Charles turned to go back into his house and noticed a newspaper ruffling in the wind. It was caught under the leg of a chair. Cordelia or Sinclair must have left it. He walked over to collect the pages, so they wouldn’t blow away. On the front page was a picture of the volcano in Iceland. The photo credit was Jude Blackwell, the famous volcano photographer.
The eruption looked positively awful. He’d better get the ferry to the mainland soon and return to Paris. Everyone else had gone. Sinclair and Cordelia had flown back to London, and Victoria was on her way to Norway in the royal jet.
Charles scanned around for anything else that had been left behind. He noticed a bright object under the lounge chair. It was a white hair elastic from Victoria’s ponytail. He picked it up and slipped it over his wrist as he walked back into the house to pack.
HOTEL FRON, REYKJAVIK, ICELAND
Photographer Jude Blackwell sat on his bed staring into space. He was still shell-shocked from his near-death experience in the helicopter. It had been a very close call. Up until now, risking his life had always seemed like a game. But not this time. He could still taste the sulfur from the volcano in the back of this throat.
Of course, he had sent his pictures of Eyjafjallajökull out to the major news organizations. And they wanted even more.
He picked up his laptop and began to scroll through the photos again. The plume of the volcano extended more than four miles above the earth. That put it at a level five out of eight on the Volcanic Explosivity Index. That kind of VEI reading was considered cataclysmic, making it one of the most dangerous eruptions since primordial times.
In the video, the roiling ash cloud filled the screen. The column of dark and light volcanic debris looked like marbleized granite. He knew the science. The dark streaks indicated that magma pressure had developed deep underground. The white ash was characteristic of a steam-driven eruption.
The photo shimmered with electric charges. Lightning storms sometimes flared up during a volcanic explosion, generated by friction of the ash particles. In this case, the large thunderbolts had turned into balls of lightning, an extremely uncommon phenomenon.
There was no question about it. He would have to leave Iceland before all the planes were grounded.
OSLO, NORWAY
Princess Victoria stepped out of the limousine, dismissed her bodyguard, and walked up the steps to her apartment. Her little flat in downtown Oslo was her private refuge, a haven away from palace life.
Not that she was alone here. Official staff included a housekeeper, laundress, driver, and chef. But there was only one security guard. Her parents were willing to give her a little freedom while she was still young.
The door opened, and Mrs. Erickson, the housekeeper, came forward to greet her. The woman skimmed a quick curtsy and held out her hands for the suitcase and raincoat.
“Welcome back, your Royal Highness.”
“Good evening. I trust you are well?” Victoria inquired.
“Yes, thank you.”
The older woman hung up the coat, fussing with the exact placement of the hanger.
“I sent the other suitcase up to the palace to be unpacked,” Victoria told her. “It contains some jewels—the ones I wore at the gala in Rome.”
The housekeeper turned to reply, her expression studiously neutral.
“Very good. Would you care for anything else?”
“No, thank you. I already had something to eat on the plane.”
Mrs. Erickson’s gaze shifted to the floor. She seemed nervous. Victoria stared at her, puzzled.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Victoria asked.
Mrs. Erickson looked up. “No, just that I’ve left some mail and a newspaper on your desk …”
“I’ll have a look.”
In her private sitting room, Victoria sank into an oversized armchair and put her feet on the ottoman. She took out her smartphone. It was still powered down from the flight. Should she turn it on?
Charles was unlikely to call. They agreed to speak later in the week. There was no one else she wanted to talk to.
Now that she was back in Oslo, there would be all kinds of messages about her schedule and obligations. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with it all. She dropped the silent phone into her purse and leaned back in the chair to think.
Her fingers reached up and toyed with the new necklace. It was an 18-karat gold volcano charm. Charles gave it to her as a memento of her trip to Capri.
“It’s Mount Vesuvius,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t find something nicer, but the souvenir stand was the only place that was open on Sunday morning.”
“Its adorable,” she said. “Put it on for me.”
“It’s your element. Fire.”
With clumsy fingers, he fastened it around her neck, fumbling with the clasp.
“Goodbye, V,” he said.
His voice was so somber. So final. Was he saying goodbye forever?
Victoria sighed as she came out of her reverie. What would happen to her and Charles? Everything was so complicated.
She realized it was growing late. Tomorrow’s schedule would be demanding. Not only would she resume training for the Norwegian Olympic biathlon team, but the royal protocol office would also have set up a schedule of appearances.
She moved her feet off the ottoman and picked up her jacket. Weary, she walked along the small corridor that led to her bedroom. The lights were dimmed, and the bed was turned down.
Victoria caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing table mirror—a mature young woman with a serious expression. How melancholy she looked tonight.
As she glanced at the dressing table, she noticed that a newspaper had been placed next to her perfume bottles. Her name was in the headline. Not “V” as usual. This time they used her full title, “Princess Victoria.”
Victoria picked up the paper and gasped aloud in shock.
GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON, ENGLAND
John Sinclair stepped out of the cab in front of the London townhouse and reached back for Cordelia’s hand. She emerged from the car, her eyes sparkling, happy to be home.
“Let’s just have a quiet evening, shall we?” she suggested.
“I’m all for it.” he said, happy to have a relaxing, romantic dinner.
The door of the townhouse opened, and his assistant, Malik, came out to help carry the luggage. The young man had an uncanny ability to appear whenever needed.
“Good evening, sir.”
Malik had originally been a helper on Sinclair’s archaeological dig in Turkey. Now he served as the official majordomo of the London household. The young man was indispensible, taking care of everything from booking flights to ordering groceries.
As Malik came down the steps, he was pushed off balance by a blur of silver and black fur. It was Kyrie. The dog began a wild dance on the front sidewalk, running up and down, barking in paroxysms of joy. Kyrie was looking for some roughhousing from her master.
“Down, girl,” Sinclair said, grabbing for her collar.
Sinclair first encountered the Norwegian elkhound as a half-starved stray in Ephesus. Their friendship began over a shared sandwich. Every day thereafter, the dog returned to sit in the dust and watch him work.
Sinclair got used to her. He even started talking to the pup about archaeological finds, informing her whenever he found something important. Kyrie always listened with quiet intelligence. When Sinclair moved to London, there was no question that the dog would come with him.
Kyrie barked while wagging her tail. Cordelia laughed. “She’s insane, John. You’d better take her for a walk.”
He looked down. Cordelia was on her knees, her arms wrapped around Kyrie’s neck, trying to avoid being licked in the face. There was something so maternal in the tableau; his heart contracted. It was foolish to wait any longer. Tonight he would ask Delia the big question.
Sinclair crossed the beautiful rectangular lawn of Grosvenor Square as Kyrie nosed around, sniffin
g under the trees. He unclipped the leash and let the dog wander, grateful for a moment to collect his thoughts.
Grosvenor Square was a quiet oasis in the middle of London—a small park rimmed with townhouses. The area had long been associated with American expatriates. John Adams had established the first US mission to the Court of St. James here in 1785. Now, the modern American embassy stood at the far end, the largest diplomatic post in Europe.
Sinclair usually walked to the perimeter of the embassy and passed by the Marine guard posts. This was where Kyrie usually did her business, and then they would return home. He gathered the leash and prepared to go back to the townhouse.
What exactly should he say to Cordelia? Would she accept his proposal right away? He had everything he needed—the engagement ring was still in his luggage, a bottle of champagne was cooling in the refrigerator. But it might be nice to pick up some flowers.
What about Tuscan poppies? Delia loved the story about the Romans boiling the center of the blossom to “soothe the aches of love.” But that particular variety was indigenous to the Mediterranean. Poppies would be difficult to find in central London. A dozen roses would have to do.
A rumble of thunder sounded overhead, interrupting his thoughts. He’d better get a move on, or he’d be soaked. And tonight especially, he didn’t want to deal with a wet dog.
The nearest flower shop was at Claridge’s, on Brook Street, a block away. As he started toward the hotel, the liveried doorman waved, and Kyrie started to pull on the leash.
“Good evening, Mr. Sinclair. Hello there, Kyrie,” the doorman called out.
Sinclair stopped for a moment and allowed the doorman to pet the animal.
Pulling a dog biscuit out of his pocket, he broke off a piece, and Kyrie sat politely to accept her treat. It was their normal ritual. Kyrie gobbled down the first portion and kept her eyes on his hands for the rest.
“It’s nice to see you, George.”
“You haven’t been around lately, Mr. Sinclair. Where’ve you been? America?”
“No, I just got back from Capri. We had to come home early. That volcano in Iceland is acting up.”
“Oh, I know. It’s a mess. All the flights are cancelled, and the hotel guests are stuck.”
“Sorry to hear,” Sinclair sympathized. “Look, I’ve got to run. It feels like rain, and I need to grab some flowers for Cordelia.”
“Keep the missus happy, that’s what I always say,” George said as he winked.
Sinclair smiled to himself. Cordelia wasn’t a missus yet, but after tonight that ring was going to be on her finger.
The hotel flower kiosk was open. There were beautiful mauve roses, the petals soft and layered in perfect bloom. Cordelia would love them.
Sinclair bought a dozen and turned to leave. His eye caught the headlines in the newsstand. The Sun. Something about Princess Victoria.
Intrigued, Sinclair pulled out the newspaper and read.
“Princess Victoria Smuggled into Capri Love Nest”
What?
He shifted the flowers and thumbed through the pages. This was worse than he could have imagined. The reporters had caught him driving into the Villa Brindisi.
He was seated at the wheel of the car and had been identified as the paramour of the princess. There was an arrow indicating where Victoria had been hidden in the back seat.
This was awful. The article described him as “international playboy, John Sinclair.” According to the Sun, he was an absolute cad. There were dozens of pictures of his former girlfriends. In fact, they had listed the name of every woman he had ever dated. Even some he hadn’t.
For the briefest second, he considered hiding the paper from Cordelia. But it was pointless. It would be better to get it all out in the open and be done with it.
George gave him another wave as he passed by again.
“Say hi to the missus for me.”
Sinclair nodded and kept going. This wasn’t going to be quite the evening he had planned.
It was starting to sprinkle, so he picked up his pace. Their townhouse was only a few blocks away. As he walked along, he couldn’t get over the absurdity of the situation.
Did someone tip off the reporters? Who would have done that?
As he turned the corner into Grosvenor Street, a gaggle of photographers were setting up their tripods. The spindly black sticks and long-distance lenses looked like a battery of artillery, trained on the front door. Sinclair gathered Kyrie’s leash and started to walk at a brisker pace.
“Here he is!” someone shouted.
The cameras sounded in a continuous staccato until he and the dog retreated inside. Sinclair shut the door firmly. The entrance hall was empty.
Cordelia called out from the parlor. “In here, John.”
“Kyrie, go,” he said, opening the door to the basement kitchen.
Kyrie headed down. The housekeeper, Margaret, would deal with the wet paws.
Sinclair composed himself and walked into the living room, dreading the impending conversation.
Cordelia was sitting with her feet tucked up on the Regency sofa, a Wedgwood cup of Earl Grey tea halfway to her lips. The low table held a Georgian silver teapot and a plate of English ginger biscuits.
She beamed at him. “You brought me flowers?”
He looked down and suddenly remembered.
“Yes, I’ll go put them in water.”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll ring for Margaret.”
Bellpulls were a holdover from Victorian times. She gave the tassel a firm tug. Sinclair put the roses on the chair and hesitated, uncertain how to begin.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked. “It’s turned a bit chilly, don’t you think?”
“It’s starting to rain,” he said, walking to the windows to check the photographers.
They were all still there with lenses poking out from underneath rain-slicked ponchos, like some kind of strange primitive beasts. By now it was pelting, and cars were splashing through the puddles. A gust of wind lifted the lace curtains, so he shut the sash. When he turned toward Cordelia, she was staring at him, nibbling on a ginger snap.
“Why did you get the Sun? You don’t usually read that paper, do you?
“There’s a headline you might want to take a look at.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, popping the rest of the cookie in her mouth, wiping her fingers on a napkin.
She read a few lines, chewing slowly. Then she swallowed and looked up, her eyes troubled.
“John, they think you seduced Victoria!” she said, putting a hand through her hair.
This was the gesture she made when completely unnerved. Clearly, the article about all his former girlfriends was what concerned her most. Cordelia had no idea that he had such a lively past when it came to women.
“I’m going to kill Charles for getting me involved,” he swore.
“And what about all these women?”
“I barely know half those girls.”
She stared at him, her eyes hurt. “Half would still be too many.”
“But most of them are just friends.”
“Well, you certainly have a lot of attractive friends.”
“Including you,” he countered. “Not a friend … I meant … you are also very—”
She cut him off. “You realize this is rather embarrassing for me.”
He decided he should take a stronger position. “This isn’t about you, Delia.”
“I beg to differ,” she shot back. “According to this article, I’m the ‘jilted girlfriend.’”
“Well, you know these tabloids just invent whatever they want.” Her face was stricken. “How many were there?”
“Delia. I would think that question were beneath you,” he stonewalled.
But she didn’t back down. “Under the circumstances, I have every right to know.”
“So a full confession would satisfy you?” he asked, irritated.
She stared in silence.
> “You should try to fix the mess you got yourself into,” she said.
“It’s not my mess. It’s Charles’s.”
“It’s you being labeled the biggest cad in Europe, not Charles.”
“A boldfaced lie.”
“Do you have any other girlfriends now?”
He stared at her, appalled.
“Delia, I’ve been with you for two years. Of course not.”
“How do I know you’ve been faithful?”
He sputtered. This was preposterous! She was becoming completely unreasonable. Furious, he walked toward the window. The photographers were still there.
“You’ll just have to trust me,” he said tersely. “And as for the past, I don’t see the point in dwelling on it.”
“I’m not dwelling on it,” she huffed.
“There’s something else you should know,” he said.
“What else could there possibly be?”
“There are about ten paparazzi right across the street.”
“I told you not to get involved,” she muttered.
He whirled, fuming. Now that was too much.
“Wait just a second, Delia. You were the one who asked me to help.”
“I did not. I told you to get rid of her!”
“I did get rid of her. I drove her back to Brindy’s house,” he said a little too loudly.
He realized he was dangerously close to losing his temper.
“I’m sorry, Delia,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I don’t think fighting about this is constructive.”
“So what do you want to do?” she said coldly.
“I probably should go talk to Charles.”
“Where is he?”
“In Paris, with his mother. Why don’t we both go there?”
“You mean run away?” she asked.
He came over and sat down next to her on the sofa.
“Why not? Or we could go to Ephesus,” he suggested.
“We can’t. The planes are grounded.”
“We can take a boat or a train.”
“You’re using this as an excuse to leave again,” she accused.
“That’s not true.”
Summer of Fire Page 8