The sun was rising over the lush green hills, gilding the hanging apple boughs and vines in glancing golden light as the Land Rover pulled up before Craddock House.
Parking beneath the spreading hazel trees, Peter turned off the engine. He turned to Grace. He looked tired—and very dear to her. The bruise on his forehead was now turning woodland verdigris, there was a gleam of gold down on his cheekbone, and laugh lines fanned out from his impossibly blue eyes. Her gaze rested on the mocking tilt of his sensitive mouth. She would miss him. More than she had ever missed anyone in her life.
The last miles of their drive had passed in a silence more weary than companionable. There was so much she would have liked to say, but…
Instead Grace said, trying to postpone the inevitable, “Do you know that a fragment—fourteen stanzas—of ‘Don Juan’ was found in Byron’s quarters in Missolonghi? They were published in 1903.”
“Yes?”
“The story about the cameos was true. Maybe there is a missing manuscript?”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Peter glanced at Craddock House. He seemed to find something fascinating in the arrangement of its chimneys.
Silence. The surrounding woods were already turning autumn gold and brown. A few red leaves drifted gently down. One settled on the windshield.
“Well,” Grace said brightly, “It was quite an adventure.”
“Rather.”
“What do you suppose will happen to the cameos once the police are finished with them?”
“A museum, I imagine. Although Byron’s heirs might lay claim, I suppose.” He didn’t sound terribly interested in the fate of the cameos. Or in anything, really.
He glanced at his watch.
That was her cue. Grace reached for the door handle. “Oh. Well I suppose I should be packing. I’ve got a plane to catch.” She scooted over. “There shouldn’t be any problem now in getting the consulate to re—”
Peter’s hand prevented her exit. “About that plane,” he said.
“Yes?” There was something in his eyes, something that gave her pause, that started her heart beating fast.
Peter cleared his throat. With unaccustomed diffidence he said, “Perhaps…we could talk about that over breakfast?”
Author’s Note
I grew up reading what we now call “old-fashioned” romantic-suspense. I loved and admired the grand dames of the genre: Dorothy Eden, Phyllis A. Whitney, Elizabeth Peters, and of course the incomparable Mary Stewart. But I also had a lot of affection for the not-so-grand dames: the Elsie Lees, Genevieve St. Johns, and a cast of other all but forgotten authors of books with covers featuring frightened girls in negligees, running hell-for-leather down shadowy roads to escape that castle/villa/manse/chateau/former nunnery in the distance. You know the place I mean, the one with the single light burning in the room where no one ever goes…
It’s no surprise that when I sat down to write my own first romantic-suspense novel, I was less concerned with research and veracity, and more preoccupied with recapturing the atmosphere of sinister doings and witty fun. That novel turned out to be High Rhymes and Misdemeanors, published by Pocket Books in 2003. Three more books followed: Verse of the Vampyre, Sonnet of the Sphinx, and Docketful of Poesy.
I hope you enjoy reading this nostalgic homage to traditional romantic-suspense as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Also by Diana Killian
Poetic Death Mysteries
Verse of the Vampyre
Sonnet of the Sphinx
Docketful of Poesy
Mantra for Murder series
Corpse Pose
Dial Om for Murder
Murder on the Eightfold Path
Death in a Difficult Position
Learn more about Diana Killian at www.girl-detective.net
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High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 49