by Tara Lain
Llewellyn loved craft beers and took two bottles of Red Headed Stranger from his cooler.
He opened and poured them into pilsner glasses and handed one to Blaise, who stared at the bottle. “Whoa, exotic.” He sipped. “Delicious.”
“From R-Reno.”
“I’ll remember it.”
Llewellyn gestured to the hall and led Blaise back to the big living room with its high ceilings, elaborate crown moldings, and polished oak floors. He sat in an easy chair and indicated that Blaise should sit on the comfortable couch.
Blaise sipped and gazed around. “This is quite a house. How old is it?”
“N-nineteen twenties or thirties.” Why was he chitchatting? What’s he doing here?
“Is it a family home?”
“S-sort of.”
“Are you gay?”
“What?” Llewellyn frowned. “Uh, y-yes. E-everyone knows th-that.”
“Yes, I read it, but I wanted to ask.” He grinned.
The cats padded in, Marie making a straight shot to Llewellyn’s lap, where she turned and stared at Blaise while washing her face and paws.
“She’s the formidable one.”
“Oh y-yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Marie Antoinette.”
He laughed. “Perfect. Marie, I’ll make it my personal objective to woo you to my side.”
That implied some long-term association.
Blaise took another big mouthful. “It looks like you have a nice life.” He set the still partly full glass on the coffee table and stood. “I’m glad. Thanks so much for the beer.” He walked toward the door. What the hell?
Llewellyn popped up, getting a squawk from Marie. “W-why did you ask if I-I’m gay?”
Blaise glanced back over his shoulder. “Because I am.”
“I-I know.” Jesus, why did I say that?
“Am I that obvious?” But he smiled.
Llewellyn shrugged. “No. So?”
Blaise laughed. “See you at work.”
He vanished into the entry, the front door closed, and—gone.
With a flop Llewellyn landed on the chair. What the bloody hell just happened? Why did a guy like that come here? And much worse, why did Llewellyn so desperately hope he would come back?
FRIDAY MORNING Llewellyn stepped out of the Volvo—and sneezed. Excessive cat fur. The felines had sensed he was upset and slept curled around his head to comfort him. His nose had permanent tickles.
He’d been tempted to call in sick, which disturbed him since he loved nothing better than cloistering himself in his dark hole of an office and chasing down rabbit trails of theory. Today, not so much.
Question one. Where was Anne de Vere? Second, what the hell did Blaise Arthur want with him and how soon could he do it?
Okay, get to it.
He trudged stolidly into the history building, up the stairs, through the door to Maria’s office, and stopped, at least one of his questions answered. On the wildly uncomfortable couch under the window sat Anne de Vere. Beside her perched Dr. Van Pelt, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there.
Van Pelt glanced up and frowned. “It’s about time you got here.”
“I-I can leave.”
Maria spread her hands in surrender.
Anne stood and shot Van Pelt a vicious glance. “Llewellyn, can we talk, please?”
He sighed loudly. “Y-yes.”
Van Pelt jumped up, and Anne extended a hand. “Alone.”
“Anne, I can assure you that we’ll put the entire history department at your disposal. If it’s possible to prove that your ancestor wrote Shakespeare’s works, we have the team to do it.”
“It c-can’t be d-done.” Llewellyn shook his head.
Van Pelt scowled. “You don’t know that.”
“I-I do.”
Anne grabbed his arm. Damn, he hadn’t even had his tea yet. She gazed at him with big brown eyes. “Please, explain to me why this can’t be done. You’re the most brilliant historical researcher in the world. I know. I investigated all of them.”
Llewellyn nodded toward his office and splayed a hand in that direction. He glanced at Van Pelt. “Excuse us.”
Maria rounded her desk and held out a giant mug of tea wafting the smell of vanilla. She handed Anne a cup of coffee and cream. Sainthood was in order.
Anne smiled. “Thank you.” Preceding Llewellyn, she crossed into his office and sat on the hard-backed chair in front of his desk. She glanced around his cramped space, then picked up the small ceramic figure he kept on his desk. “J. Worthington Foulfellow.”
“How on e-earth d-do you know th-that?” The little figurine constituted the only gift his mother had ever given him with affection, when he was a baby and couldn’t yet make her feel dumb just by existing.
“I was an elementary school teacher for a time. One of my students had a figure of J. Worthington she carried in her pocket. Her grandmother had given it to her.” She half smiled. “How extraordinary to see him again.” She set the figure down. “So tell me why you don’t believe my ancestor could be Shakespeare.”
He settled on his office chair and took a deep swallow of tea. “Th-there are m-many rea-sons to doubt. D-date of b-birth. But mostly t-talent. The earl did n-not have the genius to do the p-plays.”
“You mean because of the sonnets he wrote as a boy?”
Llewellyn nodded.
“But you can’t believe that a bumpkin with no evidence of even an elementary education did?”
“N-not my job.” He smiled. “Y-your relative might h-have been Shakespeare, but proving beyond d-doubt? Not possible. There are a-always going to be doubts.”
“But if you said it was true, or even likely true, people would believe it.”
“C-can’t lie.” He frowned.
“No, no of course not. But I’ll pay you to research the issue. If you don’t have to do anything else, I’ll bet you can find out so many things. You can go to Stratford and Oxford. I’ll finance the whole thing.”
“It still may n-not be provable.”
She took a deep breath. “I understand. But I feel certain I’ll be able to help you find evidence that establishes my case. What if I agree to pay you for your time at your regular rate if you fail? At least I’d know and might be content to give up the quest. If the best in the world says it can’t be proven, then I may accept it.” She grinned. “Of course, I feel certain you will, with my help, be able to prove it absolutely.”
All the protests lined up on his lips like planes ready for takeoff—but didn’t fly out. The real authorship of Shakespeare’s works fascinated him and had for a long time. That’s why Ramon had written articles on the subject. To be paid to travel and snoop around into English history did sound a bit like heaven. But still—“I c-can’t take your money under false pretenses.”
A crease popped between her brows, and she looked a lot less pleasant. “I’ll bet Dr. Van Pelt wouldn’t have any trouble doing it.”
“Pr-probably n-not.”
“I’ll give you the weekend to reconsider.” Still frowning, she stood.
He rose across from her. “I’m unlikely to ch-change my mind, Ms. de Vere. You should spend y-your money more wisely.”
“Quite the contrary, Dr. Lewis. If you won’t take the case, you will leave me no choice. I’ll take my offer to Ramon Rondell! He already believes I’m right.” She turned and stalked out of the small space. She paused at the door. “Monday. No later.”
What the hell did he do now?
He heard voices in the outer office—raised voices—and it only took seconds for Van Pelt to come sailing into his space on the wings of outraged vultures. “What the hell do you mean by telling Anne that she should spend her money elsewhere? Have you lost your mind? Five million dollars? Do you know what the department could do with that money? I want you to call her this moment and tell her you changed your mind and will do her research and attempt to prove her damned ancestor is the Ba
rd. Hell, I don’t care if you promise to prove he’s Jack the Ripper, I want you to do this research!” He sucked in air like a Dyson. His voice got low and cold. “Do I make myself clear?”
“I c-can’t prove it. Dozens have tr-tried.”
“They weren’t you. There’s not a chance that it’s acceptable to turn down this project without even an attempt.”
Llewellyn shook his head.
“Lewis, this isn’t a choice. If you want to keep your position, I suggest you call Anne before her deadline and tell her you’ll take the assignment.”
Llewellyn frowned back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He loved his job.
“You know I can find a way.” He pointed a finger at Llewellyn. “Do it. Make this happen and you’ll make your career. You’ll be able to write your own ticket for the rest of your life.” His scowl deepened. “Besides, you can’t possibly want her to give this project to that phony, Rondell. Call her. No later than Monday morning.” He turned and walked out, redefining high dudgeon.
Before he could even take a breath, Maria was setting a new cup of tea in front of him. “Jesus, boss, I think you better just try to prove it, don’t you?”
“Already tr-tried some. No evidence.” He swallowed the tea like it was direct from Zeus, burned his tongue, and spit the balance onto the papers on his desk.
Maria flopped into the chair across from him. “Aw hell, boss, I should have warned you. I’m sorry. Maybe you could go home and start this day over.”
“N-never should have s-started it at all.”
“Don’t say that. Things will get better. Dayum, there has to be something good about all that money.” She giggled. “You might even need to take your research assistant with you on trips to England.”
He tried to smile back. “Th-there is that.”
“Why don’t you go for a walk, get some fresh air, and I’ll get the tea off the papers?”
“Th-thank you.” A new perspective sounded good.
Outside he squinted against the sunshine and strode off toward his favorite secret garden behind the English building, where people were unlikely to bother him. If he looked in a hurry, no one would interrupt.
A couple of students gave him a smile and a nod. Oddly, despite the fact he taught very few classes and avoided most students like Ebola, they treated him kindly—although they did call him Lew-Lew behind his back. He kind of liked that.
As he cut across the lawn toward his destination, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye and glanced up. A man stood beside the corner of the building across the street, staring at Llewellyn. When Llewellyn looked toward him, the figure instantly disappeared around the edge of the computer science center. Odd. Probably a student, but for a second he’d reminded Llewellyn of that strange guy at the club. The Jack the Ripper man. That made him think of Van Pelt, which made him shiver.
Focus on the problem at hand. Like most humans, he hated being told what to do, but hell, was it worth fighting so hard? If Anne de Vere insisted on paying for research that would only prove what was already known—and he got some pleasant travel in the bargain—how bad could it be?
Of course, he didn’t much like to travel, and spending time on a useless endeavor rubbed his fur the wrong way. Plus, staying near here in the immediate future might be interesting. He smiled. The kind of interesting he could use more of.
He cut between the buildings toward the garden, rounded the corner, and stopped. His heart made a visit to his toes.
Chapter Five
LLEWELLYN STARED past the low bushes only to see Blaise Arthur relaxing against the trunk of a tree, while George Stanley leaned in and laughed as he reached up and brushed something from Blaise’s hair.
Yes, the scene could be totally innocent. They both worked in the building, they were colleagues, it was a pretty day nearing lunch hour. And they were both young men, one of whom—and from the looks of the scenario, both of whom—were gay. It made sense. Blaise and George were damnably attractive, charming, conversant, and bright. Why wouldn’t they seek each other out?
Llewellyn turned and walked away from the garden. Surely he hadn’t been counting on anything from that quarter? He’d learned to have low expectations a long time ago.
Interesting, though, how the drive to stay home felt less demanding.
It took longer to get back to the office than it had to leave. A couple of people waved and he nodded, but some of the sun had gone out of the day. Stupid. Stupid. When he walked back in the office, Maria looked up, startled.
“You barely got enough sun to produce any vitamin D.”
“I’m, uh, th-thinking I might t-take the job.” He walked past her into his office and sat behind the desk. He wanted to close the door, but that was so much of a statement, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He searched Edward de Vere on his computer and began sorting through the string of references, from scholarly to absurd.
“Uh, boss?”
He looked over the top of the screen.
Maria stood in the doorway. “I was kind of hoping that you’d get comfortable with the idea of taking on the project, not that you’d make yourself miserable. If you really don’t want to do it, hey, we can run off to Canada and join the Mounties.”
“I c-can’t ride.” But he grinned.
“Small, itsy-bitsy detail.”
“And I don’t look good in r-red.”
“Yeah, well, that queers it. Seriously, don’t do this if you really hate it.”
“It’s n-not that—exactly.” Damned if that wasn’t true.
She made herself as comfortable in his guest chair as the unforgiving wooden frame would allow. “So what is it?”
He shrugged. Much too stupid to discuss.
She leaned forward, her intelligent, pretty face as earnest as he’d ever seen it. “Llewellyn, you’re one of the smartest, most capable people I’ve ever met. Everyone knows that except you. You can do what you want and make shit happen. Seriously, just do it. Nobody at Middlemark or anywhere else is more deserving of a happy, full life than you. Please remember that. Illegitimi non carborundum. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
He snorted. “It doesn’t mean t-that.”
She hopped up and winked. “It does if you think it does.”
Llewellyn finally gave up and laughed, then leaned back in his chair as she walked back to her desk with a little flick of her long hair.
God, he loved her so much.
So back to the question. Yes, he liked Blaise Arthur, but there was no reason Blaise would prefer Llewellyn Lewis to George Stanley or much of anyone else. He could have rolled out Ramon Rondell if Blaise hadn’t gotten such a close look at Llewellyn. As it was, Blaise said he liked Llewellyn, or at least that’s what he implied. But obviously, he liked George Stanley more.
Llewellyn’s heart gave a hammer, and he exhaled reality. Obviously Blaise wasn’t thinking about him, so Llewellyn could return the favor. Forget Blaise. He inhaled, looked at the screen, and started reading, then paused.
If he planned to forget Blaise, finding someone he liked to have sex with sounded like a wise plan. Maybe Ramon just had the shortest retirement in history. Maybe he needed to return for one last encore.
BLAISE SCRUNCHED down in the driver’s seat and peered at the old house over the edge of the car door. Better not be too suspicious-looking. It was still afternoon, and since it was Friday, a lot of cars were coming and going on the street.
Llewellyn’s Volvo pulled into the driveway. Professors often left the office early on Friday, so he’d taken the chance and preceded him there. Llewellyn left his old car in the driveway and keyed open his entry. Just like the other night, he knelt down to greet his cats before he even closed the door behind him. That was an unwise practice that could get him mugged or worse.
Blaise took a breath. Relax. That’s big-city thinking. Yes, and guilty-conscience thinking.
Chances were good nothing interesting would happen. Llewel
lyn, not known for his wild nightlife, would settle down in his house with his cute cats, and Blaise would twiddle his thumbs for zip. He clicked Play on his phone and turned on the Chainsmokers for a little dance inspiration. Just as he leaned his head back for a rest, Llewellyn’s front door opened, and he walked out carrying a tote bag. Blaise scrunched and watched.
Tossing the tote in the passenger seat, Llewellyn walked to the driver’s side and was backing out as fast as Blaise could duck down. As the Volvo pulled past, Blaise started his Prius and drove a half block in the opposite direction, then U-turned like the Flash and followed the gray car from a safe distance. Probably going for dry cleaning, but still, there was hope.
After twenty minutes of driving, the dry-cleaning theory was out and a lot of options came to mind. The Volvo had proceeded up Highway 1 from San Luis and was now approaching Morro Bay. Blaise smiled. You little devil.
Five minutes later, Blaise wasn’t so sure about his assumptions when Llewellyn pulled into the parking lot of a pretty ordinary restaurant attached to a hotel and, carrying his tote, walked inside. Was he having a dinner meeting? The man had so few social interactions, it seemed unlikely.
Staring out the window from the other end of the parking lot, Blaise waited. Nothing. Hell. He jumped out of the car and hurried to the front of the restaurant. What do I do if he sees me? Think fast, but right now I just don’t want to lose him. Trying to look casual, Blaise sauntered into the entry, from which he could see a lot of the big open room. No Llewellyn.
The hostess said, “Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh, I was passing and I thought I saw my friend, Professor Lewis, come in. Tall, slender, brown hair, kind of smart-looking.”
“Carrying a bag?”
“Why, yes, I believe he was.”
“A gentleman came in, but I think he walked directly through into the hotel.”
“Oh. Darn. Thanks for your help.” He walked out the exit and hightailed it to the hotel lobby entrance—and stopped. Okay, this would be harder to explain. I just happened to be stopping into a Morro Bay hotel. Yeah. No. He leaned against one of the pillars in front and waited.