For the first time he saw a ripple of anxiety in her eyes. Her brightly painted red lips drew tight. “You don’t understand. This is not your concern—”
“Of course it is. I plan to watch you like a hawk. I’m going to follow you and Delancey everywhere. Pop up when you least expect it. Make a royal nuisance of myself. In short, Miss Lamb, I’ve adopted you as my crusade. And if you make one false move, I’m going to cry wolf.” He sat back, smiling. “Think about it.”
She was thinking about it, and none too happily, judging by her expression.
“You can’t do this,” she whispered.
“I can. I have to.”
“There’s too much at stake! I won’t let you ruin it—”
“Ruin what?”
She was about to answer when a hand closed over her shoulder. She glanced up sharply at Guy Delancey, who’d just returned and now stood behind her.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said cheerily. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.” Though the color had drained from her face, she still managed to smile, to flash Delancey a look of coquettish promise. “Is the car ready?”
“Waiting at the gate, my lady.” Guy helped her from her chair. Then he gave Jordan a careless nod of farewell. “See you around, Jordan.”
Jordan caught a last glimpse of the woman’s face, looking back at him in smothered anger. Then, with shoulders squared, she followed Delancey into the crowd.
You’ve been warned, Diana Lamb, thought Jordan. Now he’d see if she heeded that warning. And just in case she didn’t…
Jordan pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. Gingerly he picked up the woman’s champagne glass by the lower stem and peered at the smudge of ruby red lipstick. He smiled. There, crystal clear on the surface of the glass, was what he’d been looking for.
Fingerprints.
Ogilvie finished shooting his third roll of film and clipped the lens cap back on his telephoto. He had more than enough shots of the blond man. By tonight he’d have the images transmitted to London and, with any luck, an ID would be forthcoming. The fact Clea Rice had apparently picked up an unknown associate disturbed him, if only because he’d had no inkling of it. As far as he knew, the woman traveled alone, and always had.
He’d have to find out more about the blond chap.
The woman rose from her chair and departed with Guy Delancey. Ogilvie tucked his camera in his bag and left the tent to follow them. He kept a discreet distance, far enough back so that he would blend in with the crowd. She was an easy subject to tail, with all that red hair shimmering in the sunlight. The worst possible choice for anyone trying to avoid detection. But that was Clea Rice, always doing the unexpected.
The couple headed for the gate.
Ogilvie picked up his pace. He slipped through the gates just in time to see that head of red hair duck into a waiting Bentley.
Frantically Ogilvie glanced around the parking lot and spotted his black MG socked in three rows deep. By the time he could extricate it from that sea of Jaguars and Mercedes, Delancey and the woman could be miles away.
In frustration he watched Delancey’s Bentley drive off. So much for following them; he’d have to catch up with her later. No problem. He knew which hotel she was staying at, knew that she’d paid for the next three nights in advance.
He decided to shift his efforts to the blond man.
Fifteen minutes later he spotted the man leaving through the gates. By that time Ogilvie had his car ready and waiting near the parking-lot exit. He saw the man step into a champagne gold Jaguar, and he took note of the license number. The Jaguar pulled out of the parking lot.
So did Ogilvie’s MG.
His quarry led him on a long and winding route through rolling fields and trees, leaves already tinted with the fiery glow of autumn. Blueblood country, thought Ogilvie, noting the sleek horses in the pasture. Whoever was this fellow, anyway?
The gold Jaguar finally turned off the main road, onto a private roadway flanked by towering elms. From the main road Ogilvie could just glimpse the house that lay beyond those elms. It was magnificent, a stone-and-turret manor surrounded by acres of gardens.
He glanced at the manor name. It was mounted in bronze on the stone pillars marking the roadway entrance.
Chetwynd.
“You’ve come up in the world, Clea Rice,” murmured Ogilvie.
Then he turned the car around. It was four o’clock. He’d have just enough time to call in his report to London.
Victor Van Weldon had had a bad day. The congestion in his lungs was worse, his doctors said, and it was time for the oxygen again. He thought he’d weaned himself from that green tank. But now the tank was back, hooked onto his wheelchair, and the tubes were back in his nostrils. And once again he was feeling his mortality.
What a time for Simon Trott to insist on a meeting.
Van Weldon hated to be seen in such a weak and vulnerable condition. Through the years he had prided himself on his strength. His ruthlessness. Now, to be revealed for what he was—an old and dying man—would grant Simon Trott too much of an advantage. Although Van Weldon had already named Trott his successor, he was not yet ready to hand over the company reins. Until I draw my last breath, he thought, the company is mine to control.
There was a knock on the door. Van Weldon turned his wheelchair around to face his younger associate as he walked into the room. It was apparent, by the look on Trott’s face, that the news he brought was not good.
Trott, as usual, was dressed in a handsomely tailored suit that showed his athletic frame to excellent advantage. He had it all—youth, blond good looks, all the women he could possibly hope to bed. But he does not yet have the company, thought Van Weldon. He is still afraid of me. Afraid of telling me this latest news.
“What have you learned?” asked Van Weldon.
“I think I know why Clea Rice headed for England,” said Trott. “There have been rumors…on the black market…” He paused and cleared his throat.
“What rumors?”
“They say an Englishman has been boasting about a secret purchase he made. He claims he recently acquired…” Trott looked down. Reluctantly he finished. “The Eye of Kashmir.”
“Our Eye of Kashmir? That is impossible.”
“That is the rumor.”
“The Eye has not been placed on the market! There is no way anyone could acquire it.”
“We have not inventoried the collection since it was moved. There is a possibility…”
The two men exchanged looks. And Van Weldon understood. They both understood. We have a thief among our ranks. A traitor who has dared to go against us.
“If Clea Rice has also heard rumors of this sale, it could be disastrous for us,” said Van Weldon.
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“Who is this Englishman?”
“His name is Guy Delancey. We’re trying to locate his residence now.”
Van Weldon nodded. He sank back in his wheelchair and for a moment let the oxygen wash through his lungs. “Find Delancey,” he said softly. “I have a feeling that when you do, you will also find Clea Rice.”
Four
“To new friends,” said Guy as he handed Clea a glass brimming with champagne.
“To new friends,” she murmured and took a sip. The champagne was excellent. It would go to her head if she wasn’t careful, and now, more than ever, she needed to keep her head. Such a sticky situation! How on earth was she to case the joint while this slobbery Casanova was all over her? She’d planned to let him make only a few preliminary moves, but it was clear Delancey had far more than just a harmless flirtation in mind.
He sat down beside her on the flowered settee, close enough for her to get a good look at his face. For a man in his late forties, he was still reasonably attractive, his skin relatively unlined, his hair still jet black. But the watery eyes and the sagging jowls were testimony to a dissipated life.
He leaned closer, and she had to force herself not to pull back in repulsion as those eyes swam toward her. To her relief, he didn’t kiss her—yet. The trick was to hold him off while she dragged as much information as she could out of him.
She smiled coyly. “I love your house.”
“Thank you.”
“And the art! Quite a collection. All originals, I take it?”
“Naturally.” Guy waved proudly at the paintings on the walls. “I haunt the auction houses. At Sotheby’s, if they see me coming, they rub their hands together in glee. Of course, this isn’t the best of my collection.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, I keep the finer pieces in my London town house. That’s where I do most of my entertaining. Plus, it has far better security.”
Clea felt her heart sink. Darn, was that where he kept it, then? His London town house? Then she’d wasted the week here in Buckinghamshire.
“It’s a major concern of mine these days,” he murmured, leaning even closer toward her. “Security.”
“Against theft, you mean?” she inquired innocently.
“I mean security in general. The wolf at the door. The chill of a lonely bed.” He bent toward her and pressed his sodden lips to hers. She shuddered. “I’ve been searching so long for the right woman,” he whispered. “A soul mate…”
Do women actually fall for this line? she wondered.
“And when I looked in your eyes today—in that tent—I thought perhaps I’d found her.”
Clea fought the urge to burst out laughing and managed—barely—to return his gaze with one just as steady. Just as smoldering. “But one must be careful,” she murmured.
“I agree.”
“Hearts are so very fragile. Especially mine.”
“Yes, yes! I know.” He kissed her again, more deeply. This was more than she could bear.
She pulled back, rage making her breath come hard and fast. Guy didn’t seem at all disturbed by it; if anything, he took her heavy breathing as a sign of passion.
“It’s too soon, too fast,” she panted.
“It’s the way it was meant to be.”
“I’m not ready—”
“I’ll make you ready.” Without warning he grasped her breast and began to knead it vigorously like a lump of bread dough.
Clea sprang to her feet and moved away. It was either that or slug him in the mouth. At the moment she was all in favor of the latter. In a shaky voice she said, “Please, Guy. Maybe later. When we know each other better. When I feel I know you. As a person, I mean.”
“A person?” He shook his head in frustration. “What, exactly, do you need to know?”
“Just the small things that tell me about you. For instance…” She turned and gestured to the paintings. “I know you collect art. But all I know is what I see on these walls. I have no idea what moves you, what appeals to you. Whether you collect other things. Besides paintings, I mean.” She gave him a questioning look.
He shrugged. “I collect antique weapons.”
“There now, you see?” Smiling, she came toward him. “I find that fascinating! It tells me you have a masculine streak of adventure.”
“It does?” He looked pleased. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“What sort of weapons?”
“Antique swords. Pistols. A few daggers.”
Her heart gave an extra thump at that last word. Daggers. She moved closer to him. “Ancient weaponry,” she murmured, “is wonderfully erotic, I think.”
“You do?”
“Yes, it—it conjures up knights in armor, ladies in castle towers.” She clasped her hands and gave a visible shiver of excitement. “It gives me goose bumps just to think of it.”
“I had no idea it had that effect on women,” he said in wonder. With sudden enthusiasm he rose from the couch. “Come with me, my lady,” he said, taking her hand. “And I’ll show you a collection that’ll send shivers down your spine. I’ve just picked up a new treasure—something I purchased on the sly from a very private source.”
“You mean the black market?”
“Even more private than that.”
She let him guide her into the hallway and up the stairs. So he keeps it on the second floor, she thought. Probably the bedroom. To think she had gotten so close to it that night.
Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Guy ignored it.
They reached the top of the stairs. He turned right, toward the east wing—the bedroom—and suddenly halted.
“Master Delancey?” called a voice. “You’ve a telephone call.”
Guy glanced back down the stairs at the gray-haired butler who stood on the lower landing. “Take a message,” he snapped.
“But it—it’s—”
“Yes?”
The butler cleared his throat. “It’s Lady Cairncross.”
Guy winced. “What does she want?”
“She wishes to see you immediately.”
“You mean now?”
Guy hurried down the stairs to take the receiver. From the upper landing Clea listened to the conversation below.
“Not a good time, Veronica,” Guy said. “Couldn’t you…look, I have other things to do right now. You’re being unreasonable. No. Veronica, you mustn’t! We’ll talk about this some other—Hello? Hello?” He frowned at the receiver in dismay, then dropped it back in the cradle.
“Sir?” inquired the butler. “Might I be of service?”
Guy glanced up, suddenly aware of his predicament. “Yes! Yes, you’ll have to see that Miss Lamb’s brought home.”
“Home?”
“Take her to a hotel! In the village.”
“You mean—now?”
“Yes, bring the car ’round. Go!”
Guy scampered up the steps, snatched Clea by the arm and began to hustle her down to the front door. “Dreadfully sorry, darling, but something’s come up. Business, you understand.”
Clea planted her heels stubbornly into the carpet. “Business?”
“Yes, an emergency—client of mine—”
“Client? But I don’t even know what you do for a living!”
“My chauffeur will find you a hotel room. I’ll pick you up at five tomorrow, how about it? We’ll make it an evening.”
He gave her a quick kiss, then Clea was practically pushed out the front door. The car was already waiting, the chauffeur standing beside the open door. Clea had no choice but to climb in.
“I’ll call you tomorrow!” yelled Guy, and waved.
As the chauffeur drove her out through the gates, Clea clutched the leather armrest in frustration. I was so damn close, too, she thought. He’d been about to show her the dagger. She could have had her hands on it, were it not for the phone call from that woman.
Just who the hell was Veronica?
Veronica Cairncross turned from the telephone and looked inquiringly at Jordan. “Well? Do you think that call did the trick?”
“If it didn’t,” he said, “then your visit will.”
“Oh, must I really go see him? I told you, I want nothing to do with the man.”
“It’s one sure way to flush that woman out of the house before she does any damage.”
“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.”
In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts Page 26
