Things Happen That Way Page 13

  Chapter 10

  “Were you aware Uncle Jeff was involved in an incident in Rome in 1961?” I asked as Mother made sure my bow tie was properly positioned. Father had taught me how to tie one when I was quite young, but I knew Mother had fond memories of doing this for him, so I’d suggested it this evening.

  “I don’t believe so. What happened?”

  “A British agent was on vacation with a friend, and a young fanatic apparently mistook their friendship for something else and shot at them. The friend was killed.”

  Her fingers stilled, and she made a sound that was a combination of distress and distaste. “When will people learn that loving someone is the important thing, not the gender of the one they love?”

  I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for being so accepting, Mother.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart, but really, what difference does it make? Who’s being hurt?” She shook her head. “Continue, please. What did my brother have to do with this matter?”

  “He shot the gun out of the boy’s hand before he could hurt anyone else. Bart sounded quite proud of him for that act.”

  Mother looked exasperated. “Jefferson would have done nothing less.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He was reprimanded for it, however.”

  “Why ever for?”

  “Apparently for not keeping a firm enough hold on his weapon. You see, the British agent grabbed Jefferson’s gun out of his hand and shot and killed the boy.”

  “I can’t say that I’d blame him.” She tugged the ends of my tie. “Perfect. You look very dashing, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you.” I smoothed a hand over my hair, hoping the lock that always fell in my eyes would stay in place. “That doesn’t sound like Uncle Jeff. He’s not careless.”

  “No, it doesn’t, and no, he isn’t.” She ran her hand over the same lock of hair and stepped back.

  “Which means Uncle Jeff deliberately let the British agent seize his gun.” I returned to my bedroom to retrieve my tux jacket.

  “Precisely,” Mother said as I rejoined her.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Did Bart mention any names?” Mother asked.

  “James Trevalyan.” I put on my jacket.

  “Ah. That explains it. He was an acquaintance of your uncle’s, and as a matter of fact, he was the one I called when Jefferson went missing that time.”

  “Was he a… close acquaintance of Uncle Jeff’s?”

  “A lover, do you mean? No. He knew him through Ludovic, who had gone to school with him. From what I was given to understand, James Trevalyan had been involved with his partner since they’d been at university, and although women and men flung themselves at him—and still do, he’s very attractive and well-to-do as well as the possessor of a fairly old title—once he’d met Jeremy Waters, he never looked at anyone else. Of course all this was very hush-hush.”

  “Of course. I would be interested in learning how Bart Freeman knew of this.”

  “He and Folana happened to be in Rome at the time.”

  “Hmm.” Because my uncle was there, or because they were working? Either way, it was very fortuitous.

  “Yes. Would you care to meet Lord Pennington?”

  “Who?”

  “James Trevalyan. He inherited the title after his father passed away twenty years ago. He rides in Hyde Park most afternoons. I can give him a call and see if he’d like to join us before we have to return home.”

  “In that case, please do. I’d be very interested in meeting him.”

  “Splendid.”

  The room phone rang, and I crossed to pick it up. “Mann.”

  “Mr. Mann, this is the front desk. The car Lord Creighton sent is here.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be down shortly.” I hung up and turned to Mother. “The car is here.” I took her lynx coat from the closet and held it out, as Father had always done for her. She eased her arms into the sleeves and picked up a small clutch purse. I draped my overcoat over an arm, and we left.

  The car Jack Abberley had sent for us wound through the streets of London toward his luxurious home in Knightsbridge. The driver mentioned with obvious pride that walking tours through the area pointed out the Regency mansion, which had been in the family since the seventh Viscount Creighton had it built in 1811.

  “If Lord Creighton ever becomes short of cash,” I murmured to Mother, “all he’d need to do is open the house to tourists.”

  Mother chucked. “Jack is wealthy enough to never have to resort to that. His mother’s jewels alone are worth millions.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. Lady Portia had a diamond and emerald necklace which she never wore, claiming it was too ostentatious. She took it out once to show me, and she was right. Twelve diamonds, each weighing at least two carats, circled the emerald pendant, and the necklace itself was formed by a half dozen rows of diamonds alternating with emeralds.”

  “It sounds as if it could almost be a breast plate.”

  “It could.”

  “That is ostentatious. I’m surprised her husband would give her something like that if it wasn’t to her taste.”

  “It was more to impress her mother, who adored it. Lady Portia told me Lord John had taken the stones from mines he’d discovered deep in West Africa. Shortly afterward, he arrived in Baltimore to claim her hand. What I always found interesting was that while diamonds can be found in West Africa, emeralds are rarer.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Of course if anyone was vulgarly curious enough to mention that, Lady Portia simply told them Lord John obtained them from King Solomon’s mines. No, don’t laugh, sweetheart. You have to remember at that time Africa was still called the Dark Continent.” She looked around as the driver pulled up to the curb. “We’re here.”

  The driver got out and opened the door for Mother, and I stepped out and ran around the car to assist her out. She looped her arm through mine, and we climbed the shallow steps.

  There was the strangest-shaped knocker on the door. I’d have sworn it was some sort of... primate? No, that was ridiculous. I raised the knocker and tapped out a brisk tattoo.

  The door was opened by a very pretty young woman with honey-colored skin, dark eyes, and black hair that was bound in braids around her head.

  “Mrs. Mann.”

  Mother observed her thoughtfully, but extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ayesha.”

  The young woman inclined her head but didn’t take Mother’s hand. “Mr. Mann. I am Ayesha, Lord Creighton’s housekeeper. If you’ll give me your coats?” Once she’d hung them in the coat closet, she turned to face us. “Lord Creighton is in the conservatory. I will take you there.”

  We followed her to the rear of the house. The conservatory was humid and filled with the mingled scent of jasmine and roses. Lord Creighton smiled at Mother and stepped forward, his hands outstretched.

  “Portia.”

  “Jack. You know my son, I believe.”

  “Yes, I met him last autumn. Quinton, it’s good to see you again under more favorable conditions.”

  “Lord Creighton.” I shook his hand. I found it interesting that he’d never invited me to call him Jack, or if that was too informal, then John. “Yes, it was a very stressful time.”

  “How are things at State?” he asked.

  I chatted about it briefly. It was a safe enough topic of conversation. My cover was undersecretary to an undersecretary, and as such, no one would expect me to have access to any sort of classified material.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” Ayesha interrupted. “Hors d’oeuvres are in the lounge. Dinner will be served at eight.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  Ayesha’s lower lip trembled, but then she firmed it, gave a brisk nod, and hurried away.

  “Shall we?” He took Mother’s arm and led the way to the lounge, which was set up with a marvelous array of crab and avocado toasts, miso-glazed smoked sable on rice cr
ackers, salami-egg canapés, bruschetta with mozzarella and smashed fresh favas, and warm olives with rosemary, garlic, and lemon to name just a few.

  We each took a plate and began helping ourselves to the hors d’oeuvres.

  The hors d’oeuvres were the precursor to a dinner which had been exquisitely prepared and was equally delicious, and as a result, I’d eaten more than I usually would.

  Now, however, while dinner was winding to an end, it was the conversation between Mother and her erstwhile suitor that had been a revelation.

  They’d spoken of plays they had seen on the West End, social occasions they had attended together and the clothes Mother had worn, and horses they had ridden. There hadn’t been much I could add, since I’d never joined them, but I’d used the opportunity to observe Lord Creighton’s interactions with Mother.

  It had become obvious to me that he had no idea what Mother had done during the Cold War or of what she was capable.

  “Who did the cooking, Jack?” Mother asked as she placed her knife and fork on her plate, indicating she was finished.

  “Ayesha. Her grandfather was a friend of my father, and when she came to me seven years ago, I thought it was the considerate thing to offer her employment.”

  “I thought she was your housekeeper.”

  “She cooks for me as well. She’s been Cordon Bleu-trained.” He smiled as the young woman entered the room and began to clear off the table.

  “Perhaps I can persuade you to give me your recipe for roast duck, Ayesha. I do adore a duck dinner.”

  She gave a wan smile, nodded, and started to leave the room.

  “But you don’t cook, Mother.”

  “No, but Gregor does.”

  I raised an eyebrow. This was the first time Mother had mentioned Gregor.

  Ayesha turned and stared at Mother, her lips parted. “Who is this Gregor, please?”

  “He’s Mrs. Mann’s chef.”

  “He’s actually more than that, as I’ve told you, Jack.”

  “Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “And now for afters,” he announced heartily. “Ayesha, if you please?”

  Mother waited for her to leave before she rounded on Lord Creighton. “Are you toying with her affections, Jack? Because if you are….”

  “I’ve royally cocked this up, I’m afraid.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead.

  “I’m afraid you have.”

  He sighed. “She’s so young. I think she sees me as a father figure.”

  Mother gave a huff of annoyance, but before she could say anything, Ayesha returned with coffee and a trifle.

  “Thank you, Ayesha.” I took a cup of coffee, but declined the trifle.

  “If there isn’t anything else, my lord?”

  “No, Ayesha. Thank you.”

  She nodded and left the room, and his gaze followed her.

  “We really must talk about her, Jack.”

  “Yes, I imagine we must.” He sighed and glanced in my direction.

  I finished my coffee and placed the cup back on the table. “I’ll just—” My cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and I took it out and studied the screen.

  It was Mark, and I could have let it go to voicemail, but Mother and Lord Creighton needed privacy for this conversation, if it was going in the direction I thought it might.

  “Excuse me, Mother. I should take this.”

  “Of course, sweetheart.”

  “You can use the library,” Lord Creighton said. “It’s across the hall.”

  “Thank you.”

  I crossed the hall, let myself into the room, and flipped up the light switch. A warm yellow glow bathed the room, and I glanced around with interest. Lord Creighton might have called it the library, but there weren’t many volumes lining the shelves. In fact, for the most part they were filled with ebony and teak carvings, once again of primates.

  And that was immaterial. If I didn’t accept the call immediately, it would go to voicemail.

  I touched the icon. “Mann.”

  “Quinn—”

  “Good evening, Mark.” I enjoyed hearing him say my name.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s nine o’clock where you are.”

  “Actually, it’s almost nine fifteen. And how are you?”

  “I’ve got a—uh… I’m good. How are you?”

  “I’m quite well.” I really shouldn’t tease him, but I couldn’t resist. “Mother and I are having dinner with Lord Creighton.”

  “Isn’t it kind of late for dinner?”

  “Lord Creighton prefers to dine at eight.”

  “Shit. I’m interrupting.”

  I was startled by the tension in his voice “What’s going on, Mark?”

  He blew out a breath. “A friend of mine has been missing since some time yesterday. He’s not in the hospital or the morgue, so I’m figuring someone’s snatched him.”

  I didn’t think of challenging him. This was Mark Vincent, and if he thought someone had been kidnapped, then it was for damn sure they had been. “Your former landlord?”

  “Theo? No, he’s okay. He’s watching Pita for me.” The kitten he planned to give Mother for Mother’s Day. “Oh, shit, is she near? Did she hear that? Fuck it,” he groused. “I wanted to surprise her!”

  “That’s quite all right. I’ve stepped away from the table. Although she would never stoop to eavesdropping.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Mark muttered, and all thoughts of needling him vanished. “Sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease, especially when you have a serious situation going on. How bad is it? Do you need me?”

  “Always, babe,” he said, and I could feel a pleased blush warm my entire body. “But I’ve got this. Or I will once I get out to LA and get it sorted out. I’ll need to talk to your uncle.”

  “Tony or Bryan?”

  “Bryan. Spike was working on a scene for an episode of CIA, and it sounds like that was the last time anyone can remember seeing him.”

  A friend of Bryan’s who was involved in television had asked him to be technical advisor for the TV show, and since Bryan had retired, he thought it would be a good way to fill in his empty hours. Of course, that was before Tony decided he was retiring as well and moved to Los Angeles with him. They’d bought an old Hollywood mansion that needed a good deal of renovating, and while Tony oversaw that, Bryan drove to the studio for a couple of hours every day.

  “I’ll call Bryan right now. What else can you tell me about the young man?”

  “Acting name, Spike, real name—”

  “Just a second. No last name?”

  “No. According to Paul—”

  “Who?”

  “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve mentioned him. He’s a good friend, and he and Spike have been together for a couple of years.”

  “Ah. I understand. Sorry, please continue.”

  “Okay, Spike’s real name is Val Duchesne—”

  The last name sounded familiar. “Of the Philadelphia Duchesnes?” Although I kept my tone solemn, I expected Mark to laugh with me. He didn’t.

  “Yeah. You know them?”

  “I know of them. Mrs. Duchesne was on a number of Mother’s committees. Mother didn’t care for her and... encouraged her to volunteer on other committees.”

  “I’m not surprised. Your mother is a smart woman. Bunch of supercilious assholes,” Mark snarled. “They freaked the fuck out when they realized he was gay and when praying the gay out of him didn’t work, they sent him to one of those facilities that do aversion therapy.” The sound he made was filled with disgust, and I had no doubt it was aimed toward the adult Duchesnes. “Only Spike decided he wasn’t having any of it. He was sixteen, he ran, and he wound up in DC. He found a lot of men there who liked boys, so he did what he had to in order to survive.”

  “Jesus.” I felt my insides literally curdle. I’d never doubted my family would accept me for who I was, even if that meant I was gay.<
br />
  I’d been fifteen when I’d thought I’d fallen in love with Armand Bauchet, and the sole reason I hadn’t told my family about it immediately was because I’d wanted to cherish the emotion and hold it close to me for a short time. But before I could come out to them, Armand’s father had put an end to our relationship.

  And as for Mark, the main reason I’d refrained from telling the family about him sooner than I had was because he was WBIS.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Paul found him, which was a good thing. He always says Spike followed him home and he decided to keep him.”

  “He sounds like a good man.” And I could tell from the way Mark spoke of him that he was fond of him.

  Abruptly, in the background, I could hear, “Flight 873, nonstop to LA is now boarding rows twenty to twenty-five.”

  “I’ve gotta go, babe, so let me make this fast. Our boy is almost nineteen but looks maybe fifteen. He’s five foot seven, one thirty-five or one forty, red hair, and the biggest gray eyes you’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh?” I knew being observant was second nature to him, but I asked innocently, “Should I be worried?”

  “Ass. You know I prefer hazel eyes, and before you ask, the only hazel eyes I prefer are yours.”

  “Thank you.” It was always a pleasure to hear that, although I knew I shouldn’t go fishing for those remarks.

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “We’ll talk more about this when we get together.”

  “Which won’t be this Friday.” And I sighed. I’d known we would be an ocean apart, but now an additional three thousand miles would be added to the mix.

  “No. And let me tell you... I don’t begrudge the time you spend with your mother, but when I get my hands on the son of a bitch who’s got Spike….”

  “You’re certain he’s been kidnapped? Sometimes people—”

  “Walk away? I know. But if you ever saw those two together, you wouldn’t buy it. As I said, Paul’s called every hospital as well as the morgue. And maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree...”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No. Spike isn’t like that. He’s a smart kid, and he knows what he’s got with Paul.”