“There must be some other way to stop her! We could call the police-”
“And have it all come out? My late-night foray into Guy’s house? Those stolen letters?” He paused. “Your affair with Delancey?”
Veronica gave a vigorous shake of her head. “We certainly can’t tell them that.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
Resignedly, Veronica picked up her purse and started for the door. “Oh, all right. I got you into this. I suppose I owe you the favor.”
“Plus, it’s your civic duty,” observed Jordan. “The woman’s a thief. No matter what bitter feelings you have for Guy, you can’t let him be robbed blind.”
“Guy?” Veronica laughed. “I don’t give a damn what happens to him. It’s your lady burglar I’m thinking of. If she gets caught and talks to the police…”
“Then my reputation is mud,” admitted Jordan.
Veronica nodded. “And so, I’m afraid, is mine.”
Clea kicked off her high heels, tossed her purse in a chair and flung herself with a groan across the hotel bed. What a ghastly day. She hated polo, she despised Guy Delancey and she detested this red hair. All she wanted to do was go to sleep, to forget the Eye of Kashmir, to forget everything. But whenever she closed her eyes, whenever she tried to sleep, the old nightmares would return, the sights and sounds of terror so vivid she thought she was reliving it.
She fought the memories, tried to push them aside with more pleasant images. She thought of the summer of ’72, when she was eight and Tony was ten, and they’d posed together for that photo that later graced Uncle Walter’s mantelpiece. They’d been dressed in identical tans and bib overalls, and Tony had draped his skinny arm over her scrawny shoulder. They’d grinned at the camera like a pair of shysters in training, which they were. They had the world’s best teacher, too: Uncle Walter, con man extraordinaire, damn his larcenous heart of gold. How was the old fellow faring in prison these days? she wondered. Uncle Walter would be up for parole soon. Maybe-just maybe-prison had changed him, the way it had changed Tony.
The way it had changed her.
Maybe Uncle Walter would walk out of those prison gates and into a straight life, sans con games and grifters.
Maybe pigs could fly.
She jerked as the phone rang. At once she reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Diana, darling! It’s me!”
She rolled her eyes. “Hello, Guy.”
“Dreadfully sorry about what happened this afternoon. Forgive me?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“My chauffeur said you’re planning to stay in the village for a few days. Perhaps you’ll give me a chance to make it up to you? Tomorrow night, say? Supper and a musicale at an old friend’s house. And the rest of the evening at mine.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll show you my collection of antique weapons.” His voice dropped to an intimate murmur. “Think of all those knights in shining armor. Damsels in distress…”
She sighed. “Oh, all right.”
“I’ll be by at five. Pick you up at the Village Inn.”
“Right. See you at five.” She hung up and realized she had a splitting headache. Ha! It was her just punishment for playing Mata Hari.
No, her real punishment would come if she actually had to bed that dissolute wretch.
Moaning, she rose to her feet and headed toward the bathroom to wash off the smell of polo ponies and the greasy touch of Guy Delancey.
Delancey was scarcely sober when he came to fetch her the next evening. She debated the wisdom of climbing into the car with him behind the wheel, but decided she had no choice-not if she wanted to see this through. All things considered, the dangers of riding with a tipsy driver seemed almost insignificant. Risk was a relative thing and this was the night for taking risks.
“Should be a jolly bunch tonight,” said Guy, dodging traffic along the winding road. High hedgerows obscured the view of the road ahead; Clea could only hope that some car wasn’t zooming toward them from the opposite direction. “I don’t go for the music, really. It’s more for the conversation afterward. The laughs.”
And the drinks, she thought, clutching the armrest as they whizzed past a tree with inches to spare.
“Thought it’d be my chance to introduce you,” said Guy. “Show you off to my friends.”
“Will Veronica be there?”
He shot her a startled glance. “What?”
“Veronica. The one who called yesterday. You know, your client.”
“Oh. Oh, her.” His laugh was patently forced. “No, she’s not a music fan. I mean, she’s fond of rock and roll, that sort of rubbish, but not classical music. No, she won’t be there.” He paused, then added under his breath, “Lord, I hope not, anyway.”
Twenty minutes later his hopes were dashed when they walked into the Forresters’ music room. Clea heard Guy suck in a startled breath and mutter, “I don’t believe it” as a russet-haired woman approached them from across the room. She was dressed in a stunning gown of cream lawn, and around her neck hung a magnificent strand of pearls. But it wasn’t the woman whom Clea focused on.
It was the woman’s companion, a man who was now regarding Clea with a look of calm amusement. Or was it triumph she saw in Jordan Tavistock’s sherry brown eyes?
Guy cleared his throat. “Hello, Veronica,” he managed to say.
“I’d heard there was a new lady in your life.”
“Yes, well…” Guy managed a weak smile.
Veronica turned her gaze to Clea, and offered an outstretched hand. “I’m Veronica Cairncross.”
Clea returned the handshake. “Diana Lamb.”
“We’re old friends, Guy and I,” Veronica explained. “Very old friends. And yet he does manage to surprise me sometimes.”
“I surprise you?” Guy snorted. “Since when did you become a fan of musicales?”
“Since Jordan invited me.”
“Oliver is so trusting.”
“Who’s Oliver?” Clea ventured to ask.
Guy laughed. “Oh, no one. Just her husband. A minor inconvenience.”
“You are an ass,” hissed Veronica, and she turned and stalked away.
“Takes one to know one!” Guy retorted and followed her out of the room.
Jordan and Clea, equally cast adrift, looked at each other.
Jordan sighed. “Isn’t love grand?”
“Are they in love?”
“I think it’s obvious they still are.”
“Is that why you brought her here? To sabotage my evening?”
Jordan picked up two glasses of white wine from a passing butler and handed a glass to Clea. “As I once said to you, Miss Lamb-or is it Miss Lamb?-I’ve taken on your reformation as my personal crusade. I’m going to save you from a life of crime. At least, while you’re in my neighborhood.”
“Territorial, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“What if I gave you my solemn oath not to cut into your territory? I’ll let you keep your hunting grounds.”
“And you’ll quietly leave the area?”
“Provided you carry out your side of the bargain.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you proposing?”
Clea paused, studying him, wondering what made him tick. She’d thought Jordan Tavistock attractive from the very beginning. Now she realized he was far more than just a pretty face and a pair of broad shoulders. It was what she saw in his eyes that held her interest. Intelligence. Humor. And more than a touch of determination. He might be an incompetent burglar, but he had class, he had contacts and he had an insider’s familiarity with this neighborhood. By the looks of him, he was an independent, not a man who’d work for someone else. But she might be able to work with him.
She might even enjoy it.
She glanced around at the crowded room and motioned Jordan into a quiet corner. “Here’s my proposition,” she said. “I help you, you h
elp me.”
“Help you do what?”
“One itty-bitty job. Nothing, really.”
“Just a small burglary?” He rolled his eyes. “Where have I heard that line before?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He sighed and took a sip of wine. “What, may I ask, would I get in return?”
“What would you like?”
His gaze focused with instant clarity on hers. And she knew by the sudden ruddiness of his cheeks that the same lascivious thought had flickered in both their brains.
“I’m not going to answer that,” he said.
“Actually, I was thinking of offering up my expert advice in exchange,” she said. “I think you could use it.”
“Private tutelage in the art of burglary? That is a difficult offer to turn down.”
“I won’t actually help you do it, of course. But I’ll give you tips.”
“From personal experience?”
She smiled at him blandly over the wineglass. Time to inflate the old résumé, she thought. While burgling had never actually been her occupation, she did have a knack for it, and she’d rubbed shoulders with the best in the business, Uncle Walter among them. “I’m good enough to make a decent living,” she said simply.
“A tempting proposition. But I’ll have to decline.”
“I can do wonders for your career.”
“I’m not in your line of work.”
“Well, what line of work are you in?” she blurted in frustration.
There was a long silence. “I’m a gentleman,” he said.
“And what else?”
“Just a gentleman.”
“That’s an occupation?”
“Yes.” He smiled sheepishly. “Full time, as a matter of fact. Still, it leaves me enough leisure for other pursuits. Such as local crime prevention.”
“All right.” She sighed. “What can I offer you just to stay out of my way? And not pop up at inconvenient times?”
“So that you can finish the job on poor old Guy Delancey?”
“Then I’ll be out of here for good. Promise.”
“What does he own that’s so tempting to you, anyway?”
She stared down at her wineglass, refusing to meet his gaze. No, she wouldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him. For one thing, she didn’t trust him. If he heard about the Eye of Kashmir, he might want it for himself, and then where would that leave her? No evidence, no proof. She’d be left twisting in the wind.
And Victor Van Weldon would go unpunished.
“It must be quite a valuable item,” he said.
“No, its value is rather more…” She hesitated, searching for a believable note. “Sentimental.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Guy has something that belongs to my family. Something that’s been ours for generations. It was stolen from us a month ago. We want it back.”
“If it’s stolen property, why not go to the police?”
“Delancey knew it was hot when he purchased it. You think he’d admit to its ownership?”
“So you’re going to steal it back?”
“I haven’t any choice.” Meekly she met his gaze, and she saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Just a flicker. Was he actually buying this story? She was surprised how rotten that made her feel. She’d been telling a lot of lies lately, had justified each and every one of them by reminding herself this was what she had to do to stay alive. But lying to Jordan Tavistock felt somehow, well…criminal. Which made no sense at all, because that’s exactly what he was. A thief and a gentleman, she thought, gazing up at him. He had the most penetrating brown eyes she’d ever seen. A face made up of intriguing angles. And a smile that could make her knees weak.
In wonder she glanced down at her drink. What was in this wine, anyway? The room was starting to feel warm and she was having trouble catching her breath.
The return of Guy Delancey was like an unwelcome slap of cold air. “It’s starting,” said Guy.
“What is?” murmured Clea.
“The music. Come on, let’s sit down.”
She focused at last on Guy and saw that he was looking positively grim. “What about Veronica?”
“Don’t mention the name to me,” he growled.
Now Veronica entered the room, and she came toward them, her gaze pointedly avoiding Guy. “Jordie, darling,” she purred, snatching Jordan ’s arm with ruthless possession. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”
With a look of resignation, Jordan allowed himself to be led away to the performance room.
The musicians, a visiting string quartet from London, were already tuning up, and the audience was settled in their seats. Clea and Guy sat on the opposite end of the room from Jordan and Veronica, but the two couples might as well have been seated side by side, for all the barbed looks flying between Guy and Veronica. All during the performance Clea could almost hear the zing of arrows soaring back and forth.
Dvorak was followed by Bartok, Quartet no. 6, and then Debussy. Through it all, Clea was busy plotting out the evening, wondering how close she could get to the Eye of Kashmir. Hoping that this would be the last evening she’d have to put up with Guy Delancey, with the lies, and with this hideous red hair. She scarcely heard the music. It was only when applause broke out that she realized the program had come to an end.
Refreshments followed, an elegant display of cakes and canapés and wine. A lot of wine. Guy, who’d been barely on the edge of sobriety when he entered the house, now proceeded to drink himself into outright intoxication. It was Veronica’s presence that did it. The sight of a lost love flirting with her new escort was just too much for Guy.
Clea watched him reach for yet another glass of wine and decided that things had gone far enough. But how to stop him without making a scene? He was already talking too loudly, laughing too heartily.
That’s when Jordan stepped in. She hadn’t asked him to, but she’d seen him frowning at Guy, counting the glasses of wine he’d consumed. Now he slipped in beside Guy and said quietly, “Perhaps you should slow down a bit, chap?”
“Slow down what?” demanded Guy.
“That’s your sixth, I believe. And you’ll be driving the lady home.”
“I can handle it.”
“Come on, Delancey,” Jordan urged. “A little self-control.”
“Self-control? Who the hell’re you to be talking about self-control?” Guy’s voice had risen to a bellow, and all around them, conversations ceased. “You take up with another man’s wife and you point at me?”
“No one’s taken up with anyone’s wife-”
“At least when I did it, I had the decency to be discreet about it!”
Veronica gave a startled gasp of dismay and ran out of the room.
“Coward!” Guy yelled after her.
“Delancey, please,” murmured Jordan. “This isn’t the time or place-”
“Veronica!” Guy broke away and pushed his way toward the door. “Why don’t you face the bloody music for once! Veronica!”
Jordan looked at Clea. “He’s pickled. You can’t drive home with him tonight.”
“I’ll handle him.”
“Well, take his keys, at least. Insist on driving yourself.”
That was exactly what she’d planned to do. But when she followed Guy outside, she found that he and Veronica were still wrangling away, and loudly, too. Guy was so drunk he was weaving, barely able to stay on his feet. Lying bitch, he kept saying, couldn’t trust her, could never trust her. She’d rip your heart in pieces, that’s what she’d do, damn her, and he didn’t need that. He could find another woman with just the snap of his fingers.
“Then why don’t you?” Veronica lashed back.
“I will! I have.” Guy swiveled around and focused, bleary-eyed, on Clea. He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s go!”
“Not in your condition,” Clea said, pulling back.
“There’s nothing wrong with my condition!”
“Give me the car keys, Guy.”
“I can drive.”
“No, you can’t.” She pulled out of his grasp. “Give me the keys.”
In disgust he waved her off. “Go on, then. Find your own way home! To hell with both of you! To hell with women!” He stumbled away to his car. With difficulty he managed to open the door and climb in.
“Bloody idiot,” muttered Veronica. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
She’s right, thought Clea. She ran to Guy’s car and yanked open the door. “Come on, get out.”
“Go away.”
“You’re not driving. I am.”
“Go away!”
Clea grabbed his arm. “I’ll take you home. You get into the back seat and lie down.”
“I don’t take orders from any bloody woman!” he roared and viciously shoved her away.
Tottering on high heels, Clea stumbled backward and landed in the shrubbery. Stupid man, he was too damn drunk to listen to reason. Even as she struggled to disentangle her necklace from the branches, she could hear him cranking the engine, could hear him muttering about parasitic women. He cursed and slapped the steering wheel as the motor died. Again he cranked the ignition. Just as Clea managed to free her necklace from the shrub, just as she started to sit up, the car’s engine roared to life. Without even a farewell glance at her, Guy pulled away.
Idiot, she thought, and rose to her feet.
The explosion slammed her backward. She flew clear over the shrub and landed flat on her back under a tree. She was too stunned to feel the pain of the impact. What she registered first were the sounds: the screams and shouts, the clatter of flying metal hitting the road and then the crackle of flames. Still she felt no pain, just a vague awareness that it was surely to come. She got to her knees and began to crawl like a baby-toward what, she didn’t know. Just away from the tree, from the damn bushes. Her brain was starting to work now and it was telling her things she didn’t want to know. Her head was starting to hurt, too. Pain and awareness in a simultaneous rush. She thought she was crying, but she wasn’t sure; she couldn’t even hear her own voice through the roar of noises. She couldn’t tell if the warmth streaming down her cheek was blood or tears or both. She kept crawling, thinking, I’m dead if I don’t get away. I’m dead.
Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen Page 6
