I slipped my napkin into my lap and nodded a thank you to the man who served my plate. He responded with a kindly smile, the small wrinkles at the edge of his eyelids lengthening in sync with his bounce of a head bow. Then he moved down the table, almost phantom-like, as he unobtrusively slid a plate of food in front of each person.
All served, Andrew raised his fork. The clinking of sterling utensils to bone china plates resounded through the room. No one spoke. I decided not to break the ice with, “So what are we all doing here anyway?” or some other innate question which wouldn’t be answered. The whole scene reminded me of an Agatha Christie who-dunnit. Perhaps the lights might flicker, setting off the proverbial scream as one of us slumped into our potatoes, a knife wedged into our back. I hoped not me.
I shot a glance to Mary. But instead of returning it, she peered around me. Her eyes gawked as her cheeks lost their color. She softly rose. Other chairs screeched with the rustle of everyone else rising to their feet. So, I did the same. Must be manor protocol.
I twisted my torso to check out the mystery guest for whom the head place setting had been reserved.
My wine glass slipped from my fingers. I watched in slow-mo as it hit the stone floor and shattered into a hundred shards, just as my heart once had.
His eyes were crystal blue, not greenish-gray anymore. His hair no longer slickened black, but tawny. His nose was thinner and less Mediterranean. Still, there was no mistaking his expression. My husband, Robert, stood in the doorway. His mouth curled into a smirk.
“Miss me, my sweet?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Steeled hatred, anger, and disgust coursed through each muscle in my body. Jaw set, I raised my chin. “Not in the least.” I sat again, and placed my hands in my lap so he wouldn’t see them twitching. “In fact, I wished you’d tarried a bit longer. Up until a moment ago, I was actually hungry.”
His laughter hit the walls and echoed off the chandelier, making its crystals tinkle in response. As he rounded the table of staunch-standing underlings, he bent and pecked my neck. “This is not how I pictured our reunion.”
The mock imitation of Tom’s words sent ice through my veins. It took every ounce of sinew in my bones not to slap the fool out of him. Instead, I coolly responded the same as I had with Tom. “There wasn’t supposed to ever be one.”
What seemed like recognition flickered in his face before he recomposed himself. “Well said, my dear. Well said.” He slid his hand to the small of my back and gave it a rub. “We’ll catch up later, in private.”
I clamped my jaw tighter and exhaled through my nose to stop my skin from crawling under his touch. My hands twisted the linen napkin in my lap the way I wanted to twist his neck. Still I stared straight ahead at the Gainsborough-styled painting of the English countryside hanging across the room. All eyes focused on me. I could feel them boring into me like hot bullets shot at close range.
Robert slithered to the head of the table. He sat, and motioned everyone else to do the same. The staff seamlessly appeared with his plate of food, and poured his water and wine as the rest of his lackeys shuffled to sit and resume their meal.
The conversation flew in and out of my ears without registering. I gathered it to be mundane and generic. Talk of the estate, should they exercise the horses tomorrow, the bushes around the fountain needed trimming, etc. I nibbled at my carrots and onions then swallowed a few forkfuls of mashed potatoes. I refused to cast my gaze to the head of the table, though in my peripheral vision I noticed Robert kept glancing towards me. A scream edged to my tonsils, and several swallows of water did nothing to send it back down. My stomach cramped, not wanting the food heading its way.
“Pardon me.” I scooched my chair and stood. “My appetite is not that great.” I folded my napkin and turned to leave. The silence in the room thickened.
“I’ll be up later.”
I spun on my heel and threw him the iciest stare I could muster. “No, you won’t. Not tonight, not ever.” I slammed my chair under the table and stomped out. Hand to my chest to gulp in air, I dashed up the stairs, two at a time. My pulse pounded with each step down the hall.
Inside the room, I shoved the armoire in front of the door. It protested and screeched across the old wooden floors, leaving gouges in the polish like monster truck tracks in mud. I didn’t care. Two more humphs with all my might and it slammed against the door. I rocked it into place.
I may have sealed off my only exit, but fine. More importantly, I’d blocked Robert from entering tonight. Tomorrow, well, that was another story. Like Scarlet in the movie, Gone with the Wind, I’d think about it later.
Then, I noticed it. A hole in the wall, once concealed by the back of the armoire, about two feet tall and the same in width. Perhaps an old air vent? But where was the cover? I edged towards it and bent to look in. Echoed voices filtered up from the floors below.
I recognized Andrew’s voice. “She’ll figure it out, Robert. She’s old and her memory is weak, but she’s not stupid.”
“Don’t ever call me that, Andrew. Mr. Manning to you now, remember?” Silence. Then Robert’s voice again. “No, we’ll play this out slowly. Glimpses here and there. And Dr. Wilson’s medicines will help out.”
Footsteps, then Andrew spoke again. “I hate doing that to her. Giving her hallucinogens.”
“It has to be done. Otherwise, this won’t work. We’re just speeding up the inevitable a bit.”
Andrew sighed so loud it echoed. “Yeah, I know.”
“Good. We’ll let her catch a glimpse of Jen, er, Niamh off and on. But she can’t hear her speak or she will figure out she’s an American.”
I held my hand to my mouth. They talked about me. But who else had been given drugs?
Michael’s voice came next. “True, your wife does have a distinctive Texas accent.” So he was in on this as well. “She didn’t seem very glad to see you.”
Robert’s tone sounded frigid. “Don’t get your hopes up, my friend. I noticed how you eyed her. It would be best if you kept the fact that she belongs solely to me in the forefront of your mind.”
Someone cleared their throat.
“Of course. Just admiring your taste in women. Nothing more.”
As they walked away their voices became mumbled, and then a door closed. I back-stepped from the hole, unsure of what I’d heard. One thing popped into my thoughts. If Michael had taken a shine to me, as the old Texan saying went, then maybe I could persuade him to help me escape. I’d have to brush up on my feminine wiles.
* * *
I slept fully dressed. Well, sleep is a relative term. To say I leapt at every sound would be an understatement. Several times the fall of heavy footsteps vibrated outside my door. Once, the knob rattled and the door groaned against the weight of the armoire. I pulled the covers to my chin and clutched the brass candlestick from the mantle I’d shoved under my pillow. A can of hairspray, to coat any intruder’s face, lay next to me. I waited, armed and ready. But, the steps faded down the hall and all fell quiet. My eyelids sagged and darkness surrounded me. My body eased back into the nebulous never-land between alertness and sleep. There, I hovered for a while.
Then a loud banging jolted me awake.
“Let me in, dear. Something is blocking the door.”
Mary’s voice. With the armoire in front of the door, I couldn’t see foot shadows. So, like an idiot, I asked. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. Mr. Manning’s already left this morning to ride the premises.” My mind traveled back to the conversation in the hole. Manning. Right—Robert.
There was another tap. “It’s just me, then, isn’t it? Promise. I have breakfast for you.”
Breakfast? I squinted. The room appeared lighter. The rose and orange glow of sunrise seeped through the edge of curtains onto the wallpaper. I padded across the room in my woolen sock feet, trying to gain traction. After a few slips and slides, I stopped in front of the armoire and called out, “Hold on.”
&n
bsp; The morning coldness on the floor’s wooden planks filtered into my socks. My nose began to run, and my breath made puffs of opaque veils. I knew England was famous for its cold dampness, but I didn’t expect the chill to seep into my bones so quickly out of the down comforter’s protection. I prayed there would be piping hot tea in my near future. Only if you open the door, Jen. Get to it.
I rubbed my hands over my shoulders as I stamped my feet. A bit of warmth returned to my fingers. I tugged on the rug and rocked the armoire back and forth in milli-inches until a wedge formed. With a push from my hips, the heavy piece of furniture scooted cattycornered to cover the hole. With a deep breath, I turned the doorknob.
Mary stood with arched eyebrow and a tray. The smell of eggs and rashers wisped through the doorway. I backed away to allow her to sidestep into my suite with a series of shuffles.
“Sorry.” I wrapped my arms around my waist.
“I never question another’s motives, my dear, now do I?” She thumped the tray onto the bed. “What’s up with you and your husband, well, that’s between the two of you.” She straightened up and laced her arms under her bosom. “Can’t say I blame him for trying to haul you away from that rogue of a lover you had, though.”
I stared back at her. “Excuse me?”
She flipped her wrist. “I know the whole story. Though why you ran off with that Tom character is beyond me. Your husband seems quite the gentleman, and handsome to boot.”
My jaw wouldn’t close. The whole story, huh? Robert’s version—minus the deceit, the undercover work, the turning rogue to traffic meth and illegal girls…and how he’d manipulated me.
Laughter filled the room. It had to be mine, unless Mary knew ventriloquism. She laced her arms as she stood with her lips pressed together into a straight line. After an awkward moment, she humphed and scooted away the same way she’d entered. Before she exited her face peered from behind the armoire. “I gather you will shove this barricade in place, so I shan’t return to draw your bath.” Her eyes slid up and down at me over her cocked-upward nose. “Enjoy your day, then.”
I hissed under my breath. “Not bloody likely.” Not as long as Robert was around. I rose to push my wall of protection back across the door.
After slurping the hot tea—for which I thanked God in heaven profusely—and shuffling forks of protein down my gullet, I relaxed. A steaming rosewater soak and fresh clothes from the armoire’s drawers brightened my mood. If Robert had left the manor, then the need for my barricade had gone as well.
Time to explore this Tudor prison. Maybe I’d figure out which room Andrew and Robert had been in last night, and why I could hear them so well from the wall. I wedged the furniture, which had served as my shield, a bit further out of the way and slipped out the door into the hall. No goons lurked. Strange.
Cuddling the knobby sweater I’d found, I tiptoed down the corridor flanked by mahogany doors, paintings, an occasional chair or bureau, and marble sculptures on pedestals. As I ventured further down the stairs, I leaned over the massive carved railing that spiraled to the first floor. I ventured down the stairs as I ran my hand along its smooth surface. Off the main hall, beyond the dining room, lay another staircase. Below, the clanking of pots and pans mixed with female voices. Must be the kitchen. I returned to the hallway. Double doors to the left sat open a crack. Maybe that was the room I sought.
Muffled male tones seeped through, but not enough to decipher their words. I crept forward, placing my weight slowly on each step to detect any telltale creaks that would give away my presence. As I drew closer, the voices became more coherent. One was Andrew’s.
“He told me to bring her here. I don’t like it either.” Pause. Footsteps traveled away from the door. “But, how could I turn down the money? You know what a drain this manor is on the estate.”
Another male voice, it sounded older and rougher, replied. “You are picking dangerous bedfellows, Andrew. He has a shiftiness about him.”
“I know. I’m not stupid. He didn’t make his money in the American stock market, did he? But I don’t care.” More pacing. “It’s not my concern. Neither is she.”
Did they mean me?
Andrew continued, his words crisp. “All I know is he’s paid very well to get her here. Enough to keep the creditors from banging down the door and to keep heat on for the rest of the year.”
I flattened my back against the wood paneled wall. Heat? What heat? I exhaled a huff and watched the cloud billow and then dissipate in the air.
“Help ya, ma’am?”
I turned to glimpse a young maid from dinner standing in the hallway. “Jane, isn’t it?”
The door opened to reveal Andrew and the older man.
“Niamh?”
My head swished back and forth between them and the maid. “Uh…”I shifted my weight. “I wondered where I might grab a cup of tea.”
The girl did a short bob of her knees. “I can get you a spot, ma’am.”
Andrew nodded. “Good idea. Why don’t you take her in the morning parlor where the sun is streaming in? She’s most likely not used to our brisk dawns.”
She darted Andrew a compliant look, then motioned for me to follow. I did, but not before I addressed my captor. “Andrew, whatever Robert is conning you into doing, trust me, it will not turn out well for you. He’ll use you and toss you aside in a heap.”
He raised an eyebrow. The older man shot him a narrow-eyed glare as he rubbed his chin.
Andrew shoved my words away. “Whatever.”
“I speak from experience, you know.” I turned on the ball of my foot, took two steps, and then swiveled back to face him. “Or, maybe you don’t. Perhaps you haven’t been read in on the whole ugly story. The illegal teens he sells for sex, the drugs he imports, the contacts in Latin America…”
The maid’s eyes widened.
Andrew’s became slits. Through clenched teeth he hissed the command, “Jane. Take her into the morning parlor, and get her precious tea.”
With a huff, he turned back to the library where the older man stood with eyebrows knit. “Who the blazes is this Robert, now lad?”
Andrew slammed the door.
“You’d better come ahead, ma’am.” Jane skittered in short, swift steps down the hall to the front room on the left. Done in shades of greens and cream, the mahogany-upholstered furniture angled around a fireplace, flanked with tall palms. Pastel rugs lay underneath in an oriental bird theme. Floral plates, separated by golden ribbons, hung in rows on two of the walls that jutted from the mantle. The others supported massive paintings of the English countryside in spring, blanketed in wildflowers. A fire already crackled, the logs now reduced to glowing embers. I moved towards the warmth it generated, hands stretched in front of me. I noticed the woman sitting in a wheelchair by one of the green velvet tufted Queen Anne chairs. When her eyes met mine, her face paled.
A shaky, gnarled hand moved to her thin mouth. “Niamh?”
The woman appeared to be mid-seventyish, though her figure remained slim. Her hair slid back into a bun, though gray wisps framed her temples and neck. Her face revealed deep crow’s feet and parenthesis wrinkles on either side of her mouth. She swore a long tweed skirt and a crocheted shawl, which hung from her bowed shoulders.
“Oh,” Jane said. She rushed over to the old woman and wheeled her chair around to face the window. “Baroness. They didn’t tell me you were in here.”
Mary appeared and took me by the elbow. “Come. You mustn’t disturb her. She isn’t well.”
As we turned to leave the woman’s shaky voice croaked, “I thought I saw Niamh.”
Jane bent over her. “Now, your Ladyship, don’t fret yourself. It may be the new medication Dr. Wilson prescribed for your dizzy spells. It’s making you see things.”
Mary yanked me away down the corridor. “Ssshh, come on. You can have your tea in the pavilion.”
“But she called me Niamh?”
Mary narrowed her gaze. “Which is al
so her granddaughter’s name, now isn’t it? A grieving old lady’s confusion, that’s all. Don’t ask questions, okay?”
“But, she’s not confused, Mary. I’ve been made to resemble Niamh, don’t you see?”
She laid both hands on my shoulders and pressed down on them. “Just don’t make waves.”
As we walked down the hall, Jane’s words returned to my thoughts. The baroness obviously was the one Andrew had concerns about drugging. Well, no wonder. If the deceased Niamh was her granddaughter, that made the baroness Andrew’s grandmother, too.
Had he purposely steered me and Jane into the morning room so the poor dear would mistake me for the dead girl in the photograph? How cruel. I don’t care how much money Robert threw in Andrew’s direction, the thought brought a foul taste to my mouth.
One question kept surfacing. What on earth would Robert have to do with duping some poor old lady?
I had to find out. Especially since it appeared I’d become involuntarily involved in this scheme.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I sipped my tea in the pavilion, a glassed-in room with lounging furniture and tropical plants in various sizes of ceramic pots. A black, iron stove perched in the corner. Orange cinders glowed and flickered in its belly. It felt warmer in here than any place else I’d been in so far. Rather toasty, actually.
Two servants shuffled in and out with dusters and watering cans. No one spoke to me, which I considered a blessing. I went back over every moment from the time Becky and I arrived in Gainesville to now. I moved each character along the imaginary chessboard trying to figure whose side they were on.
I refused to believe Becky would be involved in Robert and Andrew’s deception. Not her. She’d been so nice…drat. Of course she had. Tom didn’t lead Robert to me, she did. Wow, she’d played her role well. Even fooled Tom. “I don’t trust many people, but I trust Becky,” he’d said. Oh, how she must have been smirking with glee on the inside to hear him say that.
Then the thought I never wanted to think surfaced. Did Tom deceive me as well? No. It didn’t add up. I had to believe in someone in this twisted plot where nobody appeared to be who they said. Tom’s love was genuine. His kisses told me that.
Legitimate Lies Page 11