Ace-High Royal Flush

by Tinnean

  Trevalyan caught Waters as he crumpled to the cobbled street.

  I fired a single round, which hit the kid in the shoulder and stopped him from getting off another shot.

  “Don’t you…” Trevalyan’s voice cracked. “…don’t you die on me.”

  From all the blood that pulsed out of Waters’s chest, it didn’t seem that was likely. And apparently Waters was aware of that.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, love. I don’t think I…have much…much say in the matter.”

  “Jeremy. You can’t leave me.”

  From time to time, I’d run into Trevalyan in various European capitals, and he’d always been the quintessence of British calm and detachment, with a dash of irony thrown in, and I’d understood why Bart had originally been interested in him. Just then, however, tears poured down his face, although being British, he kept his sobs in check.

  “Kiss…kiss me, James,” Waters pleaded softly.

  And Trevalyan had.

  “I believe the man said, ‘Kismet,’ Jefferson,” the trainee muttered, disapproval in his voice.

  “Are you going to be the one to tell him that?” I snapped.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Trevalyan lay Waters down, then rise to his feet, grim determination on his face. He grabbed my gun and shot the kid in the face, leaving behind blood and shattered bone, a crater that obliterated eyes, nose, mouth.

  The trainee doubled over and vomited, and I shook my head. It wasn’t a pretty picture, but if he expected to get anywhere in the Company he’d better get used to it.

  I went to Trevalyan, and retrieved my gun.

  Trevalyan didn’t spare me or my trainee a glance. He just returned to Waters, sank down beside him, and took him in his arms, rocking him gently and murmuring words in Russian.

  Finally the trainee got himself under enough control to demand, “Jesus, Sebring! He’s a fag. How difficult could it have been to stop him?”

  “What did you do before you were recruited by the CIA?”

  “What? I was in accounting. What difference does that make?”

  “I think you’d better go back to it.” I crouched beside Trevalyan and rested my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me, his green eyes awash with tears. “I’ll take care of this. You take care of your…friend.”

  I dealt with the Italian police, spinning a story I had no trouble in making them believe.

  The next day, thanks to the trainee—I never could remember his name—I was called to CIA headquarters in Rome and raked over the coals.

  “Incompetent, Sebring. That’s all I can think to call your lack of action. Trevalyan’s one of the best MI6 has, and he’s resigned.” The director gave me a fierce scowl. “You’ll go to London and explain your part in this fiasco to MI6.”

  It could have been worse. My punishment could have entailed restriction to a desk for months if not longer, but I was a Sebring, after all, and Sebrings had been involved in espionage going back almost to Richard III and were pretty much considered royalty in the intelligence community, as Father was fond of saying. There were times when it didn’t pay off, but there were other times—like now—when it did.

  There was only so much they could do to me.

  I had gone to London, covering for Trevalyan as much as I could, since he was family, so to speak, although it would be better for both of us if no one learned of that.

  And there had been Ludovic Rivenhall, the young man who I’d thought at one time might be a possible future brother-in-law. As it had turned out, Portia thought he was charming and liked him, but not enough to marry him, especially after she’d met Nigel Mann.

  Rivenhall had stood to the side in a relaxed posture and listened to me recount the events of that afternoon in Rome, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  I liked his looks—I had from the start—and after the inquisition was finished and everyone left, he lingered behind, and I asked him to dinner.

  Of course we didn’t go to dinner. I took him back to my hotel room, and as soon as I’d shut and locked the door, I had him naked and sprawled on my bed.

  He was hot and tight and very vocal—moaning and whimpering at every lick and nip and touch and finally shouting as I drove him to his climax.

  It had been enjoyable. Very enjoyable. I’d exhausted him, and he was still asleep when the hotel phone rang.

  I scooped it up. “Sebring.”

  “We need you back in Rome.”

  “Fine, but I’m not taking that asshole with me.”

  “Sanders thinks as fondly of you.”

  Right, that was his name. “Yes, well he can just—”

  “We’ve taken your interaction with him and his account of what happened in Rome into consideration.”

  “Oh?”

  “Vomiting all over the cobblestones. Really. He’s being transferred to Langley. We believe he’ll be more suited behind a desk.”

  “Good. Okay, I’ll pack and catch the first flight to Rome.”

  “Good.” He hung up.

  “I could understand not getting dinner,” Rivenhall complained mildly, having awakened. “But not even breakfast?”

  Now that was interesting. Portia had mentioned his stutter, and I’d heard it myself, but it was nowhere in evidence. I’d bring that up another time. If there was another time.

  “Raincheck?”

  “Does that mean I’ll see you again?”

  “Of course, angel eyes.”

  “Of course,” he agreed drily. Had my reputation preceded me? “Well, from the telephone conversation, I imagine you’ve got business to attend to. I’d better get dressed. I’ll just buy my own breakfast.” He rose, unashamedly naked, and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. Then he gathered up his clothes and retreated to the adjoining bath.

  I laid out the clothes I would need, and by the time I finished packing, he returned to the bedroom, knotting his tie.

  “Well, it’s been quite pleasant. Thank you very much. Cheers.” He slid his arms into his suit jacket, touched his forehead in a small salute, and let himself out.

  I couldn’t help chuckling. Typical Brit, with his understatement. I went into the bathroom, touched when I discovered he’d run a bath for me. Should I have made more of an effort to arrange another meeting?

  Perhaps next time I was in London.

  I lowered myself into the tub, unable to prevent an appreciative groan, but I knew I didn’t have time to luxuriate. I picked up a washcloth, soaped it up, and got down to business.

  * * * *

  The tray Ludo had brought up held a plate piled with a fluffy cheese omelet and lots of bacon. I reached for a cup of coffee and took a sip. Just like with my bath, Ludo had prepared it exactly as I liked it. “Well, perhaps I should have said when I first saw you.”

  A frown furrowed his brow. “When was that?”

  I filched a piece of cinnamon toast from his plate and bit into the buttery sweetness, before offering him a forkful of my omelet. “Does the year 1959 strike a chord?”

  Chapter 4

  I happened to be in London the year after my encounter with Bart Freeman, and since I was at loose ends until my contact got in touch with me, I decided to call Bart.

  “Alu?” The greeting was Moroccan, and the voice was warm and husky and very female. I had no doubt it was Folana Fournaise, although I’d never had the opportunity to hear her speak.

  “Is Bart at home?” I bit back a laugh. I’d almost asked if he could come out and play.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “It’s Jefferson—” I caught myself just in time. “—Blackburn.”

  “Ah.” She sounded amused.

  “Something funny about my name?”

  “Not in the least. I’ll put Bart on the line.” Her voice became muffled. “Call for you, Trouble.”

  Trouble? I swallowed a laugh. It seemed a suitable nickname for Bart.

  “Who is it?” Apparently she didn’t tell him, because when he got on the phone
, he demanded sharply, “Who is this?”

  “It’s Jefferson.”

  “Jefferson?”

  “Blackburn.”

  “I remember you.” For a moment I wondered if he was going to be in a snit because it had been so long, but I should have known better. “I have to say it’s good to hear from you. How are you, mate?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. And you?”

  “I’m fine, too. Why’re you ringing?”

  “I happen to be at loose ends, and I was wondering if you might be also?”

  “As it turns out…I do have some time to kill, yes.”

  “Just don’t get into trouble, Trouble.”

  “You know me, Duchess.” Bart hadn’t covered the receiver, and I could hear what was said.

  “That’s the problem—I do know you. Keep yourself alive, all right? I don’t have time to train a new partner.”

  “I will.” There was genuine fondness in his voice. “Now, you were saying, Jefferson?”

  “Did you want to get together? The weather is beautiful, for England, and I thought we might drive up to Oxford and go punting on the Thames, perhaps have a picnic.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Splendid.”

  “But…”

  “But?”

  “Do you know how to punt? Because I don’t.”

  Truthfully, neither did I, not that I’d admit it. After all, how difficult could it be to sit in a boat and row?

  “I’ll pick you up in three quarters of an hour. Er…can you stay out overnight?”

  “I’m a big boy, Blackburn.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Freeman.” We’d spent almost two weeks together exploring each other’s bodies, barring the times we’d had to deal with business, and I’d been sore for a couple of days afterward. “I was simply concerned that your…er…lady friend?…might have need of you.”

  “Ah, that’s all right then. And no, my…er…friend…don’t need me. She’s taking a few days off herself.”

  “Wonderful.” I swallowed a laugh. Bart had no idea how much I knew about him and his lady friend. “I’ll see you shortly.”

  “You will….”

  Chapter 5

  “And there we were,” I told Ludo as I finished my last strip of bacon and eyed what was left on his plate with consideration. “Punting along, when something caused the damned punt to nearly upend. Bart managed to hold on and stay high and dry, but I went head first into the drink. I surfaced to hear laughter, and I looked up to see one of the handsomest men I’d ever laid eyes on, his head thrown back, obviously amused by my plight.”

  “That was you?” He folded his strip of bacon in two, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed with smug satisfaction—the greedy git. “I remember that, but I never realized…I mean, you were saturated. A lily pad was draped over your left ear.”

  “It was me.”

  He struggled to keep his laughter contained.

  “Really, Ludovic? You’re still laughing at me after all these years?”

  He cupped my chin and brought my mouth to his, humming as we both sank into the kiss. It had taken a long time, but I’d finally found someone who enjoyed kissing as much as I did, and I took advantage of it as often as I could. “And you truly thought me handsome?”

  “I did.”

  “Just for that, I’ll get you another plate of bacon.”

  “Thank you, angel eyes.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me again, then took the tray and hurried out of our bedroom and down to the kitchen, where Olive Plum was no doubt beginning preparations for brunch for my family. My brothers—it was sad that they’d never found partners. Tony’s marriage had ended in annulment and Bryan’s in divorce—Portia and Gregor, her chef, bodyguard, and companion, and Quinton, his husband Mark Vincent, and their three children should be arriving in a couple of hours.

  I had to smile when I considered my cool, contained nephew, married to a man the intelligence community considered one of the world’s most deadly.

  Mark Vincent’s reputation didn’t matter to Quinn. He’d married him not once, but twice.

  The first time they exchanged vows occurred after same-sex marriage became legally recognized in Massachusetts in 2004. In August of that year, Mark had gone up to Cambridge to officiate at the marriage of a friend, and it must have given him the idea, because when he’d returned to DC, he’d asked Quinn to marry him, and Quinn had said yes, to no one’s surprise. There was a residency requirement at the time, and Mark had gotten around it by using his Massachusetts driver’s license, which he’d never relinquished. None of us asked him why he’d kept his license when he hadn’t lived in Massachusetts in almost twenty years. No one questioned why Mark Vincent did the things he did.

  On September 30, 2004, he’d taken my nephew up to Cambridge, and they were married at City Hall, with Portia and Gregor as their witnesses.

  Five years later, in December of 2009, it was the District of Columbia’s turn to legally recognize same-sex marriage, and Quinn’s turn to do the asking. On March 3, 2010, when licenses became available, they’d gone down to the Marriage Bureau to apply for one, and on March 9, they were married. This time their witnesses consisted of not only Portia and Gregor, but Quinn and Mark’s children as well.

  The children were very enthusiastic: they had an additional day to celebrate with cake and ice cream.

  Quinn had been more on the ball than I. It hadn’t taken him long to realize it when he’d found his one.

  But then he’d had the example of the deep, abiding love his parents had for each other.

  Whereas I…

  Chapter 6

  Bart discovered who I really was, but I wasn’t going to let that put an end to our friendship.

  I’d received a note from Folana Fournaise, asking me to come to her flat. Curious, I’d gone.

  Bart had stood in the tiny kitchen while smoke rose from a frying pan, curling to the ceiling. “What the fuck are you doing here, Blackburn?”

  “I asked Mr. Sebring to come,” Miss Fournaise said in a calm tone.

  “Sebring?” His eyes widened. “Any relation to the ice queen Sebring?”

  “Bart, I like you, but if you ever call my sister that again, I’ll knock you down.”

  “Sorry. But…Bugger it, you’re not Jefferson Blackburn? Jesus Christ, I’m losing my touch. Duchess, I put you at risk. I’m so sorry—”

  She smiled at him, a very sweet smile for such an extremely dangerous woman. “You never put me at risk, Trouble.” She gripped his hand. “I was quite aware of who this man was almost from the beginning. I spotted you following me.”

  I groaned.

  “You’re very good, but you see, so am I.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?” Bart demanded.

  “You were having such a good time. And…it wasn’t necessary.”

  He growled and turned away.

  “Mr. Sebring, Bart and I will be leaving London shortly. I asked you here to request a small favor of you.”

  “I’m always at the service of a lady.” I was sure she didn’t hear the irony in my words.

  “Please give these to your sister.” She handed me a bouquet of three violets.

  “What…?”

  “She’s in West Berlin.” For the first time, her expression became serious. “She’s had a miscarriage—”

  Nigel had an overseas assignment where Portia’s presence was necessary, and so they’d driven down to South Carolina and had a brief civil ceremony, although Mother still intended for her only daughter to have a very formal wedding.

  I felt sick. “Is Portia—”

  “She’s fine.”

  I didn’t bother asking how she knew this, and I didn’t doubt the truth of her statement. A glance at my watch showed I’d have time to catch the night ferry to Gare du Nord. From Paris I’d take the train to West Berlin.

  “Miss Fournaise.” I tucked the pretty flowers into a pocket and turned to Bart. �
�I’ll pay you a visit the next time I’m in London.”

  “I’ll be here…Sebring.”

  I growled, wanting to kiss him, but instead I gave him a hard hug and then raced out of the room.

  And when I got to West Berlin, it was to find that my sister was fine.

  * * * *

  As much as I’d intended to call Ludo whenever I was in London, something—usually in the form of Bart Freeman—got in the way. Bart was a skilled cocksman who didn’t mind switching positions, and he didn’t expect a declaration of undying love. He still refused to kiss, but you couldn’t have everything, and I thought it was a fair trade-off.

  And then in June of ‘62, while I was acting as groomsman in Portia’s wedding to Nigel Mann—the wedding Mother had insisted on—there Ludo was, dressed in a morning suit that emphasized his lean, elegant build and his classic looks.

  “Hello, Jefferson.”

  “Hello, angel eyes.”

  “Do you know, you’re the only one who calls me that?”

  “Really? I can’t imagine why. You’ve got the most beautiful gray eyes.”

  He blushed to the roots of his hair, and I concealed a smile.

  “Shall I put you on the bride’s side?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. I must say I was very gratified when Portia sent me an invite.”

  I wasn’t going to tell him it had been Father’s idea. If Sebrings couldn’t be connected to Rivenhalls through marriage, then we would through friendship.

  Ludo glanced around. “St. Matthew’s looks wonderful. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many orchids.”

  “My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.” I directed him forward with a palm on his lower spine. “You know, at one time I thought it might be you waiting at the altar for Portia.”

  Ludo began to choke, but it only took him a second to get himself under control. “Of course your sister is a lovely woman, but surely you, of all men, would know otherwise.”

  “After our interlude last year, you mean? Of course, but prior to that, and based on your attitude toward Portia, I had no reason to think you were anything other than straight. When I realized otherwise, you could have knocked me over with a feather, and I concluded I’d have to kill you before I could let you marry her. No woman deserves a passionless marriage.”