Authors: Jill Morrow
C
onstance answered the telephone immediately, although Adrian couldn’t determine if the breathlessness he sensed emanated from his wife or from a rogue crackle on the wire.
“I could set our clocks by your promptness,” she said, and static or not, the teasing lilt in her voice sounded loud and clear through the line.
“You’re on time, too,” he replied. “I’m impressed.”
“As well you should be. Promptness is not the religion to me that it is to you.”
He’d already closed the library window and surveyed the room for intruders, but he glanced beneath the desk again for good measure. “How are you, my dear? Has anything changed since we spoke last night?”
“Not really. A man’s been by.”
She delivered the words casually, but his muscles tensed all the same. “When?”
“This morning. I thought it best to walk with the children to school—it’s a most delightful day here, so it was easy enough to convince them that I wanted nothing more than to take the air. I noticed him when I returned.”
“Where?”
“Across the street, hovering near the Nelsons’ mailbox. As if Eleanor Nelson would entertain anyone before noon, let alone a strange man. I watched him from behind the parlor curtains for a bit.”
His fingers tightened around the telephone. “Constance, listen to me. Meet the children after school. I want all three of you to stay with your parents until I get home.”
He could almost hear the roll of her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Adrian. How can I be of any service to you from my mother’s stuffy parlor?”
“It’s more important to me that you remain safe. I can manage this matter on my own from this point.”
“You most certainly cannot.”
He recognized the tone from her days in the law office. It was her “Let
me
handle this, Mr. de la Noye” voice, the one that surfaced whenever she believed he hadn’t seen the whole picture. It had been perfectly acceptable in the relatively secure setting of a day’s work, but this was an entirely different situation. “I need to know that you’re protected,” he said. “If that man was sent by Nicholas Chapman—”
“Oh, he was.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked.”
Adrian’s heart sank. He’d forgotten how independent his wife could be. “Constance . . .”
“Well, it was just silly. There he was, pacing back and forth across the sidewalk, obviously surveying our house. I felt like a bug beneath a microscope. I dashed next door to tell Nellie Patterson I was inviting a salesman onto the front porch for a cup of coffee, but that I might need her to interrupt should he become tiresome. She was outside gardening, after all, in perfect earshot. She agreed to listen for a signal to come over and help me get rid of him.”
Adrian leaned against the desk, not sure that he wanted to hear more, but knowing that he had no choice.
Constance barely took a breath. “I walked across the street and told Mr. Parker—that’s the name the man gave me, although I don’t believe for one minute it’s real—that since he’d obviously been stood up by someone, he should come over for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake before moving along.”
“Constance . . .”
“Don’t sound so weary, Adrian. You know perfectly well that I’m able to take care of myself. You also know that nobody can resist my raspberry coffee cake. Would you like to hear about our conversation?”
“Actually, I’d like to shake you for putting yourself in danger. But of course I want to know what was said.”
He heard the clink of silver against china and remembered that Constance herself could not resist her raspberry coffee cake. “First of all,” she said, “he’s definitely in Nicholas Chapman’s employ, but
he doesn’t think much of the man. I suspect he’d throw his loyalty behind anyone who paid him even a nickel more.”
Adrian could not deny that Nicholas Chapman lacked the usual qualities that encouraged devotion from employees.
“He was mostly interested in your personal life,” Constance continued. “That came as no surprise: although Nicholas Chapman takes issue with your legal decisions regarding his father, you are professionally beyond reproach. One would have to dig a little deeper in order to ruin you.”
“What sorts of questions did he ask?”
“Totally improper ones. How long we’d known each other, how we met, how a delightful woman such as myself had been captured by a dull, dreary lawyer . . . oh, he thought himself so clever, trying to insinuate himself into my good graces through idle flattery.” She paused to chew. “Mind you, he was quite good at it, and were I so inclined, it might have worked.”
He couldn’t help it; he had to smile. “He just asked whatever he wished with no thought that you’d find the questions suspicious?”
“Sometimes, Adrian, there are benefits to being a woman. Most men consider us quite stupid, utterly incapable of seeing through clumsy attempts at intrigue.”
“I see.” Poor man; he’d had no way of knowing that Constance was not a woman to underestimate. “Go on.”
“He wanted to know if I knew your family—the Delanos. He watched my reaction as he enunciated the name, trying to gauge if I knew you’d been born anything other than de la Noye. I ignored the question and prattled on about the difficulty of dealing with in-laws until his eyes glazed over with boredom. Then, when I finally stopped to breathe, he asked about Catharine Walsh.”
The smile slipped from his face. “What did he want to know?”
“If I knew anything about her.”
“And what did you say?” His mouth felt dry. The library verged on stifling without a cooling breeze wafting through the usually open window.
“I told him that I knew she was Bennett Chapman’s fiancée, but that you would never do anything as unprofessional as discuss a client’s business with me at length. I fluttered my eyelashes a great deal and said that I knew nothing more.”
He shook his head at the image of his canny wife pretending vacuity. “And?”
“And he said I was a charming woman whom he didn’t wish to bother further and could he please have another piece of cake? I gave him one, of course, then sent him on his way. I told him I’d pass you his regards.”
Adrian pulled his collar away from his neck with a crook of his finger. The gesture provided only slight relief. “I’d rest more easily knowing that you and the children were safely out of the house. Just once, my dear, could we pretend you are the subservient sort of wife who follows her husband’s requests?”
“No, Adrian, we could not. But don’t worry. Mr. Parker won’t be back.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He’s accomplished his task. His only point in coming was to make his presence known to you. His questions to me involved matters of public record or information he would already have, and he did nothing to hide himself when observing the house. I told you, he looked a perfect fool loitering amidst Eleanor Nelson’s azaleas. No, he wanted me to notice and report his appearance to you. Since
I told him I’d do that, he has no reason to return. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Adrian eased his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. Her analysis, as always, seemed sound. Of course, whether he agreed or not was irrelevant; his wife would do as she pleased. “I would. But, Constance, don’t take any chances. If you begin to feel nervous for any reason, you must promise me you’ll go to your parents’.”
“Of course, Adrian,” she said sweetly. “I’d be so much safer there. My father can fend off intruders with his cane while my mother lobs dumplings at them.”
“About the other matter we discussed last night . . .”
“I took care of it. The envelope was in your desk drawer, exactly where you said it would be. You should receive it as planned.”
Despite himself, he exhaled a long, relieved sigh. “Thank you, Constance. You are a jewel.”
“And you thought you could handle everything yourself. Adrian . . .”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that hesitant note in his wife’s voice. He closed his eyes, anticipating her words before they could leave her mouth.
“I respected your request not to open the envelope,” she said. “I must admit, though, that I’m curious to know what’s inside.”
“I know you are, sweetheart. But this is neither the time nor the place.”
She was well aware of the need for discretion on a telephone line. “I understand. But perhaps we might discuss it when you come home.”
“I will answer whatever questions you have, Constance,”
he said gently. “We have been partners for a long time, and I owe you the world.”
“Yes, Adrian.” He was pleased to hear her usual resilience re-emerge. “I know that. Whatever would you do without me?”
It was a thought he didn’t care to ponder.
T
he cloying fragrance of too many flowers wafted through the open bedroom door as Jim set his closed suitcase firmly on the floor beside his bed. He wrinkled his nose in response, trying to ward off a sneeze.
“Packed and ready, I see.” Adrian stepped into the room, dressed for the impending wedding in a crisp ivory suit.
“Yeah, well, I thought I’d be hopeful.” Jim fumbled for his handkerchief as the expected sneeze overtook him.
“Bless you. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve packed my bags as well. I’ll do my best to get us off Aquidneck tonight, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Thank you.” Jim allowed himself a halfhearted smile. The jury was out as to whether or not he could trust Adrian de la Noye one hundred percent just yet, but it felt right to give a friend a chance.
“I’ll observe closely tonight and try to follow your lead.”
Adrian acknowledged the words with a brisk nod. “I’d appreciate that. I’d tell you more, Jim, but I think it would be best if your reactions were unrehearsed.”
“I understand.”
There was no hesitation about Adrian now. He wore his professionalism as easily as he wore his linen suit and finely pressed shirt. He shot a glance toward the bureau clock. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Sure.” Jim shrugged. “Why not?”
“Then let’s go down to face the lions, my friend.” Adrian clapped a hand on his associate’s shoulder and propelled them both toward the door.
The flower arrangements began in the foyer, where roses of yellow and red spilled from vases of all shapes and sizes.
“Jeez,” Jim murmured as his foot left the last step. “There are enough flowers here for a funeral.”
“The analogy is not entirely inappropriate,” Adrian replied, snapping a small rosebud from an overstuffed vase. “The late Mrs. Chapman should feel quite at home.”
Mention of Elizabeth Chapman brought other thoughts to mind. Jim cleared his throat. “I’d like to check on Amy if you don’t mind.”
“I was hoping you’d offer.” Adrian slipped the stem of the rosebud through his lapel buttonhole. “I’ve matters of my own to manage this evening.”
“Manage fast. Here comes Lady Dinwoodie and, as usual, she has eyes only for you.”
Indeed, Chloe came bearing down on them from the back of the house like a miniature tank, her feathered headdress mirroring the
reds and yellows of the roses so perfectly that they could only have been dyed to match. “Mr. de la Noye!” she cooed, and the sway in her step left little doubt that she’d spent much of the afternoon tippling. “D’you like the flowers? Catharine wasn’t planning to have any, but if we’re going to endure a wedding ceremony, we might as well do the damn thing right, don’t you think? I ordered them. At least we’ll have a bit of festivity here before either Nicky sends everyone to jail or Little Miss Gold Digger takes Pop for everything he’s got.”
Jim slipped into the parlor before he could hear Adrian’s response, but he knew it didn’t matter. They couldn’t afford for him to ride shotgun anymore. It was time to move from behind Adrian’s shadow and operate according to his own instincts.
Someone—probably Chloe—had arranged the parlor sofa and chairs into a long row with an aisle in between. That made little sense since only five guests would witness the ceremony, but if it kept Lady Dinwoodie happy and quiet, then Jim was all for it.
Amy sat on the sofa to the left of the aisle, facing a podium set near the far right-hand wall. Her head was bowed, but hardly in supplication. Based on her flushed profile and the stiffness of her neck, Jim would have bet the farm that nothing even close to prayer raced through that blond head at the moment.
His nose itched. This room had not escaped the invasion of the roses. They flanked the podium in two determined clumps, daring anyone to object to their presence. Another bouquet sat in a vase on the floor behind the sofa. Jim figured he’d have to move that batch lest the entire marriage ceremony be punctuated by sneezes and honks.
He grabbed for his handkerchief just in time to catch his sneeze.
Amy turned around. “Oh,” she said, “you’ve come back.”
It was as good a reaction as any. He walked around to the front of the sofa to face her. “You look down in the dumps,” he said. “Are you all right?”
She slumped further in her seat. “How can I be all right, Jim? I’m attending the wedding of a woman I always assumed was my aunt, but recently discovered is my mother. I still don’t know who my father is. And I’m about to speak for the dead first wife of the groom, a man old enough to be the bride’s grandfather.”
Jim nodded. “The situation is hardly copacetic.”
“There’s more.”
“How can there be?”
Her brows lowered, but she didn’t turn away. “I think I’m falling in love. Who the heck needs a complication like that?”
His handkerchief stopped halfway back to his pocket. So much for the yo-yoing question of what to do with Miss Amy Walsh. When on earth had she found time to fit anyone else into her schedule?
“Oh,” he said, aiming for indifference. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Men never do,” she said darkly.
Not that he gave a fig about the cherub on the sofa . . . but would it always be his lot in life to serve as the pal, the trustworthy guy a girl could count on for sound advice and a strong shoulder? And could Amy’s timing be any worse? There were already enough tangles in the current situation to trip up a tightrope walker. Still, she looked so small and miserable nestled in the corner curve of the sofa that there was no way he could walk away.
“Oh, all right,” he said with a sigh. “We have a few minutes before chaos descends. Did you want to tell me about it?”
Those big eyes would be his undoing. Fortunately, the flowers made him sneeze again as he settled beside her, and the action tore his gaze from hers.
“You may not be the right person to tell,” she said.
“I’m always the right person to tell.”
“This happens to you frequently?”
“Constantly. I’m everybody’s choice.” Another sneeze ripped through him.
She looked puzzled.
There wasn’t much time for this, and Amy would need to be as focused as possible if Mrs. C was going to come through clearly. “So, what’s the problem?” Jim prodded. “Doesn’t the fellow like you back?”
“You tell me,” she said. “Since you’re the fellow in question.”
He stared at her as if she’d spouted quantum theory. “I am?”
“Who did you think it was, you idiot?” She scowled. “Falling in love with you is the last thing I need right now, but there doesn’t seem to be a thing I can do to stop it.”
His nose began to itch again. “Excuse me,” he said, leaping to his feet. With renewed vigor, he transported the hateful vase of roses from behind the sofa to the opposite end of the room. Then he returned to Amy’s side. “Would you say it again for me, please? Slowly enough that I can understand?”
“Why? I thought you were everybody’s choice.”
He draped his left arm around her shoulders and drew her toward him. Then he kissed her, not even pausing to wonder whether or not it was a good idea. The kiss she gave in return made it clear that there’d never been any reason to worry in the first place.
“Fine time for this to happen,” Amy whispered as they parted.
“It could be a very fine time indeed.” Jim kept her close. “I’m willing to give it a whirl if you are.” He leaned toward her mouth, but she stopped him with an insistent hand flat against his chest.
“I’ve a favor to ask,” she said.
“I knew there was a catch.”
“Don’t think ill of me, Jim. It’s all right if you say no. But, God willing, this will be the last time I speak for Mrs. Chapman—and believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to keep her from taking over. But if I can’t do it, I need you to ask her something on my behalf. I want to know who my father is.”
“Perhaps it’s your mother who needs asking.”
“I . . . I haven’t really spoken to Catharine since learning the truth. I’m not sure I trust her anymore.”
He covered her hand with his own. “You’ve got to repair that, Amy. Like it or not, Catharine Walsh took care of you, raised you, loved you. And you loved her back. You can’t just discard people like that, especially when you don’t know the reasons behind their actions. Aren’t you the lady who said that very same thing to me where Adrian was concerned?”
She sank against him. “Skewered by my own words. I’ll think about it. But, please, Jim—for my sake, if I can’t do it, ask Mrs. Chapman about my father.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Promise? Even if there’s a chance her answer might place Mr. de la Noye in a delicate position?”
Jim briefly considered everything he knew about Adrian. “I think he would want to know.”
This kiss was even nicer than the ones before, and Jim would have forgotten his surroundings entirely were it not for the quiet
“ahem” he thought he heard from somewhere far away. With difficulty, he disengaged himself from Amy’s arms and glanced over his shoulder. Adrian stood behind the sofa, accompanied by a short, round gentleman of perhaps seventy.
“Judge Thomas Bourne”—Adrian spoke as if he’d just interrupted a friendly game of cards—“allow me to introduce my associate, Mr. James Reid. And this young lady is Miss Amy Walsh, daughter of the bride.”
Jim scrambled to his feet, dragging Amy up along with him. “Pleasure to meet you, Your Honor,” he said, pumping the judge’s proffered hand a little harder than necessary. “And I do apologize for our . . . uh . . .”
“. . . youthful indiscretion?” the judge supplied, but anything else he might have said disappeared as Bennett Chapman entered the room, flanked by his son and daughter.