Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “No, afterward, you lost a baby.”

  “Ah. You put together the timeline, did you? It’s over and done with. As for Sidorov, he was a clever man. I liked him.”

  “Did Nigel know?”

  “That I liked him? I never kept secrets from my husband, Bryan.”

  “That you’d been there that night.”

  “It wasn’t necessary for him to know, although I think he would have taken in stride being rescued by—”

  “A woman?”

  “No, by me. He was one of the few men I’ve known who could.” Frankly, I didn’t see any of my brothers accepting it.

  “You never saw Sidorov’s face?”

  “No. I’ve seen photos, though.”

  “I met him once.”

  “When was that?” Now I was curious. Bryan was an analyst. He never went into the field.

  “Some years ago,” he said dismissively. “When we were all a good deal younger. At any rate, the photos didn’t do him justice. He was a handsome man. He looked a little like Tony.”

  “Oh?” I was startled to hear my brother refer to another man’s looks.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Just…oh. Did you enjoy meeting him?”

  “We played chess.”

  “And who won?”

  “It was a draw.”

  “Was he the one, Bryan?” As I’d said, I’d liked Sidorov, and if he were the one, I was certain Bryan would have talked him into defecting. It would have been interesting to have a KGB agent in the family. We already had a representative of British intelligence.

  “‘One’ what?” It seemed to take a minute for him to realize what I was asking. He blew out a breath, shook his head, and smiled. “Oh, that one.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No, little sister. Sidorov wasn’t the one.”

  * * * *

  Later that week I had reason to be relieved that Armand Bauchet wasn’t my son’s “one.”

  I stared down at the letter in my hand, and swore in a steady monotone, the ice queen completely overtaken by the mother. That stupid son of a bitch, to send something like this in a letter anyone could read.

  Madame,

  Armand has confessed all! Your unnatural boy seduced him, leading him to indulge in perverted acts! His mother is prostrate and has taken to her bed. Of course Armand begged my forgiveness and went to confession. Let me tell you, madame, that Father Guillaume meted out a very harsh penance.

  You Americans are all the same, thinking you can buy an honest man’s son! Non, je dis! Non, et non, et non!

  I have canceled your wine order and I request that you no longer attempt to purchase wine from my vineyards. And as for your son, I curse the day he ever set foot on my property!

  Tartarin Bauchet

  My first impulse was to burn it, but then I decided to talk to Delano Lawson, the family lawyer. If I learned Quinton’s reputation became sullied because of that cochon, I’d sue Bauchet for every last grape on his lands.

  I called the office of Lawson, Lawson, Bauer, Wells, and Hennessey and made an appointment for the following day.

  I’d let my friends know how…dissatisfied I was with Tartarin Bauchet and that I would no longer do business with him. I had enough influence that they’d stop buying from him as well. It wouldn’t bankrupt him, but it would put a sizable dent in his income.

  In the meanwhile, I pressed the key on the intercom. “Gregor, where are you?”

  “I’m in the kitchen. Did you need me? I’ll be right—”

  “No, I’ll join you there. I have something I want you to see.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 16

  From Exeter, my son went on to Harvard. I hoped he would become a doctor or a professor. Or even a lawyer. But his interests didn’t lie in that direction. He majored in political science, with a minor in Russian, and I couldn’t truly be surprised by that—he was his father’s son.

  Quinton graduated with honors, and with the exception of Bryan’s wife, the entire family was there.

  “I’m sorry, Portia. Johanna was unable to get away.”

  “That’s all right, Bryan.” I didn’t like the way she treated my brother—she never should have married into an intelligence family—and I’d been relieved when I realized she wouldn’t attend the commencement ceremony.

  “It’s not,” Jefferson muttered, although he made sure Bryan was occupied with trading stories of Quinton growing up with Gregor and couldn’t hear him. He knew as well as I that no matter what the state of his marriage, Bryan would never permit anyone to criticize his wife. “Ludo had no problem getting the time off, and neither did Gregor.”

  Before he could say anything further, Ludovic touched his arm. “Quinton’s name has been called.”

  We all watched with pride as my son strode to the podium to accept his sheepskin, moved the tassel on his cap from right to left, and returned to his seat.

  I turned to my brothers. “Quinton has told me that he’s decided to take a year or so to see the world.”

  “Yes, he mentioned something along those lines to us.”

  “Bryan, Jefferson, if you’re going to have him do some odd jobs for you, would you please see to it that he doesn’t get killed?”

  Tony looked on smugly. “Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but I believe I did say something to the effect that you wouldn’t be able to pull the wool over her eyes.”

  “Shut up,” Jefferson growled. “Portia knows very well that we love our nephew and would never do anything to put him in harm’s way. You’re just upset because Quinn agreed to—” Bryan poked him in the ribs, and he cleared his throat. “—to visit Europe rather than remain in D.C.”

  “Ha! I’m not in the least upset.”

  “Of course you’re not, big brother.”

  “I’m glad you understand that!” Tony huffed. He turned his back on them, thereby missing Bryan’s soft smile.

  It was gone instantly, and I was sure I was the only one who had seen it. Well, Tony had always been Bryan’s favorite brother.

  Not that I was surprised. He was mine as well.

  * * * *

  With Quinton somewhere in Europe, Gregor no longer felt the need to visit every other weekend, and so it was just me and Alyona in the house in Great Falls.

  I settled on the loveseat in the small parlor and was about to start The Hermit of Eyton Forest, Ellis Peter’s latest book in her Brother Cadfael series, when the doorbell rang.

  Assuming it was someone peddling religion at this time of night, I left it to Alyona to deal with whoever it might be.

  “Portia.”

  “Tony? What…” My brother had a tight look about his mouth, and the book fell from suddenly boneless fingers. “Quinton?”

  “No, he’s fine.”

  “My God, you frightened me! What’s got you looking so grim?”

  “I’ve…I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  “All right. Come right out and tell me.”

  “Folana Fournaise is dead.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Hardly. One of Bryan’s people intercepted a message to Sidorov. She was in Albania, God alone knows why, and she was shot in the chest. Since you always considered her a friend, I felt you should hear it from me.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “Thank you, Tony.”

  Alyona came bustling in. “I make you tea, Missus.” She set the tray on the side table. “And a sweet. Is good for shock.”

  Tony must have told her before he came to me. “Thank you.” I rose and hugged her.

  “So sorry,” she murmured in my ear, and then left the room.

  “Tony, I…” I firmed my upper lip. “I know you never liked Folana. I appreciate you taking the time to inform me of her death. If…if you don’t mind, I’d like some time to come to grips with this.”

  “Of course, little sister.” He came to me and kissed my forehead. “If you need to talk, just call me.”

  “I will. Th
ank you.”

  “I’ll see myself out.”

  I held myself stiffly until he was gone, and then closed the door and poured myself a cup of tea.

  Folana had contacted me two weeks before. “Too many people want me dead,” she’d said, “so I’m going to accommodate them.”

  “They’ll want to see your body.”

  “They’ll be disappointed. Bart will take it to Crete. He’ll be so infuriated by this act that no one will dare challenge him.”

  “Perhaps have him put out the word you were cremated?”

  “Excellent idea.”

  “You’ll take care of yourself?”

  “I will. And remember, you will always be my very dear friend. If you ever have need of me, you know how to reach me. Istenhozzád, Portia.”

  “Farewell, Folana.”

  So she’d put her plan into effect. No doubt word of her “death” was even now flashing through the intelligence community like the proverbial wildfire.

  And just as no one remembered what I’d done during the Cold War, within a number of years, Folana Fournaise would be forgotten as well.

  I took a sip of tea, sat down on the loveseat, and picked up the book.

  * * * *

  Spring passed with my usual activities, and summer passed with more of the same. Now, autumn was just around the corner.

  I came down to the kitchen in my dressing gown. “Good morning, Alyona.”

  “Good morning, Missus.”

  “It looks like it’s going to be very mild for this autumn.”

  “Is true.” She put a plate of toast before me, along with a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee, and then sat across from me with her own coffee. “What is planned for today?”

  “I think I’ll redecorate my office.”

  She nodded. “I go food shopping. Mr. Anthony is coming for dinner tomorrow. We make something to impress him.”

  “You mean you’ll make something to impress him. He knows I can’t cook.” The phone rang. “I’ll get it.” I picked up the received. “Mann residence.”

  “Portia, thank God I’ve reached you!”

  “Father? What’s wrong?”

  “I need you at Shadow Brook. We’ve just received word that Lady Portia has passed away, and your mother isn’t taking it well.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear this, Father.” Although I wasn’t really surprised. My godmother was in her early nineties, and last winter had been a bad one for her. She’d contracted pneumonia, and it had taken months before she’d shaken it. Truthfully, I hadn’t expected her to survive it. “I’ll get dressed and drive home.”

  “Thank you. I’ve called Dr. Parton.”

  “Why?”

  “I believe I said your mother didn’t take the news well.”

  “Why would she need a doctor?”

  He sighed. “Just please get here. She wants you.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hung up the phone. “Alyona, my godmother has passed away, and Mother’s not well. I have to—”

  “I hear. You go.”

  I ran up the stairs to my bedroom and changed into a rust silk blouse, a skirt suit of bronze plaid, and bronze pumps, before gathering up my handbag and returning to the first floor.

  “I have car out for you.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know how long Mother will need me.”

  “No worry. I hold down fort.”

  “Thank you!” I kissed her cheek and crossed to the driveway, where the car waited with the top down. I inserted the key and reversed out of the drive.

  A few years earlier, Ludovic had declared I needed a new car and had accompanied me to the Ferrari showroom. He’d been very proud when I selected a sleek, black Mondial cabriolet. Jefferson, on the other hand, exploded when we drove up to their place in Adams Morgan. Ludovic and I leaned against the convertible and listened to him rant, and eventually he stormed back up to their apartment to call in reinforcements. Within half an hour, Tony and Bryan arrived.

  “She’s a beauty!” Bryan declared. “May I take her for a spin?”

  “You’re not helping, Bryan!” Tony huffed.

  Bryan just gave him a grin and caught the key I tossed to him. “Coming?”

  Tony turned so red I thought the top of his head was going to explode. “No, I am not!” he snapped.

  Bryan slid behind the wheel, waved, and took off with a squeal of the tires.

  “Young fool,” Tony growled.

  “He’s fifty-three, Tony.”

  “That’s younger than I am.”

  “Well, that’s the truth,” Jefferson teased, but Tony’s expression remained stark.

  “He’s going to get himself killed!”

  I sighed. “He’s a very competent driver, Tony. He taught me, you know.”

  “That’s hardly inclined to make me feel better about this whole thing.”

  “You worry too much, big brother.” I patted his cheek. “Jefferson, why don’t you invite us up for some refreshments while Bryan is enjoying my car?”

  He gestured for us to follow him.

  Bryan returned after fifteen minutes and placed the key in my palm. “She drives like a honey, Portia. If I wasn’t a responsible married man…”

  “Yes, well, you are,” Tony snapped. “Please to remember that!”

  “Certainly.” The pleasure left Bryan’s face. “Since there’s no emergency here, I’d better go.”

  He walked out, closing the door quietly behind him, and Ludovic murmured, “You’re a ray of sunshine, Anthony.”

  “If he gets himself killed…”

  “He’s one of the best drivers I know. Are you aware Hazelton has him teaching the younger officers how to handle a car in desperate situations?”

  “I’m not CIA, if you’ll remember, Jefferson. I have no idea what Hazelton has in mind. I’ve got to go.” And Tony stalked out.

  “I’m sorry.” Ludovic appeared crestfallen. “I didn’t mean to cause a to-do.”

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You should know by now Tony and Bryan are like oil and water. Which is sad, because when they were younger…” Jefferson shook his head.

  It was sad that two of my brothers no longer got along. I’d just started at Tidewater, and when I returned home for my first Christmas, it was to find them estranged. Whenever Bryan entered a room, Tony would leave. Over the years, it never got any better.

  Jefferson held up the kettle. “Tea, Portia?

  * * * *

  I recalled that day as I inserted the key, reversed out of the drive, and then shifted into first and started the drive to Shadow Brook. This time I was the one who made the tires squeal.

  * * * *

  In spite of the powerful engine under the hood, it still took more than three hours to reach Shadow Brook. A car I didn’t recognize was parked off to the side, but I disregarded it. I left my convertible in front of the house and ran in.

  “Father?”

  Olive Plum came into the foyer. “Oh, Miss Portia.” Her cheeks were colorless.

  “How’s Mother?”

  “Dr. Parton’s still with her.” That must have been his car parked outside. “He gave her something for her heart.”

  “Mother never had a heart problem.”

  “It seems she does now.” Father came down the stairs and looked me over. “Tidy your hair. If your mother sees you looking like that, she’s going to think things are worse than they are.”

  I went into the powder room off the wet bar and would have sworn if I wasn’t in my parents’ house. My hair was down around my shoulders, all the pins blown out. I should have worn a scarf, but I’d been in such a rush, I hadn’t even thought of it. I finger combed my hair and plaited it into a French braid. It would stay in place until I could borrow some of Mother’s hairpins.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, may I see Mother now?”

  Father nodded toward the stairs, and I climbed them in a most dec
orous manner.

  Mother was lying in the big bed in the room that adjoined Father’s.

  “Portia.” She frowned at my father, who stood behind me. “Really, Anthony, there was no need—”

  “You’re not going to London.”

  “Father told me of Lady Portia’s passing.” I sat beside her on the bed and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Mother.”

  She sighed. “I knew it was just a matter of time. Portia wouldn’t want to continue once John was gone.”

  Viscount Creighton had died during an insurrection near his African property just the year before. His body had been returned to England, and Mother, Father, and I had flown over to attend the service.

  “Obviously, your mother isn’t well enough to make the trip. We’re depending on you to represent the family.”

  “Really, Anthony.” Mother’s voice was faint, but she still managed to sound annoyed.

  “Dr. Parton?”

  The doctor had been standing to the side. He closed his black bag with a snap and came forward. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sebring, but I’ll have to agree with your husband this time. A transatlantic flight will stress your heart.”

  “Quack,” she muttered.

  “Yes, dear lady, call me all the names you wish. I still won’t give you permission to fly to London.”

  “I’m sorry, Portia.” Mother’s fingers tightened around mine. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to go.”

  I patted her hand. “She was my godmother, so of course I’ll go.” I met my father’s gaze. “This isn’t another attempt to throw me and Jack together, I hope.”

  “No, of course not,” Father assured me. He couldn’t have arranged Mother’s illness, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take advantage of it.

  At Lord John’s funeral, Jack had squeezed my shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Portia.”

  “You’re welcome, Jack. Of course I’d be here.” I turned casually so he had to drop his hand. That was when he must have remembered I preferred not to be touched, because his smile became rueful. The only people I permitted within my personal space were my son, my brothers, Alyona, and Gregor.

  Father took me aside. “Abberley’s always been fond of you. If you married him—”