It had taken her the past hour to track him down in the crowd. She wasn’t about to lose him now.
She pressed ahead, plunging determinedly into the Savile-Row-and-silk-scarf set. The smell of the polo field, of wet grass and horseflesh, was quickly overpowered by the scent of expensive perfumes. With an air of regal assuredness-pure acting on her part-Clea swept into the green-and-white-striped tent and glanced around at the well-heeled crowd. There were dozens of tables draped in linen, silver buckets overflowing with ice and champagne, fresh-faced girls in starched aprons whisking about with trays and glasses. And the ladies-what hats they wore! What elegant vowels tripped from their tongues! Clea paused, her confidence suddenly wavering. Lord, she’d never pull this off…
She glimpsed Delancey by the bar. He was standing alone, nursing a drink. Now or never, she thought.
She swayed over to the counter and edged in close to Delancey. She didn’t look at him, but kept her attention strictly focused on the young fellow manning the bar.
“A glass of champagne,” she said.
“ Champagne, coming up,” said the bartender.
As she waited for the drink, she sensed Delancey’s gaze. Casually she shifted around so that she was almost, but not quite, looking at him. He was indeed facing her.
The bartender slid across her drink. She took a sip and gave a weary sigh. Then she drew her fingers slowly, sensuously, through her mane of red hair.
“Been a long day, has it?”
Clea glanced sideways at Delancey. He was fashionably tanned and impeccably dressed in autumn-weight cashmere. Though tall and broad shouldered, his once striking good looks had gone soft and a bit jowly, and the hand clutching the whiskey glass had a faint tremor. What a waste, she thought, and smiled at him prettily.
“It has been rather a long day.” She sighed, and took another sip. “Afraid I’m not very good in airplanes. And now my friends haven’t shown up as promised.”
“You’ve just flown in? From where?”
“ Paris. Went on holiday for a few weeks, but decided to cut it short. Dreadfully unfriendly there.”
“I was there just last month. Didn’t feel welcome at all. I recommend you try Provence. Much friendlier.”
“ Provence? I’ll keep that in mind.”
He sidled closer. “You’re not English, are you?”
She smiled at him coyly. “You can tell?”
“The accent-what, American?”
“My, you’re quick,” she said, and noted how he puffed up with the compliment. “You’re right, I’m American. But I’ve been living in London for some time. Ever since my husband died.”
“Oh.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was eighty-two.” She sipped again, gazing at him over the rim of her glass. “It was his time.”
She could read the thoughts going through his transparent little head. Filthy rich old man, no doubt. Why else would a lovely young thing marry him? Which makes her a rich widow…
He moved closer. “Did you say your friends were supposed to meet you here?”
“They never showed.” Sighing, she gave him a helpless look. “I took the train up from London. We were supposed to drive back together. Now I suppose I’ll just have to take the train home.”
“There’s no need to do that!” Smiling, he edged closer to her. “I know this may sound a bit forward. But if you’re at loose ends, I’d be delighted to show you ’round. It’s a lovely village we have here.”
“I couldn’t impose-”
“No imposition at all. I’m at loose ends myself today. Thought I’d watch a little polo, and then go off to the club. But this is a far pleasanter prospect.”
She looked him up and down, as though trying to decide if he could be trusted. “I don’t even know your name,” she protested weakly.
He thrust out his hand in greeting. “Guy Delancey. Delighted to make your acquaintance. And you are…”
“Diana,” she said. Smiling warmly, she shook his hand. “Diana Lamb.”
Three
It was three minutes into the fourth chukker. Oliver Cairncross, mounted on his white-footed roan, swung his mallet on a dead run. The thwock sent the ball flying between the goalposts. Another score for the Bucking’ shire Boys! Enthusiastic applause broke out in the viewing stands, and Sir Oliver responded by sweeping off his helmet and dipping his bald head in a dramatic bow.
“Just look at him,” murmured Veronica. “They’re like children out there, swinging their sticks at balls. Will they never grow up?”
Out on the field Sir Oliver strapped his helmet back in place and turned to wave to his wife in the stands. He frowned when he saw that she was leaning toward Jordan.
“Oh, no.” Veronica sighed. “He’s seen you.” At once she rose to her feet, waving and beaming a smile of wifely pride. Sitting back down, she muttered, “He’s so bloody suspicious.”
Jordan looked at her in astonishment. “Surely he doesn’t think that you and I-”
“You are my old chum. Naturally he wonders.”
Yes, of course he does, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica would probably spend his lifetime in a perpetual state of doubt.
The ball was tossed. The thunder of hoofbeats, the whack of a mallet announced the resumption of play.
Veronica leaned close to Jordan. “Did you bring them?” she whispered.
“As requested.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew the bundle of letters.
At once she snatched them out of his hand. “You didn’t read them, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Such a gentleman!” Playfully she reached up and pinched his cheek. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Not a soul. But this is absolutely the last time, Veronica. From now on, be discreet. Or better yet, honor those marriage vows.”
“Oh, I will, I will!” she declared fervently. She stood and moved toward the aisle.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“To flush these down the loo, of course!” She gave him a gay wave of farewell. “I’ll call you, Jordie!” As she turned to make her way up the aisle, she brushed past a broad-shouldered man. At once she halted, her gaze slanting up with interest at this new specimen of masculinity.
Jordan shook his head in disgust and turned his attention back to the polo game. Men and horses thundered past, chasing that ridiculous rubber ball across the field. Back and forth they flew, mallets swinging, a tangle of sweating men and horseflesh. Jordan had never been much of a polo fan. The few times he’d played the game he’d come away with more than his share of bruises. He didn’t trust horses and horses didn’t trust him and in the inevitable struggle for authority, the beasts had a seven-hundred-pound advantage.
There were still four chukkers left to go, but Jordan had had his fill. He left the viewing stands and headed for the refreshment tent.
In the shade of green-and-white-striped awning, he strolled over to the wine bar and ordered a glass of soda water. With so much celebrating this past week, he’d been waking up every morning feeling a bit pickled.
Sipping his glass of soda, Jordan wandered about looking for an unoccupied table. He spotted one off in a corner. As he approached it, he recognized the occupant of the neighboring table. It was Guy Delancey. Seated across from Delancey, her back to Jordan, was a woman with a magnificent mane of red hair. The couple seemed to be intently engaged in intimate conversation. Jordan thought it best not to disturb them. He walked straight past them and was just sitting down at the neighboring table when he caught a snatch of their dialogue.
“Just the spot to forget one’s troubles,” Guy was saying. “Sun. Sugary beaches. Waiters catering to your every whim. Do consider joining me there.”
The woman laughed. The sound had a throaty, hauntingly familiar ring to it. “It’s rather a leap, don’t you think, Guy?” she said. “I mean, we’ve only just met. To run off with you to the Caribbean…�
��
Slowly Jordan turned in his chair and stared at the woman. Lustrous cinnamon red hair framed her face, softening its angles. She had fair, almost translucent skin with a hint of rouge. Though she was not precisely beautiful, there was a hypnotic quality to those dark eyes, which slanted like a cat’s above finely carved cheekbones. Cat’s eyes, he thought. Panther’s eyes.
It was her. It had to be her.
As though aware that someone was watching her, she raised her head and looked at Jordan. The instant their gazes met she froze. Even the rouge couldn’t conceal the sudden blanching of her skin. He sat staring at her, and she at him, both of them caught in the same shock of mutual recognition.
What now? wondered Jordan. Should he warn Guy Delancey? Confront the woman on the spot? And what would he say? Guy, old chap, this is the woman I bumped into while burgling your bedroom…
Guy Delancey swiveled around and said cheerily, “Why, hello, Jordan! Didn’t know you were right behind me.”
“I…didn’t want to intrude.” Jordan glanced in the woman’s direction. Still white-faced, she reached for her drink and took a desperate swallow.
Guy noted the direction of Jordan ’s gaze. “Have you two met?” he asked.
Their answer came out in a simultaneous rush.
“Yes,” said Jordan.
“No,” said the woman.
Guy frowned. “Aren’t you two sure?”
“What he means,” the woman cut in before Jordan could say a word, “is that we’ve seen each other before. Last week’s auction at Sotheby’s, wasn’t it? But we’ve never actually been introduced.” She looked Jordan straight in the eye, silently daring him to contradict her.
What a brazen hussy, he thought.
“Let me properly introduce you two,” said Guy. “This is Lord Lovat’s nephew, Jordan Tavistock. And this-” Guy swept his hand proudly toward the woman “-is Diana Lamb.”
The woman extended a slender hand across the table as Jordan turned his chair to join them. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tavistock.”
“So you two met at Sotheby’s,” said Guy.
“Yes. Terribly disappointing collection,” she said. “The St. Augustine estate. One would think there’d be something worth bidding on, but no. I didn’t make a single offer.” Again she looked straight at Jordan. “Did you?”
He saw the challenge in her gaze. He saw something else as well: a warning. You spill the beans, said those cheerful brown eyes, and so will I.
“Well, did you, Jordie?” asked Guy.
“No,” muttered Jordan, staring fiercely at the woman. “Not a one.”
At his capitulation, the woman’s smile broadened to dazzling. He had to concede she’d beaten him this round; next round she’d not be so lucky. He’d have the right words ready, his strategy figured out…
“…dreadful shambles. Pitiful, really. Don’t you agree?” said Guy.
Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Jordan looked at Guy. “Pardon?”
“All the estates that have fallen on hard times. Did you know the Middletons have decided to open Greystones to public tours?”
“I hadn’t heard,” said Jordan.
“Lord, can you imagine how humiliating that must be? To have all those strangers tramping through one’s house, snapping photos of your loo. I’d never sink so low.”
“Sometimes one has no choice,” said Jordan.
“Certainly one has the choice! You’re not saying you’d ever let the tourists into Chetwynd, would you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Neither would I let them into Underhill. Plus, there’s the problem of security, something I’m acutely tuned in to after that robbery attempt last night. People may claim they’re tourists. But what if they’re really thieves, come to check the layout of the place?”
“I agree with you on that point,” said Jordan, looking straight at the woman. “One can’t be too careful.”
The little thief didn’t bat an eyelash. She merely smiled back, those brown eyes wide and innocent.
“One certainly can’t,” said Guy. “And that goes triply for you. When I think of the fortune in art hanging on your walls…”
“Fortune?” said the woman, her gaze narrowing.
“I wouldn’t call it a fortune,” Jordan said quickly.
“He’s being modest,” said Guy. “Chetwynd has a collection any museum would kill for.”
“All of it under tight security,” said Jordan. “And I mean, extremely tight.”
The hussy laughed. “I believe you, Mr. Tavistock.”
“I certainly hope you do.”
“I’d like to see Chetwynd some day.”
“Hang around with me, darling,” said Guy, “and we might wangle an invitation.”
With a last squeeze of the woman’s hand, Guy rose to his feet. “I’ll have the car sent ’round, how about it? If we leave now, we’ll avoid the jam in the parking lot.”
“I’ll come with you,” she offered.
“No, no. Do stay and finish your drink. I’ll be back as soon as the car’s ready.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
The woman sat back down. No shrinking violet, this one; brazenly she faced Jordan. And she smiled.
From across the refreshment tent Charles Ogilvie spotted the woman. He knew it had to be her; there was no mistaking the hair color. “Cinnamon red” was precisely how one would describe that glorious mane of hers. A superb job, courtesy of Clairol. Ogilvie had found the discarded hair-color box in the bathroom rubbish can when he’d searched her hotel room this morning, had confirmed its effect when he’d pulled a few silky strands from her hairbrush. Miss Clea Rice, it appeared, had done another quick-change job. She was getting better at this. Twice she’d metamorphosed into a different woman. Twice he’d almost lost her.
But she wasn’t good enough to shake him entirely. He still had the advantage of experience. And she had the disadvantage of not knowing what he looked like.
Casually he strolled a few feet along the tent perimeter, to get a better look at her profile, to confirm it was indeed Clea Rice. She’d gone heavy with the lipstick and rouge, but he still recognized those superb cheekbones, that ivory skin. He also had no trouble recognizing Guy Delancey, who had just risen to his feet and was now moving away through the crowd, leaving Clea at the table.
It was the other man he didn’t recognize.
He was a blond chap, long and lean as a whippet, impeccably attired. The man slid into the chair where Delancey had been sitting and faced the Rice woman across the table. It was apparent, just by the intensity of their gazes, that they were not strangers to each other. This was troubling. Where did this blond man fit in? No mention of him had appeared in the woman’s dossier, yet there they were, deep in conversation.
Ogilvie took the lens cap off his telephoto. Moving behind the wine bar, he found a convenient vantage point from which to shoot his photos, unobserved. He focused on the blond man’s profile and clicked off a few shots, then took a few shots of Clea Rice, as well. A new partner? he wondered. My, she was resourceful. Three weeks of tailing the woman had left him with a grudging sense of admiration for her cleverness.
But was she clever enough to stay alive?
He reloaded his camera and began to shoot a second roll.
“I like the hair,” said Jordan.
“Thank you,” the woman answered.
“A bit flashy, though, don’t you think? Attracts an awful lot of attention.”
“That was the whole idea.”
“Ah, I see. Guy Delancey.”
She inclined her head. “Some men are so predictable.”
“It’s almost unfair, isn’t it? The advantage you have over the poor dumb beasts.”
“Why shouldn’t I capitalize on my God-given talents?”
“I don’t think you’re putting those talents quite to the use He intended.” Jordan sat back in his chair and returned her steady gaze. “There’s n
o such company as Nimrod Associates. I’ve checked. Who are you? Is Diana Lamb your real name?”
“Is Jordan Tavistock yours?”
“Yes, and you didn’t answer my question.”
“Because I find you so much more interesting.” She leaned forward, and he couldn’t help but glance down at the deeply cut neckline of her flowered dress.
“So you own Chetwynd,” she said.
He forced himself to focus on her face. “My uncle Hugh does.”
“And that fabulous art collection? Also your uncle’s?”
“The family’s. Collected over the years.”
“Collected?” She smiled. “Obviously I’ve underestimated you, Mr. Tavistock. Not the rank amateur I thought you were.”
“What?”
“Quite the professional. A thief and a gentleman.”
“I’m nothing of the kind!” He shot forward in his chair and inhaled such an intoxicating whiff of her perfume he felt dizzy. “The art has been in my family for generations!”
“Ah. One in a long line of professionals?”
“This is absurd-”
“Or are you the first in the family?”
Gripping the table in frustration, he counted slowly to five and let out a breath. “I am not, and have never been, a thief.”
“But I saw you, remember? Rooting around in the wardrobe. You took something out-papers, I believe. So you are a thief.”
“Not in the same sense you are.”
“If your conscience is so clear, why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Perhaps I will.”
“I don’t think so.” She flashed him that maddening grin of triumph. “I think when it comes to thievery, you’re the more despicable one. Because you make victims of your friends.”
“Whereas you make friends of your victims?”
“Guy Delancey’s not a friend.”
“Astonishing how I misinterpreted that scene between you two! So what’s the plan, little Miss Lamb? Seduction followed by a bit of larceny?”
“Trade secrets,” she answered calmly.
“And why on earth are you so fixated on Delancey? Isn’t it a bit risky to stick with the same victim?”
Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen Page 4