Murder in the Latin Quarter (33 page)

“We're going to need to detour,” Anastasia said, her voice laced with impatience. “The protest group is staked out in front of the Primrose Inn.”

Roger wanted to ask her how she might know that. Surely they had yet to create an app for where the latest terrorist group waiting huddled to ambush? Nigel must have said something to his mother. A needle of annoyance pierced Roger at the thought of his stepson. Resentful and bitter, the bloke had hated Roger from the moment he'd clapped eyes on him.

Pity really.
Roger had quite fancied the idea of having a son—even a stepson. But there were some stereotypes that really did hold their ground and the animosity between stepchild and step parent definitely was one of them.

“Did you hear me, Roger?” Anastasia said, finally looking in Roger's direction.

“I did.”

“It'll make us an hour late at the least but you'll need to turn off.”

“Any chance you're wrong?”

“None, darling. You know what they're like. Let's don't chance a stramash, shall we?”

Roger glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly teatime. He'd hoped to have a proper Devonshire when they got in. Madeline always made the clotted cream just thick enough and she knew he preferred his scones without sultanas. But the only way he was going to make it on time was if he hurried—and
didn't
stop for a bloody protest against the local hunt.

It annoyed him that Madeline insisted on allowing the damnable thing in the first place. She said nothing made the concept of the Abbey more real than people on horseback charging over hill and dale and consuming large quantities of sherry as they went.

Which was all very good except in Roger's experience none of the Abbey's guests ever actually rode in the hunt. Couldn't they arrange for the dogs and riders to mill about the front of the Abbey in their scarlet coats and then go tallyho-ing for the nearest Starbucks? No drama, no protests, no sky-high insurance premiums.

But there was nothing for it. In Madeline's mind, the Abbey needed the hunt and there was an end to it. A smile passed across Roger's lips at the thought of Madeline and how stubborn she could be.

“I don't know why you insisted we needed to go this weekend anyway,” Anastasia said. “I had a full roster in London, you know.”

“You needn't have come.”

“Not come?” She looked at him in mock horror. “Go to the Abbey without me? Tongues would wag then, I say!”

Roger forced himself not to roll his eyes. Anastasia had this fantasy that the minute she stepped across the threshold of the Abbey she really did ascend into the upper classes to become among other things fodder for talk and innuendo by the unfortunate underclasses who served her.

No matter how many times Roger suggested that the employees at the Abbey were much more likely to care about the shenanigans at their local than what people with too much money prancing about in fancy dress customs got up to, Anastasia couldn't see it.

Anastasia only saw what Anastasia wanted to see.

Frankly it would have been easier on several different levels if she
had
stayed in London this trip. Especially with the difficult conversation Roger anticipated having with Will. He hated that it had come to this. It was true he didn't have all the facts yet and he prayed what few facts he did have didn't necessarily add up to the result he feared it did.

As CFO of Roger's nonprofit, HelpNet, Will had every advantage and position of trust. If it was true he'd abused that trust because he thought Roger was too stupid to notice—or too guilt-ridden as an indifferent older brother to mind—he would find out otherwise in short order.

“You can turn down Tarrow's Lane, Roger. It's just ahead.”

“I could just barrel right on through too. Claim I didn't see them.”

“Roger!”

“No, you're right. Would be hell getting the dings pounded out of the front bumper.”

“I don't enjoy your sense of humor, Roger. I have to say I never have.”

In any case it was too late. Roger could see that now specifically from the fact that the last turn had revealed a crowd of pedestrians camped on the side of the road straight ahead, and more generally by the fact that he'd married the one person he'd been truly mad to marry.

That's what age will do to you
, he thought as he downshifted in an attempt to pass the group by.

No such luck. The crowd of ten surged to its feet and ran, hands joined, to stretch across the road.

“Bugger,” Roger muttered.

“Don't hit them!” Anastasia squealed, thrusting her arms against the wood burl dashboard.

Roger brought the car to a stop. He could see Nigel standing in the center of the line. A tall boy—a young man, really—he wore the jeans and tats of his generation as if he'd never need to worry about interviewing for a job. Now that his mother had married Roger, that was probably true, Roger thought grimly.

“Oh, there's Nigel!” Anastasia said, pointing out her son. She waved and even threw him a kiss.

“Do you think you might ask the lad to see if his friends will get the bloody hell out of our way?” Nigel said between his teeth.

“Roger, don't be like that,” Anastasia said. “You know the hunt is very important to Nigel. I would never step in and take a side.”

No, Roger definitely knew that.

A stout young man approached the car. As he neared, Roger could smell the alcohol wafting off of him. Stood to reason. Only the unemployed had the time to stand in the road and cause senseless diversion.

“Got to go round, your worship,” the young man said.

“We are not in the hunt, as you can see,” Roger said evenly.

“No matter. We're blocking every one going to the Abbey. That's where the hunt starts, ye see.”

With visions of his high tea diminishing before his eyes—only another quarter of a kilometer down the road and he'd be able to see the Abbey—Roger put the car in reverse.

By the time he began backing up, the group had started chanting.

Anastasia waved again. “Goodbye, darling!” she called. “See you at dinner!”

Roger didn't have to look at Nigel's sullen face to know he would be ignoring his mother.

How many times Roger wished it was that easy.

Three

Laurent turned the light out in the children's room. Mila was more than capable of climbing out of her crib but Jemmy knew the word
no
and Laurent felt confident he would stay put.

“Watch your sister,” he said in an admonishing voice to Jemmy. “If I find her in the hallway, you are in trouble too.”

“
Oui
, Papa,” Jemmy said seriously, his eyes narrowing as he watched Mila kick her blankets around in her crib.

It was never too soon to instill a sense of responsibility in him, Laurent thought. For his sister, himself, his family. He needed to know from the beginning that it was all connected. What he did, what Mila did—it all reflected on the family.

Of course, if the little sprite did end up running down the hall after Jemmy dozed off, Laurent would return her to her bed—and of course stay with her to make sure she fell asleep. He closed the door and a feeling of satisfaction overcame him.

In a million years he would never have imagined how intensely he enjoyed being a father. Was that because of Maggie? Or because raising these two humans was the one thing he'd been waiting to do all this life and never realized it?

Maggie appeared in the hallway in her robe. She was flushed from her bath and Laurent found himself sorry he'd missed that.

“Are they asleep?” she whispered.

“
Non
, they are waiting for you.”

She slipped past him in the hall and then stopped and raised on tiptoe to kiss him on the mouth before opening the bedroom door and disappearing inside in a waft of perfume and bath powder.

Laurent went downstairs to the kitchen. The
mas
was large and drafty. When they had moved in, the first thing his American wife had wanted to do was install central heating. But they'd never gotten around to it.

Who was he fooling? They couldn't afford it. With trying to get the vineyard up and running—and every season bringing some disaster or setback over the next—money for such luxuries was not possible. Especially since trips to America—and even Paris—were always deemed more important. Now that they were comfortable financially, he supposed he could revisit the heating question. True there was always something to spend the money on. Just today he'd received a group entreaty from the St-Buvard village elders to ask Laurent to pay for a new bakery.

Having to travel to Arles or Cabriès or even Aix was not a major problem for Laurent, he thought as he began to stack and wash the dinner dishes. He was always out and about anyway. But the older members of the village keenly missed their daily baguette and morning croissants. In the eyes of many in the village, the lack of a
boulangerie
was—if not a tragedy—then not far from it.

He lifted his head at the sound of Jemmy's laugh and although he knew the boy should be settling down and not squealing with glee, Laurent couldn't help but smile at the sound.

How the hell did I get so lucky?
Could I ever have imagined it would turn out like this? That I would find that rambunctious, maddening, wonderful woman and own my own vineyard?

With children?

He shook his head. Some blessings were undeserved. The mystery of that would always evade him. And perhaps it didn't matter. He didn't need to know why he had gotten more than he'd ever dared to dream when so many others hadn't. He thought of the email he'd received from Roger two days earlier and his good humor began to fade.

“Can't we do this in the morning?” Maggie said as she joined him in the kitchen.

Laurent couldn't help but grin. “That is what you always say when you don't want to see me cleaning the kitchen. But I am done.” He turned and brought her into a hug, kissing her quickly and pushing the hair off her forehead.

“Hey, you're frisky tonight,” Maggie said, laughing.

Hating to ruin her mood but knowing it was the best opening he'd have with his news, Laurent kissed her again.

“Sherry?” he asked.

Maggie pulled a stool up to the kitchen counter. “Sure. Is something up?”

She knew him too well. This was why his past life couldn't have continued for long. He was already losing his touch by the time he met Maggie.

Or maybe it was just with her. She'd ruined him.

He poured her a sherry and pushed a small dish of cheese and fig jam toward her, then tore off a piece of bread and handed it to her.

“I have heard from Roger Bentley recently,” he said as he forced himself not to watch her reaction.

Finally, with no sound coming from her, he turned to look at her. She held the piece of bread halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide. Surely a little dramatic even for Maggie?

“Bentley,” she said. “What does he want?”

“You do remember he is a friend of mine, yes?” Laurent tried to keep the irritation out of his tone. It wouldn't help.

“How can I forget? Considering how we met. What does he want?” she repeated.

“Just to get together. He has married last year. He would like to come to St-Buvard—”

“No.”

“Maggie…”

“No way. You can meet him in Paris.”

“I do not want to go to Paris.”

“Then you can meet him in Aix or Nice.”

“Why is it I am not free to meet my friends in my own home?”

“I…you know how I feel about him! Why can't you respect that?” He watched her push the cheese dish aside with her face pinched in exasperation.

It didn't matter that she knew how he felt about Roger—that he was his only real friend in the world. It didn't matter that he corresponded with Roger regularly—and didn't feel comfortable mentioning the fact to Maggie—it only seemed to matter that in the idealized world she'd created for herself Roger didn't exist. And up to now, it hadn't been worth the aggravation to challenge that.

“Laurent? After everything we've been through with Roger—”

“
Oui, chérie
,” Laurent said, shoving his long hair out of his eyes with a frustrated hand. “
Exactement
. Roger has been the author of most of the joy in our life. You know this, yes?”

“Oh, give me a break.”

“From giving
petite
Nicole a family—and your parents a second chance at Elise's daughter, to meeting me and to that end even the fact of Jemmy and Mila's very existence.”

“And the fact that he's a lying con artist who'd just as soon cheat you as look at you?”

“He is my friend, Maggie. I am wondering why
you
cannot respect
that
?”

Maggie groaned and moved from the stool to where Laurent stood and pulled him into her arms.

“Why did you have to put it like that?” she grumbled.

He tilted her chin up and saw the annoyance in her eyes—but also the capitulation too—and he couldn't help but smile.

“Is this what love looks like?” he said, kissing her. “Giving me what I want when it is so very much not what you want?”

A corner of Maggie's mouth twitched and he knew the problem spot had been traversed.

“Fine. He can come. They can both come. God. I can't imagine who would marry Roger Bentley. Is she a stripper?”

Laurent grinned and picked her up in his arms.

“Let us discuss the possibilities of that in another room of the house,” he said with a smile.