Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  Nah. Nope. Never.

  Not even a glimpse.

  And after thirty-two years of life, if he hadn’t felt anything like romantic love by now, he probably never would.

  Marc just figured he didn’t do big emotions. Some people didn’t. That was fine. Just part of who he was, like his green eyes and love of martial arts.

  He should probably settle down with someone like Sara and figure that was that.

  But there was this nagging sense of . . . unease. That affection and similar goals weren’t enough to last through a lifetime of challenges. That he would end up like his father, walking out the door without looking back.

  And given what a mess that decision had made of his own childhood, he couldn’t risk doing something similar to anyone else.

  So yeah. His love life wasn’t in the best of places.

  “Higher if you can, Marc,” the photographer called. “I need the chainsaw to clear your head. Oh, and keep that right shoulder down. I don’t want the ammo belt drifting over your face.”

  Marc made the adjustments, ignoring the burn in his biceps. He had given up trying to understand what the ammo belt had to do with a chainsaw. He secretly thought it was Sara’s passive-aggressive way of sabotaging him. Making him look ridiculous while simultaneously sending him into heatstroke with all the extra weight.

  The whole day had turned into just a little bit of Hell wrapped up in taunting tropical splendor and topped with a generous dollop of blackmail.

  But Marc, being Marc, did what he always did in such situations.

  He smiled. He was easy-going, game for anything. The man that could brush anything off. It was the reputation that gave him his living.

  “How hot does it have to get before I want to be jellyfish bait?” he called to the lighting crew, grinning at them.

  “Sara, it’s really nice to see you. How’s your mom doing?” Fine. Her mother was just fine.

  And didn’t blink when every five minutes he heard, “Layteh, allagayteh,” followed by raucous laughter.

  Humor and deflection. It was like breathing.

  Did anyone notice that his smile was somewhat strained? That his nonchalance wasn’t exactly non-chalanty?

  Someday he would laugh at the absurdity of this day.

  Someday. But not yet.

  Finally, the art director called a break, and Marc, gratefully, jumped his way to shore.

  Marc sank into a beach chair under one of the awnings, gulping down an absurd amount of water, wishing desperately for a cool breeze to relieve the heat.

  His mind circling back to that note.

  Blackmail was an ugly business. The monies paid would never stop. And what evidence did this unknown person have? Who were they?

  And with all his contacts, did Marc know a guy who knew another guy who could effectively ferret out the answers for him?

  Swallowing more water, he pondered his options, staring sightlessly. People were still standing around in small groups, discussing (more like arguing) model posing and running mascara.

  Marc’s phone chirped. A text from Emme.

  DO NOT read FauxPause today. Just don’t.

  He sent her back a smiley emoji because Emme hated emoji and would be less likely to ask probing, concerned questions if she were annoyed at him.

  Standard emotional deflection.

  Of course, that didn’t mean Marc actually trusted Emme’s advice.

  Sara and the photographer were now arguing with the art director. It sounded like Sara wanted to add ninja knives and a quiver of arrows to the ammo belt (definitely passive-aggressive sabotage). Fortunately, she was getting some pushback.

  In other words, nothing was happening any time soon.

  So Marc instantly went to the bookmarked website on his phone: www.FauxPause.com. (Tagline: Grab a coffee and sit for a Pause.)

  The loading icon spun and spun. Cellar wi-fi was slooooooow on Fraser Island. Text messages, however, were not.

  Marc, I know you’re not listening to me. I am serious. DO NOT GO THERE. For once, trust me.

  He texted back a kissy-lips emoji.

  Marc loved FauxPause. Granted, pretty much anyone with an internet connection loved FauxPause. It was the website right now. Hip. Current. Everyone who was anyone found their way into its commentary.

  I mean it, Marc. Don’t ignore me.

  Marc ignored her.

  He was having a bad day and if anything could cheer him up, it would be FauxPause.

  With sections entitled Faux Sure (modern culture in the now) and Fashion Faux-ward (fashion trends, bad and good), FauxPause curated all the ephemera that made modern civilization, well, modern.

  Slick and ironic with often biting humor, all reflected in the website’s design: black and white Parisian-inspired minimalism with punches of mustard and teal. Marc had this secret fantasy that someday he would be featured on the website. A glowing review under Faux Sure.

  The managing editor, La Pochette, wrote a section dedicated to cultural missteps: Oh the Urbanity! Her charcoal image in a retro teal dress peeked cheekily at the viewer, hand reaching into a mustard purse slung on her shoulder, ready to pull out another biting piece of hilarious media satire.

  Her last post had been classic: an anti-Valentine’s Day rant entitled The Boy-cott which advocated taking back the upcoming Valentine’s Day and focusing on inner, not outer, validation.

  Cupid’s stupid. Last thing I need is a naked man-baby packing antiquated weaponry manipulating my love-life, she wrote.

  La Pochette didn’t pull any punches.

  Which was why, when the website finally loaded, Marc realized he probably should have listened to his sister.

  There it was under Review of the Preview—a scathing dialogue between La Pochette’s id, ego and superego critiquing theatrical trailers.

  Comedic gold.

  Except when the movie in question was his own.

  Review of the Preview:

  Because all the good parts are in the trailer anyway . . .

  Today’s Preview: Croc-nami

  Ego: Let’s start with the name. Croc-nami? Really?

  Id: It’s like a flashback to 2005 to when I opened my niece’s closet to an avalanche of smelly plastic shoes. The 240 seconds I spent watching this preview were 230 seconds too long.

  Superego: Be nice, you guys. Good people worked hard to bring this movie to life, and we should respect—

  Id: Respect?! Whatever. Don’t even start that Pollyanna routine of yours.

  Ego: Patience, children. I want to know more about this lead actor, Marc Wilde? A.k.a, the Crocinator?

  Id: Some D-list wannabe.

  Superego: I am sure he is a very lovely person with a winning personality.

  Id: [sarcastic eyeroll]

  Ego: I looked him up on IMBD.

  Id: Liar. You did not.

  Ego: Okay, you’re right. He’s not on IMBD.

  Id: D-list wannabe, I’m telling you.

  Ego: But I did find a couple of his earlier films. Most notably, a little pearl entitled, Ninja Pirate 3: The Last Arrrrghonaut.

  Id: Shut up! No! Take it back!

  Superego: Ah, a cinematic gem, you say?

  Id: You’re making my eyes bleed just reading this.

  Ego: Which, of course, begs the question. Ninja Pirate 1 and Ninja Pirate 2?!

  Id: Again . . . I just . . . I can’t . . .

  Superego: Marc Wilde is a martial artist—

  Id: Artist? Did you really just go there?

  Superego: Point taken. But he is sorta hot in a karate kid meets surf bum kinda way. And he is supposed to be Australian in the movie, so the surfer thing works on many levels.

  Id: I cannot believe those words actually came out of your mouth. There is NO level at which this movie works . . .

  Ego: I’ll grant you the hot surfer look.

  Id: Fine. Hot, maybe. But NOT Mr. Wilde’s epic fail at an Australian accent. It’s called a dialect coach, people. Look it up.r />
  Marc grimaced. He had told the writers over and over that he couldn’t do a convincing Australian accent. Just because Marc had a perfect English accent (courtesy of his British grandmother) along with his American one, it didn’t mean he could do other accents flawlessly. Another fact the Australian photography crew had rubbed in over and over today.

  Ego: And those blond dreadlocks?

  Id: Ick. They’re like a mangy sheepdog hugging his head.

  Superego: Yeah, I’m with Id on this one.

  The dialogue went on, slamming the movie’s plotline (Ego: So a tsunami somehow snags saltwater crocs off the coast of Africa and pushes them over five thousand miles to New York City?) and even worse CGI (Id: Photographing a toy crocodile in front of a green screen does not a convincing terror make.). Superego, at least, seemed to like him.

  Superego: Okay, granted, the plotline and special effects are terrible. But Marc Wilde is at least a little bit of eye candy, right? All those muscles and impressive fight moves and gratuitously ripped shirts?

  Ego: Maybe, but I did mention the dreadlocks earlier . . .

  Id: And though I do appreciate a nice set of pectorals, I discovered you actually can have too much of a good thing. I counted over eleven close-ups of Mr. Wilde’s abs in the theatrical trailer alone. Is that the best thing the movie has to offer?

  Superego: Yes.

  Ego: Hell, yes.

  Superego: I understand the movie is a runaway hit in Singapore and Thailand. They love Croc-nami . You can buy t-shirts in Malaysia with anime-esque crocodiles, pleading with their cute huge eyes, Beware the Croc-nami!

  Id: I think that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?

  Ego: It does indeed.

  Marc shook his head and stared at lapping waves.

  Emme’s text popped onto his screen. You didn’t listen to me, did you?

  No, he did not.

  Social Media Exposure for the Day = -11/10

  The problem, of course, was that everything La Pochette said was sort of true: Croc-nami was not a phenomenal film. It was a low-budget B-movie.

  But it wasn’t as awful as she painted it either. The special effects weren’t that bad and the martial arts in the film were top notch—Marc’s expertise ensured that much. It was a campy, action romp with a broad international audience.

  The problem, of course, was easy to spot: La Pochette’s scathing review had just sealed his tomb.

  Curse her.

  He was going to be pigeon-holed as that-actor-from-Croc-nami for the rest of his life. No respected director would touch him now with a ten-foot alligator-repelling pole.

  Blackmail, box jellies, scorching heat, Sara and now a scathing, highly-visible movie review?

  He was sure today was karmic retribution for something. His break-up with Sara hadn’t been that callous, had it?

  With a sigh, Marc dialed Emme’s number. It was time to chat about that blackmail note.

  Because if the universe insisted on him having a bad day, he was taking his sister down with him.

  Chapter 2

  The study

  Haldon Manor, Herefordshire

  February 7, 1814

  Kit Ashton was having a horrid day.

  Oh, who was she fooling.

  She was having a horrid month. Perhaps even a horrid year. And her situation did not promise to turn a corner any time soon.

  Well, it could improve rather rapidly. If she managed to find Daniel.

  But in typical Daniel-like fashion, her younger brother had run to ground.

  Again.

  And, as usual, she was not sure where to find him. Assuming he even wanted to be found.

  Daniel could be a serious trial.

  Kit carefully surveyed the items on the desktop. A fire burned low in the grate doing little to warm the winter-cold air. The candle in her hand flickered, casting ghoulish shadows on the dark paneled wood lining the walls, illuminating the eyes of a painted lynx staring at her above the stone mantle. As if the large cat could divine her purpose here, would hunt out her secrets.

  She shivered. That would be bad.

  Voices echoed quietly down the hallway, soft murmurs of discussion and the clink of teacups from the drawing room. She had so little time. Cautiously, she sifted through each item on the desk, meticulously placing it back exactly as before—an inkwell and heavy emblazoned family seal, a well-used blotter and neatly trimmed quills, estate correspondence stacked according to the sender’s perceived importance.

  Mr. Arthur Knight’s desk captured the man himself: tidy, organized, somewhat pretentious around the edges.

  She surveyed the desktop one last time.

  Nothing.

  Or rather, nothing more than she had expected.

  But there had to be something somewhere.

  Daniel had left her very few clues before disappearing. Just that vague note which led her to the town of Marfield and then on to nearby Haldon Manor, where she was now living.

  Nothing more.

  Did Daniel realize how desperately alone and penniless she found herself? How difficult he had made it for her to return home?

  She thought not.

  Being her brother’s keeper had never been easy. Keeping him out of trouble, out of debt, out of prison even.

  For his part, Daniel was adept at keeping her out of his life.

  What, precisely, was her brother up to this time? The few ideas she did have were terrifying in their scope. None of them ended well. He appeared to have landed himself in a mess of epic proportions.

  The only solution was for Daniel to return home as soon as possible, firmly sweeping this episode under a very heavy rug, maybe placing some hefty furniture on top of it for good measure. Ensuring that no whiff of this ever escaped to the world at large.

  Granted, she had to actually find Daniel before she could do any of that.

  Dismissing the desktop, Kit moved to the drawers, quietly opening one and then another, carefully lifting ledgers and sifting through papers. Documents she had no business looking at.

  You really should not be doing this. It’s not worth the risk, her Virtuous Angel whispered.

  Don’t listen to her. That was her Wicked Angel. We need to find Daniel. Any means justify the end.

  Daniel had always mocked her for turning internal moral dilemmas into silly dialogue between Virtuous Angel and Wicked Angel. Kit preferred to think of it as carefully assessing her options from all points of view.

  One of them had to.

  But then Daniel didn’t seem possessed of a Virtuous Angel, so the whole concept of ‘moral dilemma’ was a bit of an oxymoron for him.

  Kit, on the other hand . . .

  I do understand what is at stake here! Virtuous Angel was indignant. Trust me, I want to return home too. But this is the wrong way to go about finding him. Who says there will be any information in here?

  Wrong shmong. Wicked Angel shrugged. This is our only option. Just keep looking.

  Kit shivered and tugged her red shawl tighter around her shoulders. The intelligence she needed had to be in here somewhere, didn’t it? Had Daniel had any correspondence with Arthur Knight?

  Someone had to know something. She just needed to find the right information, which would (hopefully) lead her to Daniel, which would allow them to (finally) return home.

  Just sneak back into their former lives. No one the wiser.

  That was the most important part, really. No one could ever know about this little . . . episode. Because if someone, anyone, found out . . . about Daniel’s suspected behavior . . . about her time here at Haldon Manor . . .

  Kit swallowed. Hard. Her heart suddenly racing. Panic tasted metallic and cold in the back of her throat.

  Shaking her head, she tightened her jaw. Swallowed. Angled her candle and dug more thoroughly through the desk drawer.

  Arthur Knight, her employer, seemed an upstanding sort of person, unlikely to be wrapped up in the nastiness of Daniel’s life.

&nbs
p; But Kit had learned from hard experience that everyone had secrets. No matter how honest and upright they appeared, every person had something they didn’t wish others to know. Some hidden pain which kept them up at night, mentally picking, trying to close the nagging worry but instead only deepening the wound.

  Kit was so eternally weary of secrets. Lies and half truths and clandestine things one couldn’t fathom.

  Things Kit would never fathom, because there was one truth—and one truth only—she had learned:

  Secrets abandoned you . . . left you.

  They left you standing in the entryway of your house, the slam of the front door still echoing. They left you holding your crying little brother, unable to understand or explain why. They left your father half a man, disappearing bit-by-bit into his research until he faded all together. They left you wondering if your mother would ever return.

  Secrets left you with only one thing—more secrets.

  And once secrets took someone, that person never returned. She understood that bitter lesson early on.

  Secrets were thieves, stealing joy.

  Kit Ashton hated secrets.

  Hypocrite, Virtuous Angel murmured.

  Kit bit her lip. Despising herself a little.

  She had deserved that bit of recrimination.

  For someone who abhorred deception, she did have rather more than her share of secrets currently. Fairly riddled with them.

  She was the worst sort of hypocrite.

  Though if her mother’s secret had been something of this magnitude, Kit might have felt more pity for the woman.

  She finished rifling through the drawer, resisting the urge to slam it shut. Nothing. She swallowed tightly and pulled out the next one.

  Gah. She never thought about her mother. With both her father and mother now dead, it was pointless to dwell on the past.

  It was probably just this room with its dark paneling and large, stone fireplace. Her father’s study was like this. She could practically smell his musky cologne lingering in the air.

  Both rooms even sported a similar painting of a lynx over the mantle.

  It sees hidden truths, the lynx does. All ancient cultures believed so, the Greeks, the Norse . . . She could almost hear her father’s voice—calm, quiet, withdrawn. Reciting historical facts. Asking questions about his research had been her only way of connecting with him.