In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen. Tess Gerritsen

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СКАЧАТЬ floor; he kept climbing, up a narrow staircase to the top floor. Number five was the attic flat; its low door was tucked between the eaves.

      He knocked. No answer.

      “Madeline?” he called. “Really now, this isn’t some sort of practical joke, is it?”

      Still there was no answer.

      He tried the door; it was unlocked. He pushed inside, into the garret flat. Venetian blinds hung over the windows, casting slats of shadow and light across the room. Against one wall was a large brass bed, its sheets still rumpled from some prior occupant. On a bedside table were two dirty glasses, an empty champagne bottle and various plastic items one might delicately refer to as “marital aids.” The whole room smelled of liquor, of sweating passion and bodies in rut.

      Bernard’s puzzled gaze gradually shifted to the foot of the brass bed, to a woman’s high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor. Frowning, he took a step toward it and saw that the shoe lay in a glistening puddle of crimson. As he rounded the foot of the bed, he froze in disbelief.

      His wife lay on the floor, her ebony hair fanned out like a raven’s wings. Her eyes were open. Three sunbursts of blood stained her white blouse.

      He dropped to his knees beside her. “No,” he said. “No.” He touched her face, felt the warmth still lingering in her cheeks. He pressed his ear to her chest, her bloodied chest, and heard no heartbeat, no breath. A sob burst forth from his throat, a disbelieving cry of grief. “Madeline!”

      As the echo of her name faded, there came another sound behind him—footsteps. Soft, approaching…

      Bernard turned. In bewilderment, he stared at the pistol—Madeline’s pistol—now pointed at him. He looked up at the face hovering above the barrel. It made no sense—no sense at all!

      “Why?” asked Bernard.

      The answer he heard was the dull thud of the silenced automatic. The bullet’s impact sent him sprawling to the floor beside Madeline. For a few brief seconds, he was aware of her body close beside him, and of her hair, like silk against his fingers. He reached out and feebly cradled her head. My love, he thought. My dearest love.

      And then his hand fell still.

       Chapter 1

       Buckinghamshire, England

       Twenty years later

      Jordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hugh’s easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock family’s sense of whimsy that they’d chosen to so publicly display their one relative who’d, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill—the last man to be officially decapitated in England—unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. I should keep at least a few gray cells in working order, he thought. I might need them to hold up my end of the chitchat. Chitchat being one of Jordan’s least favorite activities.

      For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonight’s event—in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane—might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hugh’s retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hugh’s former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris—all of them in London for the recent economic summit—and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface.

      Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; he’d managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot.

      “Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you?” said Hugh.

      Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. “Where’s Davis? He’s much better at this sort of thing.”

      “I sent him to fetch that sister of yours.”

      “Beryl’s gone out again?”

      “Naturally. Mention the words ‘cocktail party,’ and she’s flying out the door.”

      Jordan began to loop his uncle’s tie into a bow. “Beryl’s never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think she’s had just a bit too much of the Vanes.”

      “Hmm? But they’ve been lovely guests. Fit right in—”

      “It’s the nasty little barbs flying between them.”

      “Oh, that. They’ve always been that way. I scarcely notice it anymore.”

      “And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?”

      Hugh laughed. “Around a pretty woman, Reggie is a puppy dog.”

      “Well, it’s no wonder Helena’s always sniping at him.” Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncle’s bow tie with a frown.

      “How’s it look?”

      “It’ll have to do.”

      Hugh glanced at the clock. “Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why aren’t the Vanes down yet?”

      As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. “Someone has to point these things out to you,” she said.

      “Yes, and it’s always you, isn’t it?”

      Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helena’s substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer.

      As the hour edged toward six o’clock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. “Before the hordes arrive,” he said, “a toast, to your safe return to Paris.” They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends.

      Now Reggie raised his glass. “And here’s to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!”

      From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the woman’s arm.

      “Good heavens, it’s Nina Sutherland and her brat,” СКАЧАТЬ