by Geneva Lee
Turning the Range Rover onto a slender strip of pavement that barely passed as a road, I found the address I was looking for. I pulled over a few houses down and considered my options. I came all the way here, so it made sense to see this through. But now that the answers I'd sought were within my grasp, I wanted to turn around. A few older gentlemen wearing driving caps and tweed jackets ambled past and nodded their heads. If they recognized me it didn't show. I couldn't expect such luck for long.
“This is what you wanted,” I told myself. Had it really come to this? Coaching myself through a confrontation with my father's past while sitting on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere? In that moment, it didn't matter that I was the king of England. It didn't matter that I had faced war and assassins. What did matter was why I was here. I came to find the truth, and I wouldn't find it sitting in a car.
Last night, I had read the file on Rachel Stone. It had been alarmingly brief. There wasn't much to say about this woman who’d commanded so much of my father's attention—or at least his money. She was a widow, and she moved to Silverstone shortly before her son's birth. There were no criminal records or scandalous news articles. If my father had paid for her discretion, she performed that task admirably. There was even less about Anderson Stone. I had ordered Brexton to supply me with information as it came in. That meant we had a lot to learn about the Stone family. It was wise he didn't want me to come. I should have listened to him, but I had never been very good at listening to anyone.
That character flaw left me to wonder if my father had tried to tell me about his other son. I had laid awake in bed, searching my memories for some clue. But if he had left any—other than the mysterious bank account—I had been too dense to see it.
As I sat there, a young man walked by with a Christmas tree braced over his shoulder. I froze, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face. Presumably, Anderson Stone would want to spend the holidays with his mother. I had seen photos of him, mostly on his Facebook account, but I wasn't certain what he’d look like in person. When the man turned, I was relieved and disappointed to see it wasn't him. However, the Christmas tree had been a reminder that I had my own family to think of. I had promised Clara I would see this to the end and then I would find her. The thought of my wife was the catalyst I needed to open the Range Rover's door.
Gravel crunched underfoot as I walked a few paces back to the house. It was an unassuming brick box, a plume of smoke curled from the chimney and a single string of Christmas lights decorated the front door. I paused my hand on the antique knocker and then struck it. Inside a woman's voice called out merrily, “I'll be right there, love.”
A few moments later the door opened to reveal an older woman, her sandy blonde hair streaked with gray and her blue eyes shining brightly. She blinked a few times as if she had opened the door to a ghost. Then her mouth fell open. She closed it quickly and stepped to the side. “Won't you come in?”
Her recovery was admirable. Then again, I supposed she had expected this day to come. When I began looking into my father's personal life, I knew I would uncover secrets. She must have known that I would as well. I hesitated on the threshold. I was the one who had questioned her motives and her allegiance. If she was the threat I suspected, I was walking into a viper's nest.
“I won't bite,” she assured me. Despite the tension of the situation, she was smiling. I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. “I never imagined finding Albert’s son on my doorstep.”
I raised an eyebrow. If my information was true, she’d had Albert’s son under her roof. I kept the jibe to myself.
The house was, for lack of a better term, homey. It still retained much of its historical charm with slightly crooked walls and creaking floorboards. There wasn't much to it, but then again, I lived in a palace. She let me through a quaint hallway into a cheery kitchen with butter yellow walls and checked curtains hanging on the windows.
“Would you like some tea?” She didn't wait for my reply. Instead she began to fill the tea kettle before placing it on the hob. “I'm afraid I don't have any fancy tea to brew. I expect you’re used to something a mite better than what I get in town.”
“I'm not picky,” I said with a shrug. Nothing about this situation was going according to plan. Not that I had a plan. I hated to admit it, I had anticipated more drama.
“You must have questions for me.” She took a seat at the small kitchen table and gestured for me to join her. I sat opposite her and searched for what to say.
“You are Rachel Stone?” Now seemed like a good time to clarify that fact, before I started spilling the family secrets.
She nodded. “And you are Alexander. I suppose you don't remember me.”
There were a lot of things I expected her to say, but that had not been one of them. Should I remember her? She had obviously played an important role in my father's life, but I had no recollection of her being part of mine. “I thought we hadn't met.”
“Not since you were a boy.” She shook her head as if recalling some memory that had grown dusty with age. “I worked at the palace.”
The high-pitched whistle of the tea kettle interrupted her recollection. She jumped up to take it off the flame, leaving me a moment to collect myself after this revelation. She had worked at the palace? That had not been in her file. Had my father covered it up? Why had he gone to such lengths to protect her? Before I could theorize, she returned with two mugs and a selection of teabags.
I cleared my throat, and asked the first thing that came into mind, “what did you do there?”
“I was household staff. I brought tea and biscuits and the newspaper.” She dipped a teabag into water and continued, “It wasn't an exciting job, but most of my family had worked in public service. My late husband included.”
I seized my opportunity. Any reluctance I had felt asking about her personal life vanished when she brought it up herself. “I suppose you know why I'm here.”
“You want to know about your brother,” she guessed, laying to rest any possibility that there had been a mistake. I did have another brother. Even after being told weeks ago, it was difficult to wrap my mind around. The idea that my own flesh and blood had been walking around for the last 25 years without my knowledge seemed impossible.
“Amongst other things. I want to know why he was kept a secret, and how you met my father, and—”
She cut me off. “Maybe I should start at the beginning.”
That seemed like a pretty good idea, so I nodded.
“As I mentioned, I worked on the Royal household staff. Initially, I did laundry and worked in the kitchen. After your mother died, I took over some of the domestic duties she had preferred to handle.” Rachel gave me a small encouraging smile as if she knew how I was feeling. “I never took over for your mother, Alexander. But someone had to bring the tea. That's how it started.
“I had just lost my husband, and I needed to keep myself busy. One day your father had been drinking, and I came into his study. He asked me to sit down. I had no idea what to expect. Your father was a private man, and most of the staff considered him aloof at best.”
“And snooty at worst?” I offered. This earned me a laugh.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I knew a very different Albert. He only wanted to talk. I think he was lonely, which is something I understood. From then on, I took his tea to him every day. At first, we talked about the weather or soccer matches. Trivial things. Slowly, he began to open up to me about losing Elizabeth. I listened, and then one day, I opened up to him about losing Todd. It was less a romance than a friendship.”
“I have a half-brother that suggests otherwise,” I said dryly.
“You are very like him,” she said, not noticing how I cringed at the suggestion. “We comforted one another. I doubt that we were the first adults to find solace in bed. If it had been a romance, it would have been doomed. When we slept together, we were imagining other people.”
“And then you got pregna
nt?” If she was going to accuse me of being like my father, then I would be blunt. I couldn't quite see the picture she was painting, although I knew a thing or two about seeking refuge in sex.
She sighed as if giving up on her trip down memory lane. Rachel squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze at me. “I did. It was unplanned, but not entirely unwanted. My husband and I had planned to have a family when he returned from the Gulf. That never happened. Instead, your father gave me a child and a chance to have the family I thought I had lost forever.”
“Does he…” I trailed away. It was the one question I wanted to ask. The question I had come here to ask. Now, somehow, I wasn't certain I wanted to know. Gathering my courage, I forced myself to ask. “Does he know who his father is?”
“As far as Anders is concerned, his father died on the front,” she said pointedly.
No man could be that stupid. I didn't say this out loud. Instead, I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. The math didn't add up. If her husband had died in the Gulf and my mother died the same year, that meant she was either lying about her relationship with my father or she was lying to her son.
“Let me guess,” she said, interrupting my thoughts, “the timeline doesn't add up. Of course, Anders knows that Todd Stone can't be his father. I suppose everyone does. It doesn't take a genius to look at the date my husband died and the date my son was born and know it's impossible. Todd didn't father Anders, but he's the only father he has ever known, even if it's only my memories. He doesn't ask questions. No one does. I suppose it's considered impolite to question a war widow.”
I felt my mouth go dry. If she agreed with that ideal, then I was violating it. “I'm sorry for intruding. I understand your wishes, but I can't help but wonder why you took my father's money?”
I wanted to believe she was the woman she seemed to be, because it meant she was no threat to my family nor was her son. If that was true, I could respect her wishes and move on with my own life. But she had taken money and I could only assume it was for her silence.
“I debated whether or not to tell Albert,” she explained. “In the end, I knew I had to leave. It was no secret that the two of us had become friends. If I stayed, there would be gossip and it wouldn't be long before the two of us were linked. I didn't want my pregnancy to become a scandal. I'm certain that people gossiped anyway. It wouldn't be the first time a woman disappeared from a domestic job. But it seemed the better of the two options, considering I wanted to keep the baby. Albert supported my decision. When I asked him to deny paternity, he agreed on one condition: he would be allowed to provide financial support for the child.”
“So, he didn't pay you to keep quiet?” I asked.
“No. Children are expensive. You’re a father now, so I suspect you know that. They need clothing and shoes and braces and schooling. Albert was adamant that his son not go without. In a way, I think he wanted to give Anders what he couldn't give you.”
I tried to swallow this revelation but it lodged in my throat. My father had given me very little. Surely, she knew that. I couldn't quite ignore the twinge of jealousy this produced in me. “Approval? Love? I'm not sure you can send those with a monthly check.”
“Your father often worried about the responsibility he would leave you. I'm not surprised that he gave his life to protect you. If he could have given you a choice, he would have.”
This was news to me. My father had always loved the power his position afforded, it seemed to me. The idea that he somehow understood the personal sacrifice if required made me question everything. If my father had been the man Rachel claimed he was, then he was a stranger to me. But maybe that was what he wanted. How do you look your child in the eye and tell them that someday they will bear the weight of the world on their shoulders? I dreaded the day Elizabeth discovered the duty laid before her. Unlike my father, I would be behind her for as long as God allowed.
“Tell me about him,” I requested in a soft voice. Rachel had made her wishes clear, and after I left here today I would respect them. Whether my father wanted to give Anders a life free from duty or not didn't matter. Not to me. I might never meet this man. But I could do him one service as his brother. I could forget about him. I could give him the life I would never have. Still, I couldn't quite do that without knowing who he was.
“He is responsible for this.” She pointed to the gray in her hair, and despite the seriousness of our prior conversation, I laughed. “He's a daredevil. I think that a boy who grows up without his father has something to prove. He's awfully proud of Todd, but I wouldn't allow him to join the service. I like to think I'm a reasonable mother. I just couldn't stomach the thought of him on the front. He respected my wishes and took up motorcycle racing instead.”
“I'm not certain that's any less dangerous,” I pointed out. I couldn't help but think I might like him. I knew a thing or two about having something to prove. I also understood the rush of danger.
“It's not,” she assured me. “I was the one who chose Silverstone, though. He grew up around it. At least he's crashed fewer bikes than cars.”
“Is he married?” A wife might be the prescription he needed to finally settle down. It had been what healed me.
She shook her head, a sadness flitting over her features. “A mother can hope. Right now, he seems married to the road. I pray fate will intervene.”
“It did in my case,” I confessed. We sat there for another hour as she shared stories of schoolyard fights and car crashes. She painted a picture of a brother I had never known and would never know. At noon, I stood to take my leave.
Rachel saw me to the door. But before I could leave, I caught sight of a small table by the entry. A dozen framed photos clustered on it. The older ones I knew were of her husband. In a few, she was young and quite beautiful. No wonder she had caught my father's attention. Then there were the newer photos. I picked one up and stared. Anders and I shared the same eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. He was tall and broad shouldered with light blonde hair and an easy smile. In this photo the scruffy beginnings of a beard appeared on his jaw. In others, he was clean-shaven. But in all of them, he looked happy. I had never had family photos like this. My adolescence had been recorded by tabloids and newspapers. Rachel was right. My father had given him what he couldn't give me.
I placed the frame back on the table, and a strange wave of nostalgia swept over me. Perhaps, it was for a life I had never had. Turning to her, I gave her a hug.
“Watch out for him for me?” I asked her
She reached up and ruffled my hair. For a moment, a fleeting memory darted through my mind, but it was gone before I could latch on. “I always have.”
That would be enough for a lifetime. It had to be. Anderson Stone might never know the truth, but that didn't mean he wasn't my brother. With her help, he didn't need to know. Taking one final look at the house, I left this family secret behind.
17
It was his father's gun. He hadn't kept it for nostalgic reasons, although that would have been understandable. Smith had kept it with him during his employment with Hammond, and after he had been burned by his former employer, he had carried a single round with him.
He was saving it.
The day Brexton Miles showed up on his doorstep asking questions about Hammond's murder, Smith had shown him that bullet and explained its significance. He hadn't been the one to kill Hammond. Smith supposed it was some type of beautiful irony that the bullet he had saved to kill Hammond would now kill the man responsible for Hammond's death. He didn't act out of revenge. He knew he owed Hammond nothing.
Yes, Oliver Jacobson had left Smith and Belle alone for over a year. All signs pointed to the veracity of Hammond's claim that no one would come after him or his wife. But smith had learned a long time ago not to trust Hammond's word. Everything he touched, the man poisoned. In actuality, Smith had no idea where the conspiracy started. It was like a monster swallowing its own tail, never ending, never beginning, only
a horror to behold.
He took Belle's car. The Mercedes was a slick, pretty ride for his wife—and it blended in on the London streets. In this town, a Merc was hardly noteworthy. Smith's Bugatti was an entirely different story. But he didn’t leave the Veyron because it was flashy for a getaway car, though of course it was. Simply, if things went wrong, and he imagined they might, he wouldn't have a second thought about disposing of the little sports car.
If he had to choose between the Veyron and his life, he wasn't sure which one would survive.
He pulled into an open spot a few doors down from the address Georgia had given him and turned the car's lights off. It was too cold in London for him to sit in an unheated car and not fog up the windows. The important thing now was not to draw attention to himself.
Smith studied Jacobson's London townhouse and grimaced. He'd been privy to a brief rant straight from his enemy's lips about the privileged class. Apparently, Jacobson didn't hold himself to the same standards as those he preyed upon. Smith knew a thing or two about real estate, and it was easily worth a few million pounds.
“No reasoning with mad men.” he said under his breath, as his fingers popped his collar up for added concealment.
He'd gone over the information that Georgia had given him a dozen times this evening, but now he ran through it again. Jacobson's family was in the country. Smith preferred it that way. The body would be found sometime around Christmas when he didn't arrive at the family estate, but not by his wife or children. Jacobson didn't deserve such consideration, but his family did. Some horrors a child could never unsee.