“Do you think it will really come to war?”
“It’s not a question of will it come, but when. My family back in China has been fighting this enemy for many years. I’ve been lucky that I’ve been living here and can pretend for a little longer.”
“Fortescue says Singapore is impregnable. That between the British defenses and the terrain to the north, we’re safe.”
Hai didn’t answer right away. She felt his fingers close around hers. “I hope your stepfather is right.”
Suddenly afraid, she pulled him off the path into the shade of a palm grove, her arm sliding behind his neck. He smelled musky and sweet and tasted of wine. “I don’t want to think about it anymore,” she said, cold despite his arms around her. “It’s nothing to do with us.”
He caressed her rib cage and drew her close until she pressed lengthwise down his body. She felt his excitement and heard the quick hitch of his breathing. Her skin prickled with anticipation as he rained kisses along her collarbone and up her neck. The bark of the tree he backed her into was rough as his kisses grew more demanding, his touch more insistent. “Hai?” she whispered.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I won’t ever hurt you.”
“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you. I don’t care what people think. You do.”
He laughed, his voice gentle, his caresses turning her limbs to honey. “You care more than you let on.”
She ducked her head, unnerved at the way he seemed to see things within her she dared not admit even to herself. She’d gone to great pains to cultivate her aura of cynical indifference. One was able to conceal so much behind a set of bared teeth and a rapier tongue. Perhaps it was time to move on from Hai. Too close meant too comfortable. And too comfortable meant trouble.
Always had. Always would.
Hai laughed again and then left no more time for breath or speaking.
On second thought, maybe she’d keep hold of him a little longer.
Chapter 2
Raffles Place and the bustling streets leading off it were a shattered-mirror reflection of Paris elegance and London efficiency. The fashionable department stores of John Little and Robinsons stood alongside the imposing financial edifices of the Chartered Bank, the Bank of Taiwan, and Hong Kong Bank. Clerks and managers from the big firms like Shell and the Netherland Trading Company scurried like ants from a kicked hill, their minds full of account balances and letters of credit, seeing nothing of the exotic oasis around them. Lush palms swayed in the humid breeze amid riotous colorful beds of canna and bougainvillea. Coolie-driven rickshaws warred for space with electric trams, buses, and long sleek passenger cars while a burly bearded Sikh in turban and uniform directed traffic amid a harsh chorus of a dozen languages.
Once, not so long ago, Lucy might have taken delight in the enchanting chaotic crossroads of disparate empires, but two years of life lived within the narrow-minded confines of what passed for society in Singapore had dulled her pleasure and deadened her curiosity.
“I’ll only be a moment, Jim,” Lucy said, tilting the brim of her hat to cover her eyes against the glare as her stepfather’s Malaysian syce helped her from the car.
She stepped into the cool quiet interior of Renee Ullman’s, her eyes taking a moment to adjust after the bright afternoon sun. Immediately, three eager shopgirls descended upon her. She allowed them to shepherd her through half a dozen dress changes until she settled on a tea gown in cream chiffon that, with a few minor touches, might be just the thing for next month’s yacht club ball; three new hats; and a dozen pairs of silk stockings. Her packages approved, wrapped, and placed on her stepfather’s account, Lucy made her way through to a counter where men’s watches lay in long glass cases and a haberdasher’s dummy sported a handsome sharkskin dinner jacket. This time of day, there were few shoppers about, and the attendant was at the far end of the floor folding shirts.
She was alone as she perused the choices of Rolexes and Longines, when a young Chinese businessman browsing a spinner rack of leather replacement bands cleared his throat.
“You came,” he murmured under his breath. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
Lucy didn’t look up or acknowledge Yoon Hai in any way. “You’re playing with fire. They’re growing suspicious.”
A young shop clerk watched them from the far end of the counter. A soldier browsed among the guidebooks and cheap tourist souvenirs. And was it her imagination or did the pair of aging matrons by a display of foundation garments look a bit more interested in Yoon Hai than in the girdles on display?
Ignoring her words, Hai edged closer. She could smell his cologne and the fresh scent of his skin. “Listen to me, Lucy. You must leave Singapore. Buy your passage immediately and go home to England, where you’ll be safe.”
“Have you read the papers? England’s a smoldering ruin.”
“Singapore will be worse.”
“What have you heard?”
“I don’t need to hear anything. It’s in the very air, the whispers on the street, the eyes watching. It’s a matter of time before our peace is shattered. I want you safely out of here before that happens.”
“Fortescue will never leave his business behind, and Amelia will never leave Fortescue.”
“Then you must leave without them.”
“And go where?”
“Your real father lives in America, does he not?”
“As far as I know. I haven’t heard from him in years. He has a new family to occupy his time and spend his money on.”
“Then your mother’s people in England.” Throwing caution to the wind, he turned toward her, his expression urgent.
“We don’t hear from them except for the obligatory Christmas card. Amelia has a way of burning her bridges.” The shop clerk continued to eye them questioningly. The soldier glanced up from his copy of Willis’s Travel Guide. Lucy recognized the young man from the swimming club. Today, he wore the uniform of the Royal Engineers. In the store’s bleak overhead lights, his jungle tan was sallow, dark sooty circles trapped beneath his pale eyes, skin stretched tight over the angled bones of his face. His blond hair had been smoothed down with oil, though the island’s eternal humidity had already caused small curls at the nape of his neck and just behind his ears. He stared at her, and she found herself coloring under his gaze.
“Please, Lucy. I can do nothing for you but this one small thing.” Hai put a hand on her sleeve.
Lucy stepped subtly from under his touch as the clerk headed in their direction. He cast a sidelong glance at Hai, who wandered away to browse among the ties. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’d like to see the gold one there with the grommeted band,” Lucy replied.
“Of course.”
She pretended to ooh and ahh over the watch while her mind churned with questions. “I’ll take it. Put it on Reginald Fortescue’s account.”
He took the watch and headed toward the register while Lucy meandered toward Yoon Hai, feigning delight in a blue silk tie with yellow dots. “Don’t worry about me. I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet,” she whispered under her breath.
“Miss Stanhope? Is that you?” A handsome older gentleman with wavy blond hair and a California bronze smiled across a display of the latest in leather footwear. “It is you. I’d know that profile anywhere. One part Greta Garbo, two parts Irene Dunne, with a splash of Rita Hayworth and a twist of Carole Landis.”
“You make me sound like a cocktail.”
“One sip is all it takes to be knocked flat.” He placed his hands over his heart in mock surprise as he took a few staggering steps backward.
Though the soldier’s attention was seemingly directed at a map of the Cameron Highlands and the pleasures to be found there, Lucy would swear he was listening to every word spoken.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Oliver. I thought you’d be at lunch with Lady Amelia. I know she mentioned it when I saw her this morning.”
Mason Olive
r was reputed to be an influential producer from Hollywood. Since his arrival in Singapore, he had become a fixture at the big airy house on Orchard Road, his constant presence at Amelia’s side accepted by everyone—Fortescue included. Lucy’s stepfather probably found himself relieved at his wife’s preoccupation. It meant he could conduct his own affairs with greater ease.
Normally, Lucy took pains to avoid the men Amelia corralled for her amusement. They tended to be arrogant sods with the personality of jungle hyenas—her stepfather being a case in point—but Mr. Oliver, despite his artificiality and outrageous personality, was of a different mold. He made her laugh. He was kind in a generous-uncle sort of way. And not once had he tried to get her alone in a dark corner. The man was either a saint or a poof, and personally, she didn’t care which. She liked him. Not something she was able to say about very many people.
He smiled, the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling, his veneered teeth unnaturally white. “I’m just headed to pick her up. I’ve discovered the dearest little club off Bras Basah Road, very exclusive. Very avant-garde. There are only four tables in the whole place. Lady Amelia will love it.”
Lucy doubted it. Amelia liked to create a spectacle. If she couldn’t be seen, it wasn’t worth the trouble.
“It sounds tip-top. Just her cup of tea. And after, you should take her to the Great World. It’s her favorite. She loves the bangsawan theater.”
“Really?” Oliver clapped his hands together. “I never would have thought it, but sure. It sounds like fun.”
Lucy wished she could be a fly on that wall. Amelia despised the rowdy crowds and cheap entertainments to be found among the stalls and stages, but for the chance to be Hollywood’s next leading lady, she’d stand on her head singing “Rule, Britannia!” if Mr. Oliver suggested it.
“Who’s your gentleman friend?” Mr. Oliver asked. His gaze wandered over Yoon Hai with avid curiosity. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Yoon Hai is a business associate of Fortescue’s. His family runs one of the most successful trading syndicates here in the city,” Lucy evaded. Hai held out a hand, which Oliver shook. “No enterprise makes a move here without consulting the Golden Seas Corporation.”
“I’m sure with tailoring like that; Savile Row?”
“Tsim Sha Tsui,” Hai replied in perfect Etonian English.
Oliver waved a breezy hand as he sighed dramatically. “Stunning.”
Lucy wasn’t certain whether he referred to Hai or his suit.
“Ah well, I can’t hang around. I’m already late. Lady Amelia will fret, and I want everything to be perfect for our farewell luncheon.”
“You’re leaving Singapore?”
“Duty calls, and I’m needed back at the studio.” He handed her his card, a thick white stock embossed in looping black script. “If you’re ever in the States, look me up. I’ll make you a star. Right up there with Carole Lombard.”
Yes, she was sure of it now. The soldier was definitely eavesdropping. The guidebook he read was completely forgotten as he chuckled to himself. How dare he laugh at her? The ridiculous Mr. Oliver, fine, but not at her. And why couldn’t she be the next Carole Lombard? She wasn’t exactly an ogre in the looks department, and hell, if she’d learned anything from Amelia, it was how to playact.
Anger pricked her, tiny needles of heat burning through her usual cool ambivalence. She pushed them away, refusing to let some no-consequence corporal with a warped sense of humor ruin her afternoon.
She took the card with a smile of thanks and tucked it in her handbag. “I just might do that, Mr. Oliver.” She couldn’t help a swift glance toward that odious smirking soldier. But he was gone. As was Yoon Hai.
In their place stood the store clerk with the wrapped watch and a knowing expression she wanted to wipe off his greasy face.
Get up.” Amelia’s voice rocked Lucy into consciousness.
The late-morning sun slanted through latticed shutters and a haze of mosquito netting to burn red against Lucy’s eyelids and straight to her brain. She rolled over, hoping to escape the onslaught beneath her pillows, but that only disturbed her still-wobbly stomach. She lay perfectly still while her nausea settled and tried to recall last night’s entertainments. There had been dinner followed by drinks at the club and then dancing. She vaguely recalled a taxi and more dancing, much more drinking, and there had been some sort of commotion involving a rickshaw, two rather boisterous RAF officers, a ladies’ brassiere, and the imposing statue of Sir Stamford Raffles that stood in pride of place outside Victoria Memorial Hall. “What time is it?” Lucy asked.
“Nearly ten.”
“What are you doing up . . . and dressed?”
“I’ve been up since half eight, thank you very much. That’s when I was rousted from my bed by a call from Fortescue and ordered to attend him at his office downtown.”
Lucy’s wobbly stomach nearly rebelled. She rolled over to face her mother, who stood crisply coiffed and coutured beside the bed. Her rich auburn hair was barely threaded with gray, her delicate features hardly touched by age. Even dragged from her bed, she maintained her glamorous air. For a moment, Lucy thought of that damned copy of Woman’s Own and wished she had one of those comfortable parents who baked cookies and knitted doilies rather than this cool untouchable queen.
“Fortescue told me what happened. How could you do such a thing?” Amelia’s voice emerged in a harsh half whisper. She ran an agitated hand up and down the string of pearls at her throat. “It’s too dreadful to contemplate.”
Lucy struggled up, her head swimming with more than a hangover. “Whatever he’s told you, he’s lying. The man’s a toad I wouldn’t touch with a six-foot stick.”
Amelia’s bright red lips thinned to a scarlet gash in her pale face. “You’ll show your father more respect.”
“Stepfather,” Lucy shot back.
Amelia’s eyes flared as if she’d been pushed to a dangerous edge. “You’re not too old to feel my hand, young lady.” She pulled a frock from the closet and tossed it on a chair, dislodging one of the ubiquitous chi-chak, small lizards that infested the house despite all her efforts to have them eradicated. “Get up and get dressed. Fortescue will be home any minute. He’s furious, and I don’t blame him.” Her voice broke on a sob, something more alarming than all her frozen rage. “What were you bloody thinking? What kind of daughter have I raised?”
Lucy wanted to argue that Amelia had had very little to do with her upbringing aside from financing it. What care she’d received had come from a succession of nannies until, at the age of seven, she was sent away to school. From then on, her wayward parent had exploded into her life once every few years, at which time she would introduce Lucy to her newest father and shower her with gifts and attention before departing in a cloud of Chanel with barely a backward glance.
Her school friends had been envious of her stylish and alluring mother.
If they only knew.
“If it’s about that brassiere we tied on old Raffles’s head, I can explain. At least, I think I can. It’s all a bit muzzy.”
“Stop your damned chattering. Be downstairs in fifteen minutes or, so help me, I’ll drag you down by your bloody hair.”
Not only upright and assembled before lunch, but using post-cocktail-hour vocabulary.
Lucy’s hangover swallowed by a new and greater fear, she rose and dressed quickly. With a hasty glance in the mirror to assure her all buttons were fastened, all seams were straight, and her hair and teeth were suitably brushed, she headed downstairs to the high-ceilinged drawing room.
The long open room faced west, keeping it cool even this late in the morning. The louvered windows threw long slatted shadows across the polished wooden floor, and a fan creaked softly overhead, accentuating the awkward silence. Outside, she could hear the gardener, or kebun, scything the lawn. His slow even strokes steadied her leaping pulse.
Amelia sat on a couch by a wide stone hearth, purely decorative in nature. Tempera
tures rarely dipped low enough to warrant any kind of fire, though smudge sticks burned nearly continuously in every room to ward off the bugs.
“Did you have a nice afternoon with Mr. Oliver?” Lucy asked innocently.
Amelia stiffened, her gaze narrowing. “I should have known you had a hand in that.”
Before she could enlarge, the houseboy Bin-Bin set a tray down on the table beside her. On it stood a glass of water and a bottle of pills. It was only as Lucy sat down in the chair opposite that she realized the water was gin.
“What’s going on? You didn’t drag me out of bed over a few hours of bad opera, I assume.”
Amelia took two of the pills and swallowed them down. Her color was high, her face haggard in a way Lucy had never seen. “Did you ever stop to think what might happen if you were discovered with that young man? Or was it all just a game? Another of your ridiculous schoolgirl larks, like sneaking out to the pub or getting caught smoking in the loo?”
“I’m assuming we’re not talking about a brassiere.”
“Forget the damned brassiere.” Amelia’s voice turned shrill, sending Bin-Bin scurrying for cover. Her tantrums were legendary among the staff.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy.” Fortescue’s oozing tenor voice shot her heart into her throat. Lucy swung around to see him seated at his desk. No fortifying drink sat to hand, but he possessed the same strained tension she’d found in Amelia. “You’ve managed to offend one of the most powerful men in the Straits Settlements. Someone who could run my firm into the ground with one lift of his bloody hand.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “You nearly frightened me to death lurking back there.”
He rose, coming around to lean against the desk, ankles crossed and arms folded. “Where did you meet him? Was it at the dinner last month?”
“Meet who?”
“Yoon Jianguo’s nephew.”
Lucy’s mouth went dry. Her already-pounding head vibrated like a coiled wire on her neck. Had Oliver mentioned seeing her with Yoon Hai? Or had it been that nosy clerk spreading tales? Either way, she was sunk unless she could bluff her way clear. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
The Way to London Page 2