The issue was leadership. When her father was in charge, no one would have dared go around him. Vienna had always imaged a scenario where she gradually took over his role, having him there advising her and maintaining a presence before he retired completely. But she’d found herself in charge overnight, forced to pick up the reins while she was so weighed down with grief she could hardly function. She’d often felt out of her depth and isolated, but she couldn’t risk showing a lack of confidence with her aunts and cousins sitting around her like vultures, just waiting for her to make a mistake.
The Cavender deal was her first big test and she knew she had Mason on the ropes, that crazy condition notwithstanding. Should she take for granted her inevitable surrender, or should she strike now by raising the stakes? If she withdrew her offer, the whole house of cards would come down. The bank would call in their loans and the Cavender Corporation would be bankrupt. Either way, Vienna couldn’t lose.
Mason was just playing chicken with her. Like all Cavenders, she was unpredictable. They were governed by their emotions and therefore prone to impulsive behavior. Tonight was the perfect illustration. Mason knew the end was imminent; in her own words she’d admitted she wanted to get it over with. But instead of making a graceful exit, she’d decided Vienna should suffer a little, too. Sipping the hot coffee, Vienna turned her face toward the breeze and willed her senses to snap into alert mode. She needed to think lucidly but her mind felt spongy and sluggish. By contrast, her limbs were tense and her breathing was too rapid.
There was nothing about Mason that warranted girlish swoons or romantic illusions; she was Vienna’s stark opposite, a shameless womanizer. But the mere thought of spending a week as her lover made Vienna’s pulse hammer out of control. She needed a cold shower.
Mumbling, “Get a grip on yourself,” she pushed off her Jimmy Choo pumps and allowed her feet to settle on the cool brick cobblestones.
By now Mason was probably halfway to the Berkshires. Vienna knew she should be close behind, making the three-hour drive in the middle of the night so she could reclaim the advantage. Her father would have been knocking on the door at Laudes Absalom in the middle of the night to get this deal signed. He always did whatever it took. That was the Blake way.
Vienna drained her coffee and got to her feet. She could go tomorrow, she decided, unzipping her dress with a moan of relief. She wasn’t going to fall for Mason’s ticking bomb ploy. After adding the gown to a stack of clothing to be cleaned, she took off the Cavender Diamonds, dropped the necklace distastefully on her night table, and marched into the bathroom. Her mother was expecting her to tag along for a terrifying brunch with some charity committee types at L’Absinthe the next morning. Then Vienna was supposed to help her choose between several Oscar de la Renta designs for the Whitney Gala. By the time they found shoes to match, it would be late afternoon, and then she had a meeting with Darryl Kent over her aunts’ latest legal machinations. She wouldn’t get to Penwraithe until the evening.
Twenty-four hours. What then? Was Mason planning to walk away from the deal and self-destruct? No, even a Cavender wasn’t that crazy. Vienna had increased her bid a week ago, making an offer Mason couldn’t refuse: an even more inflated price for the corporation and a flat-out crazy amount for Laudes Absalom. If the deal got any richer there would be howls of outrage once her aunts saw the figures. She had to get Mason to sign.
Bothered by the thought, Vienna pinned up her hair and removed her makeup. A day wouldn’t make any difference. The time limit was a game. Vienna adjusted the shower temperature and stepped beneath the soothing jets of water, trying not to hear Aunt Cynthia’s voice accusing her of procrastination. She soaped herself and watched white, fluffy suds roll down her legs and gather around her toes. Was she delaying the coup de grâce? If so, why?
Mason’s face drifted before her, the eyes darkly glowing, that mouth too close for comfort. In those final moments at Buffy’s, with Mason’s breath on her cheek, Vienna had wanted to turn her head and take the kiss that always thickened the air between them. She could feel Mason’s body summoning hers. Like a phantom in a dream, it reached for her, and Vienna felt she had no choice but to reach back.
Was that the real reason she was standing here making excuses for herself? Was she afraid of her own weakness? Vienna scrubbed her back and shoulders angrily. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she accepted Mason’s terms. So what if she had to swallow her pride? She would spend a week enjoying herself sexually and get what she wanted. Why the hesitation? Did she doubt her ability to keep the necessary emotional distance?
Vienna’s hands shook as she turned off the water and dried herself. She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image branded inside her eyelids: Mason, tearing back her white shirt, exposing those breasts, taunting her to shoot. That wretched woman had always been able to destroy her peace of mind. If she had any sense she would hand the deal over to her cousins and tell them to wipe Cavender off the map. But instead she was going to drive to Penwraithe tomorrow knowing anything could happen.
Worse still, a traitorous part of her hoped that it would.
Chapter Fifteen
There was a corner in the walled garden where Mason liked to sit and read, just as her mother once did, in front of the small summerhouse that had held her prized exotic plants. Azaria had placed a bench there beneath a trellised archway. Mason could remember her with a book on her lap, her face shaded by a tidy straw hat. Back then creamy roses and jasmine had trailed over the archway, adding their fragrance to air sweet with lilac and boronia. Honeybees flew sluggishly from one blossom to the next, weighed down with nectar, and the ravens that nested in the south wing would congregate along the herbal border, awaiting the bread she scattered.
They still frequented the garden; in fact, Ulysses was a fledgling Mason had found six years ago with a broken leg. The summerhouse was overgrown now, smothered in ivy and clematis, the glass dropping from frames buckled by time and neglect. Lichen crawled up the stained walls and the few surviving plants within were pale and straggly for want of light. Mason couldn’t get the door open to rescue them for fear of bringing down the whole fragile structure. She knew she should simply accept its demise; it hadn’t been built to withstand the toll of time. But she didn’t want to build a clean and tidy replacement while she could still feel her mother’s presence in this secluded oasis. For the same reason her father had insisted the garden stay untouched exactly as she’d left it. Mason used to watch him from an upstairs window, wandering along the path toward the summerhouse, pausing over objects Azaria had positioned here and there. Statuettes. Planters. Gifts he’d contributed to her bower.
After her death, the parasites took over, imposing on her retreat the wilder nature she’d held at bay. Yet her stamp lingered in the patterns of the cobblestones along the herbal borders and the flowering shrubs she’d planted, now rangy and monstrous with neglect. A clement wind breathed their scent on Mason—dead leaves and decay. Summer had departed, and with her the last of the late blooms.
Mason planned to begin work on the garden when spring came. She and Lynden had sat here not long before the accident, talking about a future unbound by the edicts of their father. A new beginning. The walls could come down. The ruined south wing would be leveled and something useful built. An indoor swimming pool, perhaps. Lynden had pictured children playing here, a new generation of Cavenders who would never know the Laudes Absalom he and Mason grew up in. The curse would be lifted.
“Your visitor has arrived.” Mrs. Danville’s immaculately polished shoes halted just in front of Mason’s boots. “I’ve served coffee in the yellow parlor.”
Mason stubbed out her cigar and signaled Ulysses. He flew down from his vantage point on the summerhouse roof and caught hold of the leather shoulder perch she wore when she took him out.
“That bird of yours stole a coconut macaroon,” Mrs. Danville said.
“He has good taste,” Mason said as they set off toward th
e house. “Your cookies are superb.”
Mrs. Danville gave a small sniff and glared at the unrepentant raven. “I have some news concerning our neighbor.”
She’d spoken with Bridget Hardy, Mason surmised. She wondered if Vienna had arrived at Penwraithe yet. She’d resisted phoning the house to find out. The move would show weakness. Mason suspected Vienna would try holding out, expecting Mason to come crawling to her apologizing for her uncouth proposal. Grinning at the memory of her shocked face, Mason held the back door for Mrs. Danville. If Vienna couldn’t bring herself to come to Laudes Absalom and try for better terms, let her return to the bosom of her family empty-handed. She’d be back.
Mrs. Danville adjusted the keys on her chatelaine. “It’s about the Cavender Diamonds.”
“Yes, I know she has them,” Mason said.
A tiny, smug smile subverted her housekeeper’s poker face. “Not all of them.”
Mason passed a treat up to Ulysses, who bobbed restlessly, sensing the excitement in his goddess.
“The pear is a fake,” Mrs. Danville confided with just enough dignity to mask a flash of glee. “Miss Blake has Mrs. Hardy tearing the house apart, looking for the real diamond.”
“Le Fantôme is lost? How do you lose a three-million-dollar diamond?”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Danville picked a speck of lint from her cashmere sweater. “Yet that’s not the question weighing upon our neighbor. It seems poor Miss Blake has no clue if she was ever in possession of the real stone in the first place.”
Mason spent a few seconds absorbing this information. “When did all of this come to light?”
“She found out last night last night when a man from De Beers looked at it. From what I hear she was flabbergasted.”
Mason thought back to her discussion with Vienna about the necklace. She hadn’t said a word about wearing a replica but her unease was palpable. Mason had imagined the tension was about her, but this new information shed a different light on Vienna’s behavior. Mason should have known better than to think she would rush out here on her account. The Blakes had always been more interested in material possessions than people or principles. After all that attention during the diamond competition at the party, Vienna must have been mortified to learn that her multi-million-dollar bauble was just a piece of glass. She’d probably stayed in town to hunt for it in the family’s apartment.
If only she knew that while she was gnashing her teeth over a fake last night, Mason had fifty carats of fine stones in her pocket and was doing a deal with Sergei Ivanov. And the Russian had brought an unexpected dividend to the table. He’d driven to the Azaria factory first thing in the morning and when he phoned Mason to confirm his investment he mentioned a pet banker who owed him a favor. On his recommendation Mason had a meeting arranged for the coming week. If she could refinance Cavender’s debt and add some extra working capital, she was sure she could avoid bankruptcy. Vienna’s offer was looking less appealing by the minute.
Mason wondered where the diamond was. She still couldn’t believe her father had willingly sold the necklace to his enemies. “Mrs. Danville, did you know the Blakes had the necklace?”
“No, I knew your father had sold it a long time ago. Your mother preferred simpler jewelry.”
“I remember her wearing the necklace when her portrait was painted.” Azaria had allowed Mason to try on the diamonds along with a fancy gown, confirming for both of them that she should stick to boy’s clothes, her usual attire.
“She was so beautiful, God rest her soul.” Mrs. Danville allowed herself a wistful sigh, then smoothed her skirt and adjusted the collar of her blouse. “I suppose we must be thankful.”
“Yes, we have her in our memories.”
“Quite so. And I was also thinking of the necklace. Now that it’s around a Blake neck, perhaps the curse will go with it.”
Mason stared at her. “Do you really believe that?”
“I know it. The necklace is cursed.”
“Why, because Nancy Cavender was wearing it when the train hit her?”
“Heavens no. It was cursed long before then.” Mrs. Danville cast a quick, apprehensive glance around the great hall, then hauled the front door back and pointed at the statue of Estelle and her Saluki. “She did it. She was a witch.”
“A witch.” Mason suppressed a chuckle. She had never taken Mrs. Danville for the superstitious type, although the housekeeper was a walking repository of Cavender family legend. There had always been dark rumblings about Estelle and her cowardly decision to drown herself and leave her poor husband to raise their son alone, but Mason had never heard her described as a witch.
“The Unhappy Bride,” Mrs. Danville asserted with conviction, “that’s her.”
Mason was perfectly willing to accept that Laudes Absalom was haunted; she’d felt the strange presence herself too often to pretend otherwise. But she’d thought the Unhappy Bride was Mrs. Danville’s invention, a scapegoat for vases inexplicably broken and windows banging in empty rooms. She stopped outside the yellow parlor and sent Ulysses up toward the vaulted ceiling.
Conscious of keeping Josh waiting, she said, “We should discuss this later, Mrs. Danville.”
She had papers to sign. Sergei Ivanov was as good as his word and was so eager to invest that he’d insisted on signing a preliminary agreement to that effect, just in case she changed her mind or found an investor whose money smelled better. Josh had decided to drive to Laudes Absalom immediately so they could get the paperwork in order for their meeting with Sergei’s pet banker. They would have two million in cash from Sergei next week, most of which would be spent on machinery made by Cavender. The arrangement was a huge win.
Mrs. Danville swept into the parlor ahead of her and imperiously announced, “Ms. Cavender will see you now.”
Josh wasn’t in the room.
A fresh-faced stranger in a suit jumped to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Detective Trent Sherman. I’m with the DA’s office.”
*
“You’ve reopened the case?” Mason hoped she didn’t sound as stunned as she felt.
“Ms. Blake approached us a couple of weeks ago and I was hoping to re-interview your father and your brother. But your housekeeper explained that both are deceased.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Vienna would go to the police after she’d grilled Mrs. Danville. To buy herself time to assemble her thoughts, she picked up a cookie she didn’t want to eat and casually bit into it.
“I thought perhaps you could fill in a few details.” Detective Sherman flipped open his notepad.
Mason chewed mechanically, then said. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. It’s a long time ago.”
“Ms. Blake denies having a romantic relationship with your brother. In the statement you gave at the time, you claim to know nothing about such a relationship. Is that correct?”
“They weren’t involved with each other.”
“You sound very certain of that.”
“My brother and I were close. He would have told me.”
“Yet your father had the same opinion as Mr. and Mrs. Blake. That they had hidden their relationship to avoid disapproval.”
“Detective Sherman, if my brother had been meeting Vienna Blake that night, she would not have been assaulted. He would never have allowed her to walk over here unescorted.”
“Where was your brother?”
“Isn’t it in your file?” Mason steadied her breathing. “He was the one who disturbed the attack. He was knocked unconscious.”
“And where were you at the time?”
“At the barns. One of our horses was foaling. I was assisting our vet.” That, at least, was the truth.
“Ah, yes.” Sherman tapped his pen thoughtfully against the pad. “The vet left at ten p.m. and you then remained in the barns with a member of your staff.”
“Yes, Mr. Pettibone.”
; “Is Mr. Pettibone still employed by your family?” At Mason’s nod, he asked, “Where can I find him?”
“At this time of year, he’ll be raking leaves if he’s not in his apartment around the back of the house. I can give you his cell phone number.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Detective Sherman glanced out the wide bay window into the garden. “That’s where she was found, isn’t it?”
“Yes, over to left, near the cemetery.”
“A note was found at the scene.” He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a set of photographs. Handing one of these to Mason, he asked, “Have you ever seen this before?”
“Yes.” The words danced in front of her.
It’s time we talked. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner next Saturday? Please reply below.
“Is that your brother’s handwriting?”
“No.”
“Your father stated that it was.”
Perspiration damped Mason’s hairline. “Detective, I wrote the note myself.”
Sherman studied her closely. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
“No one asked me.”
Mason’s hands were cold despite the fire she’d lit when she knew Josh was coming. She stared out into the garden and felt the past pressing down on her. If she hadn’t sent that note, Vienna would not have been wandering through the grounds in the middle of the night. Mason had thought she was being wildly optimistic to hope for a reply; she’d never imagined Vienna would want to give her answer in person or she would have gone with Pettibone’s grandson and waited outside. She’d drawn the obvious conclusion when the boy didn’t return to the barn after an hour or so. It wasn’t the first time she’d offered an olive branch, and her overtures were usually ignored. But this time Vienna had sent the Pettibone boy to the kitchen for a meal after telling him she would take the reply to Mason herself.
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