Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) (16 page)

The funds in his bank account at home were meager, but he saw no argument against the purchase. He had his uncle’s private purse, still full of a wad of bills, even after paying for his burial. And if he were to play the role of a full-fledged bear for the remainder of the summer, ought he not look the part?

Will emerged from his room that night feeling like a new man. He had on a tan suit in the finest weave that, blessedly, breathed far better than the light wool of his old suit. He smiled as he paused in front of his door, straightening his tie along a collar that finally,
finally
fit around his neck. And inside his hotel armoire was a brand-new formal suit as well. It would allow him to circulate among the well-to-do at any function ahead and actually make others turn their heads in admiration rather than cover their mouths and whisper, laughing over him. In addition, the tailor had persuaded him to purchase an extra pair of trousers, two smart, crisp shirts, and a second tie, as well as a belt and two pairs of shoes from the cobbler next door.

Will had spent a fortune, most everything in his uncle’s private purse, but what else could he do? Truth be told, if he was to hold his head up high and take Cora’s arm like a man, he could not tolerate looking as he had heretofore. She deserved better if they were ever to have a chance to be together.…

He strode down the grand marble staircase to meet the others. Cora turned as he entered, as if sensing his presence, and he smiled, briefly allowing his eyes to settle on hers before moving on to Vivian’s, as if she and Cora held equal favor in his heart. But he had to concentrate to keep his gaze on Vivian and then move on to Felix, because all he wanted to do was to look back to Cora. To make sure she had noted his new clothes, to make sure she looked happy and…proud.

The thought made him pause. What was that about? He wanted to make her proud? She wasn’t the kind of girl who was moved by the finery of her new set. So was this really about him?

He frowned in confusion even as he forced a smile for Lillian and Nell, who were coming to run their hands over his sleeves and coo over his new suit.

“Sir?” said a servant, coming to him with a telegram on a silver tray.

Will reached for the envelope and turned away for a moment of privacy. He slid the telegram out and discovered it was from his uncle’s attorney back home.

Unfortunate news –STOP– Bills overdue funds short –STOP– Must complete tour to bring accounts to date –STOP– Will you still get paid your fee without Stuart –STOP– Please advise –STOP– Carlyle Connor

He sucked in his breath and took a few steps away from the laughing, chatting people behind him, feeling almost dizzy. He’d known that Uncle Stuart wasn’t flush, but he’d thought he’d likely discover a nest egg in his bank account. After all, the old man had been hoping to retire. But on what? Had he assumed Will would support him?

Will massaged his temple and then ran a hand down his face.
I just spent so many dollars…on clothes. Clothes…

“Are you all right?” Cora asked in a whisper, suddenly at his elbow. “You look positively ashen.”

He glanced down at her and watched as her big blue eyes moved down to the telegram in his hand. He didn’t want her to be worried. Not for him. Not for his future. Not when he hoped they might have a chance. Some sort of chance…

“It’s fine. A surprise. But I’ll deal with it. Come,” he said, forcing a smile to his face and lifting his arm to her. “Nîmes awaits.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

~Cora~

We dined upon a favorite of Nîmes, the
brandade
—a salt cod puree with olive oil and milk—and caviar and tiny, perfectly toasted slices of bread. After dishes of the smallest but most succulent raspberries I’d ever tasted, smothered in cream and crystallized sugar, we left for the arena, promenading down the street in pairs.

Daringly, Will offered me his arm again.

“You look exceptionally dapper this evening, Master McCabe,” I said under my breath. “New suit?”

“Indeed,” he said from the corner of his mouth, then he turned smiling eyes down at me. “But you always look exceptionally beautiful, regardless of what you wear.”

I smiled and squeezed his arm, feeling electrified, every fiber of my being awake and alive. I’d never experienced anything like it. I’d had twinges of it with Pierre—but this,
this
…

We turned a corner, and the arena came into view. “People would come from near and far to attend the games here,” Will said, speaking loudly enough that all nearby could hear him. “The Roman motto was, ‘Give them bread and circuses,’ but there weren’t nearly enough seats, even in an arena as grand as this one. They distributed tickets, which were collected at the door. The nobles sat below; the poor, up high. There were merchants outside selling food and drink that all were allowed to carry in.”

“Where’d they…see to their business?” Hugh asked, inhaling deeply on his cigarette.

The younger girls dissolved in giggles behind him.

“In massive latrines,” Will said.

“Thank God for that,” Hugh returned with a smile.

“So why not give us a good gladiatorial sparring?” Andrew asked. “Isn’t bullfighting a Spanish tradition?”

“Indeed,” Will said, turning to walk backward so he could speak to the whole group. “But there’s a shortage of men willing to die for another’s entertainment, and with the Romans gone, as well as their slaves…I’m afraid bulls are as close to gladiatorial combat as we can get.”

We smiled with him. The crowd thickened the closer we got, and Antonio led the way. I took hold of both Will’s and Art’s arms, making way for the others. Behind us, Lillian was on Felix’s arm, Nell on Hugh’s, and Vivian on Andrew’s. The detectives guarded our rear flank. Even without the bear with us, I felt protected and safe. More so given my proximity to Will.

I fought to keep my composure. The last thing I needed was my brother or sisters catching on. Hugh was already far too keenly aware of the attraction we felt, his eyes missing nothing. Art, too, even so new to us. But it was like yeast causing dough to rise, what I felt for William, impossible to suppress the more I was with him. The raw, physical draw. I felt as though I’d been awakened from a deep slumber and my very existence depended on sharing every moment with him. Our time together on the Carcassonne wall, our kisses, ran through my head again and again, and I hungered for the chance to steal away with him for but a moment of privacy we could call our own.

I knew I would need to find an opportunity to cut Pierre loose once he returned. Memories of his sweet farewell sent a wave of sorrow and shame through me. But I’d tried, hadn’t I? At least a little…

The merchants outside the arena sold jugs of wine and bread wrapped in paper, and despite the fact that we’d just supped on far finer fare, Hugh and Felix stopped to purchase both. Reaching into a pocket inside his fine new jacket, Will gave tickets to a man at the ancient Roman gate, and we were pressed from all sides as we entered the melee and moved forward. It was so tight there would’ve been no option to turn back, even if we wished it.

We walked through a tunnel that rose twenty feet, and when we were through it, we moved up a stairwell at the edge of a grand oval. The feel of it, with people lining every level, took my breath away. At the center of the sand-covered floor was a French flag, as well as two more. “What are those others?” I asked Will, gesturing toward them.

“The community flags from which the bullfighters hail.”

He turned, and I followed him up the stairs and then down a row to our seats. When we sat down, he turned to me, concern in his eyes. “This can be a bit bloody. Might you be overwhelmed?”

I almost laughed. “William McCabe, do you forget that I was raised on a farm? That is a question for my sisters and Nell.”

His eyes hovered over mine for a moment, and then he smiled. “I would imagine.”

We were seated in male-female order so that none of the women in our troop were unguarded. Additionally, the detectives stood on either end, along the stairs, keeping constant watch. I thought it a bit much at this point. We’d not seen the men who had attacked us in Paris once. Obviously the leader was in deep hiding. I would have suggested releasing the detectives from their duties, but I knew Mr. Morgan and my father would have none of it. It was precisely due to the detectives’ continued involvement that we were still on the tour at all. Without them, our fathers would have demanded we pack it up and head home. Will stood and met Claude’s eye as he guarded the aisle to one side. He motioned my direction, then asked Art, on my other side, to keep an eye on me.

“Honestly, Will, I’m perfectly safe here in the middle of twenty-five thousand people.”

“You might be surprised,” he said. “Please do not let down your guard.” He moved to speak to the others, presumably to warn them of what was to come in the bullfight.

In front of me, a group of young French men were celebrating. Down so low in the arena, they were likely the well-to-do or associated in some fashion with the evening’s bullfighters. They toasted with wine—
“À votre santé!”
—and drained their cups together.

One hugged his companion and caught my eye.
“Mon Dieu!”
he said, putting his hand to his heart.
“Au ange! Au ange!”
He hit his friend on the shoulder and gestured to me, and then his companion did the same to the next, until all five looked back at me in wonder, as if I were truly an angel. A guilty pang went through me at their use of Pierre’s favorite term for me.

“I imagine you cannot go anywhere,” Art said beside me, “without attracting new admirers.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I said, then looked at the young men before me.
“Comment allez-vous?”
I asked, one of the few French phrases I knew.
How are you?

“Ahh, she spoke to me!” cried one in English, collapsing dramatically.

“Tell me,
mon ange
,” said the one seated at the center, as Will returned to his seat, “that you do not uh, uh,” he stuttered, searching for the English words, then finished,
“lui appartient.”

“He wants to make sure you do not belong to me,” Will translated, his eyes sliding over to meet mine.

Felix laughed and leaned in front of Art, catching the gist of the conversation. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand, as if the idea were preposterous.
“C’est ma soeur.”
Felix gestured over to Will.
“C’est notre guide.”

I needed no translation. His tone was clear enough. I was his sister, and Will nothing more than our guide. In Felix’s mind, there’d be no way that Will would ever be with me. My eyes went to the flags moving ever so slightly in the scant breeze that passed through the arena. Was that what Will feared most? Others looking down on him? Thinking he was unworthy of me because my father was Wallace Kensington? But I wasn’t that girl! I was the daughter of a farmer, my home a ramshackle, run-down dirt-poor farm in Montana.

To think Will unworthy of me was preposterous. A well-traveled, kind, handsome man I once could have only dreamed of, now struggling to be considered my equal…only due to…blood?

I thought of Will’s words of warning. As well as Hugh’s. And Lil’s reaction to my plans to return home. Was it true? Was this trip only the beginning of Wallace Kensington’s plans for me? His means of getting me into the fold, settled, accustomed to luxury and excess, before demanding more of me? Would he truly stand between me and Will at the end of our tour? Well, if he tried, he’d be surprised. A deal was a deal. I’d agreed to this trip in exchange for him helping my parents and sending me back to school. As far as I was concerned, we could part ways amicably, and my life would be my own. Not his to dictate. And if I chose Will…

I turned to watch him. Will and the playful young gentlemen were chatting in French, the men gesturing to the arena. “He says his cousin is one of the bullfighters. He claims he is one of the best.”

“I guess we’ll see the truth of that sooner rather than later, eh?” Andrew said from down the row.

“You doubt his word?” I asked, leaning forward to look over at him.

“I doubt any man’s word, be it cards or bullfights.”

“That’s rather cynical, don’t you think?” I said.

“Not cynical. Wise.”