But he was so close, he reassured himself; soon the lies would end. He remembered the strange dreams that were increasingly frequent. He often spoke with Sylvain out loud, imagined long father-to-son conversations, and could sense his presence with him even now, leading him on the proper path to discovery. In a dream that had continued long after waking, he’d heard Sylvain’s voice repeating that a letter would be found among the jewels, an acknowledgment to the world that Armand was his son and the jewels his legacy. The dream was so real, so clear that he never for a moment doubted its veracity. And once the Lost Collection was finally in his possession, he’d have the proof he needed to demand a DNA test. Sylvain’s body had been removed from the mass grave where he was buried with those executed in the village of Ambazac. It lay now in the Rothberg Mausoleum in the Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, but Armand was sure something could be arranged.
He rested his head against the cool leather bindings, lovingly fingering the small gold star at his throat, through which Sylvain’s energy reached him, spurring him on toward his final goal. The same could be said for his inadvertent discovery of Charlotte’s talent. It was his father who had shown him how that, too, could be used in his favor.
He sighed, eyes closed. The Germans had tried desperately to find Sylvain’s collection of jewels, but had no luck. And since the war it had never come up at auction. No, he reasoned, a smile hovering on his thin, colorless lips, it was still hidden somewhere, lying in wait for its rightful owner.
It had to be.
All at once he turned, hands trembling, struck by the sudden fear that he was yet again on the wrong path, that evil forces lurked, shadowing and mocking his efforts. He thought of his psychic who’d mentioned spells and bad omens, but also that his own talent would be revealed through a new, unexpected source. How else to explain how flighty Charlotte, who had nothing to do with the Rothbergs, could possess a talent and flair so similar to Sylvain’s? Was it some grand, cosmic joke?
He squashed the sudden spurt of resentment, knowing he must not let jealous feelings intrude. Instead, he must put her talent to good use. Straightening his tie, he moved toward the sofa. For over forty years he’d been searching, and now that the moment of revelation was imminent, nothing could be allowed to get in his way.
Hearing voices from the hall, he glanced furtively toward the door. It opened and his uncle walked slowly in on Monsignor Kelly’s arm. Gripping the star beneath his shirt, Armand stiffened. God, how he hated Eugène de la Vallière, perhaps never so much as he did right now.
Suddenly he wanted to shout out the truth: you hid my identity from me and the world because you’re jealous! You want the Lost Collection for yourself and the Church you worship like a pagan goddess!
For a moment his vision blurred, leaving him dizzy. At times the hatred was so intense that it became almost physical. How he wished he had the courage to step across the room, clasp that thin, scraggy neck between his hands and wring it like a chicken’s, then watch him choke and wither.
Instead, he clenched and unclenched his fingers and mustered a smile. “Good afternoon, mon oncle,” he said in the same mockingly subservient tone he’d used all his life.
“Ah, Armand.” The Cardinal nodded briefly, not pleased to discover his nephew in the library. “I have had my rest. Now I shall read Le Monde,” he remarked as Monsignor Kelly helped him into his favorite armchair. “Have you perhaps seen Penelope or the ambassador anywhere?”
“I believe they went on an excursion to the far side of the island.” Armand snickered. “The ambassador seems very taken with Lady MacLeod.”
Eugène cast him a sidelong look but made no comment. He knew Armand too well to believe the remark was innocent. He was snide, a trait the Cardinal detested in a man.
“There you go.” Monsignor Kelly straightened. “Is there anything else you require, Your Eminence?”
“No, thank you, Linus. Go take your walk. You enjoy this filthy weather,” he added with a spark of humor.
“Thank you, Your Eminence. A little rain never did a body harm. Clears the spirit, too,” he remarked in his rich Irish brogue, sending a wink in Armand’s direction before quietly leaving the library.
Eugène leaned back, settling stiffly against the cushions, remembering his conversation earlier that day with Brad. He frowned, recalling the questions it had raised. He watched his nephew speculatively from under hooded eyelids. Armand never did anything gratuitously. There must be a compelling reason for his prolonged stay on the island and his wish for Charlotte to participate in his show. So what, the Cardinal wondered, tapping the arm of the chair rhythmically, could he be after?
“I would imagine you shall soon be returning to Paris,” he commented casually as he unfolded the newspaper.
“Next week. I have much to do before the autumn collection. It will be quite something. Three hundred and fifty people in the Salon Vendôme at the Georges V,” Armand remarked proudly.
“Hmm. Quite a crowd. Apparently you intend to exhibit Charlotte’s work alongside your own?” He began flipping through the pages of his newspaper, not wanting to appear overly interested. “Are you pleased with her designs?”
“Very. She is a superb talent.” Eugene noticed the intensity in Armand’s tone and raised an eyebrow.
“You mentioned that her work reminds you of Sylvain de Rothberg’s,” he observed, noting how Armand stiffened. The paper rustled as he folded it in half, then allowed it to settle on his legs. Fate was indeed a strange bedfellow, he reflected, and clearly was at work.
Armand’s sudden interest in Charlotte was yet another sign that the past was reaching out, demanding that its many secrets be brought to light. Again Eugène asked himself the question that for months now had been tormenting his old soul: was it best that the past be left to rest, or did the present generation have a right to know? Only he could decide the answer, for only he held the key. Of them all, only he was left, the last one alive who truly knew all the facts, the final protector of secrets buried so deep they were perhaps best forgotten.
He sighed and eyed Armand overtly. His sallow and dissipated complexion matched the drab, musty tone of his shirt. Someone should tell him to wear light colors next to the face. Perhaps, like so many other things, he should have done so himself, taken more interest in the boy.
With a twinge of guilt and sadness he recalled the brooding child Armand had been, remembered the awful day when children in the village had shorn his head and thrown stones, calling him a bastard and a whore’s son. Surely no child should have to suffer so for the sins of his parents? Eugène tried, as he had for the past fifty-odd years, to feel some glimmer of affection for him, but it was near impossible. Though, as a fellow human being and a man of the cloth, he felt great pity for the hardships Armand had endured, there was nothing appealing in the man, just as there had been little to draw him to the child. He’d grown from an uneasy, maladjusted adolescent into an uneasy, maladjusted adult. Armand might flaunt airs and graces now, but Eugène knew very well that underneath them all a snake pit of insecurities festered.
“If I happen to be in Paris at that time, I might consider popping by your show,” the Cardinal remarked indifferently, peering at the headlines. “Remind me to mention it to Monsignor Kelly.”
Armand jolted and stared at his uncle in wide-eyed surprise. In all these years, Eugène had never once demonstrated the slightest interest in his work. He frowned. Why now? he wondered. “I should be most honored,” he replied, smiling graciously. “I’m trying to persuade Charlotte and perhaps Moira to attend. Penelope is uncertain if she will be able to go since someone will have to remain with Geneviève.”
The Cardinal grunted and buried himself behind the newspaper. Perhaps it was time to see just how much of the past had seeped into the present. In fact, the show might prove revealing in some way.
After that, he would judge what his next step should be.
13
Being back in New York should
have been satisfying. It was, after all, Brad’s town, his playground; the place where he’d lived for the better part of his existence. Yet it wasn’t satisfying at all. When his secretary had called him about the unexpected, urgent board meeting, his response had been frustration and irritation. Right now, after all that had happened between Charlotte and him, the last place he wanted to be was in America, an ocean away from Skye. And when he had learned the reason for the meeting, his anger had only grown. Sylvia must be nuts to do something like this and then remain out of reach, forcing his return.
Brad hopped out of the car and stood staring at the taillights merging back into the Park Avenue traffic. For the past fifteen years he’d done just this, every day. Shaking off his somber mood, he headed across the marble lobby toward the private elevator that would ride him to the seat of his power. What the hell was Sylvia up to?
Fifteen minutes later, Brad abruptly swept open the door of the boardroom, his expression unreadable, blue eyes neutral, cool and determined. And Sylvia let out a relieved sigh. This was the Brad she knew, the businessman who gave nothing away. Her pulse raced triumphantly.
She’d done it. The ruse had worked and she’d managed to engineer his return. She rose and smiled, careful to conceal her jubilation.
“Hi, Brad. Glad you could make it. Here, take your seat.” Since Terence MacGuire, the eldest board member, was away on vacation she’d been required to chair the meeting. Hastily she cleared her papers, vacated the CEO’s chair and moved to the one she’d left free to her right. The other members of the board shifted uncomfortably, coughing and clearing their throats, plainly unsure what to make of Brad’s surprise reappearance. But all she could register was that she’d gotten him back, away from Skye and the haunting influence of Charlotte MacLeod. Here on their home turf, their lives would finally get back to normal.
As he settled, a wave of relief swamped her. He’d come. He was bound to take issue with her tactics, of course, but that was inevitable. One day he’d thank her. Now that he was back in the boardroom of the company to which he’d devoted the greater part of his life, the company whose chairmanship he now risked losing, she was certain things would become crystal clear. Perhaps he’d already realized what a horribly foolish decision he’d been on the verge of making. Henceforth, Strathaird would be consigned to its proper place as an occasional retreat, one she’d make sure they visited only rarely. Taking a quick sip of Evian, she leaned back and waited for him to begin.
He didn’t waste any time. “Since you seem to be the instigator of this meeting, Sylvia,” he challenged, “perhaps you’d better tell the board why you feel I’m no longer a suitable CEO for this company?”
She caught the slight edge to his voice and experienced a moment’s panic, but she wasn’t surprised. She’d known he would contest her petition, and wanted him to.
Now was the time to play her ace.
With a deprecating smile, she turned and gestured to her fellow board members. “I don’t believe any of us consider you to be an unsuitable candidate for the job, Brad. The question brought here before the board today is regarding your recent extended absence.”
“Sylvia has a point, Bradley,” Barry Granger responded, clearing his throat. “I believe I speak for all of us when I say that it is not your capacity to run the company that is being questioned, rather, whether your continued absence is in Harcourts best interests. Nobody doubts your capability.”
“Nobody doubts that,” Sylvia agreed, then sent the arrow. “We just need to know whether you’ll be here for it to continue.”
“That’s right.” Granger raised a bushy white eyebrow and his slate eyes rested questioningly on Brad. “According to Sylvia, you’re thinking of allocating much of your time to this place you’ve inherited in Scotland.” He cleared his throat once more. “You implied the same thing to me over the phone a couple of weeks ago.”
Sylvia heard the murmurs and watched anxiously as Brad leaned back, twiddling his Mont Blanc pen pensively, as though debating the matter. Her foot began to twitch as seconds stretched agonizingly, the expectant silence broken only by the shuffle of papers and the odd cough. As if there was anything to think about! She clenched her fingers nervously in her lap. Come on, she urged—tell them it was all a misunderstanding, that you’re back to stay. But he seemed oblivious, lost in thought.
Brad sat silently, remembering the first time he’d been in this very room. He must have been twelve or thirteen when Dex had brought him to his first board meeting, making sure that he understood from an early age all that would be expected of him up ahead. How many such meetings had he been in since then? Probably more than he could count. The future of Harcourts had been mapped in this room, and for years he’d been an active part of every decision. He glanced at the wall where the portraits of both his grandfather and great-grandfather, John Ward, hung. The board members sat expectantly. Some like Barry Granger, who’d known him since childhood, frowned in genuine concern. Others were merely curious. But all awaited his decision. Obviously they expected him to retract, to reassure them he wouldn’t be an absentee CEO. He hadn’t immediately done so, and they were left waiting uncomfortably, idle curiosity turning into general unease.
Then his eye rested on Sylvia, and all at once he understood what she had done. This wasn’t about how much time he spent at Harcourts, or whether his divided focus had affected his business decisions; it was about them, about their relationship. It was her way of making sure he returned to New York and gave up Strathaird. She’d dragged the board into the matter to force him to make a choice.
He experienced a moment’s irritation. But as the minutes ticked by, he realized that perhaps she’d done right. By forcing him to come here against his will, she’d made him face the truth: that this was not his place any longer. Here was everything he’d worked for, everything he’d built, the sum of his accomplishments. He could say the word and everything would continue as it always had. There would be a general sigh of relief and everyone would leave for lunch, or the Hamptons, or wherever they were going, comfortable in the knowledge that nothing had altered.
But to his perplexed surprise, he felt strangely removed from this room and all that, up until now, had seemed so familiar. To his amazement, he realized that it was he who’d changed. He was suddenly viewing everything that had gone on here in past years—including Sylvia—as part of another existence. He glanced sideways, read the anxiety she was desperately trying to hide and felt a surge of pity. It wasn’t her fault his priorities had changed, and she had every right to fight. But life for them could never return to what it had been.
Finally he leaned forward and took a deep breath, aware of the enormity of what he was about to do. There would be no going back once the words were spoken. But the choice was clear to him. He’d outgrown Harcourts and the need to be part of the fast-paced bustle of the business world. Now a new life beckoned, a life he truly wanted. And for the first time in memory the decision was his. He’d always be a part of Harcourts, but he didn’t need to shape its future any longer.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Reluctant though I am to admit it, I have to agree with Sylvia. This company needs an active CEO. We’ve built ourselves an unequalled place in the market, and only constant vigilance will keep us there. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to fulfill that role any longer.”
There was a shocked murmur. Sylvia blanched.
“It is true that from now on I plan to spend much of my time on the Strathaird estate in Scotland. Therefore, it wouldn’t be fair for me to continue in any capacity beyond that of nonexecutive chairman.”
“But that’s absurd,” Sylvia burst out, horrified, as the full impact of his words hit home. “You can’t just give up Harcourts! It’s yours!” He wasn’t just leaving the company, he was leaving the life they’d planned to build together. Staring at him aghast, she knew, heart plummeting, he’d already made his choice. All her efforts, all her stratagems and maneuvering, were for nothing, she re
alized bitterly. The battle was over and Strathaird had won.
Aware that every eye in the room was upon her, she swallowed her bile and rising wrath and made a superhuman effort to regain control. If this was how he wanted it, then so be it. But if he thought she was going to be party to this new future he envisioned, he was wrong. No way was she going to spend her days in that miserable godforsaken hole. She wasn’t about to lose everything she’d worked and fought for all these years because of a whim. If this was the end, then she’d go out fighting.
“In that case, I move to have you replaced right away,” she threw out harshly.
“And I second it,” Brad declared, turning toward the board members. “Moreover, I propose that Sylvia Hansen be elevated to the position of CEO, and that the measure be put to Harcourts’ shareholders with the full backing of the board.”
Sylvia gasped, barely able to absorb his next words. “I have no doubt she’ll do a magnificent job and lead Harcourts into the future with all the drive and capacity she’s always exhibited. I can’t think of a person better suited to the position.” He turned and smiled at her, then glanced around the table for approval.
Sylvia stared speechless into her lap and saw that her hands were trembling. Then she gazed wide-eyed at Brad, unable to believe what she’d just heard. He was making her CEO?
All at once the hopes and dreams of years battled with the woman within. He’d betrayed her emotionally. And, apparently, he was leaving her for another woman. Yet he was also making her most precious dream come true.
It was almost too easy.
For as long as she could recall, she’d envisioned herself fighting tooth and nail for a toehold on the corporate ladder. She’d advanced quickly at Harcourts, to be sure, but knew she was years away from the top executive position. As a woman, she expected she’d have to work harder and wait longer to reach the top. Yet here Brad was offering her a chance to leapfrog the learning curve. It was what she wanted more than anything in the world.
The Lost Dreams Page 23