jude turned toward the others. “That was a group of artists who all painted in Hawaii during the 1880s and 1890s. They did some of the first real pictures of Kilauea and other volcanoes in the Pacific.”
Marian led the way, stopping before a framed watercolor of an erupting volcano.
“Well, here is a perfect example. The owner of Cliffmere was friendly with Constance Gordon-Cumming, one of the first women to paint Hawaii.”
Jude stared at it, absorbing the details.
“Absolutely beautiful.”
“But there is another one I wanted to show you, Mr. Blackwell.”
Marian paused before a life-sized oil painting of a woman in a lace-trimmed dress and broad-brimmed hat. The lady clearly was an aristocrat, in buttoned-up gloves, holding a lace handkerchief. The sky behind her glowed red, and there was a volcano, its summit crowned with a fiery blaze.
“This portrait was done in 1784, after the historic eruption in Iceland.”
Cordelia leaned in to examine it. “How gorgeous! Who is it?”
Marian continued. “It is a portrait of Abigail Broomfield Rodgers by John Singleton Copley. See—there is the volcano in the background.”
Jude reacted visibly, flushing with excitement. “We were just talking about that eruption at breakfast this morning. It reminds me of what is happening now.”
“Exactly,” Marian nodded. “And here is another painting that is considered quite a masterpiece.”
She pointed to another large canvas at least five feet wide.
“Oh my God!” Jude whispered.
It was a spectacular work of art. A classic stratovolcano dominated a stark landscape, and the surrounding countryside was illuminated with an unearthly glow. It was a masterful interplay of light and darkness.
“Joseph Wright of Derby,” Marian explained. “He painted Vesuvius in 1775.”
Jude was staring at the painting. Sinclair noticed a bead of sweat had formed on his temple.
“Jude?” he said quietly, touching his arm. “Are you OK?”
“I’m … not feeling …” Jude said and turned abruptly away from the painting. “It seems …”
“Sit here,” Sinclair suggested, offering a bench.
Jude wobbled over and sat heavily on the seat.
“I’m so sorry … I don’t know what just happened.”
Cordelia sat down beside him and took hold of his hand.
“Your fingers are cold …”
“Take deep breaths,” Cordelia suggested.
Marian reentered the gallery, carefully holding a glass of fortified wine.
“Have some of this, Mr. Blackwell. It’s very restorative.”
Jude took it, embarrassed. “I don’t know what happened just now.”
Marian patted his arm. “Young man, it seems to me you need a good rest. Now drink up.”
He tossed the port down as if it were a shot of tequila. His eyes widened as he swallowed. “Wow, that’s good. I feel much better.”
“Nonsense. You need a nice lie-down before lunch.”
“I’d love that,” he admitted. “I guess I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Come along, I’ll show you to your room,” Marian offered.
After Jude and Marian left the room, Sinclair turned to Cordelia. “Maybe we shouldn’t have brought him into this business with Mondragone. He’s been through a lot lately.”
“You’re probably right. He looks exhausted,” Cordelia agreed.
“Well he’s in the right place,” Sinclair said, laughing. “Marian has found someone to cosset for the weekend.”
Cordelia nodded. “He’s going to be her new pet, that’s for sure.”
“I can see it now,” Sinclair joked. “We’ll come back years from now, and he’ll still be here, sipping port and looking at the picture gallery.”
They both laughed.
Sinclair looked around. “So, shall we sit in the library for a moment?”
She looked at him and smiled. “Yes, John. That would be nice. I could use a little peace and quiet.”
CHINOISERIE BEDROOM, WEST WING, CLIFFMERE
Jude entered the Chinoiserie bedroom and placed his overnight case on the luggage rack. Ever since that near miss in Iceland, he had been exhausted. A couple of days at Cliffmere should set him right.
He glanced around, assessing the place—much swankier than he was used to. Marian had given him a little museum speech when they came in, telling him the room had been decorated in a Chinese motif, dating back to the British Orientalist School of the mid-1700s. Black-lacquered furniture was overlaid with gold designs, and the walls were papered with a toile of exotic birds, pagodas, and picturesque Mandarins in flowing robes. He didn’t understand half of it, but she had carried on to make him feel at home.
Summer of Fire Page 26
