In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen

“Claude will be here. And Reggie—”

“So I fly home and leave you to rot in prison?” She shook her head in disagreement. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

“If you love me, you will.”

Her chin came up. “If I love you,” she said, “I’ll do no such thing.” She threw her arms around him in a fierce, uncompromising embrace. Then, brushing away tears, she turned to Richard. “Let’s go. The sooner we talk to Reggie, the sooner we’ll clear up this mess.”

Jordan watched his sister walk away. It was just like her, he thought, to steer her own straight and stubborn course through that unruly crowd of pickpockets and prostitutes. “Beryl!” he yelled. “Go home! Don’t be a bloody idiot!”

She stopped and looked back at him. “But I can’t help it, Jordie. It runs in the family.” Then she turned and walked out the door.

Chapter 6

“Your brother’s right,” said Richard. “You should go home.”

“Don’t you start now,” she snapped over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you to the hotel to pack. Then I’m taking you to the airport.”

“You and what regiment?”

“For once will you take some advice?” he yelled.

She spun around on the crowded sidewalk and turned to confront him. “Advice, yes. Orders, no.”

“Okay, then just listen for a minute. Your coming to Paris was a crazy move to begin with. Sure, I understand why you did it. I understand that you’d want to know the truth about your parents. But things have changed, Beryl. A woman’s been killed. It’s a whole new ball game now.”

“What am I supposed to do about Jordan? Just leave him there?”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Reggie. We’ll get him the best lawyer there is—”

“And I run home? Wash my hands of the whole mess?” She looked down at the watch she was holding. Jordan’s watch. Quietly she said, “He’s my family. Did you see how wretched he looked? It would kill him to stay in that place. If I left him there, I’d never forgive myself.”

“And if something happened to you, Jordan would never forgive himself. And neither would I.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“But you are.”

“And who decided that?”

He reached for her then, trapping her face in his hands. “I did,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to hers. She was so stunned by the ferocity of his kiss that at first she couldn’t react; too many glorious sensations were assaulting her at once. She heard his murmurings of need, felt the hot surge of his tongue into her mouth. Her own body responded, every nerve singing with desire. She was oblivious to the traffic, the passersby on the sidewalk. There were only the two of them and the way their bodies and mouths melted together. All day they’d been fighting this, she thought. And all day she knew it was hopeless. She knew it would come to this—one kiss on a Paris street, and she was lost.

Gently he pulled away and gazed down at her. “That’s why you have to leave Paris,” he murmured.

“Because you command it?”

“No. Because it makes sense.”

She stepped back, desperate to put space between them, to regain some control—any control—over her emotions. “Sense to you, perhaps,” she said softly. “But not to me.” Then she turned and climbed into his car.

He slid in beside her and shut the door. Though they sat in silence, she could feel his frustration radiating throughout the car.

“What can I say that would make you change your mind?” he asked.

“My mind?” She looked at him and managed a tight, uncompromising smile. “Absolutely nothing.”

“IT’S RATHER a sticky situation,” said Reggie Vane. “If the charges weren’t so serious—theft, perhaps, or even assault—then the embassy might be able to do something. But murder? I’m afraid that’s beyond diplomatic intervention.”

They were talking in Reggie’s private study, a masculine, dark-paneled room very much like her Uncle Hugh’s at Chetwynd. The bookshelves were lined with English classics, the walls hung with hunting scenes of foxes and hounds and gentlemen on horseback. The stone fireplace was an exact copy, Reggie had told them, of the hearth in his childhood home in Cornwall. Even the smell of Reggie’s pipe tobacco reminded Beryl of home. How comforting to discover that here, on the outskirts of Paris, was a familiar world transplanted straight from England.

“Surely the ambassador can do something?” said Beryl. “This is Jordan we’re talking about, not some soccer-club hooligan. Besides, he’s innocent.”

“Of course he’s innocent,” said Reggie. “Believe me, if there was anything I could do about it, our Jordan wouldn’t stay in that cell a moment longer.” He sat down on the couch beside her and clasped her hands, the whole time focusing his mild blue eyes on her face. “Beryl, darling, you have to understand. Even the ambassador himself can’t work miracles. I’ve spoken to him, and he’s not optimistic.”

“Then there’s nothing you or he can do?” Beryl asked miserably.

“I’ll arrange for a lawyer—one our embassy recommends. He’s an excellent fellow, someone they call in for just this sort of thing. Specializes in English clients.”

“And that’s all we can hope for? A good attorney?”

Reggie’s answer was a regretful nod.

In her disappointment, Beryl didn’t hear Richard move to stand close behind her, but she did feel his hands coming to rest protectively on her shoulders. How I’ve come to rely on him, she thought. A man I shouldn’t trust. And yet I do.

Reggie looked at Richard. “What about the Intelligence angle?” he asked. “Any evidence forthcoming?”

“French Intelligence is working with the police. They’ll be running ballistic tests on the gun. No fingerprints were found on it. The fact that he’s Lord Lovat’s nephew will get him some special consideration. But in the end, it’s still a murder charge. And the victim’s a Frenchwoman. Once the local papers get hold of the story, it will sound like some spoiled English brat trying to slither out of criminal charges.”

“And there’s enough ill will toward us British as it is,” said Reggie. “After thirty years in this country, I should know. I tell you, as soon as my year’s up at the bank, I’m going home.” His gaze wandered longingly to the painting over the mantelpiece. It was of a country home, its walls festooned with blue wisteria blossoms. “Helena hated it in Cornwall—thought the house was far too primitive. But it suited my parents. And it suits me.” He looked at Beryl. “It’s a frightening thing, getting into trouble so far from home. One is always aware that one is vulnerable. And neither class nor money can make things right.”

“I’ve told Beryl she should fly home,” said Richard.

Reggie nodded. “My feelings exactly.”

“I can’t,” said Beryl. “I’d feel like a rat jumping ship.”

“At least you’d be a live rat,” said Richard.

Angrily she shrugged off his touch. “But a rat all the same.”

Reggie reached for her hand. “Beryl,” he said quietly, “listen to me. I was your mother’s oldest friend—we grew up together. So I feel a special responsibility. And you have no idea how painful it is for me to see one of Madeline’s children in such a fix. It’s awful enough that Jordan’s in trouble, but to worry about you, as well…” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Listen to your Mr. Wolf here. He’s a sensible fellow. Someone you can trust.”

Someone I can trust. Beryl felt Richard’s gaze on her back, felt it as acutely as a touch, and her spine stiffened. She focused firmly on Reggie. Dear Reggie, whose shared past with Madeline made him part of her family.

She said, “I know you mean only the best, Reggie, but I can’t leave Paris.”

The two men looked at each other, exchanging shared expressions of frustration, but not surprise. After all, they had both known Madeline; they could expect nothing less than stubbornness from her daughter.