Читать книгу Stolen - Тесс Герритсен, Tess Gerritsen - Страница 10

IT WAS THREE minutes into the fourth chukker. Oliver Cairncross, mounted on his white-footed roan, swung his mallet on a dead run. The thwock sent the ball flying between the goalposts. Another score for the Bucking’shire Boys! Enthusiastic applause broke out in the viewing stands, and Sir Oliver responded by sweeping off his helmet and dipping his bald head in a dramatic bow.

“Just look at him,” murmured Veronica. “They’re like children out there, swinging their sticks at balls. Will they never grow up?”

Out on the field Sir Oliver strapped his helmet back in place and turned to wave to his wife in the stands. He frowned when he saw that she was leaning toward Jordan.

“Oh, no.” Veronica sighed. “He’s seen you.” At once she rose to her feet, waving and beaming a smile of wifely pride. Sitting back down, she muttered, “He’s so bloody suspicious.”

Jordan looked at her in astonishment. “Surely he doesn’t think that you and I—”

“You are my old chum. Naturally he wonders.”

Yes, of course he does, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica would probably spend his lifetime in a perpetual state of doubt.

The ball was tossed. The thunder of hoofbeats, the whack of a mallet announced the resumption of play.

Veronica leaned close to Jordan. “Did you bring them?” she whispered.

“As requested.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew the bundle of letters.

At once she snatched them out of his hand. “You didn’t read them, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Such a gentleman!” Playfully she reached up and pinched his cheek. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Not a soul. But this is absolutely the last time, Veronica. From now on, be discreet. Or better yet, honor those marriage vows.”

“Oh, I will, I will!” she declared fervently. She stood and moved toward the aisle.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“To flush these down the loo, of course!” She gave him a gay wave of farewell. “I’ll call you, Jordie!” As she turned to make her way up the aisle, she brushed past a broad-shouldered man. At once she halted, her gaze slanting up with interest at this new specimen of masculinity.

Jordan shook his head in disgust and turned his attention back to the polo game. Men and horses thundered past, chasing that ridiculous rubber ball across the field. Back and forth they flew, mallets swinging, a tangle of sweating men and horseflesh. Jordan had never been much of a polo fan. The few times he’d played the game he’d come away with more than his share of bruises. He didn’t trust horses and horses didn’t trust him and in the inevitable struggle for authority, the beasts had a seven-hundred-pound advantage.

There were still four chukkers left to go, but Jordan had had his fill. He left the viewing stands and headed for the refreshment tent.

In the shade of green-and-white-striped awning, he strolled over to the wine bar and ordered a glass of soda water. With so much celebrating this past week, he’d been waking up every morning feeling a bit pickled.

Sipping his glass of soda, Jordan wandered about looking for an unoccupied table. He spotted one off in a corner. As he approached it, he recognized the occupant of the neighboring table. It was Guy Delancey. Seated across from Delancey, her back to Jordan, was a woman with a magnificent mane of red hair. The couple seemed to be intently engaged in intimate conversation. Jordan thought it best not to disturb them. He walked straight past them and was just sitting down at the neighboring table when he caught a snatch of their dialogue.

“Just the spot to forget one’s troubles,” Guy was saying. “Sun. Sugary beaches. Waiters catering to your every whim. Do consider joining me there.”

The woman laughed. The sound had a throaty, hauntingly familiar ring to it. “It’s rather a leap, don’t you think, Guy?” she said. “I mean, we’ve only just met. To run off with you to the Caribbean…”

Slowly Jordan turned in his chair and stared at the woman. Lustrous cinnamon red hair framed her face, softening its angles. She had fair, almost translucent skin with a hint of rouge. Though she was not precisely beautiful, there was a hypnotic quality to those dark eyes, which slanted like a cat’s above finely carved cheekbones. Cat’s eyes, he thought. Panther’s eyes.

It was her. It had to be her.

As though aware that someone was watching her, she raised her head and looked at Jordan. The instant their gazes met she froze. Even the rouge couldn’t conceal the sudden blanching of her skin. He sat staring at her, and she at him, both of them caught in the same shock of mutual recognition.

What now? wondered Jordan. Should he warn Guy Delancey? Confront the woman on the spot? And what would he say? Guy, old chap, this is the woman I bumped into while burgling your bedroom…

Guy Delancey swiveled around and said cheerily, “Why, hello, Jordan! Didn’t know you were right behind me.”

“I…didn’t want to intrude.” Jordan glanced in the woman’s direction. Still white-faced, she reached for her drink and took a desperate swallow.

Guy noted the direction of Jordan’s gaze. “Have you two met?” he asked.

Their answer came out in a simultaneous rush.

“Yes,” said Jordan.

“No,” said the woman.

Guy frowned. “Aren’t you two sure?”

“What he means,” the woman cut in before Jordan could say a word, “is that we’ve seen each other before. Last week’s auction at Sotheby’s, wasn’t it? But we’ve never actually been introduced.” She looked Jordan straight in the eye, silently daring him to contradict her.

What a brazen hussy, he thought.

“Let me properly introduce you two,” said Guy. “This is Lord Lovat’s nephew, Jordan Tavistock. And this—” Guy swept his hand proudly toward the woman “—is Diana Lamb.”

The woman extended a slender hand across the table as Jordan turned his chair to join them. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tavistock.”

“So you two met at Sotheby’s,” said Guy.

“Yes. Terribly disappointing collection,” she said. “The St. Augustine estate. One would think there’d be something worth bidding on, but no. I didn’t make a single offer.” Again she looked straight at Jordan. “Did you?”

He saw the challenge in her gaze. He saw something else as well: a warning. You spill the beans, said those cheerful brown eyes, and so will I.

“Well, did you, Jordie?” asked Guy.

“No,” muttered Jordan, staring fiercely at the woman. “Not a one.”

At his capitulation, the woman’s smile broadened to dazzling. He had to concede she’d beaten him this round; next round she’d not be so lucky. He’d have the right words ready, his strategy figured out…

“…dreadful shambles. Pitiful, really. Don’t you agree?” said Guy.

Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Jordan looked at Guy. “Pardon?”

“All the estates that have fallen on hard times. Did you know the Middletons have decided to open Greystones to public tours?”

“I hadn’t heard,” said Jordan.

“Lord, can you imagine how humiliating that must be? To have all those strangers tramping through one’s house, snapping photos of your loo. I’d never sink so low.”

“Sometimes one has no choice,” said Jordan.

“Certainly one has the choice! You’re not saying you’d ever let the tourists into Chetwynd, would you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Neither would I let them into Underhill. Plus, there’s the problem of security, something I’m acutely tuned in to after that robbery attempt last night. People may claim they’re tourists. But what if they’re really thieves, come to check the layout of the place?”

“I agree with you on that point,” said Jordan, looking straight at the woman. “One can’t be too careful.”

The little thief didn’t bat an eyelash. She merely smiled back, those brown eyes wide and innocent.

“One certainly can’t,” said Guy. “And that goes triply for you. When I think of the fortune in art hanging on your walls…”

“Fortune?” said the woman, her gaze narrowing.

“I wouldn’t call it a fortune,” Jordan said quickly.

“He’s being modest,” said Guy. “Chetwynd has a collection any museum would kill for.”

“All of it under tight security,” said Jordan. “And I mean, extremely tight.”

The hussy laughed. “I believe you, Mr. Tavistock.”

“I certainly hope you do.”

“I’d like to see Chetwynd some day.”

“Hang around with me, darling,” said Guy, “and we might wangle an invitation.”

With a last squeeze of the woman’s hand, Guy rose to his feet. “I’ll have the car sent ‘round, how about it? If we leave now, we’ll avoid the jam in the parking lot.”

“I’ll come with you,” she offered.

“No, no. Do stay and finish your drink. I’ll be back as soon as the car’s ready.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The woman sat back down. No shrinking violet, this one; brazenly she faced Jordan. And she smiled.

FROM ACROSS the refreshment tent Charles Ogilvie spotted the woman. He knew it had to be her; there was no mistaking the hair color. “Cinnamon red” was precisely how one would describe that glorious mane of hers. A superb job, courtesy of Clairol. Ogilvie had found the discarded hair-color box in the bathroom rubbish can when he’d searched her hotel room this morning, had confirmed its effect when he’d pulled a few silky strands from her hairbrush. Miss Clea Rice, it appeared, had done another quick-change job. She was getting better at this. Twice she’d metamorphosed into a different woman. Twice he’d almost lost her.

But she wasn’t good enough to shake him entirely. He still had the advantage of experience. And she had the disadvantage of not knowing what he looked like.

Casually he strolled a few feet along the tent perimeter, to get a better look at her profile, to confirm it was indeed Clea Rice. She’d gone heavy with the lipstick and rouge, but he still recognized those superb cheekbones, that ivory skin. He also had no trouble recognizing Guy Delancey, who had just risen to his feet and was now moving away through the crowd, leaving Clea at the table.

It was the other man he didn’t recognize.

He was a blond chap, long and lean as a whippet, impeccably attired. The man slid into the chair where Delancey had been sitting and faced the Rice woman across the table. It was apparent, just by the intensity of their gazes, that they were not strangers to each other. This was troubling. Where did this blond man fit in? No mention of him had appeared in the woman’s dossier, yet there they were, deep in conversation.

Ogilvie took the lens cap off his telephoto. Moving behind the wine bar, he found a convenient vantage point from which to shoot his photos, unobserved. He focused on the blond man’s profile and clicked off a few shots, then took a few shots of Clea Rice, as well. A new partner? he wondered. My, she was resourceful. Three weeks of tailing the woman had left him with a grudging sense of admiration for her cleverness.

But was she clever enough to stay alive?

He reloaded his camera and began to shoot a second roll.

“I LIKE THE HAIR,” said Jordan.

“Thank you,” the woman answered.

“A bit flashy, though, don’t you think? Attracts an awful lot of attention.”

“That was the whole idea.”

“Ah, I see. Guy Delancey.”

She inclined her head. “Some men are so predictable.”

“It’s almost unfair, isn’t it? The advantage you have over the poor dumb beasts.”

“Why shouldn’t I capitalize on my Godgiven talents?”

“I don’t think you’re putting those talents quite to the use He intended.” Jordan sat back in his chair and returned her steady gaze. “There’s no such company as Nimrod Associates. I’ve checked. Who are you? Is Diana Lamb your real name?”

“Is Jordan Tavistock yours?”

“Yes, and you didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I find you so much more interesting.” She leaned forward, and he couldn’t help but glance down at the deeply cut neckline of her flowered dress.

“So you own Chetwynd,” she said.

He forced himself to focus on her face. “My uncle Hugh does.”

“And that fabulous art collection? Also your uncle’s?”

“The family’s. Collected over the years.”

“Collected?” She smiled. “Obviously I’ve underestimated you, Mr. Tavistock. Not the rank amateur I thought you were.”

“What?”

“Quite the professional. A thief and a gentleman.”

“I’m nothing of the kind!” He shot forward in his chair and inhaled such an intoxicating whiff of her perfume he felt dizzy. “The art has been in my family for generations!”

“Ah. One in a long line of professionals?”

“This is absurd—”

“Or are you the first in the family?”

Gripping the table in frustration, he counted slowly to five and let out a breath. “I am not, and have never been, a thief.”

“But I saw you, remember? Rooting around in the wardrobe. You took something out—papers, I believe. So you are a thief.”

“Not in the same sense you are.”

“If your conscience is so clear, why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“I don’t think so.” She flashed him that maddening grin of triumph. “I think when it comes to thievery, you’re the more despicable one. Because you make victims of your friends.”

“Whereas you make friends of your victims?”

“Guy Delancey’s not a friend.”

“Astonishing how I misinterpreted that scene between you two! So what’s the plan, little Miss Lamb? Seduction followed by a bit of larceny?”

“Trade secrets,” she answered calmly.

“And why on earth are you so fixated on Delancey? Isn’t it a bit risky to stick with the same victim?”

“Who said he’s the victim?” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a delicate sip. He found her every movement oddly fascinating. The way her lips parted, the way the liquid slid into that moist, red mouth. He found himself swallowing as well, felt his own throat suddenly go parched.

“What is it Delancey has that you want so very badly?” he asked.

“What were those papers you took?” she countered.

“It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t work?”

“Trying to lump me in your category. You’re the thief.”

“And you’re not?”

“What I lifted from that wardrobe has no intrinsic value. It was a personal matter.”

“So is this for me,” she answered tightly. “A personal matter.”

Jordan frowned as a thought suddenly struck him. Guy Delancey had romanced Veronica Cairncross, and then had threatened to use her letters against her. Had he done the same to other women? Was Diana Lamb, or someone close to her, also a victim of Guy’s?

Or am I trying to talk myself out of the obvious? he thought. The obvious being, this woman was a garden-variety burglar, out for loot. She’d already proven herself adept at housebreaking. What else could she be?

Such a pity, he thought, eyeing that face with its alabaster cheeks and nut brown eyes. Sooner or later those intelligent eyes would be gazing out of a jail cell.

“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” he asked.

“Why would you?”

“I just think it’s a waste of your apparent…talents. Plus there’s the matter of it being morally wrong, to boot.”

“Right, wrong.” She gave an unconcerned wave of her hand. “Sometimes it isn’t clear which is which.”

This woman was beyond reform! And the fact he knew she was a thief, knew what she had planned, made him almost as guilty if she succeeded.

Which, he decided, she would not.

He said, “I won’t let you, you know. While I’m not particularly fond of Guy Delancey, I won’t let him be robbed blind.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell him how we met?” she asked. Not a flicker of anxiety was in her eyes.

“No. But I’m going to warn him.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“Suspicions.”

“I’d be careful if I were you.” She took another sip of her drink and placidly set the glass down. “Suspicions can go in more than one direction.”

She had him there, and they both knew it. He couldn’t warn Delancey without implicating himself as a thief. If Delancey chose to raise a fuss about it to the police, not only would Jordan’s reputation be irreparably tarnished, Veronica’s, too, would suffer.

No, he’d prefer not to take that risk.

He met Diana’s calm gaze with one just as steady. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” he said, and smiled.

“Meaning what, pray tell?”

“Meaning I plan to make it bloody difficult for you to so much as lift a teaspoon from the man and get away with it.”

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.”