Hungry Like de Wolfe

by Markland, Anna

Sylvia glowed. “Look. Here. Gaetan filius bastardus Daciae mulier nobilis ab Vasconia et militis Normanorum.”

  One word hit Anne between the eyes. “He was a bastard?”

  “Yes, Antillius explains he was the illegitimate son of Dacia, a noblewoman from Gascony, and a Norman knight. Very common occurrence, of course, in medieval times.”

  Anne’s hopes of a reconciliation with Blaise had been tenuous at best. This explosive information that Gaetan’s unwed mother was not a Norman doomed any chance of a future together. It was a triumph worthy of a Greek tragedy.

  EUSTON STATION

  Blaise was up at the crack of dawn, pacing the Long Gallery built into the roof of De Wolfe Hall. It was an architectural marvel that ran the length of the house, but he’d sold off most of the furniture and area rugs, leaving only the wide planked flooring. Still, it afforded a grand view of the estate and was a place he came when his worries threatened to get the better of him. It was where he’d eventually overcome his fear of heights.

  All through breakfast, he hoped Anne might call before she left for the Midlands, but knew in his heart she wouldn’t. She was a proud woman and he’d hurt her. She probably thought he’d enticed her into bed to ensure she gave him a favorable pedigree.

  He contemplated not going into the office, but at least there he had stuff to occupy him.

  His normally dependable car wouldn’t start and he had to get the gardener to give him a boost. This caused him to miss his usual train into the city, and it was Murphy’s Law that he bumped into his boss in the lobby of his firm’s offices.

  Maltravers had arrived early for once, tapping his watch as if Blaise was a naughty boy who had to be reminded of the importance of being on time. He was tempted to retort that he often put in hours, even days of unpaid overtime when arguing and researching a case. His success had earned the firm a great deal of money and he deserved to have been made a full partner eons ago, but there was no point antagonizing the old fool at this crucial time.

  “My office,” Maltravers croaked menacingly.

  Irritated at being summoned like a clerk, Blaise followed him down the hall to the sumptuously decorated corner office that put his own to shame. “Don’t forget the deadline,” his boss declared, not even inviting him to sit. Evidently this wasn’t to be a social chat.

  How could he forget? He clasped his hands together behind his back, lest he be tempted to strangle the pompous demagogue. “Yes, sir. One more week.”

  Not a religious man, he nevertheless prayed Anne wouldn’t dig up anything that might put his grant in peril. He imagined the smug satisfaction on his boss’s face if he wasn’t accepted into the Sons. He sometimes wondered if he’d been set up for failure. One of the agents acting on behalf of mainland Chinese buyers had inadvertently let slip a connection with Maltravers.

  He was dismissed with a grunt and a wave of the hand as the supercilious man eased his corpulent girth into the black leather chair.

  Blaise went to his office and made an effort to concentrate on his work, but late in the afternoon found himself googling Earl of Wolverhampton, and Gaetan de Wolfe, and then Anne Smith. The latter turned up a million results but then he narrowed it to Anne Smith Genealogist, and discovered just how respected she was in her field. She was sometimes referred to as Anne Bryce-Smith and he supposed Bryce was her maiden name. There was mention of her husband, and that led him into various glowing accounts of the captain’s bravery and heroic self-sacrifice. “Bastard,” he hissed.

  Having learned nothing new from searching his ancestor, he googled train schedules for Wolverhampton to London, verified that the terminus was Euston Station, switched off his computer and left.

  Anne was exhausted and sick at heart by the time her train pulled in to Euston. It was no surprise she alighted on Platform 13.

  As the miles sped by, she’d tried convincing herself that the information about Gaetan de Wolfe was so obscure no one was ever likely to find out if she certified that Blaise’s conquering ancestor was of pure Norman extraction.

  But she would know and the fear of being found out and the falsehood discovered would haunt her. It was impossible, especially since she didn’t understand why it was so important to Blaise.

  There was the added complication of her own birthright. Concealing the truth would be a betrayal of Ram de Montbryce, First Earl of Ellesmere. The compulsion to honor the memory of an ancestor who’d died more than nine hundred years before would seem silly to most people, but her roots represented everything she stood for.

  She checked her watch as she followed the stream of passengers into the main concourse and glanced up to verify it with the station clock. She saw Blaise standing under the giant display a second or two before he saw her. The hundreds of commuters blurred into the background as they stared at each other.

  Her frantically beating heart’s desire was to rush into his arms and tell him she’d found nothing in Wolverhampton. But she’d never been a liar and what did the future hold for a relationship built on a lie? She’d been there, done that.

  She squared her shoulders and tightened her grip on the strap of her laptop bag as he came towards her. He didn’t look angry, which was perhaps reassuring, and he’d obviously sought her out.

  They came face to face. There was no point delaying the inevitable. “We need to talk,” she said.

  The bleak determination in Anne’s eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the thrust of her defiant chin, all confirmed Blaise’s fear that De Wolfe Hall was lost.

  There were a million things he wanted to say.

  He understood.

  Sleeping with her had been the most fulfilling sexual experience he’d ever had.

  He loved her.

  But he was afraid he’d lost her forever, and that loomed as a bigger catastrophe than having to sell his ancestral home. “There’s Ed’s Easy Diner across the piazza,” he offered lamely.

  She grimaced. “I’m not really in the mood for all that bright red upholstery, juke box music and formica table tops. I had a snack on the train.”

  It was a relief in a way because he needed to hold her and soothe away the lines of worry. He decided to take a chance. “Come with me to De Wolfe Hall,” he suggested, taking her hand.

  Her eyes widened. “In Surrey?”

  Perhaps if she saw his home for herself, if he explained the importance of being accepted into the Sons of the Conquest…

  But he admitted inwardly he simply wanted to take her there. He squeezed her hand. “Please.”

  VIRGINIA WATER

  Anne withdrew her hand from Blaise’s grasp.

  “If things were different,” she replied, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, “I would love to see De Wolfe Hall.”

  He arched a brow, but she had to continue. Summoning her courage, she looked into the turquoise eyes that drew her despite his outburst the night before. “I’ll provide a full report, but I cannot endorse your application.”

  Passers-by stared and she realized she had shouted to be heard over the din. She moved closer to him and lowered her voice. “Gaetan de Wolfe was a bastard. His father was apparently a Norman, but his mother was a noblewoman by the name of Dacia from Gascony.”

  When he made no reply, she felt a need to state the obvious. “They weren’t married.”

  He raked a hand through his hair and gaped at her. “Well, that I didn’t expect.”

  He walked away, one hand on his hip, the other pressed to his head, then stopped. She couldn’t see his face but the set of his shoulders betrayed the disappointment coursing through him.

  She hated that she’d hurt him, but at least he hadn’t questioned her findings.

  Long minutes dragged by. Her knees wobbled, the stress adding to her exhaustion. She was on the point of leaving when he came back. “It’s more important now that you come to Virginia Water,” he rasped.

  She didn’t understand and his hooded eyes gave away nothing, but she was too tired to argue furt
her. She was sick of three years of making her own decisions.

  Jaw clenched, he took the laptop bag, grabbed her hand and led her to the adjacent Northern Line Tube station. The platform was crowded and they were swept onto the train going south to Waterloo. They had to stand, crushed together with only the safety pole between them. She clung to him, glad of the support of his arm around her waist, the reassuring heat and aroma of his body, despite a determination to feel nothing. If he kissed her now…

  The tube train pulled into Waterloo on the south bank of the Thames. A five minute walk hand-in-hand through crowded tunnels took them to the Southern Rail concourse where Blaise bought her a ticket. He showed his pass at the gate, found her a spot on a bench and wandered off to the end of the platform, mobile in hand, “to get a better signal.”

  He came back as the train was pulling in. “Just making sure Michael has a room prepared for you,” he explained as she got to her feet.

  “Michael?”

  “Er, he takes care of the house.”

  “Your housekeeper?”

  He made no reply as they boarded and settled into their seats. When he let go of her hand she wanted to wail like a child who suddenly finds herself lost and alone in a department store.

  He leaned over. “You look done in. Sleep if you want. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

  His apparent acceptance of her refusal to endorse his application made her nervous, but a brief nap might renew her energy in case he was plotting his objections for when they arrived.

  She closed her eyes. “I’ll just grab forty winks.”

  Blaise watched Anne slip into sleep. It was still daylight, but he paid no attention to the scenery flashing by outside the window, his gaze fixed on the steady rise and fall of her breasts. The memory of suckling her hard nipples calmed his fevered brain, though it caused pleasant stirrings at his groin. When she slumped sideways in her seat, he changed his position so her head rested on his arm.

  The steward worked his way through the carriage with the refreshment cart, but Blaise waved him past. The fellow nodded and moved on.

  He was relieved the setting summer sun had begun to streak the sky with pinks and reds as they neared Virginia Water. Better her first glimpse of De Wolfe Hall be at nighttime, and he’d forewarned Michael to switch the floodlights back on in the grounds. It was a paradox that light disguised the need for a multitude of architectural repairs.

  She startled when he shook her awake. She tried to loop the strap of the computer bag over her shoulder, but he took it from her. He stepped down onto the platform first and helped her alight.

  His was the only vehicle left in the twenty-four hour car park. He sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward when his Vauxhall sprang to life and they set off for the home he loved but would soon have to leave.

  Given what little she knew of Blaise’s success at the bar, Anne was surprised he didn’t drive a newer luxury car. As if sensing her puzzlement he patted the dashboard once they’d exited the parking lot. “They discontinued this model in 2003. Mine’s a 2000, but still going strong.”

  She got the feeling from the nervousness in his voice there was more to it, but small talk was preferable to silence. “What model is it?”

  “Omega,” he replied flatly.

  “Comfy though,” she murmured truthfully. “I don’t own a car. It would be a liability in the center of London, but I can see why you need one out here. My bike is more practical.”

  “It’s too far to walk to the house,” he agreed, his eyes on the road. “But I’ve been considering a bike.”

  A long-buried dream resurfaced. “I’ve always fancied doing one of those cycling holidays in France,” she said, thinking what a wonderful adventure it would be—with Blaise.

  He didn’t reply and seemed to get more agitated as they drove, leaning forward in his seat, gripping the steering wheel. She searched desperately for something, anything to break the tension. “Is it expensive to park your vehicle all day at the station?”

  He glanced sideways at her then switched his attention back to the dark country lane they’d turned on to. “Almost a thousand pounds a year, that’s without CCTV.”

  A double iron gate loomed out of the darkness. Blaise pressed a fob on his keyring and the two sides opened slowly inwards. “Here we are,” he rasped. “Home Sweet Home.”

  She felt like Dorothy coming to the end of the yellow brick road when a very large house with innumerable gables, dormers and tall chimney stacks loomed out of the night. Enormous mullioned Elizabethan windows dominated. A Union Jack fluttered from the flagpole. Lit by floodlights, it looked like a mansion from the set of Gone with the Wind—an impressive conglomeration of squares, oblongs and triangles. “It’s lovely,” she gasped, warmed by a peculiar sense of homecoming. “I didn’t expect it to be so big.”

  WHO KNEW?

  Michael greeted them deferentially at the front door. Blaise was relieved to see he’d understood the phone message and was properly dressed. He often traipsed about in his pyjamas and dressing gown later in the evening. “Good evening, sir,” he intoned, “and madam.”

  Anne eyed the butler—no wonder given that he was garbed like a cast member from a Victorian melodrama—but she smiled and returned the greeting, hand extended. “Good evening. You must be Michael. I’m Anne Smith.”

  His servant looked at her hand as if she’d offered him a poisonous snake. How was she to know the old man prided himself on maintaining what he called “the clear separation of upstairs and downstairs.” It was all the more ironic because Michael had been more of a father to him than the inveterate gambler Blaise de Wolfe the Second.

  “Cook has prepared a light supper, sir. In the dining room.”

  Blaise muttered his thanks, clenched his jaw and took Anne by the elbow. She was already glancing round and must have noticed the peeling paint, threadbare rugs and shabby furnishings in the foyer. Once she entered the dining room, the reality he lived with every day would smack her squarely in the face.

  Considering she was tired after traveling for hours and had probably worried herself sick over what she had to tell him, she hid her dismay well with a polite smile when he pulled out her chair, lifting it so it wouldn’t scrape on the stone floor. His nerves were shot as it was.

  He sat across from her and peeled the plastic wrap off the plate of sandwiches on the familiar table, resigned to his fate. There was no point hiding the truth. “As you can see, this is a grand house. It’s so old I could show you orifices in the lower floors that used to be latrines. The original manor house was mentioned in the Domesday Book.”

  He let the impressive part of what he had to tell her sink in, then held his breath. “However, it’s a money pit, and to be frank I am drowning in it. Chinese buyers are hammering at the door. I have few options left.”

  She met his gaze. “I have a strong suspicion this conversation is going to lead to your application to the Sons of the Conquest.”

  “You’re a perceptive woman,” he replied, praying what he was about to reveal wouldn’t alienate her permanently. “I’ve been assured of a grant of a hundred thousand pounds for renovations.”

  She shook her head. “Assured?”

  “My boss is the President of the SOC.”

  She snickered. “You work for William Maltravers?”

  It wasn’t a surprise that Anne knew Maltravers. He’d recommended her after all, but there was an unmistakable edge of disgust in her voice that puzzled him. What other connection could they possibly have? “Yes, he’s been after me for years to become a member and when he held out the carrot of the grant…well, it was my last hope to save the house.”

  Worried by her deep frown, he hurried on. “I also hoped he’d finally make me a full partner once I was a member.”

  Anne nibbled the chicken salad sandwich Blaise offered and pondered what her reaction should be to these revelations.

  What he couldn’t know was that she was co-administrator of the pr
estigious Montbryce Trust. Very few people knew, but William Maltravers was aware of it because her family’s ancestral trust disbursed hundreds of thousands of pounds annually to a whole host of philanthropic and fraternal organisations, including the Sons of the Conquest.

  She’d challenged Maltravers in the past about the club’s male-only policies, threatening to recommend withdrawal of the Trust’s support. His recommendation of her services as a genealogist was a thinly-veiled attempt to keep her off his back. He recognized it was only the influence of her older cousin, Irishman Bradick MacLachlainn, that kept her from forcing funds to be withheld until they welcomed women into their ranks. Bradick was a dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist and unfortunately the other co-administrator.

  However, if she and Blaise were to marry, she’d become lady of this once-grand jewel. Then she’d have extra ammunition. Bradick would have no choice but to support a family member’s application for the grant, or at the very least changes to the rules of membership in the SOC. Loyalty to each other had helped the extensive and powerful Montbryce clan survive and prosper for more than nine hundred years.

  She peered into an imaginary crystal ball. If the membership issue came to a court battle, who better to argue it before a judge than Blaise? She understood now why he hadn’t been made partner. Maltravers was a throwback to Scrooge himself.

  Taking the last bite of the sandwich, she admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with Blaise and wanted to be his wife. However, she didn’t want him proposing marriage if he thought it would secure the grant. Now she’d seen the house it was clear why Tessa had left him, and she wanted to strangle the selfish woman. The twit hadn’t realized what a treasure she had in Blaise de Wolfe. “I don’t know what to say,” she lied, dabbing her mouth with the linen napkin.

  He pushed the platter to one side, and stretched out his arms to her, both hands palms up. The well-worn table was so wide she could only reach his fingertips.