by Tara Lain
Llewellyn looked up. “How long have you had this?”
“I was given it about six months ago. It’s what prompted me to do the research that led me to you.” She beamed. “Isn’t it amazing? We know that Edward de Vere wrote that, and it’s virtually Shakespeare. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s quite imp-pressive. But Anne, y-you know no one c-can prove de V-Vere wrote this. C-can’t prove it’s n-not a forgery.”
Blaise said, “Not meaning to butt in, but do you think someone in your family had the originals, or that they received the copies from an outside source?”
She sighed. “I haven’t been able to find out.” Her face brightened. “But I’m hoping Llewellyn can discover that. I think people are more likely to talk to him since he’s a famous researcher.”
Llewellyn stared at the pages. They went on and on with beautifully crafted, flowing dialogue. Some of the lines were even scratched out. The quality of the ink on the paper suggested it had been written with something far less consistent than an ink pen. In spite of himself, he felt a sizzle of excitement. “This m-might give me a place to start.”
She pressed her hands against her chest. “Oh my God, I knew you’d love it. Now you understand why I’m so certain about Edward.” A laugh escaped like a fountain. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Blaise chuckled. “I feel like I’m caught in a Twilight remake.” He raised his left hand. “Team Edward.” Then his right. “Team William.”
She frowned at him.
He flashed the smile that sank a thousand female hearts. “Sorry. Just being a wiseass.”
“W-why didn’t you show m-me this right away?” Llewellyn asked.
She sighed. “I wanted to know what your attitude on the case would be without benefit of new evidence.”
“Why?”
“I suppose I didn’t want you to take the case just because of the money.” She smiled. “And you didn’t disappoint. Even for the money, you wouldn’t promise to prove the unprovable.” She pointed at the album. “But now you understand my certainty.”
Llewellyn handed the album back toward Anne, but she held up her hands. “No, please keep it. Spend more time reviewing it. I think you’ll find that it becomes more and more persuasive the more you read.”
“I-I’d rather n-not.”
“Please. If for no other reason that you’re a researcher and this is a fascinating source of research.”
Blaise leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I know you were considering giving this project to Ramon Rondell.”
Llewellyn felt himself flinch, and Blaise’s eyes widened just a little at the reaction.
Blaise looked back at Anne. “Obviously you’ve changed your mind.”
For an instant her expression said she’d been bluffing, but she composed her face more neutrally. “Of course, I’d rather have Dr. Lewis do the job if possible. Rondell does some amazing work, but he’s so sensational, his results aren’t always appreciated by the academic community.”
Blaise grinned. If he’d said “Ya think?” his attitude couldn’t have been more obvious. “But as you say, he does do some amazing work, based more on solid research that you’d expect from such a headline grabber.”
“I agree. That’s why I’d consider him.” She smiled.
“What do you know about him?” Blaise glanced at Llewellyn, then back at Anne.
She shook her head. “Rondell? Very little, actually. Amazing how anonymous he stays. I suppose someone like that would get hounded by nutcases if he was well-known.” She looked at Blaise directly. “Do you know anything?”
Blaise shrugged. “No. Of course, he’s never been an object of study for me. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
She shook her head. “Me either. I’ve seen several pictures, but they’re all different. Some show a really handsome guy, some an almost ugly man. A few pictures are blond, most brunet. Some even show him fat. Obviously he’s used different photos at different times—” Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her purse. A crease popped between her reddish brows. “Excuse me.” She clicked. “Yes.” The crease became a furrow. She glanced at Llewellyn and then at Blaise. “I’ve told you how I feel. Nothing has changed. I’m sorry, I’m quite busy. We’ll have to talk later.” She hung up without saying goodbye. “Sorry. My sister.” She smoothed her pant legs unnecessarily. “Now, where were we?”
“Rondell,” Blaise offered.
She pressed her hands together in front of her chest. She seemed upset by the call. “Of course. I trust I won’t have to rely on Mr. Rondell, whatever he may look like. I’m so delighted.” She stood. “I’ll let you relax. I’m sorry to have intruded. Could you possibly call me a cab?” She looked at Blaise. “Unless you happen to be leaving, Blaise. I could hitch a ride with you.”
For a moment a look of dismay crossed his face, but the charming smile overtook it. Hell, maybe the unhappiness was just Llewellyn’s imagination. “Of course, glad to be of help.” He stood and walked to where Llewellyn had risen beside Anne. He held out his hands and took both of Llewellyn’s. “It’s good for you to get some rest and not worry about any of this until tomorrow at the earliest. I’m sure if Anne sees Van Pelt, she’ll tell him that you have a reprieve on decision-making while you examine this new information.”
“Absolutely I will.” She wrapped an arm through Blaise’s and smiled at Llewellyn. “I’m so excited to have this in your hands.” She gave Blaise’s arm an obvious squeeze. “I’m so appreciative of this ride, Blaise.” Without letting go, she said, “I’ll see you soon, Llewellyn.” She firmly led Blaise out the front door. Blaise managed one helpless glance over his shoulder.
Llewellyn closed the door and leaned against it. Helpless. Hmm. He could have said no.
His phone buzzed and bounced on his coffee table, and he hurried over and grabbed it. Blaise? No. Too soon. He didn’t recognize the number. “H-hello.”
“Dr. Lewis?”
“Y-yes.”
“You need to know that Anne doesn’t speak for the de Vere family. She has no right to promise you that money, and we’ll see to it that you and the university never receive it. It’s a fool’s errand. Give it up.”
“Who—who is this?”
“My name is Miranda de Vere. Trust me. I know what I’m saying. My family will take action to stop this insane compulsion of Anne’s. That’s all I have to say.” The line went dead.
He stared at the phone.
How in hell could one nerd of an obscure historian suddenly be at the heart of refighting the Wars of the Roses?
Chapter Nine
BLAISE OPENED the car door for Anne. She smiled as she slid in, then looked up at him. “Thank you.”
He nodded and closed the door, then walked around the car slowly, convincing his body it wasn’t going to get some more Llewellyn sweetness and heat. But Anne clearly had an agenda—among many agendas flying all over Middlemark University. He couldn’t quite pass up the chance to find out what it was. Dammit. He’d rather be pushing Llewellyn down onto a bed right now. That thought stopped him, and he glanced up at the house before he opened the driver’s side. Is Llewellyn a top? Bottom? Switch? The throb in his groin said he didn’t much care. Blaise liked it all ways, and he’d bet on Shakespeare’s identity, whatever the hell that was, that Llewellyn had a preference in bed. Blaise sighed softly. The lights still burned. Probably Llewellyn diving into that album Anne had given him. Sure would like to get a look at it. That could well be possible—one way or another.
He opened the door and slipped behind the wheel.
She gave him a look. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about driving me and were thinking of going back to Llewellyn’s.” But she smiled.
Pushing the Start button, he shook his head. “No, I just wanted to make sure everything seemed okay in the house.” He pulled away from the curb.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He shrugged. “Dr. Lewis impresses me as a supersensiti
ve type.”
“I suppose. But he has undertaken some very complex projects that required great persistence and championed them through the hypercritical hierarchy of historical researchers. That takes thick skin.”
“Oh yes.” He turned on a classical station, and they soaked up a little Beethoven until he turned left toward her hotel near the university. “I can imagine Llewellyn having thick skin as long as he doesn’t have to meet his critics face-to-face. Obviously human contact isn’t his strong suit.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“I do. Very much.”
“You’re quite critical.”
He looked at her as he pulled into the hotel parking lot. “Did I sound that way? Not intentional. I’m one of his biggest fans.”
He rolled into the portico of the hotel and stopped.
She said, “They have a nice bar. Would you like to come in for a drink?”
His brain did an instant calculation. How much information could he get out of her? Was there any chance of going back to Llewellyn’s? “Sure. I’d love a drink.”
She smiled big as he pulled away from the entrance and found a spot to park, then walked her back to the bar off the hotel lobby. Saturday night and the place was jumping. Some of that jumping involved people from the university, since it was nearby. He glanced around, recognizing some professors with their significant others and some in groups.
A bar waitress walked by with a tray of drinks, saw Blaise, smiled, and nodded toward the back corner. “A party’s leaving back there.”
“Thanks.”
They skirted through the crowd and found the table just as a busboy was wiping it. They sat, and the same waitress showed up promptly. “Hi. What can I get you?” Her eyes never left Blaise’s face.
He looked at Anne. “What would you like?”
“Do you have champagne by the glass?”
“We have splits.” The waitress managed to drag her gaze from Blaise.
“That will be fine.” Anne looked a little annoyed with the begrudged attention.
The waitress turned immediately back to Blaise. “And you?”
“Beer will be fine.” He thought of Llewellyn’s wonderful craft beer. “Whatever you have on tap.”
“Can I get you some snacks?”
He glanced at Anne, who shook her head.
“No, thanks.”
The waitress looked sad not to have any more excuse to hang around. “Okay, I’ll be right back with drinks.” She actually waggled her fingers in a little wave.
As the girl walked away, Anne said, “You must get that a lot.”
He cocked a grin. “Attentive service, you mean?”
“Females hanging on your every syllable.”
“Maybe I should wear more pink and spandex so they don’t get the wrong idea.” He grinned.
No reply.
He cocked his head at her.
“What are you saying?”
“That I’m gay. Sorry. I assumed you knew that.”
A crease popped between her brows. “How would I?”
“Good question. Thanks for not assuming.”
Then a little dawn seemed to break on her face. “So that means you and Llewellyn—”
He shrugged. “Could happen.”
“I’m so sorry I pulled you away from an assignation.” She didn’t look extremely sorry.
He chuckled. “I’m impressed. You actually used ‘assignation’ in a sentence.”
That coaxed a laugh from her.
Blaise shrugged. “I’m sure he’s more interested in your materials than he’d be in me anyway.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“Thank you.”
She sighed noisily. “What a waste.”
“Forgive me if I don’t agree, but thank you again.”
“Maybe I meant Llewellyn.” She half smiled.
“Still true.”
“How does your family feel about you being gay?”
He gazed into space. “Well, let’s see. They don’t like that I decided not to go into business. They hate my taste in movies. But, hmm, nope, I never heard them say anything about me being gay except to ask what guy did I plan to take to the prom.”
“Sorry. I guess that was kind of a silly, old-fashioned question.”
“No, sadly. I wish it was. But a huge percentage of homeless kids are gay and trans, so it’s still a pretty relevant issue.”
The waitress came back with their drinks, Blaise paid her although Anne tried, and she went away reluctantly.
Anne sipped her champagne. “You got me hooked, I’m afraid.”
“Good.” He smiled. “We all deserve champagne.”
“But you’re not drinking it.”
“I actually love beer. I save the bubbly for celebrations.” He clinked her glass. “So tell me how the family, uh, interest in your ancestor’s literary credential came about.”
“Is ‘interest’ a polite word for obsession?” She smiled and sipped her champagne.
At least she had humor about it. “Your word, remember. Not mine.”
She leaned back in the chair. “It started with my grandfather. I’m not sure where his interest came from, but we have records of his having spent thousands of dollars trying to get people to say that Edward was Shakespeare.”
“Is ‘get’ a polite word for bribe?”
“Exactly.” She shook her head. “Seriously, he actually was obsessed. He honestly didn’t care if it was true or not. He just wanted the cachet of being a relative of Shakespeare.” Her phone rang in her purse, and this time she really frowned. She opened the bag and glanced at her screen. “Sorry, I need to take this.” She clicked the phone and put it to her ear, angling her body a little from Blaise, but she didn’t leave the table. “I’m busy. What do you need?” Her frown got deeper.
Blaise pulled out his own phone and swiped through his emails so he wouldn’t appear to be listening.
“I’ve already told you, I have no intention of stopping, and I’m perfectly within my rights to spend it. He would have wanted it this way, and I, at least, want to honor both his wishes and his memory.” She listened, and her hand tightened on her phone. “I’m sorry. I really am.” She clicked off and put the phone back in her bag with more force than was technically required. “Sorry.” She looked up and smiled. “Family. Can’t live with them.”
“Can’t kill them.” He grinned, and she laughed.
“Exactly.” She took a breath. “Anyway, at my grandfather’s knee, my father got interested too, but he bothered to actually do the research and discovered both the strengths and weaknesses of the so-called Oxfordian conspiracy.” She sipped. “He found what he believed to be more weight on the positive than the negative sides of the argument. Then, somehow, he saw the documents I gave to Llewellyn, and that tipped him over the edge.”
Blaise frowned. “Not the actual documents you gave him, right? Those are a copy.”
“Oh, of course. What I have are photocopies, but whether my father actually saw the originals or even owned those documents, I don’t know. I was very young during most of this. I’m the youngest. He tried to interest my siblings in proving the story before he ever got to me. By that time he was old and infirm.” She smiled. “But he was so thrilled that I was interested in carrying on his quest. It was the last thing he talked about before he died.”
Blaise swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Five million is a lot of money. If your sibs weren’t interested in the case, how do they feel about that much money going toward something they don’t care about?”
“They feel as you might expect. That was one of my sisters on the phone.” She slowly turned the champagne glass and gazed at it with a small frown. “But my father left money specifically for this case, so they can suck eggs.” She grasped the stem of the glass, and it wobbled to the point of spilling some of the liquid.
“It must be hard having your own family against you.”
“It is, but my brothe
r and sisters are just greedy. This was my father’s dying wish. I don’t understand how they can do anything besides move heaven and earth to fulfill his wishes.” She wiped her fingertips across one of her cheeks, then smiled and took a big swallow of her champagne.
Blaise drank down the last of his beer, and the waitress appeared like she’d been suspended from the ceiling watching. “Can I get you another?”
“Uh, no, thanks. Anne? More champagne?”
“Oh no. I’m getting kind of tired.”
He handed the waitress two twenties. “Thanks for all your help.”
When she walked away smiling, Anne asked, “Did you give her that to allay her disappointment?”
He just laughed and stood, then held her chair as she pushed back. They walked toward the door, skirting between tables.
“Anne?”
Blaise looked to the side and came face-to-face with Van Pelt, who sat at a table with three other similarly middle-aged academics. He jumped up and gave Blaise a long, rather annoyed look. “Uh, hello. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Pretty dumb statement, since how would he know, but Blaise said, “We made a last-minute detour to come in for a quick drink.”
Van Pelt’s eyebrows crawled down toward his eyes. “Detour from what?”
None of your business, asshole.
Anne raised an eyebrow a little but said, “Blaise and I ran into each other earlier, and he offered to give me a ride home.”
Van Pelt opened his mouth to speak, and she held up her hand. “I want to tell you that I’m giving Dr. Lewis an extension on my deadline. I gave him some additional data I want him to investigate before making his final decision about whether to take my case.”
Van Pelt adopted a smile probably meant to be ingratiating, but somehow it came out condescending. “Ah, my dear, it’s not really a case now, is it? You’re not on trial.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “Yes, well, I have to go. Good running into you.” She slid her arm through Blaise’s and gave him a tug.