Wilderness of Mirrors (7 page)

Kate’s eyes widened. “You’ve got filth all over you.”

“What’s life without dogs and dirt?”
Not much, in my case.

Kate’s mouth softened at the corners. “Why don’t you park and then pop into the kitchen. Eleanor always has tea ready after my walk.”

Obviously, dogs were the way to this woman’s heart. “Can Tam stay out with your boys?”

“Absolutely. There’s a door that opens into the mudroom. If they decided to come in, I’m sure he’ll follow, won’t he?”

Sam nodded. It came as a pleasant surprise that Kate let the dogs have run of the estate: wet or dry. “I’ll just park, then.”

Ten minutes later, they sat at a corner of the kitchen’s battered oak table. As Kate poured, Sam let her eyes wander the massive space. The Aga was chugging clouds of fragrant heat into the room’s far corners, places where even the dazzling morning light had not yet reached. There were piles of pots and crockery stacked helter-skelter along rows and rows of cupboards. A giant butcher’s block groaned under the weight of local vegetables and a marinating leg of lamb.

It was delightful, warm and smelled of heaven. “What a perfect kitchen.”

Kate handed the cream across the table, a smile of agreement light upon her mouth. “As a child it was my absolute favorite place to be - with the exception of the stables. After my mother died, our cook, Beatrice, used to keep me busy rolling out pastries and making puddings. It’s a wonder I wasn’t ball-shaped when I finally went off to school.”

Sam sipped at her tea, mildly surprised she had something in common with the staid Duchess. “I had a grandfather like Beatrice. He took care of me while my mum was working. Not much of a cook, but we did make a lot of sandwiches and cinnamon toast.”

Kate’s eyes lifted and Sam smelled a pungent burst of wet dog. She turned and a flurry of fur in search of biscuits and water flashed by. If the housekeeper cared, she was clever at hiding it. She stooped to set out a third bowl and handed out some oat biscuits.

“Tam’s going to follow you home.”

Eleanor brushed her hands along the powdered surface of her apron. “He’s lovely.” Then she turned toward her employer. “Lady Katherine, Mrs. Swinton phoned. She’ll be late today.”

“No one else?”

Feeling intrusive, Sam broke off a piece of scone and flipped it to Tam. It bounced off his nose and he leaned down to sniff it. “You think I’m going to poison you?” His tongue eventually concluded the bread was worthy of digestion, but she sent the next two pieces in the labs’ direction.
Teach you to be so picky.

When Eleanor left, Sam glanced up at Kate.

Her brow was drawn.

“Everything all right?”

“What? Oh, yes.” Kate absently touched the pearls at her neck.” It’s just…family. You know how it can be.”

Sam nodded. It was easier that way.

“My younger brother, well, half-brother, he travels most of the year. But a school chum.” Kate lifted her hand to Sam. “Actually it was Eden Jones.”

“Ah.” Eden had referred
Bond and Teller Interiors
to Kate.

“She rang last night to say he was back in London.”

“And he hasn’t called to tell you himself?”

“No.”

Sam had little compassion when those lucky enough to have family, complained about them. “So call him.” She picked up their empty cups. “Invite him here. Isn’t that what sisters are for?”
Not that she had a clue.

“He isn’t really an afternoon tea sort of person.” Kate murmured after Sam had whisked their dishes to the sink. “But maybe if he knew the boys could come down. I don’t think they’ve got exams this week.”

Sam remembered seeing paintings of two handsome, albeit different looking sons: one, blond, lanky and easygoing and the other, dark, thickset and maybe more distant.

“Where are they at school?” She grabbed the tray of crumbled scones, awaiting an answer.

“Eton.” Kate toyed with her massive wedding ring. “Will is in his final year and Dylan’s one behind.” Then, when her eyes noted Sam’s work, she popped up in alarm. “Eleanor would have cleared up.”

“I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve got to get going - don’t want your brother showing up and seeing his ancestral ballroom in tatters.” Sam set the tray on the counter. “Come on, Tam, we’ve got work to do. Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re most welcome,” Kate said, edging toward the phone.

“Is it okay if we cut through to the ballroom?”

Kate gestured through the doors at the kitchen’s front. “Absolutely. Straight through and then the corridor to your left.”

By the time Sam left, Kate was dialing.

Nigel twitched in his sleep.

He was in Africa. Pitch black and desert cool. Something was screaming, sounded like death had it by the jugular. If it were close enough, he’d put it out of its misery. He reached for his gun.

And awoke, half-on-half-off the chair he’d obviously passed out in the night prior. The object of agony was Milton’s cat. It’d managed to open a cabinet, but come to the conclusion its paws were no match for a tin opener.

The dream smashed against reality.

Using the chair’s armrests for leverage, Nigel heaved himself upright. It was nearing 8:00. The sun shone, the kitchen was pristine and he was in London.

Merde.

He’d thought Brad had been cooking something only a minute ago.
Dinner?
Yet the scent of garlic and shrimp were long gone, if in fact they’d ever been there. He shuffled forward, an exploratory hand on his chest.

It wasn’t quite as bad this morning.

His thigh burned, but that was a pain he could live with. It was the blasted broken ribs that sucked away his stamina. When the task of inhaling air got you down, the rest of life was an uphill climb.

Without warning a voice invaded his mind.

‘
Does it hurt when you breathe?’

He stopped mid-step. It hadn’t been Milton cooking. It had been a woman. She’d laughed at Nigel. Eaten some cheese. Put a blanket on him. Laid a hand on his head.

He touched his forehead to feel her mark.

Instead, the cat hooked his foot and yowled.

Nigel continued forward, dropped his shaking hand to the drawer, removed the tin opener and fed the cat.

Then he noticed a note on the counter.

See you at HQ.

Call Kate back.

-M

It was one minute past eight, and Nigel wished he’d been left to die upon the Sahara sands. He was going mad, and Kate already knew.

His mouth was cotton, his stomach complained ominously and he’d been wearing the same clothing for over twenty-four hours. Kate would expect as much. Her nose would wrinkle, and he’d be forced to view their grandmother’s reincarnation.

How was it someone in her forties could carry the weighty glance of an eighty-year-old Dowager Duchess? Was the title truly so heavy?

A shiver shook him. Nigel fetched the nearest mug and tossed in a bag of Typhoo. He put the kettle on and aimed his legs for the ship’s head. At least Brad’s tub of steel had an endless supply of hot water.

He shucked his jeans and shirt and threw them into the clothes hamper. There was a bar of fresh soap on the counter, along with his toiletry bag. His carry-on hung from a hook behind the door. Brad was nothing if not a consummate host.

Nigel flipped the tap, kidnapped the soap and stepped under the torrent.

The lather built in his hands as he contemplated his naked form. There were nasty bruises along his chest cavity and a waterproof plaster at their center. He debated changing the bandage and opted for a later time. His thigh bore similar marks, the purple hue melding away up by his hip and down past his kneecap. The doctors had shaved both areas, and he felt lopsided and unattractive.

You’re a fucking mess, Forsythe.

But when he stepped from the shower’s heated embrace, he felt reasonably revived. He chose a pair of linen trousers, a white tee shirt and a black v-neck sweater. His sister would approve, though she’d fuss over the ensemble as well as the rest of him.

He brushed his teeth and tidied the room.

A half hour later, teakettle furious with his absence, Nigel filled the mug. At the very least, he was clean and sober. Two outstanding points when preparing to see his darling sister.

While the tea steeped, he reached into the refrigerator for cream.

There was a bowl beside it.

Filled with the remains of shrimp scampi.

Distrusting his vision, he thrust a finger into the bowl. Cold. He fished out a shrimp and, half-fearing its ability to fly, shoved it in his mouth.

It tasted of Venice and New York.

He gave up trying to unravel his twisted thoughts, closed the door and added cream to his mug. After fortifying himself with several pulls of the fiery liquid, he dialed Kate on Milton’s landline.

She answered promptly, as angry women are wont to do.

Several hours later, Samantha surveyed Barkley’s ballroom. The hired painters had done a job worthy of the majestic space. Each subtle shade of silver and blue breathed fresh life into the renovated hall. She was glad permission had been given to vary the color palette. Crimson and gold were fine for tiaras and lipstick, but not a room adjacent to summer’s handsome gardens and rolling grass swaths.

Her eyes climbed the high windows. The rods were in place, and she held a length of the massive drapes being raised like sails. One of the workers, a complaining and entirely competent man of five feet and forty or so years, swayed and glanced down from the heights of his ladder.

“It’s bloody Everest up here.”

She shifted more silk his way and interpreted the movements of his mouth. “Should I find you some oxygen?”

He snorted and lifted the swath onto its rod. “I’d settle for a break.”

“After this one then.” They finished hanging the piece and Samantha waited until he joined her before fanning out the base. It took far too many tries – no thanks to Jane being MIA – but at last she was satisfied with the puddle.

“What do you think?” She pulled back, aware of his attitude toward her fussing.

“So you’re done now?” She ignored him. He eyed the cream piece, flecked with almost indiscernible blue and silver paw prints. “Well, I don’t reckon anyone else has its like.”

“That’s almost certain. Jane designed it using Tamar’s feet as stencils.” The dog had not enjoyed his brief foray into modeling. “I hope they’re happy with it. The tea starts in three hours and I’m not likely to find seven miles of spare silk hanging about.”

“I don’t know. Reams of it are probably clogging the attic. People like them.” He jerked a thumb toward the main part of the house. “Keep everything. That’s why they stay rich.”

Samantha’s mouth quirked. “You’re getting philosophical, Colin. Best get this done before you turn the ladder into Speakers’ Corner.”

An hour later, the room was finished. The florist had done true magic with the giant urns Samantha had been lucky enough to bring back from China. Times had certainly gotten tough for foreign buyers in Curio City. With the ever-growing realization that their own heritage should be revered not sold, nouveau riche Chinese were snapping up priceless pieces at a fevered pace. It wasn’t so easy to be a foreigner any longer, even a savvy, Chinese-speaking one. Sam was fortunate indeed that she’d been able to find the urns at all, let alone barter them down to a very fair price.

It hadn’t hurt that she’d been able to secret the pear-shaped, Song Dynasty vase she’d stolen from the ill-frequented Beijing museum inside one. She could only hope that the ancient docent wouldn’t notice the original had been replaced with a forgery until …well…ever.

And with any luck, her AG contact would let her know when and where to ship it sooner rather than later. Right now, it was sitting on her guest room dresser. A little piece of faux Asian artwork to the casual observer.

She eyed the rest of the room.

The catering crew had finished toiling around the semi-circle of Gustavian tables she and Jane had designed, and they’d laid them with white serving pieces, silver chargers, and miniature greenhouses crammed with mosses and forced hydrangea.

Tamar, at home along the far wall, stretched and sauntered her way.

Samantha scratched his ear. “Good boy, we’re done here.”

The ladders had been whisked back to the trucks and even the caterers had busied themselves somewhere else. The room was still. Pristine and breathtaking. Unable to resist temptation, Samantha snapped her fingers and made for the nearest atrium door. She passed through onto the ancient flagstone patio and admired the endless stretches of hills. The room had come together nicely despite Jane’s absence, and she truly hoped the new colors would be looked upon favorably. Lord help her if the Duchess was beholden to the ochre family. How had the sunniest of all colors become the dreariest?

Because he’s made you hate it.

Sam shivered when the breeze picked at her hair. Maybe someone would spot her godfather’s semi-frozen floral offering and do her the service of tossing it.

And maybe AG would send her a letter saying her services were no longer needed.

Not a chance.

Tamar’s arrogant mug parted her thoughts as well as the withered rhododendron. “You know you were a stray?” He ignored her and sauntered around the patio edge toward the tradesmen’s parking area. She pressed the button on her fob and waited until the A3’s hatch lifted. Tam leapt with ease into the vehicle’s rear.

She never tired of it: the beauty of his gait, of his jumps. He may have been abandoned, doomed for death in NYC’s animal hellhole, but he had the soul of Emperor Qin.

Which is exactly why she’d picked him. And why she’d named him Tamar, after the Hong Kong base on which her grandfather had been stationed.

“Who’s gonna mug her with that thing on her wrist?” Uncle John had said.

Who indeed.

By noon, Nigel was staring up at the portrait of his father. Portentous and pigheaded were words that came to mind. Glancing away, he let his eyes rest on a smaller oil, his mother’s likeness. Slim and fair, eyes teasing, her hand rested on the head of her beloved Rhodesian Ridgeback, Kokola.