Читать книгу In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen - Тесс Герритсен, Tess Gerritsen - Страница 14

“Your brother’s right,” said Richard. “You should go home.”

“Don’t you start now,” she snapped over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you to the hotel to pack. Then I’m taking you to the airport.”

“You and what regiment?”

“For once will you take some advice?” he yelled.

She spun around on the crowded sidewalk and turned to confront him. “Advice, yes. Orders, no.”

“Okay, then just listen for a minute. Your coming to Paris was a crazy move to begin with. Sure, I understand why you did it. I understand that you’d want to know the truth about your parents. But things have changed, Beryl. A woman’s been killed. It’s a whole new ball game now.”

“What am I supposed to do about Jordan? Just leave him there?”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Reggie. We’ll get him the best lawyer there is—”

“And I run home? Wash my hands of the whole mess?” She looked down at the watch she was holding. Jordan’s watch. Quietly she said, “He’s my family. Did you see how wretched he looked? It would kill him to stay in that place. If I left him there, I’d never forgive myself.”

“And if something happened to you, Jordan would never forgive himself. And neither would I.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“But you are.”

“And who decided that?”

He reached for her then, trapping her face in his hands. “I did,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to hers. She was so stunned by the ferocity of his kiss that at first she couldn’t react; too many glorious sensations were assaulting her at once. She heard his murmurings of need, felt the hot surge of his tongue into her mouth. Her own body responded, every nerve singing with desire. She was oblivious to the traffic, the passersby on the sidewalk. There were only the two of them and the way their bodies and mouths melted together. All day they’d been fighting this, she thought. And all day she knew it was hopeless. She knew it would come to this—one kiss on a Paris street, and she was lost.

Gently he pulled away and gazed down at her. “That’s why you have to leave Paris,” he murmured.

“Because you command it?”

“No. Because it makes sense.”

She stepped back, desperate to put space between them, to regain some control—any control—over her emotions. “Sense to you, perhaps,” she said softly. “But not to me.” Then she turned and climbed into his car.

He slid in beside her and shut the door. Though they sat in silence, she could feel his frustration radiating throughout the car.

“What can I say that would make you change your mind?” he asked.

“My mind?” She looked at him and managed a tight, uncompromising smile. “Absolutely nothing.”

“IT’S RATHER a sticky situation,” said Reggie Vane. “If the charges weren’t so serious—theft, perhaps, or even assault—then the embassy might be able to do something. But murder? I’m afraid that’s beyond diplomatic intervention.”

They were talking in Reggie’s private study, a masculine, dark-paneled room very much like her Uncle Hugh’s at Chetwynd. The bookshelves were lined with English classics, the walls hung with hunting scenes of foxes and hounds and gentlemen on horseback. The stone fireplace was an exact copy, Reggie had told them, of the hearth in his childhood home in Cornwall. Even the smell of Reggie’s pipe tobacco reminded Beryl of home. How comforting to discover that here, on the outskirts of Paris, was a familiar world transplanted straight from England.

“Surely the ambassador can do something?” said Beryl. “This is Jordan we’re talking about, not some soccer-club hooligan. Besides, he’s innocent.”

“Of course he’s innocent,” said Reggie. “Believe me, if there was anything I could do about it, our Jordan wouldn’t stay in that cell a moment longer.” He sat down on the couch beside her and clasped her hands, the whole time focusing his mild blue eyes on her face. “Beryl, darling, you have to understand. Even the ambassador himself can’t work miracles. I’ve spoken to him, and he’s not optimistic.”

“Then there’s nothing you or he can do?” Beryl asked miserably.

“I’ll arrange for a lawyer—one our embassy recommends. He’s an excellent fellow, someone they call in for just this sort of thing. Specializes in English clients.”

“And that’s all we can hope for? A good attorney?”

Reggie’s answer was a regretful nod.

In her disappointment, Beryl didn’t hear Richard move to stand close behind her, but she did feel his hands coming to rest protectively on her shoulders. How I’ve come to rely on him, she thought. A man I shouldn’t trust. And yet I do.

Reggie looked at Richard. “What about the Intelligence angle?” he asked. “Any evidence forthcoming?”

“French Intelligence is working with the police. They’ll be running ballistic tests on the gun. No fingerprints were found on it. The fact that he’s Lord Lovat’s nephew will get him some special consideration. But in the end, it’s still a murder charge. And the victim’s a Frenchwoman. Once the local papers get hold of the story, it will sound like some spoiled English brat trying to slither out of criminal charges.”

“And there’s enough ill will toward us British as it is,” said Reggie. “After thirty years in this country, I should know. I tell you, as soon as my year’s up at the bank, I’m going home.” His gaze wandered longingly to the painting over the mantelpiece. It was of a country home, its walls festooned with blue wisteria blossoms. “Helena hated it in Cornwall—thought the house was far too primitive. But it suited my parents. And it suits me.” He looked at Beryl. “It’s a frightening thing, getting into trouble so far from home. One is always aware that one is vulnerable. And neither class nor money can make things right.”

“I’ve told Beryl she should fly home,” said Richard.

Reggie nodded. “My feelings exactly.”

“I can’t,” said Beryl. “I’d feel like a rat jumping ship.”

“At least you’d be a live rat,” said Richard.

Angrily she shrugged off his touch. “But a rat all the same.”

Reggie reached for her hand. “Beryl,” he said quietly, “listen to me. I was your mother’s oldest friend—we grew up together. So I feel a special responsibility. And you have no idea how painful it is for me to see one of Madeline’s children in such a fix. It’s awful enough that Jordan’s in trouble, but to worry about you, as well…” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Listen to your Mr. Wolf here. He’s a sensible fellow. Someone you can trust.”

Someone I can trust. Beryl felt Richard’s gaze on her back, felt it as acutely as a touch, and her spine stiffened. She focused firmly on Reggie. Dear Reggie, whose shared past with Madeline made him part of her family.

She said, “I know you mean only the best, Reggie, but I can’t leave Paris.”

The two men looked at each other, exchanging shared expressions of frustration, but not surprise. After all, they had both known Madeline; they could expect nothing less than stubbornness from her daughter.

There was a knock on the study door. Helena poked her head in. “All right for me to come in?”

“Of course,” said Beryl.

Helena entered, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, which she set down on the end table. “I’m always careful to ask first,” she said with a smile as she poured out four cups, “before I trespass in Reggie’s private abode.” She handed Beryl a cup. “Have we made any headway, then?”

From the silence that greeted her question, Helena knew the answer. She looked at once apologetic. “Oh, Beryl. I’m so sorry. Isn’t there something you can do, Reggie?”

“I’m already doing it,” said Reggie, with more than a hint of impatience. Turning his back to her, he took a pipe down from the mantelpiece and lit it. For a moment, there was only the sound of the teacups clinking on saucers and the soft put-putput of Reggie’s lips on the pipe stem.

“Reggie?” ventured Helena again. “It seems to me that calling an attorney is merely being reactive. Isn’t there something, well, active that could be done?”

“Such as?” asked Richard.

“For instance, the crime itself. We all know Jordan couldn’t have done it. So who did?”

Reggie grunted. “You’re hardly qualified as a detective.”

“Still, it’s a question that will have to be answered. That young woman was killed while watching over Jordan. So this may all stem from the reason Jordan’s in Paris to begin with. Though I can’t quite see how a twenty-year-old case of murder could be so dangerous to someone.”

“It was more than murder,” Beryl observed. “Espionage was involved.”

“That business with the NATO mole,” Reggie said to Helena. “You remember. Hugh told us about it.”

“Oh, yes. Delphi.” Helena glanced at Richard. “MI6 never actually identified him, did they?”

“They had their suspicions,” said Richard.

“I myself always wondered,” said Helena, reaching for a biscuit, “about Ambassador Sutherland. And why he committed suicide so soon after Madeline and Bernard died.”

Richard nodded. “You and I think along the same lines, Lady Helena.”

“Though I can’t say he didn’t have other reasons to jump off that bridge. If I were a man married to Nina, I’d have killed myself long ago.” Helena bit sharply into the biscuit; it was a reminder that even mousy women have teeth.

Reggie tapped his pipe and said, “It’s not right for us to speculate.”

“Still, one can’t help it, can one?”

By the time Reggie walked his guests to the front door, darkness had fallen and the night had taken on a damp, unseasonable chill. Even the high walls surrounding the Vanes’ private courtyard couldn’t seem to shut out the sense of danger that hung in the air that night.

“I promise you,” said Reggie, “I’ll do everything I can.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Beryl murmured.

“Just give me a smile, dear. Yes, that’s it.” Reggie took her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You look more and more like your mother every day. And from me, there is no higher compliment.” He turned to Richard. “You’ll look out for the girl?”

“I promise,” said Richard.

“Good. Because she’s all we have left.” Sadly he touched Beryl’s cheek. “All we have left of Madeline.”

“WERE THEY ALWAYS that way together?” asked Beryl. “Reggie and Helena?”

Richard kept his eyes on the road as he drove. “What do you mean?”

“The sniping at each other. The put-downs.”

He chuckled. “I’m so used to hearing it, I hardly notice it anymore. Yes, I guess it was that way when I met them twenty years ago. I’m sure part of it’s due to his resentment of Helena’s money. No man likes to feel, well, kept.”

“No,” she said quietly, looking straight ahead. “I suppose no man would.” Is that how it would be between us? she wondered. Would he hold my money against me? Would his resentment build up over the years, until we ended up like Reggie and Helena, sharing a lifetime of hell together?

“Part of it, too,” said Richard, “is the fact that Reggie never really liked being in Paris, and he never liked being a banker. Helena talked him into taking the post.”

“She doesn’t seem to like it here much, either.”

“No. And so there they are, always sniping at each other. I’d see them at parties with your parents, and I was always struck by the contrast. Bernard and Madeline seemed so much in love. Then again, every man who met your mother couldn’t help but fall in love, just a little.”

“What was it about her?” asked Beryl. “You said once that she was…enchanting.”

“When I met her, she was about forty. Oh, she had a gray hair here and there. A few laugh lines. But she was more fascinating than any twenty-year-old woman I’d ever met. I was surprised to hear that she wasn’t born to nobility.”

“She was from Cornwall. Old Spanish blood. Dad met her one summer while on holiday.” Beryl smiled. “He said she beat him in a footrace. In her bare feet. And that’s when he knew she was the one for him.”

“They were well matched, in every way. I suppose that’s what fascinated me—their happiness. My parents were divorced. It was a pretty nasty split, and it soured me on the whole idea of marriage. But your parents made it look so easy.” He shook his head. “I was more shocked than anyone about their deaths. I couldn’t believe that Bernard would—”

“He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”

After a pause, Richard said, “So do I.”

They drove for a moment without speaking, the lights of passing traffic flashing at them through the windshield.

“Is that why you never married?” she asked. “Because of your parents’ divorce?”

“It was one reason. The other is that I’ve never found the right woman.” He glanced at her. “Why didn’t you marry?”

She shrugged. “Never the right man.”

“There must have been someone in your life.”

“There was. For a while.” She hugged herself and stared out at the darkness rushing past.

“Didn’t work out?”

She managed a laugh. “I’m lucky it didn’t.”

“Do I detect a trace of bitterness?”

“Disillusionment, really. When we first met, I thought he was quite extraordinary. He was a surgeon about to leave on a mercy mission to Nigeria. It’s so rare to find a man who really cares about humanity. I visited him, twice, in Africa. He was in his element out there.”

“And what happened?”

“We were lovers for a while. And then I came to realize how he saw himself. The great white savior. He’d swoop into a primitive hospital, save a few lives, then fly home to England for a bracing dose of adulation. Which, it turned out, he could never get enough of. One adoring woman wasn’t sufficient. He had to have a dozen.” Softly she added, “And I wanted to be the only one.” She leaned back against the car seat and stared out at the glow of Paris. The City of Light, she thought. Still, there were those shadows, those dark alleys and even darker secrets.

Back at the Place Vendčme, they sat for a moment in the parked car, not speaking, just sitting side by side in the gloom. We’re both exhausted, she thought. And the night isn’t over yet. I’ll have to pack Jordan’s things. A toothbrush, a change of clothes. Bring them back to the prison…

“Then I can’t talk you into leaving,” he said.

She looked out at the plaza, at the silhouette of two lovers strolling arm in arm through the darkness. “No. Not until he’s free. Not until we see this through to the end.”