Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  He grinned at me, touched a forefinger to his temple in a brief salute, and left.

  “Portia!” Gregor hissed.

  “I was quite safe, Gregor. You were within earshot the entire time.”

  “Yeah, but…Never mind. We have to go.”

  * * * *

  June ended, and now it was the middle of July. “We’re running a little low on wine, Portia.” Gregor emerged from our wine cellar, brushing down the apron he wore.

  “Yes. We’ll need to buy some more. I think I’ll go myself.” Normally it wouldn’t entail a flight to France—I had an agent who could do the ordering for me—but it had been a number of years since I’d been there, and I found myself looking forward to it. “I’ll notify all my charities that I’ll be away for the next four weeks.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll make the arrangements.” He flushed. “Would you…uh…mind if I didn’t go with you?”

  I raised an eyebrow, studying his unusual reaction. “Not at all, Gregor. Now that I think of it, you haven’t had a vacation in quite some time.”

  “It’s not like I needed it. You’re not exactly a slave driver, you know.”

  “I should hope not!”

  “The thing is, my cousin Marieta’s daughter is getting married in a couple of weeks, and Alyona insists I be there.”

  “I’ll see about a gift. And I want to send something to Alyona also, to let her know how much we miss her.”

  “That’s really kind of you, Portia.”

  “You’re both family, don’t you know that by now?”

  He cleared his throat and said gruffly, “Thank you. And speaking of family, your godmother’s son would be pleased to see you. Why not contact him and ask if he’ll go to France with you?”

  “Jack’s busy with his own affairs just now.”

  “I bet he’d change them if the opportunity came up to see you.” Was he matchmaking?

  “He probably would, but that’s the last thing I’d ask of him.”

  “Well, Jeff’s got some stuff to do, but…uh…Ludo’s going to be at loose ends, so he could go with you.”

  And he was aware of that, how? I didn’t intend to question him about it. “I’ll call Ludovic and see if he’s interested.”

  As it turned out, he was.

  * * * *

  The flight over the Atlantic was routine, and we landed safely in Paris. Ludovic hired a Mercedes and drove us to Champagne, the first of our scheduled stops. From there we went to Alsace, Burgundy, and Bordeaux. By the time August rolled around, I had ordered more than enough wine to stock not only my cellar, but Quinton’s, Jefferson’s, and Tony’s as well.

  “I’d like to make one more trip, if you don’t mind, Ludovic?”

  “Of course not, Portia. Whither to?”

  “Avignon.”

  He grinned, and sang, in a surprisingly sweet tenor, “Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse…”

  I couldn’t help grinning back at him, but then said seriously, “I’d like to pay a visit to La Vigne d’un Dieu.”

  “Wasn’t that Tartarin Bauchet’s vineyard?” A frown creased his brows. “I don’t believe you’ve gone there since…”

  “Since 1980. Yes, I’m aware of that. However, I find I’d like to see how their Chateauneuf-du-Pape has matured over the years.”

  I could see he didn’t think it was a good idea, but he was reluctant to say anything. Too many times when they’d first been together had Jefferson snapped at Ludovic to stay out of it, that he wasn’t family. I’d wanted to smack my brother. Ludovic had been heartbroken and on the verge of returning to London. We’d run into each other one day when I was acting as docent at the National Cathedral, and he looked so unhappy I’d asked him to take me to lunch at Charmaine, a little restaurant that featured outdoor seating.

  “I’m glad to have this opportunity to see you,” he murmured as he stirred his tea. “I wanted to thank you for always being so kind to me.”

  “Why does this sound as if you’re about to say good-bye?”

  “Because I’m afraid I am.”

  “It’s Jefferson, isn’t it? What has that—” If I called my brother an ass, it would shock the Englishman who sat opposite me. The entire family, even Gregor, could see Ludovic was perfect for Jefferson. Why couldn’t he see it? “What has he done now? Never mind, I can tell answering that would make you uncomfortable.” I reached across the table and gripped his hand. “If you love him, Ludovic, fight for him. And for God’s sake, don’t be a gentleman about it!”

  “But what about Sebrings only loving once?”

  “Who told you that?” I shook my head. “Never mind. Just because a Sebring doesn’t love someone the way that person may want us to, doesn’t mean we don’t love with all we have.”

  “Suppose that isn’t enough for me?”

  “In that case, the wisest thing would be for you to cut your losses and leave.”

  He flinched as if I’d struck him, and then sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Unfortunately, I think I have no choice but to follow your advice.”

  “Then I’m very sorry. I’d have liked you for a brother.”

  I never learned what happened, but the next time I saw my brother, shortly after that, he was sporting a black eye and not letting Ludovic out of his sight.

  But even now, after all these years, Ludovic was wary of being thought to be encroaching.

  “If you don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, “simply tell me.”

  “Very well. Portia, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you go to La Vigne d’un Dieu.” He looked at me hopefully. “We’re not still going, are we?”

  “Yes, Ludovic, I’m afraid we’re still going.”

  He laughed reluctantly. “Very well. But may I ask why?”

  “Twenty-two years.”

  “Excuse me?” He looked completely perplexed.

  “For twenty-two years, my son was under the misapprehension that Armand Bauchet was his one love. The odds of him finding it at the age of fifteen were so slim as to be ridiculous, but he could very well have been happy with Armand. Armand could have been happy with him. Instead…”

  “I pity Armand. You’re not an easy enemy.” His smile was faint. “I’ll fill the car’s tank with petrol, and we’ll be off.”

  The chateau was in even better condition than when I’d last seen it, in 1980. The younger Bauchet was obviously more successful than his father.

  I was about to ply the knocker when I saw movement from the corner of my eye.

  “Bonjour, madame, monsieur. I see by your car that you are tourists. English, perhaps?” It was Armand, and if he failed to recognize me, I had no problem placing the boy my son had loved and this man with his dark gypsy looks.

  “I am American. My companion, however, is from Great Britain.”

  “Pardon. You look familiar. M-Mme. Mann?”

  “Oui. And this is M. Rivenhall.”

  “M’sieur. To what do I owe this pleasure, madame? It has been many years.”

  “Indeed it has.”

  “Is it that you wish to buy wines from us again? I’m afraid I cannot take your order. Papa would come back to haunt me.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that.” I gave him a sardonic glance. “No. I wished to speak with you.”

  “I fail to see why, but eh bien, madame. As you wish. Please, come into the crème salon. I will procure some refreshments for you.” Armand led us through the house and left us in a room that was indeed crème, with cream-colored brocade covering the windows and cream-flocked wallpaper on the walls. There was a loveseat and a number of chairs, all with cream upholstery.

  “I begin to see how this room got its name,” Ludovic murmured to me.

  “Yes. It’s very pretty. Although I must say that’s new.” Above the fireplace was a portrait of Armand seated on a tree swing, holding two small children. On a blanket on the ground before him was an obviously pregnant young woman cradling a baby, while
a toddler stood on unsteady legs.

  Armand came in bearing a tray with three glasses filled with a red wine and a plate of biscuits.

  We each took a glass and a biscuit and sat down.

  “Votre santé.”

  “Merci.” I’d be damned if I drank to his health.

  “Oh, I say!” Ludovic exclaimed after a sip. “This is marvelous!”

  “Yes,” I murmured in Russian, knowing he would understand. “If there was one thing Tartarin Bauchet had to his credit, it was his grapes.”

  Armand looked from Ludovic to me. “May I ask who this gentleman is? As I recall, the last time you were here, you were a widow.”

  “I still am. Ludovic is my brother-in-law.” Ludovic flushed with pleasure.

  Armand frowned. “I don’t remember Quinton mentioning having an aunt.”

  “Because he doesn’t have one.”

  Armand first looked puzzled and then appalled, and I decided in spite of what he might think otherwise, my son had had a lucky escape.

  “I was remarking to M’sieur Rivenhall that the portrait above the fireplace was new.”

  “Indeed, madame.”

  “I assume the young woman is Mme. Bauchet.”

  “Oui. It was painted in 1986, shortly before the birth of our fifth child.” He glanced away. “Ghislaine and I married in the spring of 1981.”

  “Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of meeting her?”

  “Sadly, no. Ghislaine is deceased. She succumbed to lung cancer and has been gone these five years.” He worried the cuticle on his thumb. “How…how has Quinton been?”

  “He’s very well. Not as busy as you, of course, to produce five children in as many years. However, he’s involved with someone for whom he cares deeply. Someone who cares as deeply in return.”

  “C’est vrai? Well…well, it is what I hoped for mon cher ami.”

  “You dare to call him that?”

  “P-pardon, madame?”

  “You broke my son’s heart!”

  He turned pale. “Mais non! We were just boys! Papa vowed to me that he was simply toying with my affection, that he would find another to fall in love with him as soon as he returned home to America!”

  “And you believed him?”

  “He was my father!”

  I stared at him coldly. “Didn’t your father ever tell you about my family? We love once, for a lifetime. You let a love many would consider worth dying for slip through your fingers.”

  “Please,” he whispered, casting an agonized glance toward Ludovic.

  “Portia, we’d better go.”

  “Very well, Ludovic.” I rose to my feet. “Thank you for the refreshments.”

  “Madame, you don’t understand! My father would have disowned me! The church…our neighbors…I would have had nothing!”

  “You would have had my son. You would have had the backing of the entire Sebring family.” He appeared astonished. “Did you think I would have disowned my son?”

  “I…I do not know!” He covered his face with his hands. “Please say no more…”

  “It isn’t likely I’ll be speaking to you again. Adieu, Armand.”

  Ludovic followed me out to the car. “My word, Portia!”

  “Excuse me?”

  He waited until I was seated, then ran around the hood and got behind the wheel. “I’m used to seeing you through your brothers’ eyes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Nigel told me once that you had more fire than your brothers gave you credit for.”

  “And?”

  He smiled and turned on the ignition. “And I’m just glad you’re on my side.”

  “You’re being foolish. Let’s get back to the hotel. I want to make arrangements to go home. And Ludovic?”

  “Yes, Portia?”

  “You won’t mention this incident to Jefferson.”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Splendid. You also won’t mention it to Tony, Bryan, Gregor, or Quinton.”

  “I won’t.” He reached across and squeezed my hand. “Word of a Rivenhall!”

  * * * *

  Chapter 36

  Autumn was just around the corner, and I’d finally gotten Mark to agree to go riding with us. Prior to this, he’d always found an excuse.

  Gregor stood in the doorway glowering at me. “Portia, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Vincent is too much of a loose cannon.” He had never forgiven the man for somehow managing to wipe out two separate surveillance tapes even after he had patted him down for any untoward devices the second time, after Quinton had been kidnapped by the monster who ran Prinzip and Mark had come to assure me he would find my son and bring him home.

  “He saved Quinton.”

  “Yes, but he’s dangerous. Have you seen that grin of his?”

  “He saved Quinton.”

  “All right, Portia. But you’ll forgive me if I keep a gun handy?”

  “If it will make you happy.”

  “The only thing that will make me happy is shooting him between the eyes.”

  * * * *

  Davy, the groom who took care of our horses, led a sleepy-eyed, blue roan out of the stable and handed the reins to Mark. “This is Blue, sir.”

  Mark studied the animal for a moment, before bringing his mouth close to the horse’s ear. Quinton had mounted his gelding and was distracted by Testament’s playful reaction to a colorful leaf that was being blown by the wind, so he didn’t hear Mark’s words. But I did.

  “You make me look bad in front of Quinn,” he whispered in the horse’s ear, “and I’ll make you sorry you’d ever been born. I carry a gun, y’ know, and I have no problems using it.”

  “Did you say something, Mark?”

  “Just sweet-talking this horse, Quinn.” He rubbed the spot between Blue’s eyes. “I have a way with animals.”

  Quinton nodded and began walking Testament in a tight circle, and Mark turned back to his mount.

  “Do we have an understanding, Blue?”

  The horse shook his head and snorted, and Mark looked at his sleeve with a pained expression.

  I smiled. “Take that as a yes, Mark. Here. Give him this.” I leaned toward him and handed him a carrot. “Make sure you keep your palm flat or he’ll take a finger.”

  Blue delicately lipped the carrot from Mark’s hand, and Mark wiped his palm off on his thigh. “How did I let Quinn talk me into this?” He set the toe of his riding boot into the stirrup and swung his leg over the horse’s back.

  My son smiled at him. “Blue is good-natured, Mark. Just don’t kick him. I told Davy to make sure Testament and Pyrrhic Victory had the fidgets shaken out of them, so this will be an easy ride today.”

  “Don’t hold back on my account, Mann.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know you could spare the time to do much riding, Mark.”

  He hunched a shoulder. “I’ve seen The Black Stallion.”

  Quinton burst into laughter.

  I looked on, smiling with pleasure. Quinton hadn’t laughed like that in a very long time.

  * * * *

  We rode longer than we’d intended and so decided to forgo drinks at the country club. Quinton and Mark drove to Great Falls afterward to have lunch with me and Gregor. And of course Mark and Gregor spent the entire time sniping at one another. Quinton leaned an elbow on the table, his chin propped on his hand, and watched them, smiling.

  It was as Mark excused himself to use the bathroom that I realized he was endeavoring not to limp.

  I went into the kitchen, where Gregor was loading the dishwasher.

  “What can I do for you, Portia?”

  “I want to send Quinton home with some Epsom salts.”

  His brows beetled. “Quinn’s not sore.”

  “No, but Mark is.”

  “He is? Well, praise Jesus! There is a God!”

  I shook my head. “Just give me the Epsom salts, please?”

  “God, this is so choice!” He took a box from a shelf and em
ptied it into a brown paper bag.

  “Stop gloating, Gregor.” I left him laughing like a maniac and found Quinton standing by the front door. I handed him the paper bag. “Epsom salts. I think Mark is going to need this.”

  “You noticed?” He sighed. “I wish he would have said something, but that’s Mark for you.”

  “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “I’m all right.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and he gave a tired laugh.

  “I’ve been having some trouble sleeping—probably due to what happened in Paris last spring.”

  “Might it be a good idea to see someone about that?”

  “I am, at Langley.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “I took Mark to see Phantom last night. I think he was surprised by how much he enjoyed it.”

  “Might he be interested in Les Mis?” Jack had taken me to see a West End production of it, and the young man who played Feuilly had an amazing high baritone. I was certain we’d see more of him.

  “You know, I think I will. Although he’ll probably mock Jean Valjean for not shooting Javert when he had the opportunity.”

  “He takes it that seriously?”

  “Oh, yes. He was annoyed the Phantom didn’t—” He coughed lightly. “—didn’t take revenge on Raoul and Christine instead of letting them sail away. At any rate, we’ll probably have to wait until he finds another place.”

  “I thought he had an apartment.”

  “He does, but things are a little tricky. The agent he’s training to replace him in the field lives in the apartment below his.”

  “Hmm.” Trevor Wallace was unconcerned about the sex of his agents’ partners, but he wouldn’t look kindly on that partner being a CIA officer.

  “…so since Mark was promoted to Deputy Director of Interior Affair, he runs his operations from WBIS headquarters.”

  “Really? What did he call rescuing you?”

  “Hauling the Company’s bacon out of the fire.” He smiled into my eyes. “The fact that it was also my bacon was just a bonus for us both.”

  And I knew of Mark’s reaction to the gift Quinton had given him from what Quinton had said. “You care for him.”

  “I do. He’s not my one, but he’s a good man.”

  Mark came into the foyer just then. “Y’ know something, Quinn? Novotny’s losing it.”