Tess Gerritsen - Stolen

“I don’t see anything.”

“Fire at it, anyway.”

One of the gunmen obligingly squeezed off a clip. The bullets sprayed into the water, their deadly rain splashing a line across the surface.

They watched for a moment. Nothing appeared. The water smoothed once again into undulating glass.

“I know I saw something,” said Trott.

The captain shrugged. “Well, it’s not there now.” He called to the helmsman, “Return to port!”

Cosima came about, leaving in her wake a spreading circle of ripples.

Trott moved to the stern, his gaze still focused on the suspicious patch of water. As they roared away he thought he spotted another flash of silver bob to the surface. It was there only for an instant. Then, in a twinkling, it was gone.

A fish, he thought. And, satisfied, he turned away.

Yes, that must be what it was. A fish.

“A SMALL BURGLARY. That’s all I’m asking for.” Veronica Cairncross gazed up at him, tears shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was dressed in a fetching off-the-shoulder silk gown, the skirt arranged in lustrous ripples across the Queen Anne love seat. Her hair, a rich russet brown, had been braided with strands of seed pearls and was coiled artfully atop her aristocratic head. At thirty-three she was far more stunning, far more chic than she’d been at the age of twenty-five, when he’d first met her. Through the years she’d acquired, along with her title, an unerring sense of style, poise and a reputation for witty repartee that made her a sought-after guest at the most glittering parties in London. But one thing about her had not changed, would never change.

Veronica Cairncross was still an idiot.

How else could one explain the predicament into which she’d dug herself?

And once again, he thought wearily, it’s faithful old chum Jordan Tavistock to the rescue. Not that Veronica didn’t need rescuing. Not that he didn’t want to help her. It was simply that this request of hers was so bizarre, so fraught with dire possibilities, that his first instinct was to turn her down flat.

He did. “It’s out of the question, Veronica,” said Jordan. “I won’t do it.”

“For me, Jordie!” she pleaded. “Think what will happen if you don’t. If he shows those letters to Oliver—”

“Poor old Ollie will have a fit. You two will row for a few days, and then he’ll forgive you. That’s what will happen.”

“What if Ollie doesn’t forgive me? What if he—what if he wants a…” She swallowed and looked down. “A divorce,” she whispered.

“Really, Veronica.” Jordan sighed. “You should have thought about this before you had the affair.”

She stared down in misery at the folds of her silk gown. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem.”

“No, it’s obvious you didn’t.”

“I had no idea Guy would be so difficult. You’d think I broke his heart! It’s not as if we were in love or anything. And now he’s being such a bastard about it. Threatening to tell all! What gentleman would sink so low?”

“No gentleman would.”

“If it weren’t for those letters I wrote, I could deny the whole thing. It would be my word against Guy’s, then. I’m sure Ollie would give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“What, exactly, did you write in those letters?”

Veronica’s head drooped unhappily. “Things I shouldn’t have.”

“Confessions of love? Sweet nothings?”

She groaned. “Much worse.”

“More explicit, you mean?”

“Far more explicit.”

Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought, It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman. But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible—a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.

Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although Sir Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match between money on his side and beauty on hers. Jordan had thought them a contented pair.

How wrong he’d been.

“My advice to you,” he said, “is to come clean. Tell Ollie about the affair. He’ll most likely forgive you.”

“Even if he does, there’s still the letters. Guy’s just upset enough to send them to all the wrong people. If Fleet Street ever got hold of them, Ollie would be publicly humiliated.”

“You think Guy would really stoop so low?”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d offer to pay him off if I thought it would work. But after all that money I lost in Monte Carlo, Ollie’s keeping a tight rein on my spending. And I couldn’t borrow any money from you. I mean, there are some things one simply can’t ask of one’s friends.”

“Burglary, I’d say, lies in that category,” noted Jordan dryly.

“But it’s not burglary! I wrote those letters. Which makes them mine. I’m only retrieving what belongs to me.” She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly glittering like blue diamonds. “It wouldn’t be difficult, Jordie. I know exactly which drawer he keeps them in. Your sister’s engagement party is Saturday night. If you could invite him here—”

“Beryl detests Guy Delancey.”

“Invite him anyway! While he’s here at Chetwynd, guzzling champagne—”

“I’m burgling his house?” Jordan shook his head. “What if I’m caught?”

“Guy’s staff takes Saturday nights off. His house will be empty. Even if you are caught, just tell them it’s a prank. Bring a—a blow-up doll or something, for insurance. Tell them you’re planting it in his bed. They’ll believe you. Who’d doubt the word of a Tavistock?”

He frowned. “Is that why you’re asking me to do this? Because I’m a Tavistock?”

“No. I’m asking you because you’re the cleverest man I know. Because you’ve never, ever betrayed any of my secrets.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. It was a look of utter trust. “And because you’re the only one in the world I can count on.”

Drat. She would have to say that.

“Will you do it for me, Jordie?” she asked softly. Pitifully. “Tell me you will.”

Wearily he rubbed his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he sank back in the armchair and gazed resignedly at the far wall, at the paintings of his Tavistock ancestors. Distinguished gentlemen, every one of them, he thought. Not a cat burglar in the lot.

Until now.

AT 11:05, THE LIGHTS WENT out in the servants’ quarters. Good old Whitmore was right on schedule as usual. At 9:00 he’d made his rounds of the house, checking to see that the windows and doors were locked. At 9:30 he’d tidied up downstairs, fussed a bit in the kitchen, perhaps brewed himself a pot of tea. At 10:00 he’d retired upstairs, to the blue glow of his private telly. At 11:05 he turned off his light.

This had been Whitmore’s routine for the past week, and Clea Rice, who’d been watching Guy Delancey’s house since the previous Saturday, assumed that this would be his routine until the day he died. Menservants, after all, strived to maintain order in their employers’ lives. It wasn’t surprising they’d maintain order in their own lives, as well.

Now the question was, how long before he’d fall asleep?

Safely concealed behind the yew hedge, Clea rose to her feet and began to rock from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood moving through her limbs. The grass had been wet, and her stirrup pants were clinging to her thighs. Though the night was warm, she was feeling chilled. It wasn’t just the dampness in her clothes; it was the excitement, the anticipation. And, yes, the fear. Not a great deal of fear—she had enough confidence in her own ability to feel certain she wouldn’t be caught. Still, there was always that chance.