Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  He explained.

  “But Father, if you found Mother so soon after entering the palace, why the hours before you emerged?”

  Erik looked to Christine, but she said, “You had better continue the narrative from here.”

  “Yes, do,” said the Persian, “for I, like Petter, was not aware of any additional plans outside of Christine’s rescue.” He cocked his head at Erik as if annoyed, and then allowed his pursed mouth to melt into a knowing smile.

  With an embarrassed sigh, Erik explained his plan to keep the Sultana from ever disrupting their lives again.

  Even though all had ended well, Petter was aghast to learn of Erik’s secondary plan – the plan to entrap the Sultana into revealing herself to the Shah – and even more horrified to hear of his mother’s involvement. And, again, even though all had ended well, Petter could not control his outraged response: “Father, you might have been killed!”

  “There was no great danger to me,” Erik said. Faraz snorted.

  “To mother then,” Petter said.

  Christine spoke, “I involved myself. Your father tried to dissuade me.”

  When Petter cast a look of doubt toward his mother, Erik said, “She threatened to scream and bring the palace security down on us if I did not let her accompany me. Impetuous woman!” He brought her fingers to his mouth to take the sting from the exclamation, and said, “And you, son, are much like her. With my wounds near healed…” – Petter guffawed – “it is why I did not want you in the palace with me. Much as I trust and cherish you, I thought you might do something rash!”

  “We have both learned from a master,” Petter shot back, and then laughed at his father’s wounded expression.

  “Now, you, Faraz. How is it you came to be with the Sultana in the torture chamber?” Erik asked.

  “With the Sultana?” came the response from both Christine and Petter at once. Petter muttered, “Everyone in it but me.”

  “I am ashamed to say that the Sultana surprised me,” Faraz began. “It seems my instincts as a police officer are waning.” He coughed into his hand and continued. “After she playfully admonished me for entering Mazenderan against her wishes – you know how the woman operates – she asked the purpose of my sentry duty. I explained that I was waiting for you and Christine to emerge, so that we might be away. She laughed again and told me that neither of you would leave the palace with your lives, and told me I should go. When I refused, she insisted I accompany her – not doubt to dispatch me as well – and the speed with which she produced a dagger was compelling. Of course, I believe I could have overtaken her. Instead, I allowed her to believe her threat convincing, and accompanied her. I hoped once inside the palace that I could prove of some service to you.”

  “And so you were,” answered Erik. “The Shah was distraught over Naheed’s apparent desire to destroy his wife and son, but her confession of an intention to commit fratricide was a worse crime in his eyes.”

  “What will he do with Naheed, do you think?” Christine asked.

  “Do you worry for her, wife, even after her treatment of you?” Erik asked.

  “I do not like the idea of anyone being executed – murdered,” Christine answered.

  “Yes,” Erik answered. “Your son has inherited your forgiving heart. He brought me back to rationality several times during our journey when my worry for you and my rage threatened to overtake me.” He mused and said, “Thank goodness for you both.” He leaned across the table to grip Petter’s hand then raised a hand to Christine’s face, ran a thumb under the scar there.

  Christine brought her hand up to meet his. “These are nothing,” she said. Petter could not agree with that assessment, but did not respond to her statement.

  “It is true she has not marred your beauty one whit,” Erik answered and leaned toward Christine to kiss her on the cheek. “Your beauty has always been within you.”

  “As yours is in you,” she answered. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Petter could not help rolling his eyes to the ceiling, feeling the air in the room thicken with their sentimentality. The Persian, apparently agreeing, coughed into his hand.

  Christine giggled and blushed as she looked away from her husband. “So,” she said. “The adventure is concluded and life goes on. What are your plans, you two?” She looked from Petter to the Persian and back.

  “With Naheed restrained, I shall return to my flat on the Rue de Rivoli and take up my rather placid existence,” Faraz answered. “Despite my insistence on helping my friends, this adventure was more than I thought it might be, and I will return to my quiet comfort.”

  “And you, son? Will you return to London?” Christine asked.

  His mother would not be pleased with his answer – she seemed to worry over him to excess. He braced himself for tears and pleading, and ducked his head as he spoke. “Yes, London. As you know, I have hopes of establishing a career.”

  “Wonderful! I know you shall, for you are as brilliant as your father, and had better training than he,” she answered. Petter raised his head in astonishment. “And,” she continued, after giving him a tiny wink, “I understand you have a young girl there, a love interest.”

  “Y-yes,” Petter stammered, looking between the two smiling faces of his parents. “Constance. She is quite...” He could not finish his thought. He realized with a jarring sense of loss how long it had been since he had thought of Constance. The smile that had started at his mother’s new acceptance of his decision to go to London faltered and fell from his face.

  “Quite…?” prompted his mother.

  “Quite… beautiful,” he answered. His mood spiraled down as he realized he did not feel uplifted at the thought of seeing Constance again, but instead was worried at her displeasure over his long absence, and over what new suitors he may have to fend off.

  “I should like to meet her before we leave London,” Christine said, but all her brightness could not lift Petter from the worries that now had him chewing at the inside of his lip.

  CHAPTER 33

  PETTER AND HIS LOVE

  After the conversation aboard ship near Crete, Petter’s impatience to be back in London became acute. He fussed and fretted over a letter to Constance, and then wrote a more comfortably composed letter to Phoebe, telling both of his imminent return. He posted the letters upon their arrival in Marseille. For all his excitement over the idea of returning to work with Mr. Evans and to his friendship with Phoebe, he was sick with worry over Constance. What gift could he bring her from Paris that would be sufficient? What excuse could he give for not having written more often? He could not tell her the details of his daring adventure, for it would require explaining too much about his father’s past, and what little Petter had learned had aimed him toward caution. The need for caution was emphasized when upon reaching Paris, Christine declined Erik’s invitation to visit the Opera House where they had met.

  At Erik’s suggestion, her eyes had first brightened, but then she had smiled sadly, and said, “I think not, my love. I do not wish to be recognized.”

  The Persian had agreed. “You are thought to be deceased, my friend,” he said. “It might be best not to raise questions.”

  “Yours is all the music I need,” Christine had said, rising on her toes to kiss her husband’s disappointed face. Petter’s curiosity over these enigmatic statements was blunted by his hope that his mother’s refusal would hasten their departure for London. His hopes were quickly realized, for the next day – after a brief shopping excursion during which Petter bought Constance a magnificent Parisian scarf – they began the last leg of their journey.

  “I must first see Constance alone,” Petter told his parents when, upon arriving at his London flat, he found her invitation to call upon her.

  “Of course,” answered his mother with a knowing smile. “We can meet her after you have been reunited.” Petter could not understand the scowl that crept over his father’s features, but he did not puzzle long over it. He set abo
ut writing a note announcing his return to the city and asking for an immediate appointment. Her response was prompt, and it was only then, in the effusiveness of the moment, that Petter could say, “And you must meet my employer. He is a most generous man, and seems to appreciate my work. You will like him. Father did.”

  “Indeed, I did,” answered Erik. “And his lovely daughter.”

  “Yes, Phoebe. She’s a darling friend,” Petter said as he tightened his tie over a fresh shirt. With a peck at his mother’s jaw – he was too afraid of hurting her to kiss her cheek although he had seen his father do so – he said, “I must be off. I mustn’t be late.”

  He was still bursting with energy when he arrived at Constance’s residence. He tucked the elaborate gift box under one arm and pulled his jacket into proper submission. He nearly ran past the sedate butler in his haste to see, once again, his beautiful Constance.

  “Petter, how nice!” she said upon his entrance into the sitting room. On the entire ride to her residence, he had imagined the two of them rushing into each other’s arms, and while he was prepared for such a heartfelt reunion, he faltered as he approached her. Instead of rising to enter his arms (he had imagined the crush of her against him), she remained sitting, one hand stretched out toward him. Her smile was so fetching, so blinding, that he could not speak through his own stretched lips. He adopted a more respectful approach as he raised his hand to take hers.

  “Constance,” he said as he bent over her hand. He allowed his lips to just brush the smooth skin of her knuckles. In his mind, he called her “my love,” but he could not bring himself to say the words. He felt a renewing of her affection was necessary before turning to such endearments.

  “Sit, Petter,” she said, and gestured to a facing chair. He stopped himself in the act of turning to join her on the couch, and moved to the indicated chair. The worry that had overwhelmed him since just before reaching France seized him again, and his eyes fluttered to the side table and the fresh new bouquet of roses that sat there. He turned back to Constance’s smiling face.

  “Did you get my letters?” he asked, not knowing what else to say. She dropped her eyes and a slight blush crept up her cheeks.

  “Yes, Petter. You flatter so prettily,” she answered. When she said nothing more, Petter once again could think of nothing to say. He glanced down, and only then remembered the gift box he carried.

  “I brought you a gift. I got it in Paris.” He stood to present her with the box, fluffing the ribbon as he held it out to her.

  “Oh, Petter, how nice,” she said, with another fetching flutter of her lashes, but she did not reach for it. “Of course, I cannot accept it.”

  “What?” Petter said.

  “Why, it would be improper,” she said, and again she dropped her eyes, “now that I am engaged to be married.”

  Petter backed the few steps to the chair he had vacated, and then fell into the chair as his knees gave way. “Engaged?” he asked. “I’ve only been gone a short time.”

  “He is the loveliest young man,” she said, brightening. “You would like him. He already has money of his own, and he is due to inherit five thousand pounds a year on his father’s death.” Nodding in open-faced sincerity, she said, “He’s just the loveliest young man.”

  “I see,” said Petter. He could barely utter the words through the bitterness that filled his mouth. He lifted one hand to scratch at his forehead and lowered his gaze to the floor. For a wild irrational moment, he thought to drop to his knees and plead with her, but his mind took him back to the first time he had called on her. He recalled the disdain on her face as she spoke to a disappointed suitor. Don’t be such a bore. He could not remember the man’s name, but then, perhaps neither could she.

  With pain and something akin to disgust making his limbs heavy, he raised his gaze from the floor to Constance. There she sat, still smiling, still beautiful after a fashion, but now utterly unattractive to him.

  He stood, and holding himself erect with his gift box again tucked under his arm, he said, “I congratulate you, Constance. I wish you the best.” He bowed his head to her, and said, “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I will take up no more of your time.” He pushed his words through the dull pain blossoming in his chest.

  “Must you go?” she asked, and she tilted her head and puckered her perfect lips into a pout. Petter was incredulous.

  I have been a fool, he though. But no longer!

  “I must,” he answered. He bowed more deeply this time, turned, and walked from the room with all the dignity he could muster.

  She called from behind him as he crossed the threshold. “I hope you will call on me another time, Petter. I always find your visits so pleasant.”

  Petter shuddered as the butler closed the door behind him. What had he ever seen in the greedy, manipulative girl? She was not that beautiful.

  He brooded on the return trip to his flat. What would he tell his parents? After all the ruckus he had raised over the girl, what would he say? He glanced at his watch and decided that he would take them to meet Mr. Evans. This would allow him to say little and distract them all, giving him time to think. He was nearly to his flat when he stopped, and with a bow, handed the gift box to a passing elderly woman. She was poorly dressed, and had he been of a lighter mood, her surprised expression would have made him laugh.

  His demeanor on reaching his flat must have told more than he meant his parents to know, for as soon as he entered, his mother said, with an uncertain quiver to her voice, “How did your meeting go?”

  “Not well, but do not be concerned.” Forcing a humor he did not feel, he said, “Would you care to meet Mr. Evans, my employer?”

  “Indeed!” his father responded. He donned his mask, and with nothing more said about Constance, they were on their way.

  ***

  “Petter!” Petter heard Phoebe’s animated greeting before he saw her. She rushed to him from her drafting table, her dark eyes radiating the pleasure evident in her smile. She paused before him, eyes glittering as they met his. She turned to Erik, and with a small curtsey, said, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Nilsson.”

  “And you, my dear,” Erik said. He smiled as he took her hand and bowed over it.

  “This is my mother, Christine,” Petter said, and again Phoebe curtseyed.

  Phoebe’s eyes returned to Petter. “I am so happy to see you, Petter.”

  Her eyes – beautiful eyes, Petter thought – kept unabashed contact with his.

  “How was your voyage? Did much good come of it?”

  “I am reunited with my mother,” Petter said. “She needed a bit of rescuing.” He chuckled as he said this, knowing that Phoebe would not imagine how literally he meant what he said.

  Phoebe turned to Christine and said, “Trapped by clingy friends or family I suppose. How nice that your husband and gallant son came to your rescue.”

  “Indeed,” answered Christine. Christine smiled warmly at Phoebe.

  “I am afraid my father is not in the shop,” Phoebe said. “I do not expect him to return this afternoon. He will be sorry he missed you. I hope your stay in London will allow you another visit.” Phoebe walked as she spoke, leading the group toward Petter’s drafting table. “He kept your table open, Petter, saying – as you can imagine he would – that no one could replace you.”

  “Have you done something different to your hair?” Petter asked. The words were out before he knew he intended to say them, and he flushed as Phoebe turned to him.

  “Yes,” she said. There was no Constance-like coy downturning of her eyes, no flutter to her lashes. She looked at him squarely as she said, “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely,” Petter answered, a smile growing over his face as his own cheeks warmed further. Looking into her steady eyes, he thought, Why did I ever think Phoebe plain?

  The silence between Petter and Phoebe was interrupted by Erik’s small noise as he cleared his throat.

  Phoebe flushe
d as she turned away, and placed a hand on Petter’s drawing table. She turned back, a shy smile competing with the sudden crease in her brow.

  “Petter,” she said. “I am afraid I took a liberty with your plans while you were absent. It seemed to go well, so I hope you will forgive me.” Her brows remained drawn as she took her bottom lip into her teeth.

  Despite a small thrill of annoyance, Petter kept his voice calm as he said, “What liberty?”

  “Well… Several gentlemen came to see Father about developing certain plans. They were from New York, in America. I could not help overhearing their requests, and I thought, ‘My goodness, they sound like they would be interested in one of Petter’s plans.’ I asked Father, and he agreed wholeheartedly.”

  “Yes…?” prompted Petter. His annoyance was blossoming into excited hope.

  “They did like your plans, one especially, and they left a request to meet with you to discuss your overseeing the project. Of course, they mean to build it in New York.”

  Petter could only gasp in happy bewilderment. He stepped forward and wrapped an astonished Phoebe in his arms. He released her, and said, “My word, Phoebe, but you’re wonderful!” Turning to his father, he said, “Isn’t she?”

  “Indeed.” Erik was smiling at Petter with evident pride, and the warmth in his eyes as he turned to Phoebe was unmistakable.

  Petter returned his gaze to Phoebe – a Phoebe made beautiful by the flush on her cheeks and her smiling eyes. He felt as dazzled by her as he ever had by Constance’s façade.

  “Which plan did they like?” he asked.

  “This one. I’ll show you!” Phoebe half ran to her drafting table, from under which she drew his portfolio. “I kept it under lock and key,” she said. Opening the portfolio, she pointed to the top plan. “This one,” she said. She seemed even more excited than Petter was himself. Petter could not look away from her, and gripped his hands at his side to keep from taking her hand in his. He dropped his eyes to the indicated plan.