Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) (38 page)

“I will, Pamela, I promise.”

She gave him a slightly weary smile, as if to say she had learned the hard way not to put too much stock in promises in this land and then she was off, car bumping along toward her home.

David walked up the road a small distance and then turned down the lane that led to an old grey farmhouse. The lane rolled down to where the light was deeper, and to the west, a church spire stood dark against the flooding sunset. The scent of peat smoke was on the chill air and there was, up ahead, a light that was kept burning just for him.

Chapter Twenty-seven
January 1973
The Partnership

Fresh snow lay over the grounds of the Kirkpatrick land
when Robert arrived in the early winter. It was late afternoon, the sun laying a soft burnish over the snow, kindling blushes along the dark oak branches that lined the long, winding road to the house.

When he glanced back, the city below had become something remote—lights blooming in small houses, the snow taking the edge from the darkened brick and narrow streets and coating the rubble of the most recent bombings.

He crested the long ridge and came around the final corner to where the house stood. Bathed in the late afternoon light, it glowed a rosy umber, the long front windows gleaming opaque mirrors that reflected back the trees and sloping lawns that fell like velvet blankets down to the tree line. Vast old oaks clustered like ancient guardians near one corner of the house, a funny structure within them that resembled nothing so much as a Victorian birdcage. He was, from that first encounter, enchanted.

After seeing the inside of the house, and walking the grounds in the damp twilight, this sense had only been heightened. It was a home, not merely a house. Even with its master absent, Robert could feel that much.

The enchantment had continued. Now, walking out beyond the stables, hearing the comforting whicker of horses within, he thought about the letter he had received from His Lordship, penned in a graceful hand. It had a certain amount of economy that reaffirmed Robert’s initial impression that Lord James Kirkpatrick was not a man to suffer fools gladly.

It had been clear to Robert from the beginning that he had been chosen specifically to help Pamela Riordan do whatever was necessary to take the reins of the company, that he had been hired to guide and sometimes protect when the waters of commerce and cutthroat business found her out of her depth.

He need not have worried that day in Hong Kong that His Lordship would reject him, for he knew now that the man was farsighted and usually ten moves ahead of everyone else. Robert had been hired for this job, Robert was certain, before Robert had ever heard of it.

The letter had laid out exactly what would be required of both him and Pamela, what it meant to head such a variety of companies, what sort of mind was needed, what sort of makeup would be assumed for meetings with men who would think a young woman could not possibly understand the complexities of corporate collusion and double dealing, men who would happily rob and cheat Jamie’s companies blind if they believed they could get away with it. Grimly, and with his Scots Presbyterian backbone appropriately stiffened, Robert was determined not to allow this.

He had been duly warned about Mrs. Riordan’s appearance and thought, having witnessed and worshipped the charms of Sallie Rourke, that he was proof against such things and would be able to comport himself with dignity and an absence of awe. It was not to be, however. When he met her in her home, in the presence of her rather large and daunting husband, she had been clad in jeans and a sweater, without cosmetics of any sort and with her hair in a hastily pulled back ponytail. He had barely refrained from letting his mouth hang open. Her husband had smiled as though enjoying a private joke. No doubt the man was used to it but Robert did not envy him. Then again, considering the looks that passed between the two, and the presence of Mr. Riordan himself, the man had little to worry about.

When she arrived at the Kirkpatrick House on the following day, clad in a pale linen dress, hair in a chignon that didn’t quite manage to contain all her curls, and with her face lightly made up, he understood absolutely what James Kirkpatrick had meant by his warning. She was—in a word—exquisite, with a wild edge to her beauty that would make many a man think utterly ridiculous thoughts and wish that there was a dragon handy so that he might slay it on her behalf. This, he realized, once his initial astonishment had passed, could be used to their advantage in meetings and in brokering deals.

Working together over the next few weeks, he came to see there were more reasons that Jamie had chosen him as a complement to this woman, for they worked together well. Their minds were fitted to an understanding of not just the nature of the empire they were dealing with, but also the man who had built it from a more modest fortune, with investments spread in so many areas and countries that Robert had thought he might never finish absorbing the Kirkpatrick portfolio.

He only had to sit through one meeting with Pamela to realize that she was politically savvy far beyond anything he had expected in so young a woman. She briefly sketched in her background for him and he felt another piece of the puzzle slide into place. The piece that did not fit, however, was why James Kirkpatrick had left his entire fortune and properties to her, a woman not related to him in any way and married happily to another man, for he had witnessed Pamela and her husband together enough to know that it was indeed a marriage of both joy and passion.

Still, it was not his place to surmise what had prompted Lord Kirkpatrick’s decision, only to make the consequences of it as painless as possible. It was a piece of work which was about to become much more difficult than he could ever have anticipated.

Her own husband notwithstanding, Pamela Riordan
thought that it was possible she had never been so grateful for the presence of a man as she was for that of the small Scot, Robert MacDougall. And that it was also possible she had never been as furious at a man as she was with Lord James Kirkpatrick. Without Robert’s steady and sensible hand, she was certain she might simply have set fire to all these sets of papers, documents, ledgers, figures, facts, webs, entanglements, and walked away cursing Jamie roundly.

She had a headache for the first week, trying to understand the labyrinth that constituted Jamie’s empire. She had more than a passing acquaintance with it already, having worked as his secretary for a brief time, but this was more a baptism by Greek fire—all-consuming and without mercy. She was still trying to absorb the fact that, in some fit of madness, Jamie had decided to hand all this over to her.

In its entirety, it overwhelmed her—the flaxes and barley crops, the presses and parts, the boilers and reducers, the forests and mills, the forges and farms, the refineries and warehouses, the ships and silks, the cogs and wheels, both literal and figurative that in one way or another bore the imprimatur of the Kirkpatrick name. Jamie had taken all of it seriously and understood the nuts and bolts of every investment he had made. And as much as he made, he was also generous with it. The charities, thank heavens, were administered by a lawyer and weren’t something she had to deal with directly, except for those things that Jamie had done himself face-to-face, such as Nelson McGlory and his eyeglasses, chess games, dinners and outings. There were many Nelsons in Jamie’s life, and she felt guilty that she had not understood just what Jamie’s life truly entailed in all its details. But then, she supposed, there was no reason she ought to know. She was only a small corner of his life, and therefore her view was bound to be limited.

She was shown clearly though, that Jamie’s life was lived on a level that affected entire nations and the ties between them, tenuous as they might be. It made the political world in Boston, of which she had been part for a time, seem very small potatoes in comparison. She was quick-witted enough to know there were still some very dark corners into which she could shine no light. She also knew that those dark corners were best left as they were.

Robert was one of the lights, and had quite obviously been chosen very specifically to help her. His very presence was calming and he understood instinctively how much she could absorb on any given day. He had an extremely good mind for both finance and organization—was brilliant at it, really—which left her to wonder why he had chosen to take a position with Jamie in this manner. He was also as solid a personality as she had ever met, and completely unflappable under pressure. Which was why, when he came into the kitchen one afternoon with a very particular look on his face, she felt an immediate flutter of anxiety.

She was having a late lunch, feeding Conor apples mashed with strawberries and chatting with Maggie.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We have company,” Robert said and there was no mistaking the warning in his voice.

“Who?” she asked, trying to detach Conor’s small sticky hands from her hair.

“Jamie’s great-uncle—he says he’s Jamie’s grandfather’s brother. As far as that goes it seems to be, most unfortunately, true.”

His tone became clear. She stood upright and looked him in the eyes. “Most unfortunately. Obviously this is not a welcome visit, nor a restoration of a family member that was missed. Would you care to fill me in?”

“No, the tiny Scot couldn’t possibly do the story justice,” said a voice that skittered along her spine like a many-legged insect. She turned and thought Robert’s tone had not done justice to the situation, nor the man about to create it.

It was like seeing Jamie through a long, dark glass, a glass that distorted through time and vice, through uncontrolled appetite and corruption. He was tall, but soft around his edges, with heavy hands that held several rings. The clothes were expensive, well cut, but could not hide that they shrouded a man well past his prime. Even money could not sweeten this particular visage.

He walked toward her and her body stiffened. She had known men like him before, men without kindness, men without moral fiber or honor in even its palest shade. She was determined never to be a victim of one again.

As he came closer, the initial illusion of him bearing any resemblance to his nephew dissipated. His eyes were a cold shade of blue, his hair was darker than Jamie’s and, she suspected, its color came from a dye bottle rather than any endowment of nature.

He took her hand and she repressed the shudder that came naturally as he lowered his lips to touch them to her skin.

“Well,” he said, “I certainly understand what my nephew’s thinking was when he signed over this entire estate to you.”

“Really and what would that be?” she asked, affecting a cool tone, though he was still holding onto her hand. His touch felt like that of a reptile—clammy, chill and ravenous.

“I don’t know his precise thoughts, but I certainly know which part of his anatomy was doing the thinking.”

She took her hand from his with no small effort. She laid her other hand on Robert’s arm, feeling the angry words before they traversed his tongue. Neither of them was going to give this man anything he wanted if she could help it.

“Perhaps you would be so good as to join Robert and myself, in the sitting room? Maggie, could you bring tea?”

Maggie nodded, her look stabilizing Pamela’s backbone and resolve. From the sharp glance directed toward him, Pamela thought, Uncle Philip would be lucky if there wasn’t arsenic in his tea. She left Conor with Maggie, happily playing with a pot and spoon.

She chose the sitting room for its formality, and because she did not want this man in Jamie’s study, even if the bulwark of the desk would have been very welcome to hide her shaking knees.

A fire was already crackling in the grate. Maggie lit the fires in the downstairs rooms to prevent damp this time of year, despite the presence of the central heating that had been installed many years ago. It was warm and the furniture, though formal, was also comfortable. Pamela chose a chair with a stiff back, to keep her upright and placed no lower than this man. The Chinese, she knew, called it ‘face’ and she was determined to keep hers firmly in place. Robert sat to her left, slightly back, so that it would be clear to Uncle Philip that he was there guarding her side, but that it was she who was ultimately in charge.

Maggie brought the tea, placing it on the low table that sat between them all. Pamela poured it out, the delicate scent of Earl Grey filling the air. She handed a cup to each man and then took her own, grateful for the small warmth it provided against the chill this man had brought with him into the room.

Philip chose to go on the offensive immediately.

“You have much to learn, my dear. In my day we didn’t allow the help into the sitting room and certainly did not let them attend on private conversations.”

“Robert is my right hand,” she said coolly. “Any concerns you may want to place before me will also be heard by him. Now, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me what it is you want?”

“I think that ought to be clear,” he said, and picked up his teacup, taking a swallow of the hot brew, icy-cool eyes never once leaving her face. There was an avidity to his gaze that touched and defiled everything he looked at, as if he, like a greedy child, would eat all of it, swallowing before he could even taste.