A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lucius Ransome.”

  A brief pause; an indrawn breath. “Well, hi! I knew she worked for one of the Ransome Group companies, but I didn’t realise she reported directly to—wow.” Throat clearing; and again. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ransome. Lucius.” The tone was now slickly businesslike. “Even if it is just over the phone. Leon Dahl here, of Dahl Investments.”

  He leaned back against the door, shoving a tightly clenched fist in a pocket. “I’m glad I answered. Callie said you had some terrific prospect for which you were lining up investors, but she didn’t have any details when I asked. Women, eh?”

  “No heads for this sort of thing. Well, not my little sister at any rate.”

  This boy needed a smack. “I’d be interested in getting more information on it.”

  The thrill that engendered practically came through the phone, but there was no anxiety in Leon’s voice when he spoke again, just cool calm that reminded him of Callie. “I’d be happy to discuss it with you, Lucius. Let me check my sched—”

  “I just had a cancellation. Can you be here in half an hour?”

  Amazingly enough, Leon could manage that just fine.

  ***

  Callie slid into his office. Forgot my phone, she mouthed, as he was on a call.

  He smiled absently, pointing to the table, where the edge of her phone peeked out from beneath some papers and folders.

  “Now would be perfect,” he said to the caller, holding up his hand to her to prevent her from leaving. “Yes.” He hanged up the receiver. “Cal, I wanted to ask you—where the hell did I put it?” He shuffled papers, opened and closed drawers, cursed a little.

  A rap on the door sounded, and Rachel poked her head in. “Cal, here you are! Do you have a couple of hours free? I need you to sit in on a meeting with MHG.”

  She was supposed to meet Leon this afternoon, but he hadn’t called to confirm the time, and she had to get to the bank first. Damn it. “I don’t think I’m free—”

  Her phone rang, and she answered.

  “Something’s come up,” Leon said, obviously excited. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she agreed slowly, puzzled. The line went dead. “I guess I can do the meeting, Rache. When is it?”

  “In an hour.”

  “Boardroom?”

  “At their offices. Mississauga. We have to fly.”

  “All right. Lucius? What did you need?”

  He waved a hand. “It’ll wait. Go. Give ’em hell.”

  “Okay,” she agreed with a helpless air. All the rushing and interruption and changed plans—no one was behaving normally today! With a sigh, she moved to follow Rachel.

  “Cal?”

  She looked back at him.

  “Dinner tonight, doll?”

  Her smile was probably over-the-top ridiculously happy, matching the feeling surging through her. “Yes. Please.”

  ***

  Leon Dahl was such an easy mark that Lucius played him effortlessly. Desperate for money, awed by the Ransomes generally and Lucius specifically, it was a cakewalk getting him to spill all the details of the investment scheme—which was high-risk disaster in a dormant real estate development. A scam from beginning to end—perpetrated on Leon, not by him.

  The funny thing was, Lucius found himself liking the younger man, and hadn’t expected to. Charming in a way, far more sophisticated than his sister, articulate and fairly bright—though not nearly a match for Callie.

  And she was right—Leon would probably get it right someday. But that would happen only through luck, for the man was looking for an easy and quick road.

  Fortunately, Lucius was willing to provide it.

  A glance at the time told him to move things along—Rachel had promised to keep Callie out for two hours, and the clock was running down.

  “This isn’t the investment for me,” he said. “However,” he raised a hand as Leon began to iterate all the (wrong) reasons that wasn’t so, “I do have something that will suit you much better.”

  And of course, Leon agreed to the terms of his proposal. Every last one of them.

  ***

  An annoyed look at Rachel—who looked back with smug lack of repentance before disappearing into Ken’s office—netted nothing but further delay for Callie as Lucius, obviously looking for her, grabbed her hand and dragged her to his office. A short, “No calls,” instruction tossed at Dana was followed by the closing and locking of the door behind them, and he promptly dragged her into his arms to kiss her senseless.

  “What happened to private?” she demanded, gasping, when he finally released her.

  “See anyone else here?” he mocked, nipping her chin. “What are you looking so pissed about?”

  “Rachel got a call halfway to the meeting to say it was cancelled and, rather than coming back here, she insisted that we take a long lunch to discuss the Barden project in leisure—but then didn’t have any of her notes about it. I’ve never seen her so scattered and . . . idiotic.”

  “Well, I have,” he grinned. “Not as unusual as you’d think. Did you have fun, at least?”

  “Well, of course. Rachel’s great company—What are you doing?” she gasped, embarrassed and aroused as he started unbuttoning her blouse.

  “It’s been almost two full days since I held you. I miss you,” he muttered, not at all distracted as he curved an arm under her bottom and lifted her, carrying her to one of the sofas, shifting articles of clothing aside . . .

  Much later, a very pleased-with-himself-and-her Lucius shifted his weight off her, but didn’t allow her to get up, cradling her in his arms on the rather squishy narrowness of the sofa. Not that she was objecting.

  “Do you have a passport?” he asked, nuzzling her throat.

  “What? Yes.”

  “Is it up to date?”

  “Oh,” she moaned softly, trying to think. “Yes, it’s current.”

  “Good. We’ll fly to London on Monday.”

  “London?”

  “Yes. You know. The capital of the UK. Big city on the Thames. Where I live?”

  Right. He wanted to go home. How long would he stay here? Until things were resolved with the family, of course. A couple of months, he had said. Wanted to be home for Christmas, he said.

  The ephemeral affair.

  “Why are we going to London?”

  “I have business to handle in person at LCR. And don’t you need to do some onsite research?”

  She sat up, looking down at him for a moment, her distaste for travel warring with her desire to be with him wherever he went.

  Onsite research . . .

  Her eyes lifted to the ravens, and the eerie house on the escarpment behind them, and excitement ran through her.

  ***

  The storage box of documents from Maddie arrived just before five and Callie despaired—on top of her other work, there was no time to scan them all before she and Lucius left for London, and she wanted access to any clues they might hold while away. Trying to cancel dinner with him and not getting anywhere on that as she ran into the barricade of his determined personality, she was quietly freaking out inside when Dana walked into her office around seven that night.

  The woman took one look at the organised disaster of papers and said icily: “Lucius requires you in his office now. Leave this for tomorrow.”

  There was no arguing with Dana, of course, so she surrendered.

  And the next morning, miracle-of-miracles, she arrived at work to find that Dana had arranged a temp for the express purpose of scanning and organising the documents. Callie thanked her profusely, but the only response was a frosty nod. The temp—Sydney—was bright and funny and followed instructions like a dream, and Callie could not have asked for a better assistant.

  Regardless, with the extra help, plus the fact that she hadn’t heard anything more from Leon, Sunday night found her much more relaxed—maybe especially because she was back in
Lucius’ bed, where she had spent every night that week.

  The vibration of his throaty chuckle rippled through her as he nuzzled her nape, a hand dragging through her sweat-dampened curls before he rolled to his back with a satisfied groan.

  “Feel better?” she asked languidly over her shoulder.

  “Mm.” He pulled a corkscrew out straight, observing the length before releasing it, grinning crookedly as it collapsed on itself like a tight spring to a fraction of its length. “Much better. You?”

  “Exhausted,” her shaky laughter muffled by the pillow. With an effort, she twisted her body into a sitting position. “And my hair’s a mess now. But yeah, I feel great.”

  “I like your hair like this. As if you had electroshock at the cute asylum.”

  She groaned at the description. “It’ll take eons to fix. Vain as it sounds, I want it to look it’s best for my first flight.”

  “You’ve never flown before?”

  “No need to sound astounded. It wasn’t like my parents owned Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

  He grinned at that. “I guess not. But what about vacation time? You don’t go anywhere?”

  “No. At most jobs I’ve had, I negotiated for vacation pay rather than the vacation. FalTech offers that, too, so . . .” She shrugged.

  That received a narrowly contemplative and annoyed look. Finally, “Are you sure you don’t need to take more than that?”

  They both looked to where her new, rather smallish suitcase lay open on a travel rack he had found in his closet for her.

  “We’re only going for a few days. How much do I need?”

  “I wasn’t criticising,” he grinned. “Quite the opposite. And if we stay longer than expected, I’ll make sure you’re outfitted for it.”

  “No more buying things for me,” she scolded.

  An astonished expression passed over his features. “I haven’t bought you anything!”

  “Glasses? Laptop? Expensive dinners?”

  “Oh. That’s nothing,” he scorned. “Do you realise you don’t own any jewellery?”

  “Oh, no! Please. I do have some earrings, but . . . I—I don’t like jewellery,” she stated wildly and somewhat untruthfully. “But about England—we both have obligations here. No staying away longer than needed.”

  A glimmer of avid desperation flitting across his face. It had been some days since she had heard or seen any hint of the deeper issues between him and his family—and was instantly struck by its profundity.

  “You know what I’ve been wondering,” she said quickly, sliding her body over his, “is what made you give up the band and become a straight arrow.”

  Startled, he laughed, his arms going around her. “I don’t know. Just . . . timing. Decided I didn’t want to be a rock star.”

  “You would have made an awesome one,” she grinned. “But you’re okay as you are.”

  “Geez. Thanks.”

  “Your family’s crazy about you, you know.” She didn’t know why she said that.

  “They’re just crazy,” he chuckled, but his gaze flicked away. “Looking forward to getting away from them again.”

  She lowered her head to his shoulder, softly kissing his smooth skin, wondering at the sense of dread she felt on his behalf. If possible, he likely wouldn’t come back at all.

  If it were merely about business, well . . . he could probably run the entire Ransome Group from overseas were he responsible for it. That wasn’t the problem. The Ransomes would shuffle along all right, but . . . Her sole concern was Lucius.

  “Do you really intend on leaving them for good?”

  “No, not in a familial sense. Of course not. But being the Fixer for them? That’s done.”

  I hope. He didn’t say it, but she read it in his face. And maybe to get there, he would cut himself off from them permanently.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The midmorning breeze caressed her face as she stood on the garden terrace of Lucius’ fantastic riverside two-level duplex Bermondsey flat, awestruck by the view. Sunlight sparkled on the murky waters of the Thames as the Tower Bridge bascule lifted for river traffic and gleamed on the crenulated edges of the White Tower. The Olympic rings installation on the Bridge warned that the city would go mad in a few days as the Games began.

  Further upstream, she could see the dome of St. Paul and there, on the south bank, dominating all, was the Shard, reflecting sky and stone; awe-inspiring, alien, and apt all at once.

  She laughed aloud, clasping her hands to her forehead and muttering in disbelief, “I’m looking at a thousand years of architecture. Nine hundred plus,” she corrected herself pedantically.

  “What are you giggling about?” He came up behind her, arms bracketing her as he placed his hands on the railing.

  Twisting around to wrap her arms about his neck, she decorated his face with happy, pale pink kisses, making him laugh. “Thank you, thank you! I have so many thousands of miles of road behind me that the thought of travelling made me ill. But this is so phenomenal. I’ll always remember it.”

  “Even though I dragged you here against your will?” he said, pulling her close.

  “Well, without being given a choice,” she concurred, thumbing traces of lipstick from his skin. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t wait to explore.”

  “I have to go into the office for a few hours.”

  “Where’s the office?”

  “Near Blackfriars. On the other side of the river. Come on.” Holding her hand, he led the way inside. “Your cell. Is it unlocked?”

  “Yes.” She found it in her satchel. “It won’t work here. Will it?”

  Opening the back, he removed the battery and swapped out the SIM card, handing her the original. “Now it will. Here’s the number for my phone,” he handed her an LCR business card. “Go explore, but be careful, and call me if you run into any trouble.”

  “I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself,” she declared, much amused.

  “Well, you don’t look like you can, and bad people can take advantage of that,” he crooned with deliberate condescension, making her grin even wider. “Where are you planning on going?”

  “The house in Chelsea. Don’t you want to come and see it?”

  “Not so much. Here. Keys for here and Chelsea. I’ve called the caretaker and told him you’d be coming, but if he’s not around, just go right in. His name is Hood.”

  “Huh.” She spun her laptop around, already booted up. “It really is the same family, as you said. On the old census records. The gardener and three of the house servants were Hoods. Husband and wife maybe? And two young men.” She found and opened the images. “Odd though.”

  “What?”

  “They weren’t married. Maybe they were siblings. Look.” She pointed at a census image; 1901. “Martin Hood, 55, widowed. Wilhelmina Hood, 53, single. Peter Hood, 21, single. George Hood, 18, single. They could be Martin’s children. Or Wilhelmina’s illegitimate sons!” she grinned at the idea of scandal. “Or some other relation.”

  “It doesn’t show relationships?”

  “Only to the head of the household—Neville, in this case. So they’re listed by their function. Say, while I have you, do you know who this is?” She scrolled through Sydney’s wonderfully organised folders of scanned images of the Ransome papers, finding a group of photographs, and selected one of a young woman who had Lucius’ eyes.

  “No. Who is she?”

  “No one knows who she is. There was no name or date on the picture, though judging by the clothes and the style of the image, I’d guess it was mid-late-to-late-nineteenth century. Since you look like her, sort of, across the eyes, I thought you might know.”

  “By osmosis? Or dint of genes?”

  “Just that you might have seen the picture when you were young and asked about it,” she retorted with mock petulance.

  “I have seen the picture before,” he agreed, “but wasn’t curious enough to ask. Family history held no interest for me.”
<
br />   “I hear that,” she chuckled. “I’m working from the assumption that she’s a Venable, perhaps Elizabeth’s sister—she had two.”

  “Leaping to a conclusion? How very Ransome Family of you.”

  “Not a conclusion. A tentative theory. The story is that you and Gordon got those eyes from Elizabeth, and while I’ll concede the colour until proven otherwise, the shape isn’t right. These, on my MNCW, are.”

  “Acronym translation, please.”

  “Mystery nineteenth-century woman.”

  “Holy crap,” he muttered in amused protest. “But I’m glad you’re so jazzed over my eyes.”

  “And Gordon’s,” she said with prim gravity.

  He kissed her even as he glanced at the time. “I should go.”

  “Sorry,” she sighed. “I’m boring.”

  That earned her a long, slow, and not-boring kiss, his hands buried in her hair as he cradled her head. “Not boring. I like that you’re meticulous. But don’t get bogged down in details.”

  “I just want answers to all the questions anyone might throw at me.”

  The next kiss was even more thorough, and as he pulled back again, his eyes were glimmering with lust and humour. “It’s good to have the right answers.”

  ***

  It was tempting to walk, for the day was clear and bright and the temperature much cooler than in Toronto, but after spending almost an hour just admiring the cobblestones in Lucius’ immediate neighbourhood, time was obviously not going to be her friend. So, she hopped on the Tube for Chelsea, which was much further away than she thought at any rate.

  Mr. Hood, an attractive man in his early-fifties, was a gracious guide, apologising for the absence of his wife who knew much more of the history of the beautiful but sparsely decorated townhouse. Few of the furnishings seemed old enough to have belonged to Neville, though many of the books in the library had been his. While Mr. Hood talked, Callie rifled through books, in the somewhat romantic hope there might exist a diary or journal from Neville, or even Carlyle. Of course, she found none, but it was something to be checked off the theories list. (Uncle Charles, who kept a journal, was convinced he had inherited the notion from Neville—therefore, there must be a journal, right? Wrong.)