She shrugged. Better not mention her daily walks to the bakery, followed by evenings alone in the flat, eating treacle tarts and watching old movies, most recently Bogie and Bacall in To Have and Have Not.
He took a sip of wine, and she tried not to stare at his hands. They would have fascinated a medieval sculptor. She wasn’t drawn to perfect men, but now that she’d had a chance to study him, she noticed that his right eye was rounder than the left. The disparity gave depth and expression to his face. So did the brown dots in his left eye, which were scattered like ground nutmeg.
She squirmed in her chair, trying to ignore the slight scratchy sound that his hand made as it slipped into the front pocket of his faded jeans. She imagined him clutching a pen, writing equations and notes on a yellow legal pad, adjusting dials on a microscope. Then she imagined his fingertips on her body.
Focus, Caro. Ask him about Uncle Nigel.
“I read the letters,” she said.
“What did you make of them?”
“Not much.” They’d told more about him than her uncle’s secret plan. Jude had grown up in the north country. The land of plucky orphans. Jane Eyre, Heathcliff, and Mary Lenox. “You’re from York?” she asked.
“Ripon. North of Harrogate.”
“I’ve been there. Ripon is a cathedral city, right?”
“Yes.” A smile—or was it a frown?—tugged at the edges of his lips. “There’s a line in Jane Eyre that refers to our old pile of rocks. Everyone thinks it’s about the Norton-Conyers house, but it refers to Dalgliesh Castle.”
Keeping her eyes on him, Caro reached for her glass. Had the wine made him loquacious or was he boasting? She tried to look suitably impressed. “You lived in a castle?”
“I wasn’t there often. My father sent me to boarding school.”
“And your family is old and stodgy?”
“Old enough.”
“Dalgliesh sounds familiar.”
“It’s popular with tourists. After my father died, Lady Patricia couldn’t afford a new roof. It was a positively astronomical sum. Over a million pounds. Lady Patricia had to prostitute the home-place.”
“Lady Patricia is your stepmum?”
“Yes.” His voice held no inflection and his face was unreadable.
Caro rubbed her temple. She was on the edge of remembering something about the castle. “Does Dalgliesh have a tree in the dungeon?”
“We don’t have a dungeon. But there’s a hawthorn tree in the cellar. Lady Patricia turned the area into a gift shop.”
“That’s where I bought my luggage.” She pointed to the plaid duffel bag.
“Here’s to small worlds.” He lifted his glass.
And huge houses. Caro tried to imagine a much younger Jude playing in the garden maze or running into the moor with friends named Dickon and Colin. They’d play hide-and-seek in the turrets, overturn tea tables, smash priceless Staffordshire figurines, kick balls into the knot gardens, and attack Lady Patricia’s roses with clippers.
“The castle had four Scottish terriers,” she said, hoping he’d elaborate. When he didn’t, she added, “Tourists were lined up, snapping their pictures. They were well behaved—the dogs, not the tourists.”
“They’re Lady Patricia’s,” Jude said. “They know the sound of her car, and they form a greeting party at the end of the lane. At least, they used to. I haven’t been home in years.”
“Because you don’t get on with Lady Patricia?”
“I’m quite fond of her.”
So, his stepmother wasn’t wicked. And he was from a powerful Yorkshire family. Why was he living in Switzerland if everything was so cozy? Caro felt more confused than ever, and she was smashed. The alcohol had dissolved the last vestiges of civility. “Why did you leave Ripon and move to Switzerland?”
“I like to move around.”
“That’s why you followed me to Bulgaria?”
“I was hoping you could interpret Sir Nigel’s letters.”
“That’s only part of it, isn’t it?” She leaned forward. “Why are you here? Morbid curiosity?”
“No, indeed not.” His eyebrows angled up. “I was intrigued by the letters.”
“Why fly from London to Bulgaria to hand them over? You could’ve given them to me at the airport. I would have called you.”
“I told you before, I don’t have a phone.”
She swallowed the rest of her wine. “Would you open another bottle?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment, and then he stepped over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle, and peeled back the foil. Once again she found herself looking at his hands. His face was interesting, too, changing from second to second, mainly because of his eyebrows—they seemed to have a language all their own, moving when he talked, and even when he was silent.
An intense sexual desire rippled through her, and she didn’t have the decency to blush, much less look away. His blue gaze was both appealing and unsettling, and that smile always flickered at the edges of his mouth. Probably because she couldn’t stop staring. She hadn’t traveled to Kardzhali to have a fling. She was here for the saddest of reasons: to bring her uncle home. The backs of her eyes burned, and she turned away.
“Are you all right?” Jude asked.
She started to tell him she was fine, just fine, but her lips were stuck to her teeth. She couldn’t explain that the house on Norham Gardens filled her with an odd blend of homesickness and despair. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Turner, would urge Caro to empty her uncle’s closets, to pack away the Harris Tweed jackets that always smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and chalk dust. She would sort through his desk while the cat, Dinah, stretched on the floor, sunning herself on the oriental rug. Without Uncle Nigel’s vigorous presence, the house would be cold and empty.
She blinked, and tears ran down her cheeks. The air stirred as Jude knelt beside her. “It’s all right, lass,” he said. “It’s all right.”
Her head tipped forward and landed on his shoulder. She breathed in the aromas of cologne, leather, wine, and soap. There was a sturdiness to him, a fixed strength, reminding her of a house on a damp evening, a light glowing behind diamond-paned windows.
“There, there,” he said, almost a whisper. “No tears before bedtime.”
What a strange coincidence that Jude would use the same words to soothe her that Uncle Nigel had. She wiped her eyes and leaned back. His eyes were so blue, she wanted to jump into them.
His fingers grazed her chin. “Better?” he asked.
Yes. No.
His hand fell to his side, and he stood. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”
“Please don’t.” She got to her feet and stepped closer. She wanted to touch him, to press her face against his face and feel the weight of his body, the whole length of him pushing her down into a warm place. It felt wrong somehow to be consumed by these feelings in the wake of her uncle’s death, and yet it somehow seemed right. She wanted Jude to take her out of all that, to distract her and make her feel something other than the immense pain and loneliness that had surrounded her since that horrible phone call.
She stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his, tasting wine and salt. His tongue pressed against hers, lightly at first, but the delicate dance quickly morphed into something more urgent. Her knees began to shake. She wanted more than a kiss, and she wanted it now. She slid her hands up his chest, brushing over the smooth cotton, feeling the hard curve of his muscles.
Still kissing him, her fingers grazed his collar. As she undid the top button, her hand froze. What was wrong with her? How could she feel pleasure amid so much emotional pain?
No, she couldn’t do this. She broke the kiss and stepped backward. “I’m sorry.”
His eyebrows came together. “What for?”
She felt dizzy and put a steadying hand on the desk. Better not get into that kiss. Better to tell a plausible lie. “I’m just exhausted,” she said. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He walked to the
door and opened it, then he turned back. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
She almost told him to whistle. It had worked for Bacall and Bogie, but it wouldn’t work for her. So she just nodded.
“Well, good-bye, then.” Jude stepped into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him, a hard, final sound. Now that he was really gone, she was sorry. There was still time to call him back, wasn’t there?
No, of course not. She flopped onto the bed. She’d saved herself a world of embarrassment. Him, too. Especially him. She pushed the pillow over her head. Drunken idiot. But not so drunk that she’d slept with him. That really would’ve taken the biscuit.
CHAPTER 12
Daylight blazed through the curtain, shining into Caro’s eyes. It felt rather pleasant until she tried to sit up, and then pain shot through her head. God, how much had she drunk last night? She wasn’t in the habit of kissing strange men—not because she was a prude, but because she was a cynic. The London dating scene was flooded with married men and players. Without exception, she’d been drawn to commitment-phobic chaps. In fact, she’d compiled a list of her failed relationships, which she privately referred to as the Lost Boys.
Her first beau, a thirteen-year-old football player, had shattered her bedroom window with a rock, only to later claim temporary insanity after Uncle Nigel had charged the lad with vandalism. Her big love was a college boy who’d almost gotten into her knickers, but Uncle Nigel’s relentless hoovering in the next room had quashed that romantic interlude. That particular boy dropped her for a girl who didn’t have a nosy, and noisy, uncle. The lovebirds had gotten married and now raised show-quality dachshunds.
The most cringeworthy entry in the list was her engagement to an Oxford banker named Robert Thaxton. Their romance was one of those sad tales that tour guides love to embellish on castle tours, but in her case it was true.
Caro had still been living with her uncle when Robert had proposed. Uncle Nigel had wanted to make a huge fuss, so he’d arranged a lavish party at Danesfield House, near Marlow-on-Thames. Then he’d taken her shopping at Harrods, and she’d picked out a gray-blue silk dress went nicely with her eyes. The night of the party, she fashioned her frizzy hair into a sleek chignon. Uncle Nigel looked smashing in his ancient tuxedo. They stepped into the Oak Room, arm in arm, and greeted their guests.
The night deepened. Robert’s parents took their place in the receiving line, but their son still hadn’t arrived. Uncle Nigel signaled the waiters to keep passing wine and champagne. While guests exclaimed over Caro’s engagement ring, she kept glancing over her shoulder, searching the crowd for her fiancé.
“Robert was supposed to be back from London now, wasn’t he?” Mr. Thaxton asked his wife. “Shouldn’t we ring his mobile?”
Mrs. Thaxton kept punching numbers into her phone, sweat beading on her broad forehead.
Robert’s eight-year-old brother, Dennis, zoomed around the Oak Room, his short pants riding up over his chubby knees. A red bow tie pushed against his triple chins. Waiters maneuvered around the boy as they replenished the buffet with smoked trout and salmon and tiny, fragrant bowls of horseradish.
Caro followed the Thaxtons onto the terrace, with Dennis bobbing in their wake. Someone must have told him that Danesfield House had been the RAF headquarters in World War II, because the child spread his arms wide and made zooming noises. “Bombs away!” he yelled.
The summer air felt cool and smelled poignantly of roses. Even though it was only seven P.M., the sky resembled blue enamel. Through the trees, a boat drifted down the Thames. While Caro chatted with Mr. Thaxton, his wife kept ringing Robert.
“What was he doing in London, anyway?” Mr. Thaxton asked, his forehead puckering.
“A meeting,” Caro said, wishing she’d gone with Robert. The appointment had ended hours before, but she didn’t see the point of adding to Mr. Thaxton’s gloom.
Dennis careened over and yelped, “Caro’s been stood up!”
“Stop that,” Mrs. Thaxton said in a mild voice. She was a portrait painter of the royal dogs, which required infinite patience and an ability to deal with the unexpected.
Dennis stuck out his tongue.
“Please return your tongue to its proper position,” Mr. Thaxton said, and put his hand on the boy’s head.
Lady Sarah, Robert’s cousin, walked up behind Caro. “Young Dennis has been into the brandy,” she whispered.
“I’ll marry you, Caro,” Dennis called.
“She won’t marry into this family at all if you don’t straighten up,” Lady Sarah said.
“Come along, Dennis.” Mr. Thaxton grabbed the boy’s shoulders and steered him down the steps to the riverbank.
Uncle Nigel put his arm around her. “I’m sure the meeting ran over,” he said. “Any moment he’ll pop through those doors.”
As the evening passed into night, the guests grew tipsy. One of them was a flinty-eyed cashier who worked with Robert. “He won’t be joining us tonight,” the cashier said, his cheeks flushed with wine. “Do you remember his secretary? The one with enormous breasts? Well, she and Robert have gone missing. Apparently the bank was about to charge him with embezzlement.”
Caro ran onto the terrace, flew down the steps, and stopped at the river. She heard footsteps behind her, and she whirled. Her uncle stepped out of the shadows.
“You aren’t planning to throw yourself in the Thames, are you?” he asked.
“What’s wrong with me?” She wiped her eyes. “Why can’t anyone love me?”
“I love you, my darling.” Uncle Nigel paused. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but he merely patted her arm. “Don’t cry. The right chap will come along.”
But he hadn’t. Meanwhile, the Lost Boys list had gotten longer and longer. It didn’t matter if Caro slept with them or not; the results were always the same. In the beginning the men mailed love letters and dirty haiku. They rang her house at odd hours and loitered in her uncle’s front yard until he called the police. After each brief but intense courtship, the suitors always lost interest, only to take up with women they later married.
Of course, not all of the men had left her for other women. Some had died. A six-car pile-up on the M4 had claimed one beau. Another had perished while pruning his roses—flotsam from a jet plane had fallen from the sky, smack onto his head. Still another had entered the priesthood and gone to Monaco, of all places. He’d written her a postcard that featured the casino and signed his name Chip Monk.
After that, she decided a change in geography would solve her problems, and she told her uncle that she was moving to London. “It’s a wicked city,” he’d said. “Nothing but perverts, molesters, fiends.”
“If someone grabs me, I’ll kick him into tomorrow.”
“You can’t kick a can to Parks Road and back.” His white, shaggy eyebrows went up in alarm. “Don’t throw away your education. Wait until you have your doctorate.”
She hadn’t waited, and nothing had changed.
Traffic noises outside the Hotel Ustra made her sit up straighter. She rubbed her forehead. What the bloody hell had been wrong with her last night? She did not want to add Jude’s name to the Lost Boys. She wished she could throw herself into a high-powered career. Perhaps she could take up volcanology. Studying magma held more appeal than sifting through dry, crumbling texts about the Great Inquisition, which had once fascinated her. She could move to Iceland, enroll in graduate school, and plant tremor sensors around active volcanoes. She might even fall in love with a tall, blond Icelander named Jón and they’d live in a farmhouse beneath the Mýrdalsjökull glacier.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s Jammie Dodgers. Her mouth watered as she pictured a room service trolley filled with toast and sausage and apricot jam. A large pot of tea and a broiled grapefruit sprinkled with sugar would be perfect for a hangover. She reached for the phone to order room service.
“We are no longer serving breakfast,” said a woma
n in heavily accented English.
“What time is it?” Caro got out of the bed, pulling the phone with her, and glanced out the window. Dirty clouds scudded over the sun. The temperature was rising and water dripped from the eaves as snow melted from the roof.
“Noon,” said the woman. “May I recommend our restaurant? The buffet lunch offers the best of Bulgarian cuisine.”
Caro thanked her and hung up. The headache pulsed behind her eyes as she got dressed. On her way to the loo, she saw a note lying just under her door. She bent down to get it. The handwriting looked like a printed invitation, each letter tiny and precise.
Dear Caro,
I still have questions about your uncle. And I’d like a chance to know you better. Let’s have dinner tonight.
Jude
She had questions, too. Was Jude’s penmanship indicative of a controlled and self-contained personality? Or was he just another English chap with proper manners? She scanned the note again, picking his words apart, searching for hidden meaning. The first and last sentences were to the point, but the middle one was open to interpretation. I’d like a chance to know you better could also mean I’d like to get you into bed.
Her stomach rumbled again and she set the letter aside. She reached for her duffel bag. It was a bit cumbersome to lug around, but she didn’t dare leave it in her room. If anything happened to her icon, she would lose the last tangible link to her parents. She opened her bag, tossed in her uncle’s letters and passport, and headed to the lobby.
Three Bulgarian policemen stood under the chandelier, talking to a man in a red shirt who spoke Russian. Caro walked around them and veered toward the reception desk. The clerk looked up, her hoop earrings swinging.
“Excuse me,” Caro began, “but why are the police here?”
The clerk leaned across the desk. “A hotel guest is missing,” she whispered.
Caro glanced over her shoulder at the Russian man and remembered the shouting and door slamming. A lover’s quarrel, no doubt, but the police were ruthlessly questioning him.
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