Bernards puzzled gaze gradually shifted to the foot of the brass bed, to a womans high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor. Frowning, he took a step toward it and saw that the shoe lay in a glistening puddle of crimson. As he rounded the foot of the bed, he froze in disbelief.
His wife lay on the floor, her ebony hair fanned out like a ravens wings. Her eyes were open. Three sunbursts of blood stained her white blouse.
He dropped to his knees beside her. No, he said. No. He touched her face, felt the warmth still lingering in her cheeks. He pressed his ear to her chest, her bloodied chest, and heard no heartbeat, no breath. A sob burst forth from his throat, a disbelieving cry of grief. Madeline!
As the echo of her name faded, there came another sound behind him-footsteps. Soft, approaching
Bernard turned. In bewilderment, he stared at the pistol-Madelines pistol-now pointed at him. He looked up at the face hovering above the barrel. It made no sense-no sense at all!
Why? asked Bernard.
The answer he heard was the dull thud of the silenced automatic. The bullets impact sent him sprawling to the floor beside Madeline. For a few brief seconds, he was aware of her body close beside him, and of her hair, like silk against his fingers. He reached out and feebly cradled her head. My love, he thought. My dearest love.
And then his hand fell still.
One
Buckinghamshire, England
Twenty years later
Jordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hughs easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock familys sense of whimsy that theyd chosen to so publicly display their one relative whod, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill-the last man to be officially decapitated in England-unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. I should keep at least a few gray cells in working order, he thought. I might need them to hold up my end of the chitchat. Chitchat being one of Jordan s least favorite activities.
For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonights event-in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane-might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hughs retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hughs former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris-all of them in London for the recent economic summit-and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface.
Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; hed managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot.
Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you? said Hugh.
Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. Wheres Davis? Hes much better at this sort of thing.
I sent him to fetch that sister of yours.
Beryls gone out again?
Naturally. Mention the words cocktail party, and shes flying out the door.
Jordan began to loop his uncles tie into a bow. Beryls never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think shes had just a bit too much of the Vanes.
Hmm? But theyve been lovely guests. Fit right in-
Its the nasty little barbs flying between them.
Oh, that. Theyve always been that way. I scarcely notice it anymore.
And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?
Hugh laughed. Around a pretty woman, Reggie is a puppy dog.
Well, its no wonder Helenas always sniping at him. Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncles bow tie with a frown.
Hows it look?
Itll have to do.
Hugh glanced at the clock. Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why arent the Vanes down yet?
As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. Someone has to point these things out to you, she said.
Yes, and its always you, isnt it?
Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helenas substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer.
As the hour edged toward six oclock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. Before the hordes arrive, he said, a toast, to your safe return to Paris. They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends.