The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Charlotte’s head shot up. “What?” she murmured, aghast. This just couldn’t be. Her whole world was spinning. “That’s not possible.”

  “But it is, mon enfant. I cannot explain it to you right now, but rest assured—if anyone in this room is Sylvain’s heir, it is you, Charlotte.”

  “There must be some mistake. I can’t be Sylvain’s granddaughter. Angus MacLeod was—oh my God, this is too confused.” She leaned her head on the cold marble mantel, trying desperately to assimilate the news. But in her heart of hearts, she knew it to be true. It all made sense.

  “You’re right not to believe him. It’s not true.” Armand plunged his hand into his pocket and in two strides reached the fireplace, pressing the muzzle of a small pistol at Charlotte’s temple. “Once again you lie,” he spat at the Cardinal. “But this time I will not be the victim of your sophistry.”

  Eugène rose, horrified. “Armand, I beg of you, put down that gun at once—”

  “She is not Sylvain’s heir, I am,” he replied in high-pitched hysteria. “Just as the jewels she designed are his legacy to me, not to her. He came through her in spirit and guided her, used her as a vehicle to convey his talent to me, so that finally I could come into my own.”

  “Armand, put that gun away at once and stop acting in this hysterical manner,” Eugène commanded. But his words sounded more confident than he felt and he leaned heavily on Monsignor Kelly’s arm.

  “No.” Armand pressed the gun closer into Charlotte’s temple, making her wince. “She can’t be Sylvain’s granddaughter—not this…this bohemian.”

  “Yes, Armand, she is.”

  “Then I shall kill her and there will be no one left but me.”

  Eugène swayed. How could things have come to this? How could he not have seen that the man was crazy? Charlotte’s head was pressed against the marble mantel, the titian mass of hair dripping like blood. His breath came short. He must avoid bloodshed at all cost. “Armand, put down the gun and allow me to explain. Charlotte is in no way to blame for the past. No one is,” he added in a bitter voice, “except me, perhaps, for not having revealed the truth earlier.”

  “Ah!” Armand exclaimed triumphantly. “So you admit you are to blame, then.”

  “Au nom de Dieu, Armand, put down that gun and I shall tell you the truth.”

  Charlotte’s legs quivered as she tried desperately to keep her balance. What would happen to Genny if Armand killed her? The pistol pressed hard against her temple, and Armand’s viselike grip hurt her arm. But beyond the terror lay despair. How could she die now, when she was finally on the verge of living? Every instinct rebelled. She would not let him steal her life as he had her watch and her creations. She would fight. She had no idea how, but somehow she would find a way.

  Somehow, she would come out of this alive.

  Brad forged a path through the lobby of the Georges V, swarming with paparazzi and guests, making his way quickly to the reception desk.

  Three minutes later he was riding the elevator heading for the third floor, certain Charlotte was there. He could only imagine her horror at Armand’s actions, and wondered again what on earth must have occurred after the show. Had she confronted the man? Had there been a showdown? Had the Cardinal gotten involved? Brad raced down the corridor, desperate to reach her. And when he found Armand, he vowed, he’d beat the living shit out of the conniving bastard.

  Reaching the door of the suite, he halted. He could hear raised voices and recognized Armand’s high-pitched accent, but was unable to make out the words. Then Eugène’s sober tones answered haltingly and the urgency in his querulous voice made Brad shiver. All senses came alive. Something wasn’t right. When the voices rose again, he turned the handle and eased open the door.

  What he saw left him frozen.

  16

  Brad peered through the half-open door, heart in mouth, and forced himself to quell the rising panic as he took in the scene. Under the sparkling crystals of the three-tiered chandelier, Armand held Charlotte in his grip. Her head was pressed against the marble mantel of the fireplace. Armand brandished a small pistol and seemed out of control. Oncle Eugène leaned on Monsignor Kelly’s arm, face colorless and horrified. Brad watched motionless as the scene played out, like a slow-motion movie, reflected in the huge period mirror behind Charlotte’s head.

  “You must listen to me,” the Cardinal was saying, “you must understand.”

  “The only thing I understand is that you are a liar. Tell me the truth or I’ll shoot,” Armand hissed.

  Brad fought the urge to rush forward. Even as his heart called for action, he knew that one wrong move could be deadly. As the seconds dragged by, he fought to control his breathing and assessed the scene. Armand had his back to him. Charlotte’s face remained hidden from view, so he couldn’t signal to her.

  He fought desperation.

  What if Armand lost control and shot her? He closed his eyes a moment, pulse racing as frantically he sought a solution. But he had nothing to attack with, no gun, no way to intercede unless he threw himself on top of Armand, and that was a risk that might prove to have fatal consequences.

  “Let the gun go and I swear I will tell you the truth.” He heard Eugène’s reedy voice and watched as Monsignor Kelly helped him cross the room.

  “Don’t.” Armand swung round and pointed the gun at them. “Stay where you are. I have no need for your confessions, mon oncle. I know the truth.”

  Brad frowned, wondering what it was that Armand thought he knew.

  “You must listen to me, Armand. I am telling you the only real truth. David MacLeod was Sylvain and Geneviève’s son. You must accept that.”

  “No,” Armand shook his head in denial. “I won’t.”

  “You must.” The Cardinal took another step forward, only to stop as Armand pressed the gun to Charlotte’s head once more. “Listen. I beg of you to listen,” he continued urgently. “After my sister Geneviève died at the hands of the Germans in the massacre at Ouradour, we were in despair. Sylvain was on the Gestapo’s most-wanted list. Dex and Sylvain knew they must get the baby out of the country, or the Germans would use the child to force Sylvain out of hiding. David was only days old.”

  “All inventions,” Armand yelled. “Lies to hide my heritage from me.”

  Brad had never been so terrified. The man was clearly insane. He felt utterly helpless. Should he rush inside or go downstairs and seek help? He glanced down the empty corridor. If someone appeared, he could tell them to call the police. He clenched his fist and turned back. There was no telling when Armand would go over the edge.

  Brad inched his way inside the door. Whatever had triggered this madness, it had something to do with Sylvain de Rothberg. In fact, if Eugène’s astonishing words were true, it meant that Charlotte was Sylvain’s granddaughter. He’d been right to believe Strathaird held yet more secrets. In the midst of the tension, he realized it all made sense. She had inherited her grandfather’s passion and talent. But at what cost? he wondered.

  Armand shifted and Brad finally caught sight of Charlotte’s rigid white face, squashed against the marble. He went cold with dread. She looked paralyzed with fear. He wanted to burst in, finish it off right now. But again he restrained himself. Instead, he tried to focus on Eugène’s words, hoping they would give him a clue to Armand’s behavior.

  “Just listen,” Eugène begged, “and you’ll understand. Dex used his contacts in London, and organized the operation to take the baby out of France.” The Cardinal moved closer to the fireplace. “When it was time to put David on the plane, Sylvain took off his watch and put it around the baby’s ankle. Dex told me of this later, how Sylvain blessed the child in Hebrew. That is how the watch came into the MacLeods’ possession.”

  “Lies, all lies,” Armand repeated, but his voice was fainter now, as if he was growing confused.

  “No, not lies,” the Cardinal insisted gently, “but the truth. Why can you not accept who you are, Armand? I realize
now that I’ve made mistakes. Perhaps I should have told you this earlier. I should have helped you more during your youth. But my blunders don’t change what is basic fact—you are my brother René’s son.”

  Armand let out an anguished cry, and Brad gazed at him, horror-struck. The man was about to crack. He felt sick with dread—and utterly powerless.

  It was obvious the Cardinal was trying to distract Armand while he and Monsignor Kelly edged their way closer to where Charlotte was pinned. All that was needed was a small diversion, Brad realized, something to take Armand’s focus off Charlotte.

  He searched desperately. Then the glistening crystals of the chandelier sparked an idea. Recalling a trick he’d seen in a movie, he fished out his wallet and removed a platinum credit card with a holographic logo. It was a crazy plan, but all he had. Carefully he held the credit card toward the chandelier, catching the light reflected off the gleaming crystals, playing with the reflection in the mirror, frantic for Monsignor Kelly or the Cardinal to pick up the signal. For Christ’s sake look at the mirror, he begged. As though in answer to his prayer, Monsignor Kelly frowned. Look this way, Brad coaxed, just look this way. Armand’s back was to the reflection. If his plan was going to work, this was the moment. Then, to his utter relief, Monsignor Kelly’s eyes blinked. He glanced up then veered toward him. They acknowledged one another with a discreet nod, then the priest indicated that Brad should wait for a sign. Brad wiped the sweat from his forehead, tension rife, and plunged the credit card back into his pocket, still following the bizarre exchange between the Cardinal and Armand.

  Charlotte tried to shift, sure her head would burst. She could hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. The Cardinal’s bewildering words reached her and she tried to move beyond the gripping fear and understand. Oncle Eugène was saying that her father was Sylvain’s son. So she was…Sylvain’s granddaughter? How could that be? It was impossible to assimilate, and hardly significant before the terror she was experiencing, yet instinctively she knew the Cardinal was speaking the truth.

  She wished Brad were here, longed for his arms around her. Instead, she felt only a ruthless pulling on her scalp as Armand yanked her head around. He stared into her face, his eyes wild and full of hate. With crystal clarity, she realized that he didn’t really see her. Instead, he was a private witness to some profound inner torment. Then she saw that he was cocking the gun, preparing to shoot at the demons he somehow saw in her face.

  She let out a scream and tried to move. With superhuman effort she turned and faced the mirror. As Armand’s finger touched the trigger, she caught sight of Brad’s reflection and her heart leaped. Then all became chaos as Brad took advantage of Armand’s distraction and threw himself at them. The force of the impact sent her stumbling onto a Louis-Seize stool, which in turn hit the coffee table. Crystal glasses shattered, ice cubes showering the floor as the champagne bucket tumbled. A vase of deep red roses scattered about her like splashes of blood as she crouched trembling next to the sofa. Charlotte gripped the cover, trying to hoist herself up, her heart pounding as Brad attempted to wrench the gun free from Armand’s frantic fingers. She was too overwhelmed to even wonder how he’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere. All she could do was stare fixedly at the horrific silent scene unfolding before her. She let out a scream as Armand hit Brad with the pistol butt, then watched him rush frantically toward the French window leading to the balcony.

  “Drop the gun,” Brad shouted, still reeling from the blow. “Let it go, Armand. Nothing will happen to you. We’ll get you help.”

  “Non!” he screamed, voice hysterical, eyes gleaming and insane. “No one can help me,” he moaned in a clear voice that rang across the room. “No one at all.”

  Then all at once he seemed to crumple. Tears poured down his tired gray cheeks and he sagged, trembling against the cream satin curtains. His hands fell limply to his sides and for a few never-ending seconds, the air ran thick with tension. Would it end now? Would Armand break down completely? She held her breath, too terrified to run to Brad. Then suddenly, Armand raised the gun to his temple.

  “Don’t,” she screamed, scrambling to get up.

  “It’s too late,” he said, “C’est la fin.”

  The chandelier shuddered as the shot reverberated through the room and they gazed in silent horror at Armand, lying in a heap on the floor.

  “Oh my God!” Charlotte stumbled to the body lying in a heap before the French window. Dropping to her knees, she cradled Armand in her arms. She barely noticed the warm blood pooling in her lap, seeping through the silk of her pantsuit. Then Brad’s arms encircled her and her tears were finally released.

  “We never helped him,” she whispered. “None of us ever bothered to see he was suffering.”

  The Cardinal sank onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands while Monsignor Kelly took out his rosary and began murmuring prayers.

  “It’s too late to do anything,” Brad said, gently pulling her away from the body. “There’s nothing you can do for him any longer, Charlie.”

  “We should have realized something was wrong,” she wailed, head sinking onto his shoulder. “We should have tried to help him.”

  “Look, no one knew this would happen. It’s obvious he was living in some private hell…I doubt he’d have wanted our help, if it meant giving up his fantasy.” Brad scrambled to find the right words, but frankly, all he cared about was that Charlotte was safe and in his arms. Armand’s death was tragic—but he’d never forgive the man for trying to take Charlotte with him.

  “When did you get here?” she asked dazedly as he led her to the opposite side of the room, aware the hotel staff needed to be made aware of the incident.

  “I came as soon as I could. I wanted to be with you for the show, but the meeting in London took so long. I’ve tried to call you, but I could never reach you.” He stared into her eyes, hoping he was breaking through the lingering panic he read there. “I saw what happened on CNN, Charlie,” he said, smiling. “You’re a success.”

  “I suppose so,” she said distractedly. Then she twisted her head and gazed again at Armand. “I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said in a distant voice. “He stole the watch and my designs, yet I feel so sorry for him. What a miserable life he must have led, trying to believe he was someone he wasn’t. It’s awful.”

  “You are right.” The Cardinal’s words echoed through the high-ceilinged salon, making them both turn. He raised a weary face and nodded sadly. “I should have paid more attention to him when he was a child. I am to blame for what has happened here,” he said grimly. “I should have tried to understand him. Instead, it was easier to ignore him—and this is the result.”

  “All of us should have been more attentive and less judgmental,” Charlotte replied between sobs. “We thought of him as a joke, when all the time he was a fragile individual in desperate need of help. I feel awful when I think of all those hours we spent working together, planning the show. He was so excited. It was all he cared about. And I don’t understand, about Daddy and Sylvain or anything. It’s crazy,” she added as Brad wiped her tears. “Why did he imagine he was Sylvain de Rothberg’s son? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, it does,” the Cardinal murmured sadly. “Pauvre Armand. He was desperately seeking an identity and he ended up creating one in his tortured mind. I never saw the letter his mother wrote, but it must have contained something that led him to believe he was Sylvain’s son. My misguided action in giving him Sylvain’s Star of David must have confirmed his imaginings.” He shook his head sadly.

  Charlotte leaned on Brad’s arm, seeking his strength, and faced Oncle Eugène. “But what about Daddy. You said he was Sylvain’s son. Surely that’s not possible. I mean, it sounds awfully far-fetched, the baby smuggled out and—gosh, if it’s true, that means Nathalie and Daddy weren’t really twins! And what about Granny Flora and Grandpa Angus?” Her voice rose. “They must have been privy to all this,” she exclaimed, slowly assimilating
the enormity of the drama.

  “I know, mon enfant, and I shall explain.” He gestured, exhausted. “But first, Bradley, it may be necessary to contact my old friend, the préfet de police, to deal with this situation. Total discretion must be upheld.”

  “Surely that can’t be the most important item on the agenda here?” she said angrily. “Armand’s dead, I’ve just learned that I’m not who I am and you’re worried about discretion?”

  “You have every right to know the truth, mon enfant, and know it you shall. But I will tell you that story later,” he said. He stood beside Monsignor Kelly. “Now we must administer the last rites to poor Armand and then deal with this whole episode as quietly as possible.”

  “He’s right,” Brad muttered, feeling her tense. “There’s no point in letting the press get hold of a scandal like this. You’d be the hardest hit by it,” he added, squeezing her shoulders. “Let me take care of business, Charlie. It’ll be okay.”

  Eugène turned and stared fixedly at the mirror above the fireplace. “It is entirely possible others have heard the gunshot. We may need to pull some strings to avoid publicity.”

  Monsignor Kelly held the Cardinal’s hands as he painfully lowered himself to his knees. Despite her confusion, Charlotte’s sense of outrage faded as she observed the deeply troubled face and watery, haunted eyes. All at once, she understood the price Oncle Eugène had paid for carrying so many ancient secrets.

  She and Brad stood solemnly, hand in hand, tears pouring down her cheeks as the Cardinal made the sign of the cross over Armand’s forehead. In a halting voice he began the litany: “Through this holy unction and his own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed…”

  Two hours later, the corpse had been discreetly removed from the premises and the authorities dealt with, thanks to the former préfet de police, who had immediately taken charge. Tomorrow’s papers would still be full of scandal, but at least the details would be omitted. Armand’s death would be described as a heart attack and all rumors of the suicide hushed up.