by Sara Forbes
“What?”
Uncle Stig strides in a circle, throttling his umbrella, so agitated he's unaware how ridiculous he looks. I'm pretty sure I look stupid too with my mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. Not being able to take a flight sounds serious. Who or what could prevent us from exercising our rights to travel as US citizens? We're so diplomatically immune he could murder someone and then hop on the next plane first–class and demand a gin martini.
When he's done four circles of the Persian rug, I ask, “What's going on?”
He flaps his hand at my laptop to indicate I should close it.
I mouth “bye” to Mara whose expression is as aghast as mine. I shut the lid.
Uncle Stig's fervent eyes beam from his craggy face. “You see, my dear, in my position … there sometimes comes a time when we have to compromise on certain matters in order for the wheels of diplomacy to turn at all. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
I nod. I've listened to enough of his conversations to appreciate the sentiment, the idea that politics can be murky and subjective at times. But how would that stop us taking our flight home?
“I made a mistake with certain people. It's something I must correct while I'm here.”
I'm so flabbergasted my uncle's admitting to making a mistake that I just give a cautious, “O–kay.”
“Good.” He leans on the umbrella like it's a walking stick. “Good. Good. So, let's check out from the hotel and head anywhere but Heathrow.”
“But where?”
When he doesn't answer, I say, “Come on, I need to tell Dad something, or he'll call Winfield house, or the embassy, or even the police when he doesn't hear from me. You know he will.”
“Don't call him … not yet.” Uncle Stig's voice thickens. “Look, Hayley, it would just upset him. Your dad never had an understanding for … nuance. You on the other hand, you're a smart girl.”
I bristle at the insinuation that Dad's not smart. Dad may be quiet and modest, but at least he'd never get caught scrapping with the British aristocracy on YouTube.
My uncle sits down heavily in the armchair opposite. “I have ties with Azerbaijani businessmen who were expecting a diplomatic favor from me, one I chose not to follow through on. It wasn't the right time. So now, I need to lay low, and so do you. Because after that YouTube affair, they know you're here. These Azerbaijani businessmen are unhappy. I can't risk them threatening us in any way. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
A cold wave of fear washes over me. Is someone threatening him? Us? It's swiftly followed by anger. Because of that goddamn duke? I don't even begin to understand it, so I focus on practicalities. "How'm I supposed to lay low, Uncle Stig? The whole of Britain seems to know my face.”
He comes over and engulfs me in a hug that I'm not expecting. He has his warm moments, I suppose, even if they intrude at unexpected times. “It'll be fine. I'm working on it. There's nothing for you to worry about. Now grab your bags, and let's go. There's a private car waiting outside.”
“But where are we going?” I cry.
“We'll … see.”
This isn't the answer I want to hear.
♦♦♦
This is freaking unbelievable. We're in the back of an Audi A6, crawling at snail's pace through the London morning traffic. I stare out the blackened windows at the billboards of advertisements jarring against the grim aesthetics of an east London residential street. Drizzle spatters against the glass.
Just forty–eight hours ago, I'd been so excited to be here. It was a new beginning. Now, my life's in danger and I don't know where I'll be sleeping tonight and Uncle won't tell me what the hell is really going on.
“Can't we just stay in Winfield House or go to the embassy?” I ask.
“No,” comes my uncle's swift response. “On both counts. The man I was contacted by—an officer in MI6—he arranged this car, this driver,”—Uncle Stig beckons to the thick–necked driver in sunglasses, who doesn't even flinch— “and told me in no uncertain terms to hide somewhere unofficial until I hear back from him.”
I slump back against the leather upholstery and watch Uncle Stig out of the side of my eyes. He's busy dialing up people from a list of paper balancing on his knee with thirty–odd numbers scrawled on it. There's a pattern. He'll get past the pleasantries, which can take anything from two minutes to quarter of an hour, depending on how much they're into golf, then he'll mumble something about it being a long time since they'd met. The conversations die abruptly after that. I wonder whether he's purposely contacting his list of flaky friends or these are the only kind he has. Surely the US ambassador has been able to foster better quality friendships than this in his adopted country?
When he sinks his forehead into his hand, I know the news can't be good.
“End of the list?” I venture.
He looks up with weary eyes. “Yeah.”
We stare out our respective windows. We've reached the M25 and it's as congested with traffic as all the legends would have it, but at least it's moving now that the morning rush is over.
“Is there nobody?” I ask. “Nowhere?”
“I need somewhere private.” He grips his phone as if to punish it for the flakiness of his so–called friends. “Civilian, non–government, impartial.” He sighs. “Isolated.”
I don't know if it's because we're passing a Cartier ad, but a thought strikes me at that precise moment. “The duke,” I murmur. “He got us into this trouble, least he could do is suggest a good hiding place.”
Uncle Stig lowers his phone to his lap. For a moment, he's speechless. Then he says, “That's actually perfect.”
“Uh, what?”
His eyes widen in delight. “The Duke … that's the perfect cover. No one would ever suspect we'd be with him.”
“Be with him?” I repeat in horror.
“Do you have his number?” he asks.
I nod, dumbly.
“Call him.”
“I … lost my phone.”
He starts googling.
“It's okay, Uncle Stig.” I let out a harried breath. “I know his number.”
My uncle thrusts his phone into my hand. “Then call him.”
I'm glad he doesn't ask how I know the stupid number. I ignored it so often yesterday I know it off by heart. And something tells me we'll have more luck calling that number than my uncle's had with his dozens of useless acquaintances. I'd prefer Uncle Stig screamed that he wanted nothing to do with that cocky, entitled bastard—but no, it appears he is actually serious.
As my index finger hesitates over the green icon, he says, “Hayley, we don't have much choice. You have to try.” His tone is unrelenting. I've heard it so often in his arguments with Dad. It's best to give in early than have my will broken down in painful stages, as so often happens to Dad.
As I hold the ringing phone to my ear, my stomach churns, a mix of bile and the dry croissant I stuffed down my throat just before the call with Mara earlier. Best to get it over with. If the duke says no, which in all likelihood he will, then I'll never have to speak to him again.
But what if he says yes?
6
ALEX
I'M TUCKING INTO MY PUDDING—pears from the estate orchard steeped in red wine with thick cream—when my phone buzzes against my hip. I slide it out under the hem of the tablecloth. No caller ID. Ugh.
I excuse myself, leave the lunch table, and collapse into the chair in the Blue Room, three doors down. It's still ringing. They're persistent, I'll give them that.
“Fernborough, Belgrave Castle,” I say in my most bored tone.
“Oh,” comes a surprised, female voice.
I know that voice. Happiness floods my system and my dick comes alive. I suddenly realize why I've been so out of sorts the past two days.
There's a pause, like she didn't expect me to answer my own phone. Judging by the background noise, she's in a car or something. Her breathless voice comes again. “So … it's … it's you. I mean, of cour
se it is. Um … well. I–I'm sorry about the … the you know. I saw the YouTube video and I didn't know—I didn't know—”
She seems incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together, but then again, I often have that effect on women. With her voice, the memory of the rest of Hayley Cochrane comes back in a flash. Bits I'd forgotten that the video didn't catch—her luscious lips revealing her pearly whites as she speaks, the way her eyes seem to shine with good–natured optimism.
“You didn't know how important I was?” I finish for her, idly twisting the gold tassels on a lampshade.
“Well, no.”
Another pause follows, where I imagine she's biting her plump bottom lip, wondering what to say next, wondering how to appease me. I let the pause drag out this time as I gaze around at the light blue silk wallpaper that gave this room its name, at the Reynolds, the Canaletto, the Sargent—paintings I rarely stop to look at. I wish I could watch her squirm in person. Yes, I could summon her here, to Belgrave Castle, and order her to stand in front of me and beg for what she wants. First I'd pretend to be angry and make her beg for forgiveness—
“I need your help.” Her voice is tight, scared almost. I sit up straighter. Of course she needs my help with an uncle such as that.
“What can I do for you?” I say. Her anxious tone is threatening to interrupt my fantasy whereby she's now kneeling in front of me and begging. Naked. Mm–mm. I'm getting hot under the collar now. I loosen my tie.
“I'm in trouble. My uncle's in trouble. We need a safe place to hide. Just for a short while.”
There are tears in her voice. I've been witness to too many tearful women not to recognize the signs even over a phone line. It even sounds genuine. I'd like to say my heart is touched by her plight, but the only organ reacting to any of this is much further south.
“And how may I help with that?”
She sighs but sounds irritated now. I don't want her to cut me off, so I smoothly add, “Unless of course you're thinking of paying me a little visit here in Belgrave Castle?”
There's a kind of muffled sigh from her end.
“Our family estate,” I continue. “Just down the road from Fernborough on the A336. It's a safe haven. You'd be in excellent company. We've been hiding all kinds of renegades here over the centuries, most notably Brendan of St. Downes in 1765, pretender to the throne. Eventually they chopped his head off, but that was only after he left our hospitality.”
“Well, that's real nice, Mister … um, Duke.”
“Alex, to you.”
“Alex,” she repeats in a careful voice and the way her gentle, US West Coast accent caresses the name gets my mind spinning in all directions. I want to hear her scream it out. In brainless ecstasy. Again and again. As I bend her over the nearest table, those Hello Kitty panties down by her ankles. My dick is straining against my suit trousers now.
“Say that again,” I say.
“What?”
“My name.”
There's a pause now. Long enough to tell me she's not playing this game with me. Or maybe she is playing. In any case, all I hear from her side is something between a sniff and a sigh and the background noise of vehicles rumbling and horns beeping. Okay, okay, so she's in trouble. I need to focus. “Why me? Surely I'm the last person your uncle wants to see right now?”
“That's why,” she says. “Nobody'll suspect it.”
She has a point there. Smart girl. “All right.” I'm not too keen on having him under my roof, reinforcing any would–be conspiracy theories about me being involved in his messy dealings, but I'm definitely warming up to the idea of having his luscious, little niece here. “I'll help you.”
I hear her sharp intake of breath. “You will?”
“Yes, even if you ignored my call a hundred times yesterday.”
“Twenty–six,” she corrects.
I like how certain she sounds.
“You didn't answer. What's different now?”
“I didn't know, Alex. I didn't know … what Uncle Stig was caught up in.” Her voice is meek and confused. I preferred it when she was being snarky. Last thing I need is another tearful woman on the phone, especially if I didn't have the pleasure of a night before to compensate for it.
“It's a right mess, that's what it is,” I say. “Serve him right, too.”
“Well, that's hardly fair.”
“He's there, isn't he?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Whereabouts are you?”
“Heading onto the M25, at Junction 29 … uh, there's a sign, wait a minute, it's a place called Codham Hall Wood.”
“Perfect, turn off at Junction 28, and head into Brentwood village. I'll send a car. The driver is George Seymour. He'll pick you up outside the cathedral in a silver Bentley. Don't get in unless he confirms this name.”
“Okay, got it. I don't know how to thank you.”
I can barely contain my smirk. “I'm sure you'll think of something.”
7
HAYLEY
I FEEL LIKE I'VE ENTERED some kind of alternate reality.
My feet crunch on the pale gravel underfoot as we make our way up to the main steps of Belgrave Castle, the duke's ancestral home. Even the gravel looks designer made. Yes, I'm focusing on the minutiae of my surroundings—a defense mechanism to prevent my head from bursting with the craziness of this situation. I refuse to let the majestic surroundings intimidate me. Money means nothing to me. And yet, when I got my first glimpse of the castle, I can't deny having a bit of an Elizabeth Bennet moment where she spots Pemberley for the first time. I mean, Winfield House is pretty impressive, but this is four times the size.
My head has been spinning ever since a frail–looking man in a peaked, mustard cap calling himself George Seymour intercepted Uncle Stig and me outside Brentwood Cathedral. My uncle sent our own driver away and we jumped into the back of the silver Bentley without a murmur of a question, too nerve–wracked to protest at anything. I can only be thankful the duke wasn't sitting in the car waiting for us.
After a silent two-hour drive, George leaves us at the entrance to a large square courtyard as vehicles can't go any further, and instructs us to take the middle path through the rose garden. Uncle Stig is telling me to keep my head up. I fantasize about dunking his head into the duck pond over there. It's all his fault we're in this mess and yet he only had a spectator's part in the groveling session I endured in the car with His Grace Alex fucking Belgrave, 13th Duke of fucking Fernborough. I may not be the world's most experienced woman, but I can tell when a guy is gearing up for some action or whatever quaint euphemism he might have for sex. It's not going to happen.
It's not that I don't find him attractive—of course I do. Anyone would. It's just that his looks, his title, his endowment are all irrelevant to me. I'm not impressed by inherited wealth. I'm studying hard for the highest grade possible so I can lead an authentic life where I've earned all my rewards. I can't imagine living life on any other terms. My glimpse into my uncle's world has told me enough. I don't even want to know how the one percent lives.
I lift my head higher as we approach the castle entrance. The garden is truly breathtaking, and May is the month when I suspect it really shines. It must need an army of gardeners all year round to keep it looking like this. Dad would give his right foot to fish in a lake like that. Mara would go wild over the architecture. I need to remember to take lots of photos when nobody's looking.
It screams old money. Of course. I've only seen gardens and castles like this in books and period dramas. I'm sure my manners and my accent will stick out a mile here. My suitcase of clothes is less “lady of the manor” and more “hipster chic” and that's being generous. If I'm expected to swan around in la–di–da dresses, I swear I'm going to find a secret passage to crawl into and hide until the coast is clear.
On that thought, I look up to see the tall, dark–haired man standing at the entrance to the castle, or should I say posing. Alex is at the top of the stairs with a n
avy blazer draped over his forearm, his hand slapped against a stone monument—a lion's head whose snarl has weathered into amiability. In a luminously white shirt, a gold, silk cravat loosened around his collar and top buttons undone, I must say he's looking very ducal in his natural habitat.
We move nearer. The sunlight gleams off his dark hair, threading it with copper lines. Wisps of his fringe break the plane of his forehead. His wolf eyes—they're in shadows right now—I imagine are targeted on me. His grin is smug, his generous lips tilted up slightly to one side. My gaze trails further down his body which tapers in at the waist, accentuated by a gold buckle in an interesting coat of arms design. He's wearing impeccable black trousers which lead down lean legs into polished, leather shoes.
Yep, he's hotter than ever.
Uncle Stig and I halt at the bottom of the steps. For a moment, there's an awkward silence and nobody moves. All we hear is the twittering of birds in the bushes and the breeze in the trees. Then Alex moves, stepping quickly down the steps and meeting us halfway with a hand outstretched toward my uncle.
“Ambassador,” he says, and they shake.
“Your Grace,” Uncle Stig replies, and I want to throttle him for sounding like a goddamned butler.
The duke cocks his head toward me. “Hayley. Please, come up, come up.” His voice is all warmth, more so than I remember from Jayvee's. We could be long–lost friends the way he's saying this. He's a good actor.
As we ascend the steps, I'm feeling off–kilter. My uncle seems to be adopting some kind of wait–and–see policy because for once he hasn't theorized on how this is going to all pan out.
We reach the top and stand in front of the duke. I'm made aware that I'm biting down on my bottom lip by the way he's focusing on it, so I stop doing that and raise my chin higher. “We appreciate your help, Duke … Alex.”
“Just Alex, please. I trust your journey was comfortable?” he asks smoothly, looking at Uncle Stig.
