by Sara Forbes
He gives me a smile that lifts up only one side of his mouth. "If you need me, you know where I am." He turns and tramps the same way as his sister toward the castle without a backward glance.
12
HAYLEY
IT'S ANOTHER SUNNY DAY here in Belgrave Castle, my strange new home. I've spent an hour in the library with a book on my lap, gazing out the window as the gardener mows perfect lines around the duck pond and all the way down to the rose garden. When the roar of the lawn mower dies down, I pack up my sketching gear to go outside and join Uncle Stig and the dowager duchess, who are loitering in the herb garden out back. I may as well do something constructive with my time.
The Duchess's smile withers as I step outside on to the patio. I know she's in mourning and bound to be a little morose if she did love her late husband as Letty claimed, but there's something else bubbling under the surface. I've sat through two family dinners with her at this point and she's watched me with her navy blue hawk eyes, as if she expects me to run away with the family silver stashed under my coat.
I'd like to reassure her that I have zero interest in sponging off them a second longer than necessary. What I actually say is, “Oh, what a beautiful garden. Did I hear you saying you were going to plant Wisteria?”
“Indeed, we shall,” comes her clipped answer.
“Good.” I clasp my hands in front of me and look to my uncle. “Getting any ideas for your garden at home, Uncle Stig?”
“I wouldn't attempt to recreate this splendor, my dear. Lady Belgrave was just about to take me to the local garden center so we can expand this section here.” He points to a bald patch in the shrubbery.
“It's an impromptu decision of your uncle's,” she qualifies, as if spontaneity is untoward and something she would never suggest. “We're waiting for George.”
Before long, George totters up across the gravel, pulling at his hat. He's rescued me from having to make more conversation.
Uncle Stig draws me by the arm away from Lady Belgrave and George. When he seems satisfied that we're out of earshot, he turns to me, patting his forehead with his handkerchief. “Hayley, I have to meet somebody in London. I can't fly home with you on Friday after all.
“What?”
“Shhh, keep your voice down. I can't stay here any longer like a prisoner. I have private business to attend to that the duke doesn't know about and really shouldn't know about. It's none of his business, or his cronies' either. What I need you to do is relax, enjoy your stay here and just go home Friday, as planned. Your flight's booked and transportation is arranged. I've enlisted private security. You'll be safe. I only ask that you take my luggage with you. Re–pack it yourself so you can be sure of the contents, for security. It's just my small leather case. I've all I need here.” He pats his overcoat which does seem to be bulging in the pockets.
“Hayley, it's important. I can't stay here another day.”
“Will you be okay?” I ask.
“Yes.” My uncle slides me a look. “Although I do regret pulling you away from here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm sure you wouldn't be opposed if I postponed your flight another few days or even weeks?” He grins at me slyly.
“Uncle Stig, I'm going home on Friday. That's it. End of story.”
He shakes his head. “Don't you see this is a fabulous opportunity? You're surrounded by art. You should be in heaven. And the duke— I've seen the way he looks at you.”
My face flames up. “You've got it all wrong. He doesn't— I mean, there's nothing going on. I'll be more than glad to get on that plane on Friday.”
“Hm, maybe you just need me to get out of your way. Think about it. Do you really want to go back to Laxby empty–handed after all this? Do you want to eke out a miserable existence as a part–time waitress while you paint in your attic for anyone who'll throw ten bucks your way at the next county fair? You owe it to yourself and your intelligence to seize opportunities when they come handed to you on a silver plate.”
Before I can protest, Lady Belgrave approaches us.
When they've driven off for the garden center, I sink down on a bench and ponder it all. Why couldn't he just hang on until Friday and leave with me, like we'd planned? Does he really have business, or is this just some last–ditch matchmaking attempt to get me closer to the duke? It wouldn't surprise me.
Uncle Stig is like a dog with a bone when it comes to these ideas of his—ideas he's convinced will raise my standing in the world in some way. That was how I ended up in London on this trip in the first place, despite all Dad's misgivings. And it doesn't matter whose feelings get hurt along the way, because in Uncle Stig's books, the end always justifies the means.
I'm pacing around the patio when a deep voice interrupts my thoughts. “Where's everyone? Where's your uncle?”
It's Alex. But I'm in not in the mood to talk to him. “Oh.” I wave a vague hand. “Garden center.”
He swings around to look at the parking lot, eyebrows drawn tight together. “When did they leave?”
“I don't know. Maybe half an hour ago?”
“You let him go?”
I finger a Rosemary plant and bend to smell its fragrance before answering. “I didn't realize I was supposed to keep him locked up.”
“Which garden center?”
“I don't know, Alex. They said a local one.”
He pulls out his phone and shoves it at me. “Call him.”
“Why?”
“Mother doesn't carry a phone and George won't take a call when he's driving.”
“No, I mean why should I call him at all?”
“I need to know what he's up to.”
“Alex, he's a grown man,” I say in my most sensible voice. It feels good to know something he doesn't.
His gaze moves from my face to my hand on his arm, which I don't remember putting there. I don't withdraw. I give his flesh a tiny squeeze. “Please, Alex, don't worry. Looks like he's done your mother some good, actually. They've been laughing a lot this afternoon.”
His eyes flash warmly. “Yes, yes, I noticed that.”
“And you can't control everything,” I say. I love how his eyelids are fluttering, like this is catching him somehow off guard, like I actually might have some power over him after all. It makes me feel incredible.
“So …” I inch my fingers forward on his arm, brushing the soft hairs. God, he feels beautiful, strong, smooth, warm. But most beautiful of all is his rapt attention to what I'm doing to him. “Why don't you go back to work, and I'll deal with Uncle Stig?”
He traps my hand on his arm with his. “Hayley, he probably thinks he's got a better way to sort out his mess than waiting around here. And he's probably right. But he's wrong to go off with no protection at all. Don't you understand?” His blue eyes blazing into me are hampering my ability to understand anything.
“We need to get him back. Trust me.”
I take one look at the seriousness of his face and I do trust him. Alex has the same kind of connections that my uncle does, and I suspect he understands the vagaries of the game Uncle Stig is playing with the Azerbaijanis. “Well, what can we do?”
Alex is already dialing a number. “Hi, Hargreaves? Yes, this is Alex Belgrave. Yes. Terribly sorry, but is my mother there by any chance? Uh–huh. Oh they did? All right. No, that's perfectly fine. Yes, yes. Goodbye.”
He clicks with his tongue as he closes the call. “Tell me where you think he might have gone after the garden center. Any haunts he'd feel safe in?”
I shrug. “I have some ideas. But they're all in London.”
“Right, let's go to London.”
“Uh, when?”
“Now.”
13
ALEX
I DON'T NORMALLY DRIVE this fast, but Lawson's got a head start on us and he could be anywhere in Greater London. We're in the Aston Martin, strongest engine I own, apart from my chopper. I was tempted to fly, but God knows where I'd be able t
o land and we may lose more time in the end.
I watch Hayley in the passenger seat out of the corner of my eye. She's clinging to her armrest, gazing out the window as we duck and weave on the A and B roads to London—I refuse to do the M25. We're whizzing past small villages, remarking on this or that, but not really talking. I'm grateful for the silence. My mind's on overdrive. Deep down I know I probably shouldn't be doing this at all. It's probably not my business if her uncle decides to take matters in his own hands. But to leave Hayley stranded, potentially at the mercy of irate Azerbaijani businessmen? This I take personally.
The sun is setting as we pass the outer perimeter of London. Twenty minutes later I announce—before the sat nav can do it— “We're coming up to Gordon's.” I slow down in a leafy, pedestrian street with elms spilling over high, wrought–iron gates. “Reckon he's in there?
“It's my first guess,” she says. “He's always talked about it fondly. But it's members only—they're very strict. You won't get in.”
I slide her a look.
She shrugs. “What?”
“I'm the Duke of Fernborough. I'll get in.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don't let my plebeian insecurities trip you on your way out.”
I laugh and jump out. There's one doddery old gatekeeper on the door who recognizes me on sight and who attended Father's funeral last month. Not only am I admitted entrance, they practically fall at my feet with gratitude for gracing their doorstep.
The club is a standard, gentleman's club outfit, musty old furniture, stuffy service, a little shabby all round, to be honest. There's no uncle. After a few minutes of useless chit–chat about Father's death, the Windsors, and staunch refusal of tea or brandy, I leave the gaggle of grandpas and their nicotine–clogged air and escape back to the car. The freshness of her rose scent filling the interior is like heaven to my nostrils.
Her eyebrows quirk up. “So, they just let you in.”
“The problem isn't getting in, darling, it's shaking these people off again.”
She's rubbing her forehead, trying not to smile. “Unbelievable.”
“Come on.” I rev up the engine. “What's number two?”
“Well, I've ordered them geographically, radiating out from ground zero, which is here,” she says, all business. “Next stop, Parsons Green. There's another one there.”
“Order them by likelihood.”
“I don't know him that well, Alex.”
“Read out your list then, by category, not by name.”
“Club, club, bowling alley, restaurant, railway station,” she rattles off.
“Think about it. Where would you go to hide if you thought a crazy duke was after you?” I ponder aloud.
“Bowling alley!” we shout in unison.
“Reverse,” she shrieks, jabbing the button for the navigation. She's already stored them all in. Smart woman. And if I'm not mistaken, she's enjoying this as much as I am.
This is what makes her so different to every woman I've ever dated. They'd be more preoccupied with whether their makeup is perfectly applied, and their clothes sitting right. What am I saying? They wouldn't even dream of coming on a trip like this with me in the first place.
I've spent far too much of my free time strutting around with such women from function room to club, to VIP arena in various sporting venues, bored out of my mind with an empty feeling in my stomach, providing fodder for the next day's society blogs and gossip columns. Hayley doesn't have a shred of pretension in her and I want more of this, this feeling, this sensation that life is really happening and it's somehow important and worthwhile and natural and warm and real.
I look over at her. She's back to gripping the armrest again like it's going to save her life. “What's up?”
She lets out a ragged breath. “You know those round signs with the numbers on them? We call them speed limits in our country.”
“Don't worry.” I grin at her. “I don't get speeding tickets.”
“No?”
“I have an understanding with Her Majesty's constabulary.”
“Well, that'll sure help if we crash.”
“You should see me in the air,” I mutter, and instantly regret it. I didn't mean for that to come out. But she's devouring me with those curious, hazel eyes, eyes that have to know everything.
After a pause, she says, “You're a pilot?”
“I was. Not anymore.”
“Do you miss it?”
“No,” I grind out. It's such a lie. But I don't want to get into all this. To her, I'm a duke. The duke. The duke who's going to get her home safely, without hassle. Not some joker helicopter pilot.
“What about you?” I ask, deliberately accelerating so she'll peel her eyes off my face. “Is what you do what you want to do? I mean, your art?”
“Oh yes, art is my life. Always has been. I never wanted to study anything else. I want to be one of those lucky people who manage to make a living from it. Uncle Stig says I need to put more time into making connections, though, if I'm to have any chance of making a difference in today's world.”
She looks down and fiddles with her handbag. I can't examine her face because I'm driving, but my general impression is that she doesn't look happy.
“What, like your uncle?” I say, lightheartedly. “Don't go there.”
“I like the way you think about my career.” She sighs heavily. “The alternative to making connections, though, is making pitiful money from doing artist in residences, workshops for middle–class children, or trying to sell my work online. But at least I'd be creating art.”
“What about teaching?”
“Yeah, I've met a few teachers. If I work with primary or secondary kids, I'll be too exhausted to do any of my own work until I retire. If I get into higher education, I may get to spend free research time making art for a very small audience. But if I'm unlucky, I'll end up writing meaningless papers on subjects no one's interested in and eventually I'll end up bitter, twisted and hating everyone around me.”
I laugh at her mock tragic tone. “So much to look forward to.”
She laughs, too. I'm starting to get hooked on that lyrical sound and I'm keen for her to do it more. “Well, maybe the best thing to do is to not get into that mindset in the first place. Make art because it makes you happy and is important to who you are. You don't need to be recognized by an elitist system that's only interested in making money to make your work real.”
She's quiet now. “Easy for you to say. You're part of the elitist system.”
“Yeah,” I concede. While we struggle with budgets and income, we are inarguably wealthy by almost anyone's reckoning. If we were to sell off all our assets, it would amount to billions. I don't know about rent prices, or insurance fees. I couldn't say what a pint of milk costs.
As she watches me, I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself offering her something, anything, to help her in her life. I know she wouldn't want that and I admire that in her. A silence overcomes us, but it's strangely comfortable.
“We're here,” I say, as I draw up under the neon bowling alley signs. “It's getting late. That means he's either here or we're fucked. The radius of possibility is just too large at this stage.”
“No,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I'm fucked. You've done all you can.”
“Will you stop talking being fucked and get out of here?” I growl. “I mean it, I'm getting all horny again and even I can see it's not a good time.”
A smile broadens across her face. “Are you saying you were horny before?”
I narrow my eyes. “Could you kindly pass me one of those baseball caps in the glove compartment? Actually, might be an idea if you wore one, too.”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting I'm famous,” she mutters, pulling on a Team Mercedes Formula 1 cap and handing me mine. I'm sure we'd look real cute if the paparazzi were around to catch us, which thankfully they're not.
“Let's do this!” I say.
We run to the
entrance of the bowling alley. Inside, it's a dive, but teeming with happy folk. We're greeted by the loud rumbling of balls on wooden floors and the general cacophony of tipsy team members celebrating their strikes.
I follow her, glancing around under the shade of my cap. I get the feeling nobody in this place would recognize the US ambassador to Britain if he's here, just as they fail to recognize us. I must tell Marty that a bowling alley is the place for a clandestine meeting if he or his fellow MI6 spooks ever need one.
I hang back while she charges up and down the lanes.
This is not going to work. He's not here. Lucky for him. If he were, I'd have punched him. What was so desperate about his situation in my house that he had to run off? Why couldn't he just have waited until I gave the green light?
It's all my fault for not watching him more closely. Never in a million years would I have thought he'd have the charm to rope Mother into getting George to drive him off the premises. He's a wily goat for sure. I can see where his niece gets it.
She looks so dejected, as if she was actually expecting this escapade to have resulted in success. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and lead her out to the car. “Come on, it's late. Let's just go home. And from this point on, please let me handle your security.” My voice is so angry, I hardly recognize myself. I've made Hayley flinch, but it's how I feel. To my surprise, I am seriously pissed off. Anger is not a currency I usually deal in.
“I'm going home on Friday,” she says in a meek voice.
“Are you?” I say. “Well, only if I say so.”
No answer. Stony silence.
That silence stays with us, like an unwelcome passenger, the whole three hours back to Fernborough. A steady glow of angry concern for her burns somewhere deep inside an unreachable niche of my heart. Or is it just my stomach? We've skipped dinner and I am absolutely famished.
“Hungry?” I ask her as I park.
Her pale face staring at me makes my heart clench. “Oh, God, yes.”
