“The Ransome collection is here,” Nathan indicated, and led the way into another room . . .
Callie hiccupped surprise. Lucius uttered a shocked grunt.
Rembrandt and Titian; Vermeer and Constable; Delacroix and Heda . . . and more.
“May I photograph them?” she asked. The request wasn’t for the HRF; it was about having images of these works that had not been seen by the public in generations. The thrill of gaining such almost esoteric knowledge was too much to resist.
“Of course. No flash, though, please.”
“It would glare off the oils anyway,” she agreed obliquely and set about her business.
Running both hands over his head, Lucius chuckled suddenly. “Well, Lily got the high end of the inheritance in the art department.”
“The Ransomes had been collecting art for a long time,” Nathan concurred. “Neville’s father—I don’t know his name—”
“William,” Callie provided absently.
“—inherited his father’s collection, which he’d started building as soon as he made his fortune during the Napoleonic Wars. Why Neville left it all to his daughter rather than his son is a mystery, but if I recall, there was a separate collection that went to Carlyle?”
They both laughed at that. “Yes,” Lucius said. “Carlyle got the whackadoodle collection. Some valueless works by unknown Victorian and Edwardian artists,” he clarified.
Over lunch on a veranda, Nathan asked why the sudden interest in family history for, though he was pleased to find Ransomes lacked the horns his forefathers had sworn they had, he had never been contacted by any before. And forgive him for saying so, but Lucius did not strike him as the sort of genealogical tourist so common in the UK these days.
The glint in his eyes indicated that he knew exactly who Lucius was, and Callie found the whole process of the politely non-articulated suspicion and scepticism intriguing.
Lucius smiled his deceptively lazy smile, casting a glance her way. “It certainly didn’t start that way, but the Ransomes have always had an obsession with family secrets. That obsession has cost them a great deal of money, and I set out to disprove it—well, asked Callie to disprove it.”
“Is this about Neville Ransome’s secret loot?”
Callie was too astonished to mask her reaction to the question, but Lucius only laughed. “Holy crap,” he said mildly. “I thought the rumour was limited to my family.”
Nathan made a slight gesture. “All old families—indeed, I would suspect all families generally—have such lore, of lost fortunes or missed financial opportunity. Tell me, have you found anything?” His eyes were on Callie, the presumed weakest link in any deception they might be playing.
“We believe there’s nothing to find, treasure-wise,” she said with deliberate thoughtfulness. “But—” She looked to Lucius for permission, and he nodded slightly. “We think Neville played outside his marriage. We’re constructing a theory that both Carlyle and Lily knew of their father’s transgression, and it was somehow the cause of their falling out.”
“Scandal is always intriguing. In my experience, however, families fall out more frequently over money.”
“But Lily married well and the property was divided fairly between her and Carlyle—value of the respective art collections notwithstanding. We have a letter that she wrote him, and it was full of hurt and bitterness of something far more personal and important than mere money.”
Lucius chuckled that she, of all people, put a diminished modifier on money. “Our research is to put the rumours to rest. To stop my family from chasing these shadows.”
This statement—and perhaps the hint of frustration tingeing the humoured tone of it—got Nathan’s undivided attention. “There are many rumours these days about the Ransome clan in financial circles. It is said that their fortunes—and their chronic mismanagement of them—will not survive the death of Gordon Ransome.”
Casually, Lucius asked: “Why would you know anything of them?”
“The name of Lucius Ransome is not unknown. And stands out all the more against the backdrop of his notoriously irresponsible family—whom he still rescues on a regular basis.”
He did not respond. It was one thing for him to criticise the Ransomes. Quite something else for a stranger—albeit a cousin-stranger—to do so.
“It is remarkable that you caught me here,” the man went on, smiling and relaxing in his chair. “I rarely come down during the week. I live in London, generally. Head up Valmar, you know.”
Surprise registered on Lucius’ features. A slow smile spread across his features. “You’re that Nathan Crawford. One of LCR’s biggest clients.”
“Yes, I’d say.”
He laughed; shot a glance at Callie. “Some researcher! Minor baronet.”
“What?” She looked from one to the other.
“Nathan is not a ‘Sir.’ He’s Lord Linchmere. A baron.”
“Oh. Is that different than a baronet?”
Both men chuckled. “Little bit,” Lucius smiled, and brushed his knuckles over her cheek.
It was obvious that the distant cousins had concluded that they were like-minded men and an actual friendship was in the making. Lingering tension between them dissipated, and when Nathan suggested to Callie that she might find the framed depiction of the Venable family tree in the library of some interest, she left them alone. She hadn’t photographed the Venable portraits yet, and that definitely had to be done.
Lucius watched her go, thinking that he had not seen even hint of bitterness in her smile that day, and wondering how to keep it at bay for her forever.
“Was the theft of the diary really an accident?” Nathan asked dryly.
“Yes, I think so. Aside from being essentially honest, in the most rudimentary sense, Cal doesn’t dissimulate well.”
“She is very direct,” his cousin agreed ruefully, as if recalling his first meeting with her the previous day.
They talked of business interests and markets for a while, and then:
“Are you stepping down from LCR?” Nathan asked finally.
“No. I expect to be back full time by October-end. December at the latest.”
“What will happen to the Ransome Group?”
What would happen if he never came back, as planned? Gramps would kill himself working to keep it together. And Nathan was right—after Gramps was gone, the companies would crumble and the family would be rapidly bankrupt. Within a year or two.
“Being head of a family is a heavy burden,” Nathan observed.
“I’m not head of the family,” he protested emphatically, laughing.
“Aren’t you? Who is then?”
“Gramps—Gordon,” he clarified.
Nathan looked off across the gardens. “I know a good deal of the Ransome family—its ups and downs financially. The only stability they’ve seen over the last decade is when the Fixer came home.” He tossed an amused glance at Lucius to catch his rolled-eye expression. “Everyone knows that sobriquet. When you’re in charge, your family obeys. When you step away, they stumble on their own. The question is—is that deliberate?”
“Deliberate?”
“Like children acting out to get the attention of a parent.”
“Holy crap,” he muttered at the analogy.
“I have virtually no family now, aside from the proverbial crotchety-but-honest uncle. My parents and brother died quite tragically when I was a boy.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nathan lifted a shoulder. “I barely remember them now, and theoretically one does not miss what one does not know. But family or no,” he smiled, with a glance at the doorway into which Callie had disappeared, “you are a lucky man. A woman like that could take a man far, to places he never knew existed. If she were willing.”
That was a problem, one Lucius hadn’t really acknowledged. But the fact that it was apparent even to a casual onlooker underscored how far he had to go to actually win Callie over.
For though he loved her, she did not love him. Not yet, at any rate. Thanks to her lovingly useless parents, the value and joy of love was not something she could factor for she had never known it. He did . . . thanks to his loving and mostly useless family. With dawning gratification, what his family had provided him held new significance; he had taken them for granted.
On either side of that fine line he and Callie had been raised, separating their respective perceptions of what love meant. Mere degrees apart—despite disappointments in that area (a.k.a. Especially Anita) and his general mutiny from the Ransomes, he was far more open to the concept than she—he had the effective benefits of being included in the surrounding love of his parents in his youth, while she had been excluded from the selfish isolation of hers.
He had been taught that love was a possibility. She had learned it was useless.
It was going to take time to convince her. So, he would give her all the time she needed.
Men don’t think about love; they merely love. And as he had more than his share of confidence and arrogance, could not conceive of failure. So the problem got no further reflection.
He had forgotten that she was a quantifier who envisioned problems in minutiae . . . and would marry all that to a baseline of fear that he didn’t even know was there.
Chapter Fifteen
All told, they were in England for almost three weeks, and it came with unexpected and sharp disappointment that Lucius easily agreed to return to Toronto when she suggested it. There should have been more resistance.
The days had been productive as she organised and annotated information, and began assembling an outline of the final HRF report while Lucius put in time at LCR offices—though there were still questions to be answered and documents to be received, the sheer mass of what she had already gathered needed sorting and consideration for the best means of presentation.
The last nights in London were spent alone together, and she, sensing the end of her fling would come soon after the presentation, rolled herself in the last crumbs of Lucius Ransome.
So, when he made the cheerful announcement—while they were walking back to his flat one morning after a decadent brunch—that they would be flying home the day after next, she almost wished she hadn’t even mentioned it. Maybe that was why he was so cheerful these days, looking forward to the end. But she had fallen into the happy illusion of what a permanent relationship with Lucius might be. And had forgotten how to be satisfactorily lonely.
He took her hand and gave a little tug, getting her attention. “What’s up, Cal?”
“Mm. Just thinking about the presentation.”
“Well, stop. It’ll be great.”
She avoided his gaze but plastered a hopefully convincing smile on her face as she gazed around at the shops. One appeared to be an antique store of some description—nothing high-end; more memorabilia and nostalgic flotsam. The shop owner was arranging items on a table outside, and Callie slid away from Lucius on the premise of being interested.
“What the hell are those?” he muttered in her ear, and she glanced at where he indicated.
Her breath caught; that sense of a lost memory struck her again.
“I don’t know what they are,” she said slowly, focused on one that drew her attention.
“They’re toad houses, love,” the shop owner said, overhearing. “You put one in your garden and toads like it for its protection and how cool it is. They stay.”
“Are toads good for gardens?” she asked doubtfully. When it was confirmed so, she mused, “Well, I don’t have a garden,” fingertips trailing over a simple bronze dome toad house, a realistically sculpted crouching frog perched on the side near the arched doorway.
“Some people use them to hide their spare latchkey outside, case they get locked out,” the woman said, and disappeared into the shop.
Picking up the toad house, she felt its weight as she turned it in her hands. It so reminded her of something . . .
“Everything okay?” Lucius asked.
“This is going to sound weird,” she said. “But it makes me feel safe.”
“You are desperate for real estate,” he teased, but his eyes were incredibly gentle. “Let’s get it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I need it,” she protested rather lamely.
“Not the point. You have found the magic talisman that provides you with safety. You’re going to turn that down for the sake of a few pounds?”
She smiled indulgently at this silliness, but couldn’t quite make herself put the toad house back.
“I’ll buy it for you,” he insisted.
“No. Thank you. I’ll pay,” she said quietly. She flashed him a quick smile. “My talisman. Not cutting you in on that. You might steal the magic.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “I’d be more worried that it’s a toad house with a frog on it.” And then he kissed her, there on the street in Bermondsey, while she clutched the unnecessary garden ornament and hoped for just a bit more magic in her life.
***
The airport limo swept through Toronto’s core, Callie staring blankly out the window at the congestion of buildings and construction cranes shining hotly under a brassy sky, while Lucius caught up with Dana on the phone. She shivered as he reached out to grasp her hand, idly caressing it with his thumb, squeezing gently as he ended the call.
“Need to stop at home?” he asked.
She threw him a startled look. “Well . . . yes. I’m going home.”
“Might as well stay with me. More fun at my place. The pool and all,” he winked, obviously thinking about the ‘and all.’ “And you can ride with me to the office in the mornings.”
She opened her mouth to object; there were lots of reasons to object. “That would be nice.”
“Good, it’s settled.” He appeared quite pleased with that accidental response.
A swell of panic choked her. “May I . . . May I get my temp back in? Sydney? The one who helped me out before we went away?”
“Good worker?”
“Very. But a big-picture sort—making us a good combination.”
“Good. Get Dana to arrange it.”
“I’ll handle it,” she said quietly. “The HRF report will go much faster with help. I do have other work, you know.”
“When do you think we’ll be ready?”
She shook her head. “A couple of weeks? Those certificates should be in by then, putting us shy of your timeline by several days. Should we sit on it?”
“No, it’s fine. Sooner the better. Wrap up this chapter and move on with the next.”
That more than anything enforced the nerve to broach what must be broached. Standing in the foyer of Lucius’ home something more than an hour later, their luggage—her case filled with fresh clothes from her apartment—at her feet while he stood in the drive settling with the limo driver, she closed her eyes and summoned the strength to risk ruining his mood indefinitely.
As soon as he stepped inside, she blurted, “I need James’ address or phone number.”
Lucius’ face was still, his lips stiff as they formed one syllable, “Why?”
“Neville’s inventory. And hopefully, the last of the Birds.”
“Fine,” he replied shortly. “I’ll take you there. Right now; get it over with.”
James’ home was on the Scarborough Bluffs, an elegant brick house with spectacular views of Lake Ontario, and a realtor’s sign on the manicured front lawn. As Lucius—who had been tensely silent the entire drive—pulled the Porsche into the empty drive, she observed:
“Maybe we should have called first. He might not be home.”
“He’s home,” Lucius said flatly without offering elaboration on his certainty.
“He’s selling out.”
“In character.” Sigh. “I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Again, he sighed heavily, and sent her an apologetic look. A chuckle came, very forced. “Honestly,
I just want to kill him.”
She heard the pain beneath the laugh, and wondered if he and James had once been close, and if the latter’s betrayal went beyond mere money and family honour.
“I’m sorry I asked to come here,” she murmured rather inadequately.
“Not a problem,” he dismissed. “And don’t worry. I’m unarmed.”
She smiled at him and they exited the car. Their eyes met over the roof.
He smiled back, if wryly. “It’s okay, Cal.”
And yet, as she rang the doorbell with him just behind her left shoulder, tension radiated from him. Surreptitiously, she touched his hand with hers, crooking her pinkie around his.
He went very still and then, gently, his finger squeezed hers.
The door opened.
James Ransome was a son of a bitch; the first Ransome she had met that filled her with distaste. She decided this after talking to him for something less than two minutes. She had seen him before, of course, in those few weeks at FalTech before he bolted, but had never taken much notice of him. Academically, he was handsome, with thick brown hair and dark brown eyes. But he was decidedly self-indulgent and weak, she concluded quickly (without hard evidence), and aside from whatever he could offer the HRF project, she lost interest in him immediately.
But she had not missed the pleased surprise that had registered on his face in the first instant of seeing Lucius, before cynical amusement wiped it out. Whatever else he was, James had wit enough to regret the loss of his cousin’s friendship.
Lucius was silent as she quickly outlined what they needed from James.
“Help yourself,” the man drawled, with a mock bow and expansively welcoming gesture to his home. “Want the tour?”
“No,” she said, taking notebook and camera out of her satchel. “I know what I’m looking for.”
“How are things with you, Lucius?” James asked as Callie moved down the hall. When there was no response, “Surely you’re not still angry!”
“No, just disgusted. You’re a liar, a thief, and a cheat,” was the reply in an arid, bored tone.
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