Dark Garden

by Jennifer Fulton

  To the chagrin of the Blakes, the movie was an Oscar-winning box office hit, and their family wasn’t presented in a particularly positive light. One of the main characters in the film was Vienna’s grandfather, Clarence Blake. According to the plot, he’d had a fling with Nancy early in her marriage, after she discovered that her husband had a mistress with whom he’d fathered a child. The encounter with her husband’s archenemy was Nancy’s version of revenge, and in pillow talk she’d admitted her reasons, telling Clarence that she even suspected Alexander had made a bigamous marriage. Worse yet, the mistress was a mixed-race woman.

  Once the presidential primaries began heating up, Clarence had leaked the information to the press, ending Alexander’s bid for the Oval Office. The film implied that Nancy’s death was an act of revenge on her husband’s part. Alexander had never told anyone except her about his indiscretion, and even though their marriage had been on the rocks for years, he thought her self-interest and desire to be first lady would guarantee her silence. He knew nothing about the one-night stand with Clarence and had concluded that Nancy must have told the press herself, a betrayal he couldn’t forgive. The rest was history, adding another sordid chapter to the Cavender myth.

  Vienna slid her fingers over Nancy’s necklace. She felt strangled by the weight of its past as much as the platinum setting. She liberated a martini from a passing platter and edged her way through the crowd, heading for the door. She wanted to escape before the guests were summoned to dinner. The thought of having to sit through a five-course meal made her stomach turn. All she could think about was getting to Penwraithe so she could dismantle the library and find out how her father had obtained the Cavender Diamonds and who had Le Fantôme de l’Amour.

  She began moving toward the door, but it wasn’t easy to remain unobtrusive when she was constantly stopped by acquaintances who wanted a closer look at the famous necklace. She was going to have it broken up and sold, she decided angrily, as yet another guest bemoaned the ironic twist of fate that saw Nancy Cavender’s diamonds worn by the granddaughter of Clarence Blake, the man whose actions had almost certainly led to her death. One thing jumped out at Vienna. If Pederson’s account of the damaged paste replica was correct, Nancy had not been wearing Le Fantôme the night she was killed. Vienna found that puzzling. Why would a woman who seemed so careless in every aspect of her life, but who was incredibly vain about her image, wear the fake when she could flaunt the real thing? Nancy didn’t seem like the type who would worry about possible theft. And why would she take pains to safeguard an heirloom that belonged to her husband’s family, when she despised him?

  There was one person who might be able to answer those questions, but Vienna didn’t feel confident approaching her. For some reason Mason’s attitude toward her had hardened, and Vienna didn’t know why. She spotted her deep in conversation with Sergei Ivanov and couldn’t help staring with helpless fascination. The Russian’s beady gaze was equally intent. Mason placed something in his pudgy hand and he reacted by patting his face with a white handkerchief, a mannerism he seemed self-conscious of, because he immediately stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket.

  Vienna took a step toward them, then stopped as if she’d slammed into an invisible wall. Mason’s eyes blazed at her and she pushed a dark unruly strand back off her forehead. Vienna’s mouth watered with the sense memory of their last kiss, and her body instantly followed suit, reminding her that it was desperate to be rejoined with Mason’s. No one had ever looked at her the way Mason did. No one had ever laid claim to her with such resolve, leaving her no place to hide, no safe retreat into passivity. Her nipples refused to settle. The dull, wet throb grew stronger between her legs. Her heart thudded so loudly in her ears she could hardly hear the conversation around her.

  Off balance, she averted her eyes and joined the nearest discussion, only to realize the topic was the late, lamented Lynden Cavender.

  “So personable,” gushed a middle-aged matron wearing classic Chanel. “Not at all what one is accustomed to these days.”

  “Humble,” someone noted. “A throwback, really.”

  “Oh, yes. The complete gentleman. An aristocrat.”

  Lynden had never had to make his way by paying attention to mature women, but he’d made an effort to woo every one of them regardless. As a result he had a devoted following among the society queens of New York and Boston. No one had left his name off her party lists. Even Buffy, a staunch Blake ally, had been so smitten with him she’d intimated more than once that it was time for bygones to be bygones. Vienna supposed it was some consolation that Mason had no hope of taking his place. While her brother had used the Cavender mystique to full advantage, she could never do so. She made everyone too uncomfortable.

  The Chanel devotee touched Vienna’s arm, “My dear, you must have known him quite well.”

  “Not really.”

  “Even with that…atmosphere between your families, aren’t your country estates adjoining?”

  Vienna smiled vaguely. “We spent very little time there when I was growing up, so I never really got to know him.”

  “That’s not what I’ve been told.” A woman with pearls weighing down her neck coyly added, “We’d positively kill to hear your side of the story, wouldn’t we, girls?”

  An eager hush descended on the small clique. Obviously no one could believe that Vienna was immune to Lynden’s metrosexual charm, and the tired old story about a romance between them was still circulating.

  “I thought that particular rumor had died a natural death a long time ago,” Vienna said.

  The woman in the pearls sighed archly. “Your discretion is admirable, darling, but you’re among friends here.”

  This sentiment was echoed by the Chanel-wearer, who also offered a few consoling words. “It can’t have been easy, the situation being what it was. No one was really surprised when you called it off.”

  “There was never an engagement,” Vienna issued her customary denial. “We never even dated.”

  She knew how the ludicrous story had begun. Guests at her parents’ anniversary ball had invented explanations for her disappearance from the celebration and the subsequent drama when she was found unconscious in the grounds of Laudes Absalom. When Vienna couldn’t explain what she was doing there in the first place, some people had added two and two and decided she was concealing the truth—she and Lynden were starcrossed lovers trying to hide their romance from parents who hated each other.

  Even the police found the story credible. It made no difference that both she and Lynden denied any involvement; the events of that night became another installment in the Cavender’s never-ending soap opera. Even Vienna’s parents drew the wrong conclusions, overlooking the fact that she was a lesbian, which they both viewed as an unfortunate phase. They almost seemed happy to persuade themselves that she’d crept away for an assignation with their neighbor’s handsome son. Lynden was not the true villain of the piece, in their eyes. Their theory was that Vienna had been waylaid by Henry Cavender, who forced an admission of the affair, then turned his fury on her, beating her unconscious.

  The Blakes wanted him arrested, but the trouble was he had an alibi, one the detectives weren’t willing to discount. The witness who stood between him and a prison cell was none other than his loyal housekeeper, Mrs. Danville. Her story had never wavered over the years. She was out that evening playing bridge and had a car breakdown on her way home. She’d walked back to the village to telephone her employer, who picked her up, then spent at least an hour trying to fix the problem. In the end, Henry had towed her car back to Laudes Absalom.

  Remarkably, the motor fired up without a problem the next morning when the police checked. They’d verified Mrs. Danville’s story, interviewing the ladies who played bridge with her and someone who claimed to have seen her at a public phone. But even if that part of the story was true, no one but Mrs. Danville could swear that the man who came to her rescue was Henry Cavender. The Blakes th
ought it was actually Mr. Pettibone and that Henry had never left Laudes Absalom. Yet again, a Cavender had gotten away with murder, or an attempt at it. They were outraged.

  Apart from Mrs. Danville, there was only one other person who knew the truth. Mason wasn’t there that night, but Vienna had a hard time believing she was as ignorant of the circumstances as she’d always claimed. The Cavenders had simply closed ranks. The case was left open with Vienna’s assault ascribed to an “unknown assailant who may have been interrupted in the course of a separate crime.” As if any self-respecting burglar would break into the Cavender’s run-down old mansion. What was there to steal?

  After her conversation with Mrs. Danville, Vienna had asked her mother about that evening once again, this time mentioning the meeting between her father and Henry. After a stony silence and some crocodile tears, the conversation hit the usual dead end, and Vienna was so frustrated she went to the police and demanded to see the files for herself. She was fobbed off there as well, sent on a wild goose chase to the DA’s office where some twelve-year-old told her the cold case files were housed elsewhere and she would have to wait until a detective had time to look into the matter.

  Irritated, Vienna let her gaze roam. Maybe it was time she confronted Mason directly about that evening. She was owed the truth, and no one could be hurt by it now. Buffy caught her eye and made some kind of gesture, probably a signal that she should reattach herself to Stefan in time for the impending meal. The party organizers were folding back the screens that separated the cocktail area from the dining tables. Mason was nowhere to be seen.

  Vienna moved through the crowd looking for her. There were only a hundred guests. A hefty man with a shock of platinum hair and a woman in black tie couldn’t be hard to single out. She looked around again, but couldn’t even spot Oxana. There wasn’t a chance that the Ivanovs would leave before the meal, so they had to be holed up in the restrooms, fixing their hair and refreshing their fragrances. But Mason? Had she gone?

  The thought made her spirits sink, a response that appalled her. Disgusted with herself, she drained the rest of her martini, turned around sharply, and almost smacked into a white shirt-front. “Oh, I’m sorry. I…”

  Mason didn’t apologize or step back politely. Her nightshade eyes swept Vienna slowly up and down before settling on her mouth.

  “Looking for me?” she asked.

  Chapter Thirteen

  God, she was beautiful, Mason thought, as addictive as a drug. There was something delicious about watching Vienna blush. Her skin was so alabaster pale everything showed. A rosy hue spread beneath her cheeks, driven by an emotion Mason could only guess at. Anger? Guilt? Arousal? Her expression gave nothing away. She wore the mask of cool serenity women of her class hid behind. And apart from the faintest stiffening at their near collision, her body sent no signals. She was the worst kind of Siren, resolutely distant. Blindingly irresistible.

  “Well?” Vienna queried tightly.

  Mason raised her eyebrows. She was being asked to explain herself. Vienna wasn’t used to being stood up, especially by those who were supposed to be grateful for the crumbs she threw.

  “I guess I should have phoned,” Mason said with mock contrition. “My bad.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?”

  “Er…you look ravishing tonight.” Lowering her gaze to the diamonds, Mason added, “But you should get that necklace cleaned by an expert. I can still see specks of my grandmother’s blood.”

  Vienna’s jaws clenched just enough to reveal a struggle for self-control. “If you’re trying to upset me, I should warn you, I’m not as a susceptible as I once was.”

  “That’s a pity. You were very fetching when you were…unschooled. I once had quite a crush on you.”

  “I see you got over it,” Vienna snapped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I decided I need to get out more,” Mason said flippantly.

  She wondered why Vienna still bothered to try and pass herself off as straight at this type of gathering. Her “date” was obviously a stranger, one of those solo males hostesses like Buffy kept on ice for women who failed to bring a guest. Mason had just been offered one of the breed, an English poet Buffy could call upon at short notice. She’d offered a better suggestion.

  “By the way,” she said pleasantly. “I told Buffy you won’t be needing what’s-his-name…the Italian count. I said she can seat us together for dinner.”

  “You did what?” Vienna’s voice rose slightly in pitch.

  “It’s only a meal, and we’ve had more intimate encounters.” Mason watched the color wash down Vienna’s throat to her breasts. “I told her I’ve been thinking it’s time the Blakes and the Cavenders made up. She agreed. I think she wants to be instrumental.”

  Mason enjoyed the soft intake of breath that greeted this disclosure.

  “And you expect me to participate in that fiction?” Vienna fidgeted with her hair.

  “It shouldn’t be difficult. You and your family are masters of hypocrisy.”

  “If you think I’m going to force the issue and make people take sides, you’re mistaken. I refuse to be painted as the villain to my friends.”

  “No, you wouldn’t want to appear mean-spirited,” Mason said softly. “To shun a woman after her brother’s tragic death…then set out to ruin her. Quite unbecoming.”

  “If I cared what people really thought of me, I would never get a minute’s sleep.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you tossing and turning at night on my account.” Mason smiled. Oh, yes. She was getting under Vienna’s skin. Mason glanced down at the idle hand resting on the gray satin. The slim fingers shook slightly.

  Vienna cast a distracted glance toward the dining area. People were drifting in and taking their seats. Her fingers jerked to life, plucking at the slippery fabric. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she snapped in a terse undertone, “but you’re not backing me into a corner. I am not partnering with you for dinner.”

  “Why not? You have to admit we look good together, and we’re the only lesbians here.”

  No instant rejection was forthcoming. Mason’s pulse increased. It had occurred to her that there was more than one way to lay siege to this particular Blake. If they had to wage a war consisting entirely of financial power and legal strategies, Vienna would win: she had more weapons. Mason’s opportunity lay in the other battlefield she’d established. When it came to sex, Vienna had definite vulnerabilities. So far Mason had failed to exploit these. She’d been too obvious and revealed far to much of herself.

  She let her gaze travel over the beautiful, arrogant face upturned to hers and knew she’d struck the jackpot. Vienna’s pupils dilated as their eyes met. She immediately evaded Mason’s stare, looking straight through her. But the telltale flicker of awareness told Mason all she needed to know. Nothing had changed. In fact, Vienna seemed even more susceptible to her.

  Up until now, Mason had been afflicted by some misguided notion of chivalry, and hadn’t forced the issue. She’d allowed Vienna to slip through her hands unscathed, but she would not make the same mistake again. This time she would do whatever it took to teach her a lesson. Vienna’s smug words repeated in her mind: Mason is exactly where I want her to be. She was in for an unpleasant surprise.

  Mason already had a verbal agreement from Sergei Ivanov. He’d virtually salivated when he examined the diamonds she’d brought to the party. A man whose wife loved jewelry as much as his did was keenly aware of the market for Azaria’s product. He wanted a piece of the action and Mason had arranged for him to see the factory tomorrow. Once he watched a real diamond growing inside a machine, he would be throwing money at her; he’d almost written a check tonight. Instead Mason had him sign the nondisclosure agreement Josh had given her.

  As soon as she’d secured the investment, she would dispatch Josh to their bankers and beg for an extension to the loans about to fall due. In the meantime she had to hold Vienna at bay and k
eep their negotiations alive. So long as the bankers thought the Blake deal was still in play, they would feel secure about getting their money in the end. A takeover process was usually punctuated with drawn-out discussions and legal wrangles before the final deal was closed. Mason would drag that process out for as long as she could, but Vienna Blake was no fool. If she suspected she was being toyed with to buy time, she would go straight for the jugular.

  Mason knew it was time for the unexpected. Lust was a powerful urge. In its thrall, Vienna had already shown she would abandon her good judgment. And she’d been ready for a repeat encounter. Mason smiled. It would be hell finding out just how far Vienna was willing to go to, and this time there would be no backing out.

  “I was about to leave.” Vienna’s mouth tightened, only narrowly avoided a pout.

  “How inconsiderate of you. After all, you’re the main attraction.”

  “They’ll get over it.” Vienna’s chest rose and fell with a short, sharp breath. “And Buffy can find someone else to sit with you.”

  From the corner of her eye, Mason could see their hostess introducing Stefan to an elderly lady with pink-bronze hair and an insipid young girl. They looked thrilled. Throwing down her next challenge, she said, “Why didn’t you bring a real date, by the way?”

  “Why didn’t you?” Vienna retorted.

  “Because they always want me to fuck them and I’m not in the mood tonight.” Mason added gallantly, “I’d make an exception for you, naturally.”