by Kery, Beth
“Well, time is the key. You never know what the future will bring,” Davie said briskly. “So . . . what’s it been like for you working with Ger—”
The sound of screeching brakes cut Davie off. Both of them slowed and came to a halt several feet before the street, confused as to why the car had stopped so abruptly at a green light. Their bewilderment only mounted when the back door swung open and a man with sandy blond hair, a craggy face, and wide shoulders sprung out.
“What the hell?” Davie muttered.
Something about the man’s expression as he stared fixedly at Francesca sent an alarm going off in her head. He charged them with a rapid single-mindedness that stunned her—like a walking tidal wave. Davie instinctively put out his hand and pushed back on Francesca.
“Go . . . run,” he said.
But the man was already upon them. He grabbed Francesca’s arm in a brutal grip and tried to pull her back toward the street. The jolt of pain she experienced sliced through her confusion at the turn of events. Anger and panic rolled through her. She jerked her arm backward, but the man’s grip was like steel.
“Let go of her!” Davie yelled, throwing his weight against the man’s arms and attempting to come between them. But the man just snarled and batted sideways with his massive forearm and hand, like he was swatting at a fly. Davie was thrown back. The man now had both of Francesca’s arms in a vicelike hold. He started to turn her roughly, as if to secure her in his arms from the back. Francesca took her chance while she still faced him and made a haphazard jab in his crotch area with her knee. By pure luck, she hit him bull’s-eye. Air whooshed out of her assailant’s lungs. His khaki-green eyes bulged.
She experienced a jolt of pure fear when she saw the hatred that entered his gaze. He lifted one of his hamlike hands and curled it into a fist. She twisted in his hold, desperate to escape what she suspected would be a painful blow. But then Davie reentered the fray, sinking a punch into the side of the man’s belly. The man grunted. In his momentary weakness, Davie shoved him away from Francesca. The man reacted by angrily thrusting Francesca in the opposite direction. She landed hard on the sidewalk, scraping her hand as she stopped herself from going all the way down. She barely noticed. All of her attention was on the two men.
“No, Davie! Don’t,” she shouted in panic when she looked up and saw Davie pursuing the thug as he ran toward the still-stationary car. Davie was trim and in good shape, but the man was a monster in size compared to him. Her friend hauled up short when the man clambered into the backseat and slammed the door hard. The driver punched the gas. The vehicle spun, brakes shrieking. Davie backed out of the road frantically, nearly falling in his haste.
The car shot off in the opposite direction of North Avenue and the traffic.
Davie turned and stared at her, face white and eyes wide with shock. “What the hell was that?”
Francesca just shook her head, too shocked by the abrupt storm of unexpected violence to speak.
* * *
Ian entered the dingy suite he occupied at the Aurore mansion and immediately stripped off his shirt. He’d combined his exercise with a search in the property’s many lanes, meadows, and woods, but Kam Reardon’s place of residence continued to elude him.
“You can’t hide forever, brother,” he muttered sarcastically under his breath, swiping at the glaze of perspiration on his ribs and abdomen. As he headed toward the bathroom to shower, he considered where he should search this afternoon. He came up short when he noticed the red light blinking on the answering machine. The device must have been twenty years old. Ian had hooked it up to the residential phone line and given the number to only one person.
He hit a button, sudden wariness making his sweat slickened skin roughen.
“Ian, it’s me. I know you haven’t been feeling up to returning calls, and you said you didn’t want me to contact you on this line unless there was an emergency. But something’s happened. . . .something I knew you’d want to know about right away . . .”
He listened, his backbone going stiff. After the beep signifying the end of the message, he listened to it again.
He went into the bathroom, where he rapidly extricated a pair of scissors from his grooming kit. He raised them to his neck and began to cut off his beard with a single-minded purpose.
* * *
They paused at a security gate, but the man on duty just waved them through. Francesca sat forward and looked out the window when the driver started down a long lane that ran through a forest.
“You’ll get a view of Belford Hall once we round this bend up here,” the Nobles’ driver—a man named Peter—said, noticing her piqued interest through the rearview mirror. She’d met Peter before when she’d stayed with the Nobles in London.
“I’m very excited to see it. We studied it briefly while I was in school for architecture,” she said breathlessly.
They took the curve. Her expression flattened in amazement at the view that unfolded. Peter must have noticed.
“Sight to behold, isn’t it?” he asked quietly, pride in his voice.
“It’s incredible,” Francesca replied. A strange feeling crept over her as the black sedan glided toward the enormous, stately Jacobean-Tudor mansion set amongst elaborate gardens and woods that would be ablaze with color during the spring and summer. She’d seen grand homes many times in her studies as a student of art and architecture . . . but this.
For some reason, the entire experience struck her as surreal. The past year of her life, everything that had happened since she’d looked into Ian’s eyes at Fusion over a year ago seemed to collapse into an insignificant minute. Suddenly, she was again the awkward, slightly defensive girl who had lived much of her life overweight and bullied by her peers.
What in the world was she doing here?
She’d known Ian’s grandparents were titled and wealthy, of course. She’d known Ian grew up in the midst of splendor for a good part of his young life. But she was quickly realizing that she hadn’t really gotten it. Not in the sense of true understanding. Could an American ever truly comprehend the elegant, rich history and tradition of a British nobleman? It struck her fully for the first time, coming like a disorienting blow, that just a half year ago, this fairytale house would have been one of her and Ian’s future homes.
She glanced down at herself nervously as they neared the entrance and several people stepped out the front door onto the drive. Thank goodness she’d taken some items from the penthouse’s dressing room before she’d returned to Davie’s. She’d never been gladder that Ian had gone against her wishes in the beginning of their relationship and purchased her a wardrobe. She’d never been more thankful he’d specified the items he wanted her to have. It was almost as if he’d been there to advise her as she’d packed. As in all things, Ian’s taste in clothing was exceptional, conveying a sense of effortless taste and understated class. The black skirt, silk blouse, leather boots, and cashmere coat she wore weren’t showy by any means, but they were of the highest quality. At least she had nothing to be ashamed of in that arena. She must rely on prayer and good luck to prevent her from making a fool of herself in some other situation at Belford.
James opened her door before Peter could come around, he and Anne anxious to greet her. Their warm hugs went a long way to calm her anxiety. James’s face was deeply lined with worry as he examined her closely after they embraced.
“We heard from Lin about what happened. Gerard couldn’t believe his ears when I told him; he was livid. He’s already at Belford, by the way, but ran over to Chatham—that’s his house, just a stone’s throw down the road—to take care of some business,” James added as an aside. “He says to tell you he’ll be back for dinner tonight.”
“Did they catch the perpetrators?” Anne asked, also referring to the jarring assault on her and Davie that had occurred in Chicago several days ago.
“No, not t
hat I’m aware of. We gave our descriptions to the police, of course, although neither of us got a good look at the driver. But I wasn’t really expecting them to make an arrest, as random as the whole thing was. Davie tried to get the license plate, but it was obscured. Intentionally, probably.”
“You did tell them about your connection to Ian, didn’t you?” James asked pointedly.
Francesca froze. There is no connection between Ian and me, she wanted to scream, but checked herself when she saw James’s lined, worried face. He only meant well, of course, and she understood what he was getting at. Ian and she shared a past connection, but a connection nonetheless.
“It never really came up, James. I’m afraid the whole incident was a typical, mundane one to the Chicago PD.” She braced herself against a wind that whipped some escaped hair against her cheek.
“Come on, let’s get you out of the cold,” Anne urged.
“Welcome to Belford,” James said as they escorted her inside the massive oak doors, Peter following with her luggage. Once again, Francesca heard that tone of pride. It rang even stronger in James’s voice than it had in Peter’s. And why shouldn’t James be proud of his ancestral home? Francesca wondered as she stared openmouthed at the entrance hall: the richly carved oak-paneled walls, the grand staircase bedecked in fresh evergreen garland, the master paintings of various ancestors, the twenty-foot-tall lit Christmas tree, and the stunning domed stained-glass ceiling.
This is where Ian had grown up?
Somehow the idea of an energetic, scampering ten-year-old and this grandeur just didn’t mix in her brain, she realized dazedly as her boots tapped on a meticulous design of marble tile. But then again, Ian had never been a carefree child. These surroundings were perfectly suited to his cool self-containment, his consummate confidence in almost every decision he made.
She stopped in the middle of the hall and spun around once on her feet, trying to soak it all in. She met James’s sparkling, dark eyes.
“What do you think?” he asked, smiling.
“I’m awestruck, of course. It’s magnificent. I feel like a bumbling American,” she added under her breath.
“The only thing we want you to feel,” Anne said, stepping forward and taking her hand and with a significant glance, “is at home.”
* * *
Anne escorted her to her assigned suite on the second floor. While they chatted about the schedule for the next few days, a woman knocked and asked politely if she could unpack. At first, Francesca was confused by her request. The woman was young and pretty—in her twenties, probably about Francesca’s age. She didn’t wear the stereotypical clothing of a maid, but instead an attractive dark blue dress that belted at the waist, a tasteful silk scarf, and fashionable flats. She looked more like a chic young executive than a maid.
“Why don’t you come back and do it while Francesca showers,” Anne suggested warmly. “She’s going to freshen up after her flight.”
“Of course, my lady,” Clarisse said, taking her leave.
After Francesca had showered, she walked into the suite only to find Clarisse stowing her unpacked suitcase in the massive walk-in closet.
“I have a glass of club soda and lime waiting for you. Her ladyship said it was your favorite drink. I hung up this dress for you to wear tonight for Christmas Eve dinner. I thought it might be the one you had in mind, but please let me know if you’d like another,” Clarisse said kindly, waving at the dark red off-the-shoulder dress hanging on a hook just inside the open closet door. Francesca swallowed uncomfortably. It had been the nicest dress she’d packed, and she’d done so with the ball in mind, not Christmas Eve dinner.
“I . . . yes, of course. That was nice of you,” she faltered, unwilling to put her ignorance on display.
“Not at all,” Clarisse said brightly. “Is your dress for the ball going to be delivered? I only wanted to know because I can look out for it for you, air it out, and get it ready.”
“Um, it’s all still in the works. I’ll let you know,” she said, blushing. Oh no. The anniversary party must be a lot more formal then she’d realized . . . or had any experience to realize. And the “quiet Christmas Eve and Christmas, just with family” must be as well, Francesca thought with rising discomfort.
She felt too embarrassed to highlight her stupidity in front of a stranger. She’d just have to confess her ignorance and lack of preparation to Anne tonight. Perhaps there was a shop nearby where she could pick up something appropriate? Even as she thought it, she had a sinking feeling she was doomed to stand out like a red-faced fool at the ball. It was bad enough in regard to herself, but she hated the idea of embarrassing Anne and James on their special night.
She turned down Clarisse’s amiable offer to do her hair for dinner, and the maid vacated the suite. Francesca turned to stare at the dark crimson dress, her fears about highlighting her gaucheness once again taking center stage. Funny, she thought she’d outgrown her insecurities. But then again, she’d really only become comfortable at high-profile events or formal dinners because Ian was there, his effortless, complete confidence spreading to her . . . always strengthening her.
She didn’t have him to lean on now, though. She’d been kidding herself to think she could function and hold her head up in surroundings such as these.
At least the dress did good things for her complexion, she decided later as she examined herself from the front and back nervously in the full-length mirror. The skin of her shoulders and back gleamed. Ian had frequently told her that her shoulders and back were two of her best features, and often bought her dresses that highlighted them.
Stop thinking about what Ian thought, she snapped at herself as she reached for a pair of black suede leather heels that featured an ankle strap. She wore her long hair up, accessorizing with a favorite triple-strand pearl choker that Ian had given her and matching earrings. It was the best she could do, she decided grimly as she looked from the mirror to the golden clock on the sofa table. Anne had said they’d meet in the sitting room—wherever that was—at seven for a drink before dinner.
Francesca couldn’t be sure if Clarisse really just happened to be walking by when she went down the grand staircase, or if her presence there was by design. Everything seemed to happen so effortlessly in the Noble household, as if all had been choreographed by some god of graceful etiquette.
“Thank you,” Francesca said to Clarisse when she led her to a white and crimson paneled door and opened it for her. Perhaps the maid noticed Francesca’s anxiety, because she gave her a heartening smile.
The first face she saw upon entering the warm, cozy room was Gerard.
“Don’t you look like a vision,” he said, his gaze running over her with clear masculine appreciation. He looked very handsome and at ease in a tuxedo with black tie, his forearm resting on the mantel of the fireplace, highball glass in hand. Anne and James were there, calling their greetings as they stood from two plush, chocolate brown sofas that faced each another before a crackling fire.
“I have to wash off all the paint and present myself in a decent light at least a few times a year,” Francesca said breathlessly to Gerard after she’d greeted them all. She turned her chin when Gerard leaned down to kiss her, so that his warm lips brushed her cheek. She glanced around, realizing that the room was quite large with several comfortable seating areas. “What a beautiful room, Anne. What a beautiful tree,” she exclaimed, moving past Gerard to admire the eight-foot pine decorated with tiny white lights and handcrafted German ornaments, some of them clearly antiques. Her gaze lingered on the painted ornament of a miniature motorcycle. The Christmas tree in the Great Hall was all about grandeur, but this tree was clearly an intimate one for a private gathering place. “Is this where you and . . . Is this where you usually celebrated Christmas with the family?” she asked Anne, who had approached to stand next to her. She looked lovely in a winter white dress and diamond
s.
“Yes, almost always,” Anne said, handing her a glass of something steaming in a crystal cup. Francesca caught a whiff of the delightful brew.
“Is this Mrs. Hanson’s Christmas punch?” she asked, pleasantly surprised. Anne nodded. The taste of the mulled apple cider, rum, and spices gladdened her like a familiar smile. It did, that is, until she recalled toasting Ian with it last Christmas Eve in the penthouse.
No. Had it really just been a year ago that she’d felt so steadfastly secure in her love?
“It was Helen’s favorite room,” James was saying from where he sat on the plush, dark brown sofa close to the fire. And Ian’s. The thought automatically popped into her head as her gaze swept past the little wooden motorcycle to the fine art collection on display in the room and the rows upon rows of books in the built-in shelves. She knew his taste so well.
“And Ian’s, of course,” James added belatedly, confirming Francesca’s suspicion. His eyebrows went up and he took a draw on his drink when Anne shot him a subtle, repressive look. Gerard gallantly changed the topic.
“And here is where Anne and James plan to showcase your painting,” Gerard said, waving at the area above the large fireplace where currently a fine John Singer Sargent oil of a striking Edwardian-era woman in a blue dress hung. To think that they planned to replace a master’s work with her own left her stunned.
“Since we spend so much time in here,” James said, “we thought it was the ideal place to enjoy it.”
“And be reminded of you,” Anne said, taking her hand and almost immediately easing her anxiety.
Her fears about making a fool of herself were mostly groundless, Francesca discovered. It wasn’t that she suddenly became confident in handling herself in the midst of such style and grandeur, by any stretch of the imagination. It was the kindness and easiness of James, Anne, and Gerard—and even the house staff. Thanks to Mrs. Hanson’s presence in Chicago, she was somewhat used to being served dinner. Ian’s housekeeper had insisted upon the tradition every once in a while, and Ian was too tired—or wise—to fight with her every time she mentioned it. Francesca found herself relaxing for the first time since she’d landed in London as the meal came to an end, and the footman served fruit and cheese for the last course. Even with the stunning formal dining room and the service of the exquisitely prepared, festive dinner, it was James and Anne’s warm kindness that set the mood. Gerard, too, went out of his way to charm her, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure every time he coaxed a laugh out of her.
