Elusive

by Linda Rae Blair

  “Well, as you know, Aiden has been in Paris recently.”

  “Yes, so I heard…somewhere.” Damned if he could even remember who’d mentioned it! So many people had been at the service to honor the beloved Laird.

  “He heard a rather disconcerting rumor while he was there. It seems there is a young woman purporting to be a direct descendent of Caena and Sòlas McDonnough. You remember who they were, I take it?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” He had to reign in his temper. The woman drove him crazy. She loved nothing more than gossip, and she was malicious to say the least. “How did he hear about this so-called descendent?”

  “Oh, my…well, I don’t have all the details, but there was…” she paused as she waived a heavily-ringed hand in the air as if sweeping away mental cobwebs, “something… about her being in league with an older gentleman. He claims to be descended from Sòlas, and that the niece is descended from Caena.” She emitted an impolite snort of laughter. “Well, as you may recall, Sòlas exiled himself from Scotland. Caena, the Laird’s daughter, married Sòlas’s brother, Macrath. The whole idea that Caena had a child by Sòlas is ridiculous, of course.”

  She let that sink in for a moment while she reached for a porcelain figure she had always coveted. Rubbing her hands across it, she continued. “He was undoubtedly lost at sea on his way to some island south of America.”

  “I am well aware of the family history, Di…Iseabail,” he said, just wishing she would go away and leave him to his grief.

  She waved her hand in dismissal, “But I felt you should know.” She was fairly purring at this point. “Perhaps you should check out this claim, now that you are Laird, Alexandre. It wouldn’t do to have some imposter muddying up the waters now that you are due to inherit.”

  “Yes, I’ll certainly look into it.” His jaws ached from gritting his teeth while he forced himself to quietly listen to her prattle. As he glanced toward the doorway, he noticed that Charlotte was gone.

  “Well, goodnight dear. Try to get some rest,” she said, as she pulled him down by his lapels to kiss his cheek, turned, and left the room.

  “Old busy-body,” he snarled under his breath as he poured himself another three fingers of Scotch. Well, it was just as well that she had told him, he supposed. She was right. It wouldn’t do for his mother to be upset by some imposter trying to make claims on the estate. She had enough to deal with. He poured back the Scotch in a single swig. Yes, he’d look into it, and if this girl and her associate thought they were going to get by with doing anything to upset Lady McDonnough, he would put a stop to it quickly. If it was ever necessary, he would protect her with his very life. That’s what he would do for anyone he loved.

  ***

  The next morning, as the dreaded cousin Izzy prepared to leave, she asked her cousin’s widow, “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay to help you, dear?” Cousin Iseabail would have welcomed the excuse to stay on at the castle and spread more suspicion where she could. Watching Alexandre’s face when she had given him the news had made her absolutely giddy with pleasure. “Charles was a beloved cousin. I would be glad to be of service to you and the boy.”

  “No, please!” She tried not to sound as panicked as she felt at the thought. “Don’t feel it is necessary to stay any longer. I’m sure you are anxious to get back home to Glasgow,” Lady McDonnough told her husband’s cousin. “It was most kind of you to come.” God, she hoped the woman would just leave, and do it quickly!

  “Well, please let me know if there is anything we can do to help you. We are family after all and would love to be of service to you and the new Laird. Please do call on us, dear.” Dripping with sugary concern, she kissed Lady McDonnough on the cheek and reluctantly climbed into her car.

  Lady McDonnough did not wait until the car was over the bridge before going back inside, where she met her son, her dear boy, coming out of his library. “Alexandre, my dear.” She raised her cheek to him for a gentle kiss. Wouldn’t he just have a tantrum over being called ‘boy’, she smiled to herself. At thirty-five he had long passed the ‘boy’ stage, she realized with both pride and regret.

  He watched her face looking for signs that she had gotten better rest the night before. “We didn’t get a chance to speak in private this morning, what with all the gossiping at the breakfast table,” he growled. “How are you feeling this morning, Mère?” he asked, with his fluid French flavoring his endearment.

  “I’m fine, Alexandre. Just fine,” she answered. “Now, why don’t you and I sit down for a cup of tea and some conversation while the house is quiet?” She smiled up at her son, took his offered arm, and they headed back to the Great Hall to enjoy the warmth of the dying fire while they could.

  “I’ve always loved this room,” she said, looking around her. “It is one thing I shall miss a great deal.”

  “You know you are more than welcome to stay on here, Mère. This is your home!” He knew she wouldn’t stay, but he was still sorry to see her planning to leave.

  “Yes, well, it is for the best. I need a new start, Alexandre. There are too many ghosts here.” She tried to keep the sadness from crossing her face, but her son knew her too well. She knew she would have to stand her ground, or she would weaken and stay—she needed to go.

  “What did our dear cousin have to discuss with you last night?” she asked.

  “How did you know she came to me? You were supposed to be sleeping, Mère.” He smiled at her and waited for her response.

  “Charlotte told me she saw the old crone waiting to pounce on you last night,” she laughed. “I wondered what mischief she was up to. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s hearing isn’t what it used to be,” she laughed.

  “That explains why the old dear was hovering,” he laughed. “I was afraid she wasn’t feeling well…she was dusting! The sweet thing hasn’t dusted anything in the twenty years I’ve known her. I thought she was having some kind of breakdown.”

  As he poured a white wine for each of them, he explained his conversation with his father’s cousin. “It was nothing of importance, really—some silly rumor she heard. You know her. She just loves to stir things up.”

  His face had gotten grim, she thought. There’s more there than he’s telling, but she wouldn’t press him. He had enough on his shoulders these days. He’d tell her when he was ready. Why did sons always think they could keep things from their mothers—or that they should—she wondered?

  **************************

  Chapter 6: Hide and Seek—Tag

  Paris, France - April 1912

  It had been just weeks since he had returned from his journey. The knowledge Roddy had gained on that trip had shaken him. She is in danger, his precious Blair. How could he keep her safe? If they located him, they would locate her as well. He would have to take her to Scotland soon, and tell her all that he had tried to keep from her until she was ready. He could wait no longer. She had been through so much already. Julien’s death had shaken her, and just as Roddy had been about to tell her the truth. It pained him to know that he would cause her more upset, but it was better than having her die.

  No, he would not permit any harm to come to her. He would tell her tonight and they would leave for Scotland in the morning. He had to keep her safe. Everything was coming together and he must not permit anything to go wrong—not after all these years when they were so close to reaching their goal—his goal, since she was still unaware of how her life was about to change.

  He strolled absent-mindedly down the street, the buildings fronted with the booths of flower, fruit, and vegetable vendors. Here he knew was where locals—and tourists as well—could find the best buys.

  He stopped briefly at his favorite flower vendor’s booth. As he was about to ask young Claude how his day was going, the shot rang out.

  Claude saw the stunned expression hit Roddy’s face, and then the old man’s eyes went blank before he just slowly slid to the street. Claude ran to Roddy as screams went through the crowd
. Passersby spread out and away from the body that now lay in the street—its life’s blood streaming down the cobblestones. While the shoppers stared in shocked disbelief, the whistles of the rushing gendarmes grew nearer.

  ***

  Blair and Esmée sat at a little table on the shaded patio behind Madame’s shop. The building had originally been a private residence. That, as had been the case with Mssr. LeGard’s building, had been over a hundred years ago. Madame had converted it to a shop shortly after her husband’s death, but had left the lovely little patio as it had been, adding new plants in pots and containers of varying colors over the years. They were enjoying a small but satisfying lunch, giggling like little girls at a shared memory.

  The sky was a shade of blue that Blair always imagined was not its color anywhere in the world other than Paris. The air was scented with early spring flowers. A soft breeze came through the hedge of blooming shrubbery that provided privacy from the neighboring buildings. Blair saw Esmée’s eyes widen. She turned to see what had caused the reaction only to find Madame stepping outside the shop with a nervous looking young gendarme following close behind.

  “Blair, my dear,” Madame’s voice trembled slightly, as she approached Blair who could not fathom why Madame would look so somber. Her eyes, always bright with her enjoyment of life, were now dulled with some shock Blair did not understand.

  “Madame, what is wrong?” Blair stood, and reached for the woman who only led her back to her seat and urged her down again.

  “Blair, mon chéri,” Madame quietly started again. “This gentleman has come with shocking and very sad news. Please sit, my dear. Let him say what he must,” Madame patiently urged her.

  The painfully young gendarme seemed very uncomfortable, and Blair could feel every muscle in her body tighten and tremble. “Please, what is it? What has happened?”

  “Mademoiselle, you are the niece of one Rodée Delamare?” he asked her. Blair noticed that he had mangled his pronunciation of her dear uncle’s name.

  “Yes, of course she is, you twit,” Madame responded to him tersely. “I already told you that. Spit it out, boy! Spit it out! Do not torture the poor girl.”

  The young gendarme’s face turned scarlet, and he continued, “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to advise you that your uncle was killed today.” Looking at his watch briefly, he continued, “It happened about an hour ago…at the market place near his apartment. A flower vendor, he checked his notes, a Claude LeGard, told us where to find you.”

  The Paris sky and all around her turned white and became silent as if she were under water, as her body simply floated to the ground.

  ***

  She opened her eyes and could not imagine how she had gotten onto the small settee in Madame’s back office. How…then it all came rushing back. “Oh,” she cried out in grief. “Uncle Roddy! Uncle Roddy!” The cry became a keening plea as tears streamed down her face, while Esmée held her and Madame looked on with tears of her own.

  Madame’s heart broke for the girl. The tie between the uncle and the girl had been so very strong. She stepped forward with a small glass of wine ready for her. “Here, Blair, my dear, drink this. It will help,” Madame said, as she held the glass in front of Blair who—wondering if she would be able to swallow—did finally manage to do so.

  “Madame, please tell me all you know. I must understand what has happened,” Blair pleaded when she realized the gendarme was no longer with them. Madame took the time to tell her everything the gendarme had told her. It grieved Madame to know what this slip of a girl would need to handle over the next few days.

  “Do not worry, Chéri,” Madame continued, “Esmée and I will assist you in every way we can.” She looked over at Esmée’s pale face as the girl nodded in agreement.

  “Blair,” Esmée said quietly, “Let me take you home now. You need to rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  Later Blair did not even remember how she got back to her apartment. It would be several hours before she realized that anyone—currently Mssr. LeGard—had been hovering with tea, cookies, anything they could offer to try to get some food into her system.

  Esmée had left the sweet old man in charge of watching over Blair late that afternoon, while she returned to assist Madame in closing the shop for the day. She had promised Mssr. LeGard that she would return later that evening, to take over again. He, of course, was glad to be of some service to Blair and would not rest easy until she was herself again.

  As he tried once more to get her to eat something, he had to reassure himself that he had heard her speak. “What is it, child?”

  “Why?” She barely whispered, with her voice scratching and raw from hours of crying. “I do not understand why. Everyone loved him. Why would someone kill him? It must have been some terrible accident—a mistake. He was such a loving, gentle, peaceful man. Perhaps they thought he was someone else?” She seemed to be pleading when she raised her chin and looked into Mssr. LeGard’s face.

  “Yes, my dear, I am certain you are right,” he tried to assure her. His true opinion was very different. He had learned from his grandnephew, Claude, that the killer had been right next to her uncle when he fired the shot. No. The killer had known what he was doing and to whom he was doing it, LeGard was certain.

  Unfortunately, the crowd had been thick, and Claude’s attention had been on Roddy, not the passersby. Someone did not love him, he thought. LeGard was afraid that the ‘who’ and the ‘why’ of her uncle’s death might never be known.

  **************************

  Chapter 7: From a Distance

  Paris, France – April 1912

  As soon as Alexandre got to Paris, he looked into this Roddy Delamare and his niece, Blair. He found that the man had died just the day before. No—he hadn’t died—he’d been murdered, or so his sources told him. No doubt at the hands of some other criminal sort. How—why—had such people sucked his family into their intrigues?

  After unpacking, he walked outside and paced on his balcony. He kept this small, third floor apartment in Paris—overlooking the Seine—for those occasions when he needed to get away from business and rest his mind and body.

  It was a nice little place that pleased him—soothed him. He didn’t need anything as large as his estate in Bretagne when he traveled here. It felt comfortable. He had had it decorated by a young student at the university who was studying design. It suited him and was close to his favorite restaurants, cafés and shops.

  He watched the sun set over Paris while deciding what he should do next.

  ***

  Three days after his death, Blair’s uncle was laid to rest in a small cemetery on the outskirts of Paris. Roddy Delamare had always been a quiet man, had often kept to himself— except for the company of an old familiar friend in the form of a book. Blair thought he would appreciate the quiet, solitary setting—if he had been able to see it. Still in shock, she almost laughed at the irony.

  She noticed that there was a sweet, little bench just a few yards away where she could sit when she came to visit with him.

  Roddy’s small, select circle of friends and hers were all in attendance—Esmée, Madame, Mssr. LeGard and his nephew, Claude. Few faces were strange to her, but one of those bothered her considerably.

  She was not sure she liked the looks of him. Mind you, it was not that he was not handsome! She thought he was probably as handsome a man as she had ever seen. Tall, probably exceeding six-feet by at least three inches, his hair was long, sleek, shining, thick, and black as night. It flowed freely in the morning’s breeze only to settle touching his broad shoulders when the breeze abated.

  There was undoubtedly a good strong build under the long overcoat he wore. The shoulders were broad. Unlike most of the men present, he was clean shaven, although the dark beard fighting its way to the surface of his smooth, creamy-colored skin could not be hidden entirely.

  He had high cheeks and dark blue eyes that looked out from between thick black lashes. Those pi
ercing eyes settled on her throughout the brief ceremony at the gravesite. The mouth was strong, and would have been very appealing if it had not been set in a sneer.

  She tried to avoid his gaze, but his stare had brought her back to him more often than made her comfortable. She felt uneasy, and, because she was already in such pain, she could hardly bear to stand there under his scrutiny.

  Once the ceremony was over, he simply vanished as the others came forward to offer her their condolences. She did not understand her feelings. She had wanted him gone, but once he left—she wished him back.

  ***

  The next morning, Blair was restless and decided to go to Roddy’s apartment to pack up his belongings. This was a task she had been unable to carry out until now. She carefully wrapped the vase from the kitchen and packed it in the box of special items she would take back to her own apartment. His clothing was packed up and donated to the soldier’s home. Then, while she sorted through his many books, there was a knock at the door.

  “Oui?” She said, as she greeted the stranger at the door. He was an odd, little man in a dark suit. Thick eye glasses rested on what she thought was a most generous nose, and the only hair she could see was the tiny amount sitting on his chin. He carried an attaché case in worn, brown leather.

  “May I help you, Monsieur?” she asked.

  “Mademoiselle Delamare?” Then he looked down at the paper in his thin hand, “Blair Delamare?” He’d been told that she spoke English at home, so he would try to oblige her.

  “Yes, I am she. I am sorry, Monsieur, but I am really very busy right now. If you are selling something…” She did not realize until after he was gone that, had he been a sales person, he probably would not have known her name. Her mind simply was not functioning as clearly since…Roddy.

  “No, no…” he cut her off waving his hand in the air, flustered by her misunderstanding. “My name is Pierre Bruyére. I was your uncle’s avocet…um, how you say in English…lawyer?”

  “Ah, yes, please come in,” she stepped back and let the strange little man enter. “I was unaware that my uncle had a lawyer, but, of course, he would need one from time to time. Most business people do, I suppose.” Her mind was unfocused, and she tried to rein it in. She showed him into the parlor and, when he was seated, she offered him tea or wine which he declined. She sat opposite him and waited for him to continue. He was obviously here on some matter of business.