The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

by Stephanie Queen

  “Isn’t it true that you were pregnant with Peter John Douglas’s child six years ago when you broke off your engagement, then went to the Berkshires and entered the clinic there and ended that pregnancy?” This time it was a statement and he began waving papers.

  “No!” She screamed the word, but she heard the desperation in the syllable herself. She needed to explain this now. It wasn’t true. But it wasn’t all false either. They were lying about the abortion. She had to tell them the whole story. The true story. There was too much noise—or was the loud buzzing coming from inside her head? Dennis was at her side, taking her by the elbow. The crowd was in a frenzy of excitement. The flashing of camera bulbs was ceaseless, and the television cameras had all whirred to life and rushed toward the stage, toward her.

  Dennis ushered her out the back as Mr. Edwards asked people to leave—the show was over. Sarah struggled to get on the stage and Madeline resisted Dennis’s tug to wait for her. The picture of Sarah besieged by reporters hounding her for a confirmation was the last thing Madeline saw as she glanced over her shoulder with Dennis dragging her off the stage.

  St. Cyr continued to shout over his microphone that he had copies of papers from the clinic that confirmed that Madeline Grace had an abortion there six years ago. Mr. Edwards’s best efforts to make him stop went unheeded until security guards showed up.

  “Wait, Dennis—I have to deny this. I can’t leave this story hanging.” Madeline stopped at the end of the stage. She held the picture in her head of that instant when Peter John Douglas had stood naked in his emotion. The revelation of the pain she had seen had been unmistakable, and she felt it like a slice through her gut. Now she looked out into the audience and saw the television cameras clustered around one small group of men as they attempted to leave through the back. At the center of the cluster stood Peter. He looked up and met her eyes before he walked out.

  It was a brief moment, a split second—but all the time she needed to see the accusation in his eyes.

  Madeline almost sank to the floor with that confirmation that he believed them; Peter believed the lies. Dennis held her up and fairly dragged her toward the backstage door. Now she let him. Madeline let Dennis and Sarah drag her all the way to the car while Jonathan and Valerie kept the trailing mob of reporters from her.

  Chapter 16

  Peter blew through the front door of his house. He didn’t care that a crowd of photographers had followed them here and were madly snapping pictures. Sam and Acer were right on his heels, and he wheeled around after they walked in. He knew Rick would stay out there and try to deal with the press. That made him angry.

  Everything made him angry right now.

  “Get him in here. There’s nothing he can say to them right now, damn it!” Peter aimed his command at Acer, and Sam disappeared from the entry into the study. Acer went to the door and whistled. It worked because a very annoyed Rick stomped through the door.

  Why should Rick be mad? Everything Rick ever thought about Madeline was true. Madeline was an overambitious zealot and would use the ends to justify the means like every other overambitious zealot. It looked like Rick had been right all along. He should be pleased with himself right now. Peter glared at the man. Rick opened his mouth to say something, and Peter knew he didn’t want to hear it. He did not want to hear Rick gloat; he didn’t want to hear anything Rick had to say. Rick didn’t know anything. Peter rushed at him, and before his campaign manager and friend of ten years could take another breath, Peter punched him square in the jaw.

  The bone-crunching sensation in his knuckles felt satisfying as he watched Rick crumple backwards onto the floor. Peter moved to pick him up so he could hit him again. But strong arms stopped him. He suddenly became aware of their voices, and the whole picture popped into focus.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Rock man? You are one crazy bastard. Relax, and that’s an order!” he heard Sam say from behind him as he watched Acer lift a bloody and shaken Rick Racer from the floor. Rick’s shocked gaze met his. The man narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Peter’s rage had not completely left him yet; he wasn’t ready to let go.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything about her.” Rick’s choked words hit him. Acer half carried Rick into the study, and Sam shoved Peter in the same direction while maintaining his grip on Peter’s elbow, which was shoved halfway up his back.

  “Settle down, Rock. One shock per evening is all I can handle. Shit, you’re out of shape.” Sam loosened his grip slightly.

  “Get off me. I’m fine.” Peter shook the man off and, after looking at the faces of each of these men, shook his head and swiped his face. Then he remembered the brandy on the table behind his desk—the makeshift bar. He walked straight for it and poured himself a drink.

  “Anyone else want some?” he asked the silent room with his back to them.

  “What is that shit you’re drinking?” Acer asked.

  “I don’t care what it is man, give me some,” Sam said.

  Peter felt it was safe to turn and face them now. He’d been afraid they’d hold his inexcusable behavior against him. Of course Rick hadn’t said a thing. He leaned against a bookcase as if he would otherwise fall down. Peter picked up his glass and downed it as he turned to Rick.

  “I’m sorry, Rick. That was an asshole thing to do to you.” He poured another drink and then walked to Rick and forced himself to look into the man’s face. Blood dripped from Rick’s mouth. He looked back at Peter, still stunned and slightly belligerent-looking or it wouldn’t be Rick.

  Peter handed the drink to him. “Here. You look like you could use this.” Peter quirked a grin and turned to his other two friends. “Someone get this man a towel before he bleeds on my furniture.”

  Rick grabbed the drink and said, “Fuck you,” before he downed it and shoved the empty glass back at Peter with a slightly shaky hand.

  “Have a seat,” Peter said in a more thoughtful tone, aware that the man was not used to taking a punch. Acer took Rick’s arm and put him in the nearest chair easily—Rick was only half his size.

  “I’m okay.” Rick took the wet cloth Sam tossed at him and wiped his nose. When he looked at the blood on the towel, Rick’s face blanched and Peter had to keep himself from laughing out loud. Peter nodded to Sam, who moved in to assist with the clean up. Peter figured this was a good time to get some more drinks and heaved a big sigh, releasing a good measure of his tension as he turned to do so. What the hell would he do now?

  Mad Aftermath

  Sarah was the last one through the door to the office suite, and she slammed it closed behind her. Jonathan paced, and Dennis stood with his arms folded across his chest with a very unhappy look on his face. She had to get angry and fast before the sadness and depression overwhelmed her. All was not lost because the accusation wasn’t true. And Peter’s parents knew the truth.

  She spoke from her spot in the corner of the couch with Valerie next to her holding her elbow as if Madeline would fall apart if her friend let go.

  They were all watching her.

  She had to tell them.

  “Six years ago, a couple of weeks after I broke off my engagement to Peter, I discovered I was pregnant. I called Peter, but he was gone. He’d taken a leave of absence and even his parents didn’t know where he was. He could disappear if he wanted to and be impossible to find. His special ops training at work. I visited his parents, distraught, and told them I was pregnant. They tried to find him but couldn’t. When we talked we all decided that maybe it was better for me to take this time to figure out what I wanted to do. I went to a friend’s country home in the Berkshires that next week to think things over. I was only there one day when I had the miscarriage,” she said.

  She paused when Valerie gasped, throwing a hand over her mouth in nearly mute shock. Madeline had to finish her story; they deserved to hear the truth, and she needed to tell them.

  “I was alone, and I needed to see a doctor but I didn’t know any. The only
place I knew was the clinic that I had driven by a couple of times. And so, literally crying and bleeding, I drove myself to the Berkshires Women’s Clinic. I hadn’t even realized exactly what kind of facility it was. I went there because they were the nearest medical facility. I stayed one night—that was standard procedure back then. And they took care of me. I thought I was very lucky to be there. I had only been eight weeks along, and they told me everything was all right, that I was fine to have children in the future. I remember how kind the nurse was.

  “When it was all over and I came home, I called the judge. I had decided that with the baby gone, there was no reason to tell Peter. It wouldn’t change things between us. His parents agreed that it would only reopen the wound and cause so much more pain—pain they felt themselves. Nothing could be done about it, and they didn’t want their son hurt for nothing all over again. I wasn’t changing my mind about Peter and coming to my senses, as they put it. They agreed it would be better not to say anything to him so that we could each go on with our lives. And that was it.” She looked down at the hands in her lap and tried very hard not to cry. It had been a very long time since she let herself think about their lost baby.

  “Until now. You were never going to tell us about this,” Dennis said. He sounded angry, and the look on his face was as Irish as she’d ever seen him.

  “There was no reason to ever tell anyone about that very private and very painful part of my life,” she shouted at him, and the tears could no longer be stopped. Valerie hugged her and Sarah came to her side. She noticed Jonathan glaring at Dennis.

  But Madeline knew the real problem. Dennis was hurting and found it easier to lash out. Her relationship with Peter was made much too vivid for him with the shared past of a miscarried baby. She gently extracted herself from her friends and brushed a hand across the tears on her cheeks. The tears stopped now, and she took a deep breath and stood. She knew what she had to do.

  “Dennis, this little ‘wrinkle’ from my past is no doubt going to put a damper on my campaign from here on in. Are you with me or are you out?” She stood in front of him and heard the disbelieving objections from the others. She held up her hand to stop them. She knew what she was doing—in this instance, anyway. He stared back hard, but she figured he knew an escape route when he saw one.

  “You know my policy. Never go down with a sinking ship. I think I’ll take a life raft and keep my career afloat while I have a chance.” He kept his voice hard, but she saw some softness in his eyes. She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak and backed away from him. She turned away to hide her tears from him. She’d used up just about all the self-control she had right now—probably a whole month’s worth in one night.

  “Valerie, will you call room service?” She collected herself and said, “I’m starved—and I’m sure we could all use something to drink. We have a long night ahead of us.” She turned back to Dennis, who still stood there looking more morose than ever. “Especially without Clever Dennis around.” She smiled at him. He took his cue, saluted her and walked to the door.

  “I’ll make some calls before I leave town and leak the real story—the real tragedy behind the romance—the angle should still have some allure. It may get played.” He opened the door.

  “Thank you.” Madeline gave him her last smile of the night and watched him walk out.

  With him, he took the professional cynicism from the room—and all the polish and veneer that went with it. In other words, he stripped them of all that had been protecting them in some measure from their own emotions. That left the rawness of bare, rough-hewn splinters of pain. Madeline looked around and saw all the unevenness of uncertainty in their faces and knew there was sadness in her own.

  But her sense of loss was not about the campaign, nor even about how this would affect her political career. It was about Peter—not as opponent, but as man; as her man, as the one she wanted after all.

  All the emotions she hadn’t felt, at least not in full measure back when she lost the baby, rose up in her now. Maybe it was her age. She’d been younger then, only beginning her career in politics. Only beginning to formulate her plans and dream her dreams of what she could do with the gift of her intelligence and her knowledge. But now she realized it wouldn’t do her career or her dreams any good to ignore the fact that she was a real live human being, a woman with personal desires and dreams. None of her ambitions to improve the world around her could come close to erasing how she felt right now. A big, empty, raw feeling ached in the pit of her stomach.

  Watching herself now as if she were a character in a movie, she looked for the emotions. There was sadness at the loss of her very personal and private past. There was fear. She was afraid of what Peter might think, that he may not forgive her. It had been clear he was hurt, and she felt sadness about that and frustration that she couldn’t make it instantly better.

  Underneath it all was the loss of that baby all those years ago. Now she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands because the tears were for all that she had lost—no, all that she had tossed aside—six years ago when she ended her engagement with Peter and made the decision not to tell him about the baby they lost, forfeiting what they might have had together. Now the big question was—would he want her after all this?

  Arms came around her, and she was gently escorted to the couch and pushed back into the cushions. Room service knocked on the door with their drinks. Someone pushed a chocolate ball into her fingers, already unwrapped.

  That act of kindness got past her self-pity. She chuckled through her tears and took her hands away from her face to accept the small gift. She looked up and saw it was from Sarah. Seeing the helpless look in her friend’s eyes tugged at her, tugged her back from the self-pity. Looking at all her friends, she put the chocolate in her mouth and decided that no matter what her losses, she still had plenty.

  “Don’t cry, Mad. It’s not over till the fat lady sings. Whatever you’re crying about—and I’m not sure it’s about the election—you haven’t lost yet,” Jonathan said. His tone was firm as he stood before her with his arms folded. Valerie handed her a drink and she didn’t know it was brandy until after she swallowed it.

  “He’s right, you know—except about the crying. You can cry all you want right now. God knows you deserve to. I’m even crying,” Valerie said. She sat back down next to Mad, hugging her, and swiped some tears from her cheek. Madeline smiled at her and hugged her back.

  “We need a statement for the media when we’re all done crying,” Sarah said in the softest voice Madeline ever heard her use. She must seem very fragile indeed. Grabbing some tissues and wiping her face, she decided to live up to her own words about facing life’s challenges with creativity. She turned the key in the ignition of her worn-down mind, knowing it was time to hum. The faster the better—no time to idle—or dwell on what she’d lost.

  “You’re all right. And you’re all wonderful. You all deserve a bonus—if we ever get any more money. Speaking of which, get Morty on the phone and get him over here. We have an empty seat to fill in our inner circle. Maybe having him here helping with the advising, we won’t notice Dennis being gone as much.” She paused and laughed at herself. Her motor was running almost up to speed now; she almost felt like getting up and pacing. Glancing at her watch, she turned to Sarah with determination and hopefully not too grim a look on her face.

  “Sarah, turn on the news. We have to watch it. Brace yourselves,” she said. Bless their brave hearts, they all did exactly that. They looked exactly like she felt—rigid as stone and as if waiting to be bludgeoned.

  Back in Cambridge

  Rick turned on the news. Peter noticed the man’s hand still shook. He silently cursed himself and poured another drink. They had gone through the brandy and were working on the whiskey. He brought the shot glass over to Rick as he straightened in front of the TV. Rick grabbed the drink from his hand and downed it before Peter had a chance to warn him.

  “What th
e fuck is this!” Rick sputtered, but it looked like most of it got down his throat. He gave Peter an accusing look.

  “Whiskey. Good stuff, eh? Don’t look at me like that. You already drank all the brandy.” Peter glanced back at the television in time to see himself on the screen.

  “Okay, here we go.” Rick didn’t sound enthusiastic. Sam and Acer approached the TV, which was housed in a tasteful antique armoire in a corner of the room opposite the desk. They stood in a semi-circle, watching. Somehow it seemed less real the second time around—more like an out-of-body experience since he was safe in his library now.

  But there she was, being dragged off the stage after admitting to having been pregnant.

  With his baby. All these years and he’d never known. It was like the darkness of night coming down on his soul the way the grim feeling crept in and took hold. His vision blurred. With the armor of his anger gone, the gut-wrenching loss was left to strangle his will, and he couldn’t stop himself from crying now no matter how much he didn’t want to.

  Slamming his empty glass down on the nearest flat surface with a shaky hand, he turned away from the TV, covered his bowed face and stepped toward the door. He didn’t remember the last time his emotions had overwhelmed him like this. The pain was physical in nature and all normal functioning seemed to cease. The sound he made as he leaned against the door was more of a growl than the curse he meant it to be as he attempted to get back the anger. Anything was better than the utter desolation of this feeling of betrayal. Complete betrayal by the woman he loved most.

  But he wasn’t alone. Rick was the first to his side, peeling him away from the doorjamb he leaned against. Acer was there too. Now he had to pull himself together. What must they think? That he fell apart because the woman he loved and admired betrayed him in the worst possible way he could imagine? As far as they knew, the romance was ancient history. They’d all assumed he was over it. They’d all assumed, including him, that all that was left was the admiration. Lately, of course, he had realized how wrong he was about that. He couldn’t even chalk it up to lust.