In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (38 page)

“She’d written a few…indiscreet letters to him. She wanted the letters back.”

“You’re saying it was all a gentleman’s errand?”

“You could call it that.”

“You didn’t mention any lady before.”

“That’s because I’d promised her I’d stay silent. For the sake of her rather tenuous marriage. But now Delancey’s been hurt and bombs are exploding. I think it’s time to start telling the truth.” He gave her a pointed look. “Don’t you agree?”

She thought it over for a moment. Then her gaze slid away from his and she said, “All right. I guess it’s confes-sion time.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not a thief, either.”

“Why were you in Delancey’s bedroom?”

“I was doing my job. We’re trying to collect evidence.

An insurance fraud case.”

This time Jordan burst out laughing. “You’re claiming to be with the police?”

Red faced, she looked up defiantly. “Why is that funny?”

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“Which branch do you work for? The local constabu-lary? Scotland Yard? Interpol, perhaps?”

“I…I work for a private investigator. Not the police.”

“Which investigator?”

“You wouldn’t know the company.”

“I see. And who, may I ask, is the subject of your investigation?”

“He’s not English. His name’s not important to you.”

“How does Guy Delancey fit in?”

Wearily she ran her hand through her hair. In a voice drained of emotion, she said, “A few weeks ago Guy purchased an antique dagger known as the Eye of Kashmir.

It was one of several art pieces reportedly carried aboard the
Max Havelaar
last month. That ship later sank off the coast of Spain. Nothing was recovered. The man who owned the vessel—a Belgian—filed a thirty-two-million-dollar insurance claim for the loss of the ship. And for the artwork. He owned it all.”

Jordan frowned. “But you say Delancey recently acquired this dagger. When?”

“Three weeks ago.
After
the boat sank.”

“Then…the dagger was never aboard the vessel.”

“Obviously not. Since Delancey was able to buy it from some private seller.”

“And that’s the case you’re trying to build? Against the owner of the boat? This Belgian fellow?” She nodded. “He gets reimbursed by the insurance company for the losses. And he keeps the art to resell. It works out as a sort of double indemnity.”

“How did you know Delancey’d acquired the dagger?” Drained, she sank back against the pillows. “People brag.” She sighed. “Delancey did, anyway. He told friends 356

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about a seventeenth-century dagger he’d bought from a private source. A dagger with a star corundum—a sapphire—mounted in the hilt. Word got around in the antiques community. From the description, we knew it was the Eye of Kashmir.”

“And that’s what you were trying to steal from Delancey?”

“Not steal. Confirm its whereabouts. So it can later be confiscated as evidence.”

Silently he mulled over this rush of new information.

Or was it new fabrication? “You told me earlier tonight that you were stealing something once owned by your family.” She gave a regretful shrug. “I lied.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

“And you trust me now?”

“You’ve given me no reason not to.” She studied his face, as though looking for some betraying sign that he was not to be trusted, that she’d made a fatal mistake. Slowly she smiled. A coy, almost seductive smile. “And you’ve been so awfully kind to me. A true gentleman.”
Kind?
he thought with a silent groan. Was there anything that could dash a man’s hopes more brutally than to be called
kind?

“I
can
trust you,” she asked, “can’t I?” He began to pace again, feeling irritated at her, at himself, at how much he wanted to believe this latest out-landish story. He’d been gazing too long into those doe eyes of hers. It was turning his brain into gullible mush.

“Why not trust me?” he muttered in exasperation. “Since I’ve been so awfully
kind.
”

“Why are you angry? Is it because I lied to you before?”
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“Shouldn’t I be angry?”

“Well, yes. I suppose so. But now that I’ve come clean—”

“Have you?”

Her jaw squared. It made her even prettier, damn it. He could kick himself for being so susceptible to this creature.

“Yes,” she said, her gaze steady. “The Belgian, the
Max
Havelaar,
the dagger—it’s all
completely
on the level.” She paused, then added quietly, “So is the danger.”
The bomb is proof enough of that,
he thought.

That, and the sight of her curled up in that bed, gazing at him with those liquid brown eyes, was enough to make him accept everything she’d told him. Which meant he was either going out of his mind or he was too exhausted to think straight.

They both needed to sleep.

He knew he should simply say good-night and walk out of the room. But some irresistible compulsion made him lean down and place a kiss on her forehead. The scent of her hair, the sweetness of soap, was intoxicating.

At once he backed away. “You’ll be absolutely safe here,” he said.

“I believe you,” she said. “And I don’t know why I should.”

“Of course you should. It’s the solemn word of a gentleman.” Smiling, he turned off the lamp and left the room.

An hour later he still lay awake in bed, thinking about what she’d told him. All that babbling about insurance fraud and undercover investigations was rubbish and he knew it.

But he did believe she was in danger. That much he could see in her eyes: the fear.

He considered just how safe she was here. He knew the 358

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house was up-to-date when it came to locks and alarm systems. During the years Uncle Hugh had worked with British Intelligence, security had been a priority here at Chetwynd. The grounds had been monitored, the person-nel screened, the rooms regularly swept for listening devices. But since his uncle’s retirement a few months ago, those precautions had gradually fallen by the wayside.

Civilians, after all, did not need the trappings of a fortress.

While Chetwynd was still fairly secure, anyone determined to break in could probably find a way.

But first they’d have to learn that the woman was here.

That last thought eased Jordan’s fears. No one outside this house could possibly know the woman’s location. As long as that fact remained a secret, she was safe.

Six

Clea waited until the house had fallen completely silent before she climbed out of bed. Her head still pounded, and the floor seemed to wobble under her bare feet, but she forced herself to cross the room and crack open the door.

The hallway was deserted. At the far end a small lamp burned, casting its glow across the carpet runner. Next to the lamp was a telephone.

Noiselessly Clea crept down the hall and picked up the receiver. Shaking off a twinge of guilt, she punched in Tony’s number in Brussels. All right, so it was a long-distance call. This was an emergency, and the Tavistocks could surely afford the phone bill.

Four rings and Tony answered. “Clea?”

“I’m in trouble,” she whispered. “Somehow they’ve tracked me down.”

“Where are you?”

“Safe for the moment. Tony, Delancey’s been hurt. He’s in a hospital, not expected to live.”

“What? How…”

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“A bomb went off in his car. Look, I don’t think I can reach the Eye. Not for a while. There’ll be hordes of police watching his house.”

He didn’t answer. She thought for a moment the call had been cut off. Then Tony said, “What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced around at the sound of a creak, but saw no one. Just old house noises, she thought, her heart still hammering. She said softly, “If they found me, they could find you, too. Get out of Brussels. Go somewhere else.”

“Clea, there’s something I have to tell you—” She spun around at another noise. It came from one of the bedrooms. Someone was awake! She hung up the phone and scurried away up the hall.

Back in her room she stood by the door, listening. To her relief, she heard nothing more. At least she’d had a chance to warn Tony. Now it was time to think about herself. She locked the door and wedged a chair against it for good measure. Then she climbed back into bed.

Her headache was starting to fade; perhaps by morning she’d be as good as new. In which case she’d leave Chetwynd and get the hell away before Van Weldon’s people tracked her down again. She’d been lucky up till now, but luck couldn’t hold, not against the sort of people she was facing. Another change of appearance was called for. A haircut and a reincarnation as a brunette. Glasses.

Yes, that might do it, might allow her to slip unnoticed into the London crowd. Once she got out of England, Van Weldon might lose interest in her. She might have a chance of surviving to a ripe old age.

Might.

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* * *

“It may have been long enough.”

“Christ, she sounded scared out of her wits. Can’t you people call this off?”

“Not yet. We don’t have enough. But we’re getting close.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Van Weldon’s getting close to her. He’ll be making another move soon.”

Tony watched the other man pull out a cigarette and tap it against his lighter.
Why do people do that, tap their cigarettes?
Just another annoying habit of this fellow. In the past week Tony had gotten to know Archie MacLeod’s every tic, every quirk, and he was well-nigh sick of the man. If only there was some other way.

But there wasn’t. MacLeod knew all about Tony’s past, knew about the years he’d spent in prison. If Tony didn’t cooperate, MacLeod and Interpol would have that information broadcast to every antiques buyer in Europe.

They’d ruin him. Tony had no choice but to go along with this crazy scheme. And pray that Clea didn’t get killed in the process.

“You let Van Weldon get too close this time,” Tony observed. “Clea could’ve been blown up in that car.”

“But she wasn’t.”

“Your man slipped up. Admit it!”

MacLeod exhaled a puff of cigarette smoke. “All right, so we were taken by surprise. But your cousin’s alive, isn’t she? We’re keeping an eye on her.” 362

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Tony laughed. “You don’t even know where she is!” MacLeod’s cellular phone rang. He picked it up, listened a moment, then hung up. He looked at Tony. “We know exactly where she is.”

“The phone call?”

“Traced to a private residence. A Hugh Tavistock in Buckinghamshire.”

Tony shook his head. “Who’s that?”

“We’re running the check now. In the meantime, she’ll be safe. Our field man’s been notified of her whereabouts.” Tony sat on the bed and clutched his head. “When Clea finds out about this, she’s bloody well going to kill me.”

“From what we’ve seen of your cousin,” said MacLeod with a laugh, “she very likely will.”

“They have lost her,” said Simon Trott.

Victor Van Weldon allowed no trace of alarm to show on his face as he received the news, but he could feel the rage tightening its grip on his chest. In a moment it would pass. In a moment he’d let his displeasure be known. But he must not lose control, not in front of Simon Trott.

“How did it happen?” asked Van Weldon, his voice icy calm.

“It happened at the hospital. She was taken there after the bombing. Somehow she slipped away from our man.”

“She was injured?”

“A concussion.”

“Then she can’t have gotten very far. Track her down.”

“They’re trying to. They’re afraid, though, that…”

“What?”

“She may have enlisted the help of authorities.” Again, that giant fist seemed to close around Van
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Weldon’s chest. He paused for a moment, struggling for air, counting the seconds for the spell to pass. This was a bad one, he thought, and all because of that woman. She’d be the death of him. He took out his bottle of nitroglycerin and slipped two tablets under his tongue. Slowly the discomfort began to fade. I’m not ready to die, he thought. Not yet.

He looked at Trott. “Have we any proof she’s contacted the authorities?”

“She’s escaped too many times. She must be getting help. From the police. Or Interpol.”

“Not Clea Rice. She’d never trust the police.” He slipped the nitroglycerin bottle back in his pocket and took a deep breath. The pain was gone.

“She has been lucky, that’s all,” said Van Weldon. He gave a careless wave of his hand. “Her luck will run out.” She had not meant to sleep so late, but the concussion had left her groggy and the bed was so comfortable and she felt safe in this house—the safest she’d felt in weeks.

By the time she finally crawled out of bed, the sun was shining straight through her window and her headache had faded to only a dull soreness.

I’m still alive,
she thought in wonder.

From various parts of the house came the sounds of morning stirrings: creaking floorboards, water running through the pipes. Too late to make an escape unnoticed.

She would simply have to play the guest for a few hours.

Later she’d slip away, make it on foot to the village train station. How far was it, a few miles? She could do it.

After all, she’d once trudged ten miles along the Spanish coast. And that was in the dead of night, while sopping wet. But then, she hadn’t been wearing high heels.

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She surveyed her clothes. Her dress, torn and dirt stained, was draped over a chair. Her stockings were in shreds. Her shoes, those wretched instruments of torture, sat mocking her with their three-inch spike heels. No, she’d rather go barefoot. Or perhaps in bedroom slippers?

She spied a pair by the dresser, comfy-looking pink slippers edged with fluff. Wouldn’t
that
blend in with the crowd?