I wept, then, in a swirl of painful humiliation and fury over his betrayal. I’d considered Art a friend and felt that loss keenly. Had any of it been real? His interest, his camaraderie? Or had it all been a ruse to become closer to me and the rest of the Kensingtons and Morgans? Had I simply been a dunce, through and through? It seemed impossible that I’d so misread him.
My eyes traced the photographs of Will’s earnest face, knowing he loved me. Not as an heiress, but as Cora Diehl, finding my way in my new world as a Kensington. Just as Pierre loved me, I thought, looking at his photograph, too; he pursued me before he even knew I had wealth of my own, after he knew of my mother’s indiscretions and my own base birth. Never had he hesitated. He was always so sure, so stalwart in his pursuit. It was hard not to be taken by that determination. I didn’t know why Pierre de Richelieu had set his sights on me, exactly, but he appeared to be in it to win my heart.
I reached into my valise for a fresh handkerchief, my old one now wet with tears, and touched another paper. Glancing down, I saw it was the sketch Pierre had made of us in the garden, entwined like young lovers. I had to admit we looked right together, as he envisioned us. Peaceful, playful. And something had shifted between us in the hours since I had learned that I was a partner in a sizable mine with Wallace and my parents. An heiress.
Even though my heart longed for Will, my life was now more on Pierre’s plain, the valley between us bridged. At least in terms of wealth.
An heiress, I repeated silently. As if my life could not become more convoluted and confusing than it already was…I was now potentially very wealthy. As wealthy or even wealthier than my siblings and their friends. I could see the genius of my father’s plan. I was not taking any of my siblings’ inheritance; Wallace Kensington had engineered an inheritance that solely belonged to me and mine. There was nothing to divide me from my siblings in this; it would only bring us closer together. Just as the wealth gap was bridged with Pierre, so it now was with Felix, Vivian, and Lil.
I flopped backward to my pillows, feeling the walls of Wallace Kensington’s fortress close in around me. How was I to stop something that was irrefutably doing some good things, too?
William
Will had hovered in the shadows, unable to let Cora go without seeing her board the train for Venice. How he longed to run out, pull her into his arms, promise her he’d come for her soon. Beg her not to give up on them. Please, Lord, let her know. Confirm that my heart is in her hands. That I am gone, but not forever… Over and over he prayed such prayers as he steadily pursued two goals: to figure out who was truly behind the kidnapping attempts, and to track down Arthur Stapleton.
The man had disappeared sometime during the baroness’s ball, as if cannily aware that he was about to be exposed as a traitor. Interloper. Betrayer. Art had robbed him of precious weeks with Cora. Given her father reason to hate Will. And given Pierre de Richelieu a frustrating edge to win her back.
A butler told Will that a driver of the baroness’s had taken Art away last evening with his luggage packed. After Will watched the Kensingtons and Morgans depart—feeling every turn of the wheels as a screw tightening in his heart—he walked toward the stables, now converted to house three luxurious motorcars. It felt dreadfully wrong to be apart from Cora—from any of his clients, really. At the end of the season, he usually welcomed the separation, but here, now…had his uncle been alive, this surely would have killed him.
Ah, Stuart, how I’ve messed things up. I’m sorry, so sorry. He felt the burn of shame on his cheeks, and he paused beside the stables, letting his head rest against the cool stones for a moment as he gathered himself. But anger gave him the strength he needed. Hadn’t Stuart himself made a mess of things, leaving his estate in disarray, his debts seemingly insurmountable? How had he continued to spend, giving Will so little, when he knew the bills on his bookkeeper’s desk?
But as soon as the bitter thoughts entered his mind, so did the tender memories of Stuart taking him in as an orphan, without hesitation, giving him everything he could. Raising him as his own. Leaving him the business, if he wished to take it—providing there would ever be another client.
Will’s only choice was to make it all right. And swiftly. Then and only then could he see the way clear to his future. A future he dearly hoped would include Cora. And it began with finding Arthur Stapleton. Somehow, he knew the man was the key.
He took a deep breath and turned to enter the stables. Three cars were inside, two of them beneath protective blankets, one with her hood folded back, a man turning a wrench around a bolt within. “Owen Goering?” Will called.
The man looked up and straightened a bit. “I am Goering,” he said in German.
“Good, good.” Will came closer, considered offering him his hand, but then saw the dark oil that covered the driver’s hand. “I am a friend and guest of the baroness’s, William McCabe.”
“Yes,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “I’ve seen you about, sir.”
“Last night, you took Arthur Stapleton away from here. I need to know where you left him.”
“The Hotel Sacher, sir.”
“The Hotel Sacher. Did you see him check in?”
“No, sir. But I handed his bags and trunks to a bellman.”
“Good. Danke.”
“Willkommen.”
Will left the stables, fighting the urge to run all the way to the grand old hotel. He planned as he went. He wanted word to reach Art that the Kensingtons and Morgans had fled and for Art to believe Will had gone with them. If Kensington had accomplished what he hoped, they’d reach the train with no word of their intended destination. If God would only grant them this one favor, winding through the Alps, they’d lose anyone who dared to pursue them.
Will prayed his plan to escape the kidnappers would work. Above all, he wanted Cora to be safe. And he could not wait to get his hands on one of the men who had hurt her—Arthur Stapleton. Then he would do his best to track down the man who dogged them and make sure he never took a step in their direction again.
Upon reaching the hotel, he went directly to the concierge and asked for a pen and card. Swiftly he wrote a note intended to draw Art out, and asked a bellman to get it to Arthur Stapleton’s room. “Within the next five minutes, if possible,” he said, peeling off another bill from the wad that Kensington had given him to get home.
The bellman scurried off, and Will sat down on a vast, curved, upholstered lounge in the center of the lobby to wait for him.
Ten minutes later, Art appeared, looking relaxed with his collar open at the neck, his jacket unbuttoned. He walked over to Will and kept his gaze. Will rose, fighting to keep his composure.
“You were our friend,” Will ground out.
“I am still your friend, if you allow it.”
Will was in motion before his thoughts caught up with his fist. He punched Art and sent him sprawling, then went after him. Women screamed. Art half rose, blood spurting from his nose.
A bellman blew a whistle, and a second sounded a moment later as Will pummeled Art’s face. Art let out a guttural cry and pushed him away with his legs, sending Will hard against a nearby sculpture of a woman, tipping it over. He winced as the sculpture’s hand dug into his shoulder before shattering beneath him. But he was rising, intent on going after Art again, when he saw two policemen clamp down on either of Stapleton’s arms. A moment later, two others did the same to him. He tried to wrench away, but it was no use. They had him.
“He attacked me!” Art cried.
But the manager was speaking in rapid German with another policeman, waving in their direction, then over to the broken sculpture and spattered blood across his luxurious carpet. “Bring them,” the fifth man said to the guards holding Will and Art, “and we’ll sort it out at the station.” The four officers immediately hauled them out of the lobby, past women with handkerchiefs to their mouths, hands over heaving breasts, past men with frowns of dismay and protective stances.
&nbs
p; This, Will thought as they loaded him and Art into the back of a barred wagon—a jail cell on wheels—wasn’t how I’d planned it.
But what was new? Nothing seemed to be going his way. He stared helplessly through the bars to the wide Ringstrasse that had borne Cora’s motorcar to the rail station.
No, nothing at all seemed to be going Will’s way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
William
The police chief let them sit in separate cells, side by side, for hours.
Or rather, he let Will pace, and Art sit and dab at his bleeding lip and cover his bruised eye with his hand, as if the eye ached.
“So you didn’t really wish to speak with me,” Art said at last, watching him pace.
“I did,” Will responded, turning to face him, hands on hips. With the bars between them, he couldn’t go after him again. “I wanted to know how a man we all thought was honest and true could be an out and out liar. A user. But then when I saw you, I knew I wanted to deck you too.”
Art shrugged. “If you see a journalist as a liar and user, so be it. I do not. I write it as I see it. And if you do not wish to be written about, live life as a hermit.”
“You are not a journalist. A journalist would’ve made it clear that he was writing a story about a group on the Grand Tour. Received their permission. Not covertly gathered his information, catching his friends at their weakest, using that weakness to create a more titillating story.”
“Vivian recognized my name. Adrien said I liked to gather stories.”
“You know as well as I do that she recognized it but could not place it. And that we missed that casual reference! How do you do it, Art? How can you stand yourself? How can you sleep at night?”
“It’s a job, Will. Something I figured you’d understand. Do you love everything about being a bear?” He paused and then smirked. “Clearly not. But do you do your job well anyway? Of course. Because that is what is expected of you. Just as my editor expects the same of me.”
“You crossed a line, Art.”
“I did,” he said, dropping his hand with a sigh. “But you have to admit it came together in one compelling story. My editor telegrammed me yesterday. They had to go back for a third printing, sales are so good.”
Will shook his head. “What are you expecting from me? Congratulations?”
“No. Understanding.”
“For using your friends? For being less than honest?”
“Did you not do the same? Use the Kensingtons and Morgans as a means to an end? To remain close to Cora? You be honest. Once your uncle died, everything in you wanted to head home to the States. But you stayed. Because you wanted more time with Cora. And the payday at the end of this tour.”
“I had a job to do. I had to see it through.”
“A job to do. You had to see it through,” Art repeated. “That was my experience too. No matter how I came to care for you all. I had to see the job through.”
“Why? Why?” Will sputtered. “Why not go and be the man Adrien portrayed you to be, sowing goodwill across the Continent on behalf of your family and vineyard? Why not see to that task over this?”
“Because I do not want only that task.” Art stood and paced away, running a hand through his hair and turning back to him. “I want my own task. To be my own man. Not simply follow the dictates of my father.”
Will let out a groan and waved an angry hand in the air. “So you are but one more wealthy son striving to make his own way in the world? I’m so weary of men like you! So weary! Do you not know what you have? What you’ve been given?”
Art considered him. “I thought you were free. Your own man. But you are as constricted by those who have gone before you as I am, are you not?”
“Indeed,” Will bit out. “But without the fat bank account to fuel my way. Worse, I’m saddled with debts. Some of which are now held by none other than Wallace Kensington.”
“There’s a way, Will. Lead me to them. Gain me access so I can finish the third part of my story, perhaps even a fourth, and I’ll cut you in. My editor has already offered me bonuses if this series continues to gain steam and—”
“You expect me to help you?” Will stared. “Yes, I want to make my own way in life. I want to be free. But I shall not get there across the backs of my friends.”
Art sighed and sat down on the edge of his bunk, head in hands. “You need to help me, Will.”
“No, I do not. I intend to keep you as far away from my former clients as possible. In my book, you and the louts that tried to kidnap Cora are on the same level, Art. I’m going after them next.”
“They’re already ahead of us. Another reason for you to lead me to them.”
Will stilled at his deadly, defeated tone, his words laced with knowledge. “You know who tried to kidnap Cora.”
Art shrugged.
Will moved to his side of the cell and met his gaze. “Tell me, man! What do you know?”
“I don’t expect you to understand this. Will…I hired them.”
“You what? You!” Will shrieked and vainly tried to grab him, longing to ram the man into the hard steel. He pushed against the bars as if he could bend them, until his rage passed. “You hired them?” he said, panting. “When? Where? Any why?”
Art spread out his hands. “In Paris. I came across your party at Pierre’s ball. Saw that he was taken with Cora and knew there was a story brewing. When I saw how you were smitten too, it was all the better. But I needed something more. An edge of danger. Intrigue. And a reason to tie Pierre to you all for good. To feel responsible for you.”
“So you hired the men to attack us?” Will said, feeling as if his head were about to burst. “The butler died in that attack, man! He died!”
Art’s head was back in his hands. “I never intended them to go as far as they did. But once they knew who you were, they knew there was an even richer pot of gold at the end of the Kensington rainbow than I could offer.”
“No, no, no,” Will groaned, walking away, hands on his head. “It’s impossible.”
“I only intended this to be a onetime event, in Paris. Some chasing. Maids tied up. They were to get close to you all but not actually touch you. No one was to die. You have to believe me.”
“But then they showed up in Nîmes….”
“And I paid them off. I thought we were done. Through. That it was over and you all were safe. I stayed with you as far as Vienna to make sure. And then our man showed his face here, to Cora, because she’d recognize him. He wanted me to know he was still around. Hoped I might have to provide additional funds to get rid of him for good. Sure enough, he contacted me.”
Will paced his cell, hands on his hips. His heart leaped in his chest. It was far worse than even Arthur thought. Was it possible they knew already? News of the Dunnigan strike had been in the papers. Had the men put two and two together? Or found another means of information? “No, no, no,” he muttered. “They can’t know yet. Not yet.”
“Know what?” Art asked.
“Nothing!” Will barked. He wouldn’t give Art more fodder to write about if he could help it. “Who is he? What will it take to end it?”
Art heaved a sigh. “I’d say there’s only one way to end it forever,” he said, shooting Will a meaningful look. “His name is Luc Coltaire.”
It was Will’s turn to take a seat and slump over, head in hands. “At least that’s one reason I can be glad the Kensingtons and Morgans left. Gotten away. With luck, they’ll shake Coltaire from their trail.”
“I wouldn’t count on luck. I would count on this man’s skill to follow among the shadows. I’ve never seen anything like it. I hate to say it, but I’d wager he’s likely on whatever train your clients are on. Right now. And waiting for the right opportunity to take Cora, or another.” Art paused. “There’s only one way I can see us intervening before Coltaire does something foolish.”
“Let me hazard a guess. It involves you writing more of your story.”
“Yes,” Art said carefully. “And no. Will you hear me out?”
Will heaved a sigh, searching for his own ideas, but there was no way Wallace Kensington would even let him near Cora again. “I’m listening.”
Part IV
VENEZIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cora
As we moved from a train that wound through the mountains to another train that descended into the rolling hills and fields of northern Italy, and then to a ferry across a lagoon, I decided my mind and heart had settled into a numb paralysis—as if they’d taken on too much and could endure no more. And that was all right by me. I accompanied my siblings and friends, our fathers, Pierre, Antonio, and our new guardians, nodding politely and answering any direct questions. But mostly I allowed the journey itself to wind around me like gauze on a wound. Cradling me, holding me, until I could begin to feel and think on my own again.
Sailing across the silver-green water to Venice, I fell in love with the uniquely salty scent of the Adriatic, feeling as if I were taking my first full breaths in weeks. I leaned against the small ferry’s rail and watched as sailboats skipped across the water, narrowly avoiding the more stately steamers. Across the lagoon, in the distance, white-tipped, alpine mountains like those we’d crossed marked the northern border of Italia. It felt good, so good to be on the water again. It brought back memories of being on the Olympic, and then on the Channel in that sailboat….
Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) Page 28