by Dorian Paul
"Shall I take you home, then?"
Home? Sherborne House was not her home. She scrambled for a destination. All she came up with was Elizabeth's place, and when they pulled up outside her building on Charles Street she told Ian to leave and take Oliver home.
"No, I'll wait for you. Otherwise, Mr. Ruskin will have my head."
Mr. Ruskin, again. "Ian, go. Jim can pick me up later."
"Better that I should have the man on duty at Sherborne House sent over to wait for you."
"Okay, fine, as long as you take time to be with your son."
She managed to persuade him to remain in the car with Oliver while she mounted the steps and rang the bell. No response, but she put her hand on the doorknob and waved to Ian as if she'd been buzzed in. If he drove off now, and Elizabeth wasn't at home, she just might steal a half-hour for herself. And why not? There was nothing to fear here. Charles Street was deserted except for a young man in exercise clothes. No doubt he was headed toward Green Park, which they'd passed on their way over. Perhaps she'd follow him down the narrow alley they called Half Moon Street and across Piccadilly for a walk in the park, where leaden skies would provide the perfect backdrop to recalibrate herself and move past today.
But Elizabeth's voice greeted her through the intercom.
"Do come in. Whatever are you doing here?"
Elizabeth's chatter filled the stairwell as she trudged upstairs. "Of course, I closed my shop. Not a soul would buy clothes on a day like this, but such a relief. You must be over the moon."
Try under water.
"I find myself starving and am scouring the flat for something to eat. Will you join me?"
She had no hunger, but agreed.
"David must be beside himself, watching this from outside the country."
No, she was one beside herself. And as for David, "He returned to London this morning."
"Ah, I see. You managed to get away from Chelsea, but he's still tied up at the play school."
One way of describing the scene she'd witnessed.
"He must have a heap of details to sort out. Do you mind if I change into something more comfy?" Elizabeth pulled at the waist of her tight chocolate brown pants. "French cuisine. Delicious but naughty. I put on nearly a full stone in Paris."
She couldn't believe Elizabeth associated Paris with its effects on her figure when for her it existed as a waking dream of devastated French parents. And while London's families were spared this afternoon, it was only because Tivaz TB hadn't been released – not because she was any closer to defeating it. She made herself breathe deeply and by the time Elizabeth returned, wearing a yellow and bright pink Chinese silk robe, she'd composed herself to a degree and forgiven her friend for living in the present. Claire might not be able to match Elizabeth for relaxed grace as she carried in a silver tray with Stilton cheese and biscuits, a box of truffles, and a bottle of wine, but she forced herself squarely into the moment rather than the past or future.
"This is my favorite white burgundy. Dry, a little earthy. Try some Claire. You doubtless need it after the scare you've been through."
Alcohol was the last thing she should indulge in . . . but it didn't stop her from taking a greedy gulp of the delicious wine, followed close by another. She would've swigged the entire glass if not for pushing herself to slow down by inspecting the etched goblet. "Beautiful crystal. A family heirloom?"
For the first time in their acquaintance, Elizabeth remained silent. Then she refilled Claire's near empty wine glass to the brim. "Whatever are you doing here, Claire, on this of all days?"
It was a fair question. She'd shown up unannounced seeking God knows what.
"What's on your mind? Do you fancy a bit of girl talk?"
Girl talk? Yes, maybe that was what drew her to Elizabeth's door. But where to begin? David has another woman and I'm afraid my period will be late because we didn't use protection the night Sandra died? Could she really expect Elizabeth to be honest in return? She was David's cousin, and in her experience blood trumped all. But she needed to talk, so she quaffed more wine and took a chance on friendship.
"Who is Meg?"
Chapter 35
"I'm sorry, Claire. You must ask David about Meg."
"Your answer confirms my supposition."
"You really must speak to him. It is not so simple."
"It's pretty simple." That didn't mean she wasn't hurt, and more than a little angry at her own stupidity to put herself in the middle of his affairs. As for her friend, she'd probably behave the same way if she were in Elizabeth's shoes. "I understand why you're defending him. You're his cousin."
"You're correct that it's a family issue," Elizabeth replied, her voice oddly brittle.
Great, now she could chalk up the loss of Elizabeth as a friend alongside the loss of David as a lover. What was it about her that she ended up alone time and time again?
"Shall I tell you?"
Defeated, the details no longer mattered so much. "It's not necessary."
"I think I shall."
"Elizabeth, don't go to the trouble. I shouldn't have come here and I'm going to leave."
"Afraid not, dear. Unless I decode the alarm properly no one passes through the massive door at the bottom of the stairs, thanks to David's installation of a state-of-the-art system."
Trapped. No way out.
"David took up with Meg after Jeremy."
"Jeremy?"
"My younger brother. He worshipped David, joined the service, and joined David on a mission to Kurdistan. It went very badly, and Bobby Keane . . . well . . . Mr. Keane carried out two bodies, my dead brother and my seriously injured cousin."
Her wine buzz evaporated. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry."
"David never forgave himself, and vowed not to get seriously involved with a woman whose life might be shattered by the return of his body."
"Your brother was married?"
"No, but he was betrothed." Elizabeth delicately traced the etching on her crystal wine glass. "These goblets were to be a gift from my family for his upcoming nuptials. My parents aimed to toss them, but I saved the lot because Jeremy had chosen them. I wanted the reminder, though I rarely use them." Elizabeth sighed. "It's more than a year since Jeremy's death. I'm not over it. No one in the family is, but for David I believe the guilt and recriminations are the worst."
She understood as well as anyone that death was difficult no matter how and when it came, but the fact of seeing David with Meg didn't hurt any less.
"He thinks a married woman is safer. Especially one who has elected to remain with her husband for the sake of their children. I think he's wrong."
She agreed with Elizabeth, but to be perfectly honest, had she behaved maturely after Ben's death? Her response had been to run away to Morocco. She'd told herself she wanted to get her life back together, but in truth hadn't she been hiding from life?
"I haven't told you this to justify David's relationship with Meg. But I hope you understand he's an honorable man. Give him a chance to explain in his own words. Ask him yourself about Meg."
"In the larger scheme of things David's relationship with Meg is really none of my business."
"Darling, you must speak to him about Meg. I can see that you care for one another."
"Maybe I'll talk to him about it at some point. But look at what might have happened at the nursery school today if it was Tivaz TB? That has to be my priority." And not only because innocent lives were at stake, but because she saw her own future with clarity, and it was one that would be dedicated to science, not family. "Solving Tivaz TB and soon is the most important thing. Really all that matters."
"Love matters." Elizabeth reached across and touched her arm. "And we must take love where and when we can and cling to it."
It wasn't what she wanted to hear. She wished she'd never seen Morocco, or encountered a terrorist called Varat, or a scientist named Omar Messina. Or had a beautiful Tiger walk into her life carrying inside him the qua
ndary of a man called David Ruskin.
Later that evening, lying in her bed at Sherborne House, she told herself it was of no consequence when or if he returned, but pretending couldn't keep her from listening for the sound of his door. If only she had another box of chocolate truffles, like the one she and Elizabeth had wordlessly stuffed down their mouths at the end of her visit. Barring that, she popped a sleeping pill, determined to find a good night's sleep.
The crack of dawn found her at the lab. Another attack with Tivaz TB was the only certainty in her life now, and she led a brainstorming session to sort through her team's ideas for new development efforts. Don played devil's advocate, forcing them to work through every 'what if' scenario on the table, even as Roscoe argued single-mindedly for the strategy she'd put forward to him, that they use a protein kinase to smuggle a bactericidal drug through the Tivaz TB cell wall. So ferocious was he in representing how this could be engineered, while pointing out the drawbacks of all other proposed concepts, it was obvious he'd appropriated her suggestion as his own. Vintage Roscoe, but she didn't care as long as he took responsibility for nailing down the specifics central to her approach, which he did. A ton of hard work lay ahead and if taking credit for the idea got it done, Roscoe could have it.
"Way to go, Claire," Roscoe complimented her as the room emptied. "We kicked their butts and we're on to something."
She crossed her fingers. "Only if it works."
"Cutting edge science is all a big 'if,' but our plan makes sense."
So now it was their plan.
He angled himself close enough to touch her before whispering, "I always said we're a good team, Claire, you and me. My offer to get together stands. Anytime, anyplace."
Roscoe's timing, as usual, left a lot to be desired, but she disciplined herself not to overreact. He was a good – no, a great – bench scientist and she desperately needed his skills. "Let's get through this first."
"Sure thing. I'll start by nailing down our protein kinase."
And she'd start by finding that expert in nanotechnology, because before long, even if he were loath to admit it, Roscoe would be in over his head. But Ian derailed her good intentions by telling her, "Mr. Ruskin's tried to reach you more than once. I informed him you were in a meeting. He agreed to wait, but asked that you ring him as soon as possible."
Calling David was a priority at the bottom of her heap unless he had news about a release of Tivaz TB, and Ian would've immediately interrupted her if that were the case. Still, she couldn't avoid speaking to him from now on. Maybe it was better to have that first conversation while a sense of accomplishment from the morning session buoyed her spirits.
"Ruskin," he answered.
"Claire, returning your call."
"Darling, I'm so pleased to hear from you."
I just bet. "What can I do for you?"
"Meet me for lunch. You were fast asleep when I came in last night so I left you alone."
Of course, no need for me because you already got laid. "I'm really busy today." No lie, to be sure.
"Too busy for me? Darling, I'm anxious to see you. Give me an hour. I have a meeting after lunch. I promise I shall not keep you from your work overlong."
"David, I'm in the middle of something. I really can't leave."
"Can't or won't?"
He'd called her bluff and she refused to let him turn her into a petty liar . . . a silly female who played games. "Okay, I'll meet you, but I must get back to the lab soon."
Ian dropped her off curbside at his club, the Athenaeum on Pall Mall. Huge pillars framed the steps to the classical stone edifice, and a liveried doorman ushered her through the marble entrance to a seat in the grand lobby. She sank into the deep burgundy leather wing chair, weighed down by the formality of his world compared to the easy give and take of her lab. She didn't belong here, but was grateful she'd dressed in a black pants suit and tied her hair back in a silk scarf for this morning's meeting rather than wearing her typical lab clothes.
She had a strategy. At lunch she'd calmly tell him she knew about Meg and bow out of the picture gracefully. Well, bow out of his bed, at any rate. It was the right thing to do, and would let her put everything else aside to focus exclusively on Tivaz TB. Sharing his bed, as she had a week ago tonight, was a distraction she didn't need.
She saw the doorman greet him deferentially and point to her, but David was already smiling in her direction.
"Darling."
He looked as radiant as she'd been the morning when he'd left for Morocco after Thanksgiving. She knew he was capable of dissembling, having seen him with Varat in Tivaz. And she also knew he was a practiced ladies man, but it was still difficult to square his pleasure at seeing her today with yesterday's intimate exchange with Meg.
"I've missed you," he said and sounded sincere.
This wasn't going to be easy and it took an effort to return his smile and let him escort her toward the coatroom. He told her something of club lore on the way, and she feigned interest at learning the Athenaeum was home club to Charles Dickens. When he revealed his family's connection dated back even further she felt the complete outsider and couldn't wait to say her piece at lunch and go back to her own world in the lab.
"I know you're chock-a-block. Me as well. We'll go directly to the dining room."
Good. But before they could, a man came forward to say the club was holding a package addressed to him, and asked if he wished to take it now or after lunch.
"Afterwards, Mr. Burns," David said with easy grace. "I'm meeting with my father this afternoon and I expect his solicitor has forwarded papers for me to review."
"Mr. Hitchens? I know his stationery as he regularly sends to your father here. This is not from him."
"Forwarding address?"
"I don't believe so, sir."
"And you received it how?"
"Courier, within the last hour."
"Mr. Burns. Do not allow anyone near that package. Its contents may be dangerous."
The man recoiled. "Shall I institute the IRA bomb protocol and clear the club?"
She broke in, "David, no." She lowered her voice and spoke to David. "If it's Tivaz TB, we must quarantine everyone."
"The virus from Paris?" Mr. Burns asked, having managed to listen in, and turn paler than pale.
"Right. Which means we cannot allow anyone to enter or leave the club," David answered.
Mr. Burns twitched and rounded on David. "Begging your pardon sir, but what if it should be a bomb, not the TB?"
"Is a bomb likely?" she asked David.
"It is always a distinct possibility."
"But Tivaz TB –"
"Is most harmful to children and those who are ill, two groups not likely to be present in this club, Claire."
She balked. "But still –"
"You are correct, Varat may wish to expose us to Tivaz TB for the fear factor alone. Yet, the possibility also exists he has suborned the IRA, whose experience lies with explosives." He turned to the club manager. "Mr. Burns, we must begin preparations for either possibility. Everyone should take shelter in the basement rooms, and those who have come in contact with the package must be sequestered separately, no exceptions. The bomb squad and biohazard team shall each be summoned. I will assist. We haven't a second to waste, man. Move."
Chapter 36
"You've been given a scramasax, Mr. Ruskin." The weapons curator at the Wallace Collection lightly stroked the ragged dagger using a pair of soft cotton gloves. "Ninth century, judging by the shape of it."
What in bloody hell was a scramasax?
"Think of it as a Viking utility knife," the curator explained.
"It's a household tool?" David asked. How like Varat, connoisseur of fine things, to toy with him by bequeathing a common blade.
"Norsemen used it to skin animals, slice their food, or to kill a man."
Naturally, whatever the situation required.
"Every free man possessed one." The antique weapon
s expert drew his hand in a line parallel to his belt. "Worn in a horizontal sheath at the waist."
"Anything out of the ordinary about this specific dagger?" Other than the complete pandemonium it caused earlier at the Athenaeum Club?
"Not particularly. We've found similar in grave sites throughout England." He continued to hold the blade and rotated his wrist to demonstrate its balance. "Viking warriors were buried with their weapons so they'd be armed upon arrival in Valhalla."
Was Varat's confidence sufficient to give him a funeral gift?
"Let's see if your knife has been out in public before." The curator laid the knife on his desk. He snapped a quick digital image of the dagger and uploaded it to his computer. "Database has four scramasax that share this shape. Now we narrow it down." Images were resized and superimposed until the man tapped his finger on the screen. "Here we are. What do you know? This little fellow just sold at Christie's."
"Who purchased it?"
"An agent acting for an anonymous buyer." The curator hit a button to print the purchaser's details, and adjusted his spectacles before he leaned in to read the fine print. "Shall we see what the catalog tells us?"
While David keyed the purchasing agent's address into his handheld, it signaled an incoming call. Damn. Rather than risk another run-in with James and Bobby over what they saw as his need to stalk Varat's ghost, he'd undertaken this research mission on his own and off the books. They must be tracking him down. He excused himself and stepped into a vacant office to take the call.
"You're en route, I presume?"
His father. Bloody hell. He'd missed the meeting with the solicitor. Again. "I've been detained."
"I've completed my other business with Mr. Hitchens."
"Right. Afraid I can't make the meeting, sir."
"David."
The displeasure his father conveyed in that single word, his name, pained him. "My apologies to you both, sir. I shall reschedule before Christmas, you can be sure."