by Lynn Kurland
“In that,” Derrick said frankly, “I would have to say Lydia Cooke and I fully agree.” He looked at her. “What next? Bobbies or your parents?”
“I’m not sure which will be worse.”
“The police will be, so let’s have at your parents first. Besides, they might surprise us.”
Or, perhaps not. He had known about them by reputation, of course, and by what they’d done to Samantha, but he was still surprised by how utterly annoying and condescending they were.
“Mother,” Samantha said weakly, turning to look at her parents. “Father. What are you doing here?”
“We came to fetch you, of course,” Louise McKinnon said crisply. “And of course your father just had to take a detour to see this rehearsal.”
“I’ve been corresponding with Edmund since we knew you were going to stay with them,” Samantha’s father said with diction so crisp, he made his wife sound as if she’d had marbles in her mouth, “so I felt I should pay him a visit here.” He looked down his nose at Derrick. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
Derrick looked over his shoulder to see Connor striding up the aisle. He nodded toward him. “His younger brother.”
The amount of theatrical arse-kissing that then ensued made him realize that perhaps he’d gotten the better deal after all. He lasted approximately three minutes before he pulled his phone out of his ear, took Samantha by the elbow, and left the theater.
He gave the police a statement and all his pertinent information, listened to Samantha do the same, then found a bench outside the theater and sat down with her.
“We probably shouldn’t hold hands,” he said with a sigh.
“Probably not.”
That set less well with him than he’d thought it might. He considered, then shot a text to his favorite detective inspector, letting him know the barest of details about what had happened and asking him to have a look at the case, which would definitely keep his lads and Samantha out of it. Then he texted Oliver.
?
Waiting on you.
I’m waiting on the parents.
Hahahahahaha.
Derrick pursed his lips and showed the conversation to Samantha, who only looked rather green. He continued to glance over at the door to the theater. And before he could truly digest the madness of the day, people poured out the front door and the press magically appeared.
“Amazing,” Samantha murmured. “Feels like home.”
Derrick grunted. He imagined her father attracted press as well, whether they wanted to come or not.
He didn’t move, though, even when Edmund moved close enough that Derrick could hear him clearly. Well, he would have heard him clearly across a stadium, but perhaps that was beside the point.
“That man there, Derrick Cameron, has restored to me my family’s legacy. And I have a confession to make. I made a mistake many years ago and gave a part that should have gone to him to another.” He bowed his head. “I’m grieved to this day and can only hope he’ll forgive me.”
“Slick,” Samantha said under her breath.
Derrick looked at the crowd gathered around Edmund, then sighed. “I’m not all that, am I?”
“Oh, I think you left people in tears four hundred years ago. I was one of them.”
He smiled. “I don’t think even my brother can top that.”
“Do you really care what your brother does or doesn’t do?” she asked searchingly.
He shook his head. “I don’t.” He looked up. “Your parents.”
She muttered a very unladylike expletive with surprisingly good diction.
He smiled at her, amused, then stood up and prepared to greet the family again. And he ignored the fact that his brother had come with them and was impatiently waiting to be acknowledged.
“Come along, Samantha,” Louise said imperiously. “We’re going to go visit Gavin’s gallery in London, then we’ll decide on a brief tour of the more important sites in the UK before we go home. Your father has rehearsals.”
Derrick held out his hand. Louise looked at it, then looked at him suspiciously.
“Who are you?”
He was fairly sure she’d heard him introduce himself to her husband, but perhaps she wanted to be acknowledged.
“My younger brother,” Connor said loudly, before Derrick could say anything.
Louise looked at Connor and frowned. “Is he?” She looked at her husband. “Is he?”
“They certainly look quite a bit alike.”
Derrick found himself on the receiving end of paternal scrutiny.
“I see,” Richard Drummond said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Edmund made some noises about his having cost you a role.”
“It was a long time ago,” Derrick said with a shrug. “Water under the bridge.”
“Degree?”
“Acting, from LAMDA,” Samantha said. “Scholarship. Insanely good reviews.”
Her father looked at her as if he weren’t altogether happy that she knew that, then turned back to Derrick. “Your brother acts. Why don’t you?”
“Because he can’t,” Connor spat.
Derrick looked at his brother and wondered for the first time why he had spared a moment’s thought over him. He was a petty, jealous, little man who had never had any friends but those who didn’t know him well. The rest lasted until they wearied of having him tear them down to make himself feel better.
He looked at Samantha’s parents. “I am going back to London myself. If you would like, I would be happy to take Samantha so you could speak a bit longer with Edmund. I can’t imagine he’ll want to let you get away before he’s able to tell you how flattering it is to have a couple of your reputation and stature visit his production.”
Samantha’s mother puffed up. Her father puffed as well, though not quite as much. He looked at Derrick.
“I suppose,” he said slowly.
“I’ll deliver her safely to Gavin’s. Your son and I have done business together in the past and he knows me.” Just don’t call him for a character reference.
“Very well,” Richard said slowly. “We have an appointment with him at seven.”
“Seven it is,” Derrick said cheerfully. He looked at Samantha. “Miss Drummond?”
Samantha would have said good-bye to her parents, but they had already decamped for a spot in front of the press. She walked with him away from the crowd. She perhaps would have spoken, but apparently she realized at the same time he did that they were not alone. Connor was following them like an Elizabethan London stench.
“Don’t tell me you’re still dogsbodying for Robert the Usurper,” Connor sneered. “Can’t find a better job?”
Derrick sighed. Sometimes there was just no talking to people.
“And how desperate is that girl there—”
Derrick stopped and looked at him. “Shut your mouth right there, Connor,” he said coldly, and in Gaelic. “If you say one more thing, I promise you, you’ll regret it.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, he would,” Samantha said cheerfully, also in Gaelic. “And if you don’t want him to kick your arse six ways to Sunday, I’d suggest you, well, I don’t want to be impolite.” She took Derrick’s arm. “Come on, Derrick. You can drive the car this time.”
“What car?” Connor shouted after them. “Some rental Ford?”
“Just keep walking,” Samantha said firmly. “Don’t look back.”
“I want to hurt him,” Derrick said distinctly.
“No, you don’t. You want to spend many years out of jail driving your car and sitting in front of your house and enjoying the money from the sale of your gem.”
“A fairy breathed on it and made it magical. I can’t sell it now.”
She looked up at him, laughed, then pulled him along.
“And why didn’t you tell me you spoke Gaelic?”
“A girl needs her secrets. Walk faster. Your brother is following.”
He didn’t imagine he would
make it all the way to the car park without some sort of confrontation. It made him feel slightly better to have Oliver almost run over his brother as he jaywalked across the street. And if Oliver had left his hand on the horn a bit longer than necessary to alert everyone in the area to the indignity, Derrick wasn’t going to complain. He stopped in front of the passenger’s side of the car and waited until he heard his brother come huffing and puffing up. Connor looked down his nose.
“This isn’t yours.”
Derrick clicked the lock, opened the door, then saw Samantha inside. He closed the door, walked around the back of the car and got in under the wheel. He started it up, let the engine idle for a moment or two, then backed out of the stall without looking at his brother.
“He looks like he’d like to throw up,” Samantha remarked.
“Did you take a picture with my phone?”
“I thought I should.”
“Did he see you?”
“Well, of course. What good would it have been otherwise?”
He paused, leaned over and kissed her, then smiled into her eyes. “You are a wonder.”
“And you have a forgiving heart.”
“Well, that’s debatable. Will you text Oliver for me and see what he’s up to?”
She did, then laughed a little now and then. “He says he’s on his way home, assumes you’ve tidied up the scene of the crime, and wonders if the reservation at the Ritz is still good or if he should stop at Marks and Spencer for something prepackaged.”
“Tell him thank you, that we have a few fairied gems to split up, and no, I’m not paying for his dinner. I’ll call him when we hit London. He loves art galleries and Peter could do terrible things to your brother’s computer system.”
“Sounds promising.” She laughed a bit more, then set his phone down and looked at him. “Do you want to come with me to Gavin’s?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I need to go fetch something out of the flat.”
“What?”
“Your drawing of the sea.”
“Where is it?”
“In my bedroom, lass,” he said seriously. “Where I had intended to look at it every day.”
She was silent for so long, he had to look at her. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I can draw you another,” she whispered.
He only reached for her hand.
And he held it the rest of the way back to the city.
• • •
The brief foray into Gavin Drummond’s gallery was less satisfying than he would have hoped. Gavin was absolutely gobsmacked by Samantha’s sketch of the view in front of his house—submitted anonymously for inspection, of course—wanted to know where Derrick had gotten it, and demanded that since he dealt in art and Derrick didn’t that he be given the artist’s number. He also demanded the piece so he could sell it. Derrick didn’t want to let it go, but the chance to give Samantha a start in something she loved was too powerful to refuse.
And just as he knew when a good deal was about to go sour, he knew that she was going to go off with her parents and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. He managed to get her off into a corner by herself whilst her parents and brother were otherwise occupied. And once he had her there, all he could do was look at her.
“Aren’t you going to tell me not to go?” she asked quietly.
He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure this is my day to boss you.”
She looked slightly shattered. “I see.”
He reached out and pulled her against him, then held her as fiercely as he dared.
“I want you, Samantha Drummond, to make up your own mind,” he whispered against her ear. He had to take several decent breaths before he could pull back only as far as was required to be able to look at her. “And while I’m not an advocate of ruining relationships, I can’t take away from you what you need to gain by drawing the line for your parents yourself.”
Her mouth fell open.
He realized his was hanging open as well.
“Where did that come from?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“You sound so reasonable and grown up.”
He started to defend himself when he realized she was teasing him. “Trust me, it’s like a fever. It’ll be gone soon enough and I’ll be back to my world-weary, unpleasant self.”
She threw her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly. She held on to him even though harrumphing had started up over in the direction of her parents. She lasted much longer than he’d expected she would. She sank back to her heels and looked at him.
“I need to go.”
He nodded, because he couldn’t say anything.
She kissed him, a fleeting kiss he scarce felt, then she turned and walked across the room.
Derrick walked out of the gallery and went home. Because he could do nothing else.
• • •
He got up the next day, showered, went downstairs and made himself coffee, then found his keys and walked to the door. Because that’s just what he did.
There was an envelope that had come through the mail slot. His first instinct was to call a bomb squad, but he rolled his eyes instead and picked it up. His name was on the front, which was somewhat reassuring. He opened it, then pulled out the single sheaf of paper.
All the Things I Like About Derrick Cameron.
He looked off into his salon, then decided that he should save something for a reward after he managed to get through the day. He returned the page to its spot inside the envelope, shoved the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, then left his apartment and caught a cab to his office. His phone rang. He looked down, then sighed, but answered anyway.
“Interesting, that a piece of Victorian embroidery turned up here in my office,” said a familiar voice.
“Yes, Detective Inspector Avery,” Derrick said politely, “I imagine it was.”
“Don’t suppose you would have any idea where it came from.”
“Did it find itself back in the proper hands?”
“Happily, it did.”
“Then I would have to say that I can’t remember anything about it.”
“Why did I know you would say that?”
“Because you know there might be other times when I might say something else entirely and hope springs eternal?”
“I suppose so.” Avery cleared his throat. “Stop sweeping for speed cameras on your long drives, Derrick. You’re about to bankrupt us.”
Derrick smiled, then rang off and continued on his way.
He wandered into his office half an hour later, cursing traffic under his breath and considering cursing other things quite audibly. He paused, then took stock of the situation.
Oliver was passed out in the middle of his rug, looking fairly dead. Peter was staring off into the distance as if he considered things he shouldn’t, a glass of some sort of green sludge in one hand. Sunny’s doing, no doubt. Rufus was happily buried in the Financial Times, but he at least looked up and winked.
“Cousin?”
Derrick looked over to see Cameron standing at his door. “Aye?”
Cameron opened the door fully and nodded for Derrick to come in. Derrick did because Cameron was his laird and he liked to make the odd display of obedience now and again.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” Derrick asked.
“You aren’t just going to let her go, are you?”
“Why is everyone so interested in my love life?” Derrick asked crossly.
“Because I like her. She’s just the breath of fresh air you need.”
“I don’t need any fresh air.”
“Derrick, my lad, you need a woman who doesn’t care about what you own. And Samantha doesn’t care. Does she have any idea what you have in the bank?”
“Of course not. But she covets my Vanquish.”
“I never said she wasn’t a bright girl, just not a greedy one. As for anything else, I’m not sure what else you want.”
Derrick leaned back against the door. “I want her to have time. I might be the first bloke she’s ever kissed.”
“And this is a bad thing?”
“What if she’s not content?” Derrick asked, though the words were almost more than he could spit out.
Cameron looked at him seriously. “Derrick, I didn’t know your mother, but if I might make a comparison, she sounds as if she was every bit like mine.” He paused. “There are some people, men and women both, who will never be happy, no matter in what circumstances they find themselves. There is not enough money, no castle grand enough, no life easy enough to content them.”
“‘My crown is called content; a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy,’” Derrick said with a sigh.
“Exactly.”
“But Sunny’s content,” Derrick said slowly.
“In Scotland, in London, walking the floor with a lad who thinks naps should be limited to a quarter hour a day,” Cameron agreed. “If you want my suggestion, give your Samantha time, but give her a chance.”
Derrick sighed.
“I think she might surprise you. Oh, I have something for you.”
Derrick accepted the package, opened it, then looked at the mounted colored pencil sketch in his hands.
It was the drawing of Samantha’s that he had given to Gavin the night before, the drawing of his shore.
He looked at his cousin. “How much did you pay for this?”
“Five thousand, but that was a special price for me because of our long personal history with Gavin Drummond. He promised me that when he got his hands on more by this artist, the price would go up sharply.”
“His head will explode when he learns whose art he’s selling.”
“I’d suggest keeping it quiet then, until he’s well and truly hooked on the commissions this mysterious Scottish artist is bringing him. Apparently he hasn’t figured out who Sam is, though perhaps he thinks it’s the artist’s initials and not her name.”
Derrick smiled. “She’ll be pleased with both things.”
“I forced him to allow me to set up an account for her. The money’s waiting when she wants it.”
“Good of you.”
“He’s an untrustworthy whoreson, but there you have it.” He studied Derrick. “What are you going to do now?”