The sun had long set but, as Julia had been in the dressing for hours, she had not pulled the drapes. The scratching was there, louder than ever, and she saw that Archie was outside her window. The spectre was scratching frantically with both hands, looking like he desperately wished to come inside. His mouth was moving like he was shouting but no words were coming out.
Julia stared at the vision in horrified silence.
The freeze hit her ankles again, swirling around her calves and thighs and Julia staggered back from the frenzied Master while trying to escape his Mistress.
“What’s going on?” Julia breathed.
She felt as if the entire house swayed with motive, as if trying to voice some eerie foreboding.
Then she saw him by the illumination of the outside light.
Nick, running toward the front door. She knew from seeing him that something was wrong because he was running hell-bent-for-leather.
Julia’s heart leapt into her throat, panic seizing her at remembering another night not long ago when Douglas had come home with Nick, wounded and bleeding.
The draught of Lady Ruby moved, surrounding her, almost squeezing her but she ignored its clear warning, turned on her heel and fled the room, running as best she could on her slim heels towards the front door.
When she arrived, Nick had forced his way through the heavy front doors (doors that only Douglas seemed to have no trouble shifting) and was careening down the hall, motioning to her by flailing his arms.
He shouted, “Run, goddammit, Jules, run!”
And then the world tilted, the house darkened ominously, closing in on itself. It felt as if the stone walls flexed inward, the shadows everywhere lengthened, stretching out like claws as a gunshot exploded followed closely by a strange “ping” sound and Nick went down like dead weight, cracking his skull with a sickening thud against the flagstone floor.
Leaving Julia to face three men, all pointing guns at her and speaking what she knew was Russian.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Curse
“The Royal Crescent Hotel has confirmed, of course,” Sam was saying, “you’ll arrive in the suite greeted by champagne and strawberries –”
“Isn’t that a bit trite?” Douglas interrupted curtly, wanting everything to be perfect.
“Well, I suppose you can call your intended’s preferences ‘trite’ but I would never presume to do so. Patty says Julia loves champagne and strawberries.”
His silence was the only indication of his apology and his jaw tightened at Sam’s referral to Patricia as “Patty”. All the women in his life were becoming the banes of his existence.
They were, he realised, ganging up on him.
Charlotte, Mrs. Kilpatrick, Sam and Patricia called him day after day to check this detail or that detail of the wedding or of that evening’s dinner (or tomorrow’s) or of his schedule. Or simply to check on him to ascertain he’d done nothing to make Julia run screaming into the night and the clutching arms of certain death.
Their lack of faith in him was appalling.
Although, he had to admit, he hadn’t handled their courtship to his usual exacting standards. However, she had said yes (rather spectacularly), she was wearing his damned ring (rather proudly), she was sharing his bed (or her bed or the couch in the study or the wall of the billiards room, depending on his level of creativity, a heretofore unknown skill he found, through necessity, he had in abundance).
“If you want to buy a ten foot ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower and set it up in the bloody garden, I don’t care. Your budget for the wedding reception, from now on, is unlimited,” he’d informed Mrs. K (somewhat shortly) just that afternoon.
Instead of taking offense, the woman seemed downright jolly.
He’d spent nearly twenty years making a fortune (quadruple fold) and one small wedding and four pushy, nagging women were going to bankrupt him in a single day.
Fortunately, Julia was a calm amidst this storm. With her never ending lists, her capacity to interpret (and control) her mother’s dramatics, to find Charlie hilarious and to delegate to Mrs. K and Sam when needed, she was taking all this on with a level head – all the while starting a new consultancy, dealing with the children and giving into a (very) demanding Douglas (though he couldn’t help but note that the last seemed to be the most favourite of her tribulations).
“Why on earth don’t they phone you with these details?” Douglas found himself grumbling (actually reduced to grumbling) the evening before.
They were on the couch in his study. Douglas was sitting at one end looking through some papers. Julia was lying on her back with her feet in his lap, Fred, The Cat (his name had been grandly, yet unnecessarily, lengthened by Ruby) sleeping on her belly and she was reading a book.
“I think they’re enjoying torturing you, you haven’t exactly been, um,” Julia hesitated, Douglas cut his eyes to her and she grinned sheepishly, “approachable for the last thirty-eight years.”
“I’m not approachable now,” he ground out. “I’m considering hiring hit men.”
She laughed, the sound throaty and sexy and making him immediately want her. If the children hadn’t been in the house watching television in the lounge, he would have taken her.
When he was going to have his fill of her, he didn’t know and he was beginning to doubt he ever would. Every time he had her, he wanted more, needed more, she was like a fucking drug.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Julia joked, taking him from his thoughts then her smile drained away as she took in his bland look and arched brow.
He saw a worried expression crossed her face and then he turned away, satisfied at her reaction yet unable to stop his lips from twitching.
She set Fred, The Cat aside and launched herself at him, a playful attack he had no idea how to defend. He’d never played with anyone, not even Tamsin.
He wrestled her gently, not wanting to cause her harm but he soon found he didn’t have to worry because the whole time, she was giggling herself silly. He couldn’t help but recognise the strange feeling coursing through him (mingled tantalisingly with desire) was enjoyment.
She ended the tussle on her back, Douglas on top, Julia’s arms pulled over her head with his hand holding her wrists. She was still laughing, her body shaking under him while he smiled down at her, revelling in the pleasure of her happiness and that it was Douglas who was giving it to her.
“You’re just too funny, sweetheart,” she giggled. “I just love…” she stopped, gulped then gave a short, strange, uncomfortable chortle of laughter before finishing, “love your sense of humour.”
Her words sounded forced and wrong and his body stilled when he heard them but then she lifted her head and kissed him and he could think of nothing else.
This time, it was Sam who broke into his thoughts.
“The room will be littered, their word, not mine, littered with white roses.” Sam was continuing to tell him his plans for Valentine’s evening. “They’ll serve your dinner at nine in the room.”
“Right. Thanks,” Douglas replied, no longer listening to her, preferring to think back to what happened on the couch and what it might mean.
After a lengthy hesitation, Sam asked, “What did you just say?”
“Right,” Douglas repeated distractedly.
“Then you said, ‘thanks’.” Her voice was somehow breathy with pleasure and he realised he’d never thanked her before.
Jesus, had he always been such an unfeeling bastard?
Bloody hell, he had.
A feeling stole over him that he now recognised. Guilt.
“You did a good job, you always do,” he offered this statement like a throwaway comment, immediately uncomfortable with the conversation. “Are we done?” His voice was now curt.
“Yes,” Sam answered.
“Good.” Douglas almost wished her enjoyment of her Valentine’s Day but stopped himself. She might have a coronary and he had a wedding to plan and less than a mon
th to do it and he needed her not to be recovering in a hospital bed.
He disconnected the call as usual, without a good-bye.
His anticipation for the night was palpable. He could nearly feel Julia’s limbs around him, the smell of her in his nostrils, the taste of her in his mouth. He’d bought her rubies for tonight, a necklace and earrings to match the dress that Gregory had confided to him (or, more accurately, to Sam) was red. It was an extravagant present, a necklace set with seven oval rubies surrounded by diamonds and diamond-ensconced rubies suspended from diamonds starting at the stud of each earring. Considering her reaction to his other presents, he was most definitely looking forward to giving her the jewels.
Douglas may have been avoiding feeling anything for most of his life but he wasn’t unaware that the last several months, and especially the last several weeks, he was unable to continue in this vein. He knew his emotions were no longer under his fierce control but he had little cause for alarm regarding this development considering that he recognised the dazed feeling he was having (albeit unfamiliarly) was happiness.
He was not surprised, Julia was a good woman. She was a beautiful and stylish woman. She was a gratifyingly responsive, adventurous and demonstrative lover. She was kind and thoughtful and had worked miracles with three grieving children, a household of once distant, now familial staff and the tightening of his own meagre band of friends.
Sommersgate, cold, formal, even monstrous throughout his childhood, rang with laughter, shared confidences, constant hilarity (most of which was instigated by one or all three of the kittens or children or both) and happiness.
Lost in these thoughts, he turned through the gates of his ancestral home.
So lost in his thoughts, when he turned into the long drive of Sommersgate, he nearly didn’t notice the Gate House, normally lit warningly against intruders, now was completely dark and frighteningly quiet.
But he did notice.
And he put his foot down on the brake, stopping the car and turned his head to stare.
Nick was not going anywhere tonight. Nick had left “the job” with Douglas and had taken up his position (now officially) as Douglas’s (but more importantly Julia’s and the children’s) bodyguard.
The rules were, if Douglas was not at the house and Julia or the children were, so was Nick.
And as Douglas was arriving to pick up his fiancée, Nick should have been at the Gate House.
Even if he was at the main house, his lights should be blazing.
That was the deal; those were the rules, that was how Douglas knew everything was okay when he came home.
Therefore, Douglas had to assume that things were not okay.
His stomach clenched and his chest tightened, he snapped the word “Sam” into the dark void around him and the car phone started dialling.
“Yes boss?” Her voice was perky.
“Call the police,” he had started the Jag crawling forward through the mile of parkland that fronted the estate and he turned off his lights. “Tell them to get to Sommersgate but to proceed with caution. I don’t know the situation yet and I’m going in, I won’t report back. Then call the SIS, you know who to speak to, tell him the same thing.”
She was all business, although her voice betrayed worry. “Check.”
Then Sam hung up on him.
He forced himself slowly (and thus quietly) to glide the Jag toward his home, toward Julia.
He had no weapon. He had no idea of the time that had elapsed from when the trouble (he was certain there was trouble) started to now. He had no idea if the children, Ronnie and the Kilpatricks had already left the house. He had no idea if Nick had managed to get her to safety. He had not noticed Nick’s car at the Gate House so maybe he’d succeeded in reaching her but didn’t have time yet to phone and report in.
This thought was made moot when Douglas saw Nick’s car careened off the road a quarter of a mile away from the house, slammed into another car, Nick’s interior light blazing and its driver’s side door hanging open.
“Fucking hell,” Douglas bit out.
It took every bit of willpower not to gun the motor but he knew he couldn’t go charging in, he couldn’t warn them of his approach. He needed surprise on his side.
He slid forward, his teeth clenched, his hands biting into the steering wheel, his eyes vigilantly scanning the landscape and was assaulted by visions of Julia’s dead body lying in a pool of blood, a pool of his making because he wanted a bigger challenge. He had been bored with his life. He needed a more interesting way to pass the damned time.
He rolled passed the silent and dark Groundskeeper’s Cottage, hoping that meant the Kilpatricks had already taken the children to the curry house. Then he slid slowly down the slope and around the chapel. He stopped before he got to the gravelled drive, pulling the emergency brake and turning off the car, the Jag on the gravel would make too much noise. He exited the car, fleet of foot and silent as a cat. He crouched low, keeping to the edges of the wide arc of light illuminating the outside of the house coming from both the lights from Julia’s rooms (the drapes, disturbingly, not drawn) and the outside light.
He stayed close to the side of the house, inching forward and, chancing a glance around the corner of the portico, finally seeing the front door slightly ajar.
Ready for him.
Waiting for him.
He knew a trap lay inside.
He didn’t hesitate because inside, hopefully still alive, was Julia. And he’d rather get his brains blown out than allow her to experience another minute of the terror she was undoubtedly experiencing.
The moment he quietly slipped into his lifelong home, he knew something was wrong. Not just the danger that lurked there but the house.
Something was very wrong with the whole, damned house.
He’d taken three strides forward, ignoring the alien feeling of Sommersgate, when a voice speaking in Russian told him to stop.
The cold steel of a gun was pointed to his temple.
Without hesitation, and quick as lightning, Douglas’s head jerked back. His left hand shot up, grabbing the gunman’s wrist in a powerful grip. The man fired a reactionary shot but it went wide.
Swinging around with all his bodyweight and using instinct and years of practice to guide him, he slammed the palm of his hand into the man’s septum, forcing it into the back of his brain, causing him to die instantly.
Douglas felt no remorse. He knew who these men were and what they did. That swift a death was an act of mercy. He deserved far worse for the devastation he caused to hundreds of lives.
The Russian fell to the ground; Douglas took his gun, strangely a six shooter revolver rather than a semi-automatic, and swiftly checked its load. Three shots had already been fired which made Douglas’s chest clutch painfully. Forcing himself to remain focused, he felt the dead man’s body for any further weapons and discovered a knife strapped to his ankle. He removed it and tucked it in the back of his belt.
Julia would not be pleased about the knife but he’d deal with that later.
If, pray God, he had the chance.
He quickly divested himself of his suit jacket, throwing it aside and did the same with his tie. He moved forward, unbuttoning the buttons at his throat and saw that a light was shining into the stairwell from the drawing room. It barely illuminated a prone human form that was lying at the side of the hall.
With a vague sense of concern he wouldn’t allow to form fully, Douglas moved silently forward then crouched beside who he recognised as Nick. Noticing the blood on his back, Douglas put out his fingers to check and found his friend had a strong pulse.
But Nick was out cold.
Douglas didn’t have time to pay his friend more attention. Hoping the pulse would remain steady; Douglas straightened and walked slowly forward, listening carefully.
The house was utterly silent but somehow he felt almost as if it was alert and watching him take each step.
As he entered the
grand stairwell, the drawing room came into view.
And so did Julia.
She stood at the back of a couch facing the door and there was a man standing beside her holding a gun to her temple. She was wearing, as usual, a stylishly sexy dress.
She looked magnificent.
He forced himself to walk slowly, even casually, toward the door, his footsteps sounding preternaturally loud on the stone.
The Russian had seen him and started talking. It was one of the men, as Douglas guessed, who’d been after Veronika. He knew at the time he should have never shown himself to them.
He had his orders, he was too public a figure, it wasn’t his job. His job was that he gathered (in a variety of ways) information but he was not to make contact with the criminals.
But he couldn’t stand by and watch them beating Ronnie nor could he allow them to force her into a life that was no life at all.
Now, he’d pay for that mistake.
God, Ronnie. He hoped they hadn’t found her first.
As he came forward, he sought to allay Julia’s fears with his eyes but as the Russian talked on, making grandiose and threatening statements about taking something that wasn’t his, Douglas finally took in Julia’s face.
And he was stunned at what he saw.
Julia, his bride-to-be, looked annoyed.
Not frightened as he assumed she’d be, or, more accurately, terrified out of her mind.
No, she looked annoyed.
She looked like he’d kept her waiting and they were going to miss their booking at a restaurant she particularly wished to sample. Not like she was being held at gunpoint in the drawing room of her own home by a vile Russian who dealt in white slavery.
If she had checked her watch and tapped her toe, Douglas wouldn’t have been surprised.
And in that moment, he knew.
She trusted him. She believed in him. She knew, without any doubt, that he would know what to do, that he would save her, make their home safe again.