Then I bit into the carob brownie and promptly spat the mouthful back onto my plate. Kristen T. looked at me with raised eyebrows and then shrugged and turned back to Matt B. The “brownie” was worse than Vietnamese bat’s-nest soup, and I started planning what I would eat if I ever got home. A box of chocolate biscuits, an extra-butter bag of microwave popcorn, a huge bottle of Fanta . . .
Audrey stood up. “I want to offer a toast,” she said, dimpling, “to the most amazing team ever! Do you know when I’m on vacation with my family, I can’t wait to get back to my peeps at the office? I really miss you guys!”
I glanced over at the suddenly expressionless Pia and thought, It could be worse; I could be Audrey’s daughter, instead of her employee.
“The Truth Game!” Jake S. cried, pounding the table. “Let’s end with a round of the Truth Game!”
Squeals of excitement. I shrugged to myself. I was an accomplished liar.
Apparently, the team members were supposed to tell a truth about themselves that they’d never told before. If anyone else already knew the “truth,” then the “truth teller” had to chug a handful of sprouts.
I shuddered—anything to avoid that.
Audrey was the first truth teller. “Well”—she smiled, pushing her jet-black hair behind her ears and smiling her adorable gap-toothed smile—“I really feel like I’m not a day older than you guys.”
At forty-five, the tiny Audrey was built like a thirteen-year-old boy, with nonexistent hips or boobs. In her lululemon capris and tank top, I had to admit, she barely looked any older than the twentysomethings around the table.
Whoops of delight greeted her statement. I thought she should be forced to gobble down the sprouts because we all already knew that, but her “peeps” thought it perfect. Surprise, surprise: There were no challenges.
Jake S. went next. “I have a crush on Kristen S.,” he confessed with an equally adorable, almost shy smile.
Kristen the Younger, I interpreted. She blushed sweetly, and the Matts high-fived each other. “I knew it!” Matt B. cried.
Kristen the Younger said, “I think Matt S. is really cool,” and Jake S. looked deflated.
Kristen R. said, “I want to be Audrey when I grow up” and was immediately challenged.
“We all want to be Audrey when we grow up!” Kristen T. shouted. “Everyone knows that!” So Kristen R. had to eat her sprouts.
Matt S., who had drunk too much elderberry wine and clearly misunderstood the game, said, “I hate hot yoga. And I hate vinyasa yoga even more.”
Horrified silence. I wondered when Matt would be forgiven for actually telling a truth.
Pia said, with a glance at Audrey, “I want to be just like my mother when I grow up.”
No one challenged Audrey’s daughter. Ever.
My turn. I said, “I hate working out at the gym.”
Pause. Clearly, no one knew how to respond to something so unimaginable.
Kristen T. said, with some confusion, “I don’t understand.”
Kristen the Younger said sweetly, “Oh, Amy, you’re so funny! I always thought California girls were supposed to be real balls of fire, but you’re just . . .”
“Mousy” was the word she was searching for, but I wasn’t about to supply it. “Quiet,” she said.
Ha! I thought. She should see me with Leo, dodging bullets and spitting fire.
Somebody chortled, and I berated myself for having come up with such a stupid lie. Next time, I would just say I wanted to be Audrey when I grew up.
Blessedly, Field Day was over. I endured a round of kissing and hugging and damp promises of eternal love and fidelity. I was just changing from my sopping-wet sneakers into street shoes when Kristen R. and Audrey came over to me.
“A word, Amy?” Audrey said.
“Yes?” I felt at a disadvantage, sitting on a chair while they stood over me, so I stood up on my one shod foot.
No dimples were in sight. Audrey said to Kristen, “Tell her what you told me.”
“My source at the FBI tells me they’re planning to freeze Sheikh Abdullah’s accounts until the investigation is over.”
“Jesus,” I said involuntarily, and Audrey frowned. Nouri’s trip to Zurich flashed into my mind, and I said, again, “Jesus. No.”
“Of course,” Audrey said expressionlessly, “if you don’t have the sheikh’s accounts to manage, then there’s no place for you at Atlantic Bank.”
And, leaving me hopping on one foot, they walked away.
Chapter 22
All thoughts of biscuits and popcorn fled my mind as I dazedly put on my other shoe and made my way outside to the waiting Uber. Everyone else was chattering excitedly about the “after-party” they were planning at a Covent Garden pub, and no one even noticed my silent escape.
I turned on my phone but sat staring at it, ignoring the Uber driver’s attempt at polite conversation. Usually I chatted away to Uber drivers because I wanted my rating to stay high. Tonight I couldn’t manage it. Instead I clutched my phone, wondering who to call.
Absurdly, Leo flashed into my mind.
I shook my head. If those accounts were frozen, two long years of work would go down the drain. Those bloody, blasted FBI clods! Two years of putting up with Audrey and the Pretty Young Things. Two years of filling out forms and kowtowing to the sheikh and submitting to petty humiliations. Two years for nothing! And I was getting so close.
Bob, I thought. I should call Bob. He’ll be able to help me. But then I remembered he was in Afghanistan with Dorcas and Will. There had been an emergency of some sort, and he had rushed out to help them. Fervently, I wished I still worked for IDC and could have gone to Afghanistan too, to help my colleagues.
So, no Bob.
Rosie, my computer-whiz friend in DC, might have some information. Quickly, I tapped out an urgent text asking her if she could find out anything about the FBI probe but then deleted it. This was an Atlantic Bank iPhone, and I didn’t want someone accessing my messages in an investigation. It would have to wait until I got home.
Leo, I thought again.
Ridiculous.
But somehow I wasn’t surprised when the Uber pulled up in front of my house and there he was, patiently leaning against the lamppost as if I had conjured him up. He straightened and strolled over to me as I got out of the car.
“Rough day at the office?” he inquired, taking in my bedraggled look and reaching out to pluck a strand of wet tissue paper from my chest. He glanced at it quizzically before flicking it to the ground.
“Field Day,” I said.
“Ah. Team bonding and all that?”
Unwillingly, I smiled. “Audrey and her peeps bonded.”
“The Pretty Young Things.”
I nodded.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter-size envelope. “May I come up?” he asked, gesturing toward the stoop.
It had been an awful day. Just minutes before, I had been yearning for my silent apartment and a bowlful of junk food. But now, weary and defeated and flip-flopping again, I couldn’t stop myself from nodding and handing him the key. He unlocked the door, and we proceeded up the stairs in silence.
Once inside the apartment, Leo headed immediately for the kitchen. “Get yourself into a nice warm shower and some comfortable clothes,” he threw over his shoulder. “I’ll make some tea.”
Just tea? I wondered.
“With brandy,” he added, as if he could read my thoughts.
Well, thank God for that.
Warmed by the brandy and a cuddly, fleecy sweatshirt, I sat next to Leo on the couch and stared into the fire he had built. “Everything is about to be ruined,” I said to him.
He stared at me. “How did you find out?”
“Well, Audrey told me, of course.”
“How in God’s name does Audrey know about Nemtsov?”
“What? I was talking about the sheikh and the FBI.”
“What?”
We stared
at each other in mutual incomprehension.
Leo laughed. “Let’s start all over again. You first. What’s about to be ruined?”
“My work,” I said. “The FBI is going to freeze my sheikh’s accounts, and I’ll be out of a job. I worked so hard on this, and it’s all about to be trashed by those stupid, bumbling oafs!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Leo said politely. “But don’t you hate that job anyway?”
“Yes, but . . .” I trailed off and shrugged. “You’d never understand.”
Leo rolled his eyes.
“What were you talking about, anyway?” I asked.
He pulled out the letter again. “This is a work permit for Sudeley Castle. Nemtsov is on the brink of receiving permission to close the castle to visitors and begin interior demolition.”
I stared at the letter in confusion. After Rosie’s information, I had determined that the whole Sudeley affair was just a pretext—but why? Good God, why?—for Leo to approach me, but he seemed utterly sincere.
“Look, for the love of God,” Leo said, “I need your help. I’m begging you. I’m pleading with you—for the sake of history and all that’s good and true in the world—please, please, tell me about Jules.”
I wished I could help him. Truly, I did.
But, “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I just can’t help you.”
He looked at me in silence. “I think you can,” he said at last.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
Leo dropped his head back against the sofa and threw an arm over his eyes. I twitched uncomfortably, twisting my hair around my fingers.
“Don’t fidget,” he said, eyes still closed.
I gulped down more tea and brandy.
“Leo,” I began.
“Quiet. I’m thinking.”
I shrugged and drank some more.
At last, he said. “Fine. I understand. Will you at least go on another field trip with me?”
Another field trip? “Every time I travel with you, people chase us and shoot us,” I said. “I don’t think you’re a great traveling companion.”
Amazingly, he grinned. “We’re just going to Grimsthorpe Castle,” he said. “I think we’ll be safe there.”
“You think?” I repeated, unconvinced.
He sat up straight and lifted his shirttail to show me some olive skin and . . . the dull gleam of a gun, tucked into a discreet holster on his jeans.
I gulped. “You can’t carry concealed in the UK!”
“And yet I am,” Leo said.
“Jesus,” I said, for the third time that day.
“So, Grimsthorpe?” he persisted.
Why not?
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay, then.” He reached out a long arm to pull me hard against him and dropped a light kiss on my hair before getting up to go.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said, and was gone.
Grimsthorpe Castle! My internet research that night revealed little. It was tucked into a remote corner of Lincolnshire, open to the public on Sundays. But because the web page had not been updated for several years, I suspected it was not much of a tourist attraction. On the bright side, it did have a lovely tearoom.
“So, why Grimsthorpe?” I asked as I settled into the welcoming leather of his Audi.
“Grimsthorpe,” Leo pronounced solemnly, “was owned by Catherine Willoughby, the Duchess of Suffolk. She was Queen Katherine Parr’s best friend and guardian of the baby Lady Mary Seymour when she was orphaned.”
Oh, yes, the one who had so resented having to pay for the baby’s upkeep.
“Presumably,” Leo added, “Baby Mary was sent to Grimsthorpe when she passed into the Duchess of Suffolk’s care, following the execution of Tom Seymour. The baby was about seven months old then.”
I nodded. “So, she lived at Grimsthorpe?”
“Yes. There are no surviving artifacts from that time. They’ve all disappeared or been dispersed to other sites, but it occurs to me that there may be records of where some of those artifacts are.”
“There won’t be any exciting discoveries today, then?” I asked, remembering Kali’s momentous find at Sudeley. I still felt a chill down my spine when I recalled her light, curious voice saying, “Lady Mary, the Queen’s Daughter,” and the rapt look on Leo’s face. I was a little disappointed to learn that Grimsthorpe would not yield any such moments.
“Afraid not,” Leo said. “But there is always that teashop.”
Grimsthorpe lived up to its name; heavier and gloomier than Sudeley, it had stones stained black with age and was deeply shadowed by the huge, hulking trees that loomed over it. I shivered as we walked through the heavy gates and into the great hall, whose dark, low ceilings threatened to enclose us.
“Ugh,” I said decisively. “Did I ever tell you I’m claustrophobic?”
Leo glanced down at me. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not. Didn’t you go spelunking with your father?”
Dimly, I remembered telling him about our caving expeditions in Morocco. “That’s different,” I said.
“I don’t like it here either,” he admitted.
We wandered through the rooms, their stone walls weeping with moisture and the massive, gloomy furniture increasing our sense of depression. Leo took my hand as we proceeded into the Willoughby Room, the only room in the castle with furniture supposedly dating from Catherine Willoughby’s era. Remembering how many trustworthy people had warned me away from him, I gently eased my hand out of his grip.
“Here’s an account book of the Duchess’s,” I said, wandering over to the lady’s desk that stood in a dimly lit corner.
Leo peered closely at the small, faint writing. “This is from 1540,” he said. “Too early for us.”
“Oh well,” I said. “Are you ready for some tea?”
He was still looking at the account book. “I wonder where the others are,” he mused. “There must be references to expenditures for the baby in later account books.”
“You said there’s nothing here . . . ,” I began.
“No. But where did her papers go?” he murmured.
I shrugged. “Tea?” I suggested again.
Lost in thought, he didn’t answer, so I took his arm and shook it gently. “Tea,” I said more loudly.
He shook himself, like a man coming out of a trance.
“Tea,” he repeated obediently.
“Tell me,” I said over a mouthful of clotted cream and strawberry jam, “how you traced the baby’s descendants to this modern-day person.” I couldn’t bring myself to say “Jules.”
“Research,” he said absently, still brooding on the missing account books.
“Leo!” I snapped. “Pay attention!”
He blinked. “Sorry. Yes. Well, I found references to a man called Edward Seymour—Ned, that is—who was born in Lincolnshire around 1570 and whose grandsire was said to be ‘that knave and rascal Tom Seymour, brother to our late and sorely lamented Queen Jane.’”
“Ohhkaay,” I said dubiously.
“So I thought his father might have been the Seymour cousin mentioned in the letter I told you about—the lad that Lady Mary may have been betrothed to. Then there’s another letter from the 1580s, referring to ‘Ned Seymour, son of the Queen’s Daughter.’”
“Hmm,” I said.
“That was the hard part,” Leo said, clearly indignant that I wasn’t more impressed. Probably his girl students swooned regularly at his feet. “Finding the original descendants, I mean. After that, it was pretty easy to trace this Ned’s family down through the years. They were prominent landowners and fortunate enough to keep producing sons to carry on the name.”
“Until now,” I said unguardedly.
This time, his glance at me was more intent. “Yes,” Leo said. “Until Jules.”
I didn’t say anything.
“So my theory is,” Leo continued, “that Baby Mary married a cousin of so
me sort, thus keeping the Seymour name, and they had at least one surviving son, Ned. This Ned was a swashbuckling sort too, excessively handsome and auburn-haired, like his grandfather. I think Ned was our Baby Mary’s son.”
“Maybe. But wasn’t Seymour a fairly common name? Weren’t there lots of Seymours around?”
Leo ignored me. “This Ned was something of an adventurer too,” he went on. “Traveled to Araby and the Indios and brought back lots of exotic Orientalia for his family, including a monkey and a little brown-skinned girl, whom they exhibited for guests before she died of the plague. Poor thing,” he added.
“So, what about Mary? Are you sure she was this Ned’s mother?”
“Not clear,” he admitted. “I just can’t figure out why there’s no record of Mary herself. It’s as if she dropped off the face of the earth sometime around her first birthday and never appeared again. Nothing at all, until the reference to Ned, Tom Seymour’s grandson.”
“What sort of reference are you looking for?”
“The usual: account books, letters, parish registers, diaries . . . something! Someone must have spent money on her. Someone must have seen her or talked to her. Someone must have married her. But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
He sighed, and a lock of curly black hair fell across his forehead.
An odd thought crossed my mind, but it seemed too random to say aloud. Instead I said, “Mary was a very famous baby, right? That’s what you said—the Queen’s daughter, the orphaned child of a celebrity couple.”
“Right. That’s why I don’t think she could have died so anonymously that no one, ever, in all of England, mentioned it. The death of a child that famous would have been talked about countrywide.”
“Maybe,” I said, voicing my thoughts aloud, “maybe someone disappeared her.”
Chapter 23
This time, his glance at me held nothing but respect.
“Yes,” he said. “I thought of that. But why? Whom could she possibly have threatened? She was the Queen’s daughter, yes, but not the King’s. She had no claim to the throne. . . .”
His voice trailed off in frustration, and once again a thought flitted through my mind. This time, I caught hold of it and held it.
The Long-Lost Jules Page 14