Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2)

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “As do I,” I said, meeting his intense gaze.

  His look made my breath catch in surprise. Because if I wasn’t mistaken, he wasn’t just talking about architecture and history.

  Our hosts were not in their magnificent home when we arrived, but an attentive staff greeted us and showed us to our rooms, which were spread across two floors of the ancient castle. At first, this alarmed Will, but his uncle intervened, assuring him that we would be watched over by the detectives on guard in the hallways through the night. My heart pounded when I found I was one of only two downstairs, fearing I’d once again been relegated to lesser quarters since I was only half Kensington, but when the butler opened the door for me, my heart slowed to a quieter, yet bigger ka-thump as I looked around.

  “The castle was once, uh, how you say…prison,” said the butler soberly, in halting English laced with a thick French accent. A thin smile grew across his lips. “But zee mistress of zee house has a way with making one thing into another. Her brother asked that you be given this suite.”

  “I should say she is quite gifted,” I muttered, gazing open-mouthed at gothic arches rising in one dome after another above me in the L-shaped suite. I chose to ignore his revelation that Pierre had thought to assign me this room. I had no idea what the other rooms looked like, but I knew this was indeed special. One window looked out along the length of the Rhône River. A small balcony led to a private alcove directly above the water. On the far end, in the en suite bathroom that held a huge, claw-footed tub, was another window that showcased miles of rolling farmland.

  “Merci,” I breathed as three stewards and Anna arrived with my trunks and valises.

  “But of course, mademoiselle,” the tall, thin man said with a genteel nod. His keen eyes studied me a moment longer, and I wondered if he knew who I was…or rather, who I was to Pierre. I detected nothing but idle, bemused interest in him, even as he reluctantly turned and headed toward the door. Yet given the way he’d spoken of Pierre, he struck me as a servant who had known him for a good, long while. “If there is nothing else, mademoiselle?”

  “No, thank you. I will be quite content.”

  “Very well. I shall send down a tray of refreshments. Dinner shall be served at eight o’clock.” He gestured upward, apparently forgetting the English word for upstairs. He turned to go, thought better of it, and turned back to me. “While you shall be dining out-of-doors, you might wish to dress as if you are dining in the formal dining room, with eh…As it becomes, eh, later, it can be…” He rubbed his upper arms, as if cold.

  “Chilly,” I said, supplying his missing word. “I’ll need a wrap. Thank you.”

  He gave me another faint smile and left, then. Anna and I shared a look. “Servants’ quarters in one castle, a queen’s in another,” she said, lifting a trunk lid and shaking out an icy-blue gown. “I was thinking you might wish to wear this tonight, miss. It has that smart lace jacket that matches so well.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, going to the French doors and slipping out onto the balcony. I brought a hand to my mouth. The platform was about eight feet long and only a couple of feet deep, with a roof, one of only two on this level, the only variations in the smooth, straight stone wall. Clearly, the balconies were later additions to a side of the castle that had been meant to be impossible to scale. The ancient wall rose straight from the water below, to a height of perhaps thirty or forty feet. Here and there bits of grass and moss sprouted between the gray stones, but she looked as sturdy as she had likely looked when she was built.

  Down below, the river moved past slowly, a luxurious flow of liquid green.

  “Miss Cora?” Anna said. “Do you wish for me to turn down your bed? Would you care to take a rest before supper?”

  “Indeed,” I said, reluctantly turning back and peeling off my gloves, feeling the weight of our long train journey. I left the door open, liking the scent of the water and fresh air. “And perhaps a bath afterward?”

  “Of course,” she said, going behind me to help me out of a jacket that clung to my arms, then unbuttoning the gown beneath. As it slipped away, I breathed a sigh of relief. A knock at the door revealed a steward carrying a silver tray laden with grapes, apples, a wedge of cheese, a hunk of bread, and a pitcher with two glasses. Anna set it on a small table. “Would you like me to pour you—”

  “No, no, Anna,” I said, slipping under the incredibly soft sheets and fluffy down-filled cover. “You must be as weary as I am. Please. You’ve done enough. Go and take your own nap, if you wish. Just be sure I rise in time to get ready. Otherwise, I’m liable to sleep through the night in this haven.”

  She shook me awake a couple of hours later. I bathed and dressed, and Anna put up my hair in a clever twist, adding progressive sections of hair until it wreathed my head. “Where did you learn to do that?” I asked, turning one way and then the other in the mirror.

  “A maid on the train showed us,” she said, obviously pleased that I was pleased. She tucked a small ivory-colored feather on a comb into the folds of my hair and patted my shoulders. “You’ll be the prettiest on the porch,” she said proudly.

  I smiled at her praise and rose to follow her to the bed, where she’d laid out my lace jacket. “It’ll hardly keep me warm with all those holes,” I said as she slid it over my shoulders. “It’s more for show.”

  “Pish,” she said. “France has lovely, warm evenings, even this close to the water. You’ll be fine. I’ll check in on you in an hour or so. Give me the signal, and I’ll fetch you another wrap if necessary.”

  “Thank you, Anna.”

  “Of course,” she said, staring at me as I hesitated.

  I looked down. I was wringing my gloved hands.

  “Miss?”

  “It’s Pierre’s sister,” I whispered.

  “Ahh. She’ll be as delightful as m’lord, no doubt. Go in with your head held high. Give her no corner to push you around. You are her guest. And her brother is smitten with you. That will either raise her ire or make you immediate kin. Either way, you’ll win her over, I know it.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Still, I stood there.

  “Well? Go on, then. You’ll do no winnin’ of her here, hiding away.”

  I laughed under my breath and turned to do as she asked. Outside, Will waited, looking handsome even in his too-short pants and tight black jacket. He wore a crisp white shirt and a perfectly knotted tie. His hair was slicked back in dapper fashion, giving him a refined, decidedly distinguished appearance. “William,” I greeted him with a smile.

  “Cora,” he said, raising a brow. “You look lovely.” He offered his arm, clearly his reason for waiting at my door—to escort me upstairs.

  I took his arm, quietly assessing his strength in the bulk of it beneath my fingers, and we began climbing the two flights of stone stairs to the upper floor.

  “Miss Kensington?” I paused and looked over my shoulder, and Will did the same.

  It was the blond man from the train. His bright blue eyes flicked from Will to me and back again, the hint of a smile again on his lips. He was dressed for dinner, and he emerged from the suite across the hall from my own, obviously an honored guest. We turned fully around and waited for him to reach us.

  “We didn’t have the opportunity for proper introductions on the train,” he said. “I’m Arthur Stapleton. Art, my friends call me.” He reached out a hand to Will.

  “William McCabe,” he said. “And as you’ve already guessed, this is Miss Kensington. Miss Cora Kensington.”

  “Cora Diehl Kensington,” I said, quietly correcting, offering Art my gloved hand. “What a coincidence that we were headed to the same household here in Provence.”

  “Quite,” he said, that smile quirking the corners of his lips again. “Celine and Adrien are lovely hosts. You’re in for quite a treat.” We turned and walked up the stairs, with him hurrying to come up on my other side. I resisted the urge to sneak a look at Will. Was it only my imagina
tion? Or was there some hidden story with this one? I knew Will wouldn’t like it that a man had been put into a room directly across from mine. It was hardly suitable.…

  “The Bellamy dinners above the Rhône are renowned the world over,” Art said. “Or am I speaking out of turn? Perhaps you’re well acquainted, and we simply have not yet crossed paths.”

  “No,” Will said, “this is our first time. We were the guests of Lord de Richelieu in Paris. He sent us here to his sister.”

  “Fine company you keep, then,” Art said.

  “Indeed. A blessing. And you, Art?” Will said. “Clearly you’re an American. How did you come to sojourn here above the Rhône?”

  “Business,” he said easily. “Sometimes you have to go places you’d rather not. Sometimes you go places you wish you never had to leave.”

  We reached the top of the stairs and moved down a grand hallway with stone floors and a thickly padded red carpet that ran the length of it.

  “How long will you be here in Provence?” Will asked.

  Art shrugged. “A week, maybe two. I’ll see how things progress.”

  “From where do you hail?”

  “Washington, DC.”

  “Long way from home.”

  “No farther than any other American in the south of France,” Art said. We entered the main dining room then, and others in our party came up to us, the girls gushing over my hair and their fine rooms. Art slipped away and went to greet a couple that looked like a matched set, each trim and about the same height, equally handsome. Salt and pepper, I thought, or pepper and salt. He had jet-black hair. She had blonde hair, a shade lighter than her brother’s.

  Art watched as we neared them. I had the distinct impression he was observing my every move. Was it simply paranoia? Or my fear of the moment, feeling unready to meet Pierre’s sister? My fear that she’d look me over and find me wanting before I even opened my mouth? I squared my shoulders and met her steady gaze as Art introduced us, noticing she did not share Pierre’s green eyes; hers were rather a warm brown that made her blonde hair all the more exotic.

  “Adrien and Celine, this is Cora Diehl Kensington, and William McCabe, her tour guide.”

  My eyes went to Will’s for a moment. We’d never said Will was our group’s guide…but maybe Art had met with others in our company and found that much out. I quickly returned my gaze to Celine’s, wanting her to recognize only quiet confidence in me, not doubt or fear. That was one thing I’d learned about the aristocratic crowd to date—if you gave them any edge, they pushed it.

  “Ahh, Cora. Belle, belle,” Celine said, smiling as she looked me over in an invasive and yet completely warm manner. Cora, beautiful, beautiful, I thought her words meant, given her pleased expression as she assessed me. “I see why you’ve stolen my brother’s heart,” she said, leaning toward me as if sharing a secret. Then she leaned back and looked at her husband. “Is she not?”

  “Indeed she is,” he said.

  “I, uhh, thank you,” I said, feeling the heat of my blush and wondering what Will was thinking.

  “And according to Pierre, you have a beautiful heart, too,” she said, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of her arm. “I’m certain we shall be fast friends. If he loves you, then so shall I.”

  I stiffened. No such declarations of love had been shared between myself and Pierre—it was far too soon. I struggled not to cringe as we walked away from Will. And then I wondered why I was so concerned about him. Far more had transpired between me and Pierre than between Will and me.…

  Celine led me outside and onto an expansive stone patio that might have once been the roof of the castle. The edge was rimmed with a wall that reached up to my knees, leaving an expansive, sumptuous view of the river, the woods across from it, another castle, and here and there, the glow of other homes. In the center of the patio was a perfectly formal table, complete with candelabra, sterling, china, and crystal. Celine deposited me at her husband’s right. He pulled out my chair as his wife directed others to fill in around us. Will was several places down from me, on the right, past Andrew and Lillian. And Arthur Stapleton was directly across from me, with Vivian on his left.

  “Your name is so familiar to me,” Vivian said to Arthur as soon as we were seated. The footman handed us each a cloth napkin. “Have we met before?”

  “It’s unlikely. I would have remembered such a fine acquaintance as you,” he said, casting a respectful eye in Andrew’s direction. “The Stapletons cut a wide swath,” he said. “The family runs a vineyard in California—”

  “A fine vineyard,” Adrien interrupted from the head of the table, lifting his empty glass as a footman filled it.

  “And they have holdings in several mines in Colorado. Perhaps my uncle and your father have done business together?”

  “Perhaps,” Vivian mused, but her brow knit in confusion, as if she were trying to puzzle it out. “Is that what brings you to Provence? Your family’s vineyard business?”

  “In part,” Arthur said, lifting his own glass—admiring the color, I guessed. “I never refuse an opportunity to partake of Adrien’s wines.”

  “Nor any other opportunity,” Adrien said with a laugh. “Don’t let him fool you. His business is to imbibe among the world’s finest citizens, gathering stories.”

  “I do enjoy that,” Arthur said with a smile, meeting my eye again with that particular quirk teasing the corner of his lips. “I meet the most engaging people as I travel about. Andrew, be a good fellow and tell me about your travels. I hear you’re on the Grand Tour.”

  All our champagne glasses were filled, the golden bubbles apparently from the Bellamys’ vineyards, and a toast was made to “our new American friends.” And then the food was served. Course after course…canapés, cream of asparagus soup, watercress salad with roasted squab, then poached salmon with cucumber and fresh dill. By the time we paused for a delicate rose water and mint sorbet, I was feeling the strain of my corset’s ribbons.

  As they served the sixth course—a tender filet mignon, topped with foie gras and truffle drizzled with cognac—Andrew’s recounting of our Grand Tour moved from Paris and to our intended itinerary ahead.

  “Come now,” Adrien said, lifting his goblet of red wine and taking a sip. “Tell us more of your adventures at Chateau de Richelieu. From what Celine and I’ve heard from Pierre, you were lucky to escape with your lives.” His eyes drifted over me, as if he hoped I might pick up the story where Andrew left off. Andrew paused, clearly caught and wishing to avoid the topic—not wishing to upset the younger girls, who trembled any time it was mentioned. I glanced at Hugh and Felix, who had clearly been overly imbibing, accepting glass after glass of champagne and wine, with little water in between.

  “We’d all be dead if it weren’t for Cora,” Felix said, lifting his goblet in my direction. “Which certainly calls for a belated toast. To Cora.”

  The others reluctantly followed his lead and lifted their own goblets. “To Cora.”

  When I dared to look around, I found that Art was studying me. I shifted in my seat and looked down at Felix as he went on, willing him to look my way again so I could shush him. “Really now, Felix,” I cut in. “It was a combined effort.”

  “Don’t let her fool you,” he said, his words slurring. “They taught her well on that Montana farm. Raised her up strong. She’s a scrapper, I tell you. A scrapper. All dolled up, you wouldn’t guess it. But she’s a scrapper. My other sisters couldn’t’ve done what she did that night. I’m proud she’s one of the Kensingtons now.”

  Andrew rose and walked around the table.

  “Uh-oh,” Felix said, eyes big and laughing. “I’m in trouble,” he said to Hugh, who lifted his own brows in delight over this latest turn of events. “What? May I not compliment my sister? I was simply answering our host’s question!” He lifted his hands up, feigning defense as Andrew reached him. Andrew paused a moment until Felix lowered his hands, and then he bent to say a few words in Fe
lix’s ear. Chastened, Felix quieted and raised his hands. “Forgive me,” he slurred. “I quite forgot myself.”

  “No, no,” Celine said, leaning back against the high back and one arm of her chair in languid fashion. “This is exactly what we look for in dinner conversation, no? An exotic, exciting story? It’s just the sort of thing Arthur relishes.”

  I looked over at Art as he smiled down at our hostess. “Your table is always rich with lore, Celine,” he said, lifting his goblet in a silent toast.

  “It was Cora who led the girls out,” Hugh said, picking up the story that I had hoped would die. “She was the one who found the hidden passageways and pulled them out.” He shrugged his shoulder. “Of course, I would’ve done the same, had I not been tied up.”

  “You were tied up?” Celine said. “In my brother’s home? How is this possible? Such a travesty!”

  “Indeed,” Hugh said. “But Will and Cora managed to turn the tide, and sent a maid running for help. The intruders had cut the phone line. Murdered the butler.”

  Celine gasped. I glanced down at the girls. Both were quiet, hands in their laps.

  “Really,” I said. “Might we turn our conversation to more palatable topics? The girls—”

  “Who would do such a thing?” Arthur asked, picking up on Celine’s indignation, making me feel as if he were on our side. “What were they after?”

  “We think they wanted to nab the girls,” Felix said. “Lucky Cora and Will got to Lil and Nell before the intruders could.”

  “They came after us with axes,” Lillian said, her voice shaking.

  Celine gasped. “Truly? What a nightmare!”

  “Really, Lil. You don’t have to relive it,” I said. “We can converse about something else.”

  “No,” she said, her eyes meeting mine. “It’s true. You saved us. You and Will. If it weren’t for you…” Her eyes welled up with tears, and she swallowed hard. She shook her head.