Where the Heart Chooses (4 page)

I’d heard Sir Joseph was bringing Folana to
the estate where we were staying, and I fully intended to do that
with her. But then I received a note from her, telling me she’d
been called out of the country for some time. And Sir Joseph was
nowhere to be found to be questioned.

Eventually we returned to London and fell
back into the mad dash of entertainment as everyone readied their
daughters, nieces, and granddaughters for the final presentation to
the queen, which was set for March 18.

I was relieved that was behind me. It had
been an interesting experience, but by now I’d grown tired of the
late nights and vapid young men who wanted only one thing and so
were definitely NSIT—not safe in taxis.

Folana was still away.

* * * *

“Telephone, Miss Portia. It’s your father.”
Ackerman handed me the receiver.

“Thank you.” I waited until he disappeared
into the butler’s pantry. “Hello, Father. How’s everything on your
side of the pond?”

“Excellent, my dear! Never better!” His
bluff tone told me it was anything but. “Regrettably, your
brother’s engagement has been called off, and we’ll need you to cut
short your stay with your godmother.”

“Of course. How is Tony holding up?”

“As well as can be expected. Unfortunately,
the young lady was not everything we hoped she’d be.”

Meaning she’d realized our country would
always come first with Tony, and apparently she had no intention of
dealing with a rival with whom she could never compete. I just
hoped she wasn’t his one.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, well, better to learn of it now than
later. He has missed you.”

“I’ve missed him too. How soon must I leave,
Father? I’ll need the opportunity to get a thank you gift for Lady
Portia.” I’d have to find something for him as well. Mother had
been taken care of from the beginning. I’d come across a length of
peach brocade at Dior’s house and had purchased it from him.

“There’s a used bookshop near Fleet Street,
The Best of Times. I’m sure you can find something suitable there.
Your flight is scheduled for 11 A.M. tomorrow, and your ticket will
be at the BEA counter at Heathrow.”

“I’ll be flying home alone?” I was pleased
but surprised. Father always insisted I not travel abroad on my
own.

“Of course not! Bradford will accompany
you.”

“Bradford?”

“He’s one of your brother’s people. Anthony
will be waiting to pick you up at Friendship International. Be sure
to give Lady Portia my thanks and your mother’s love.”

“Yes, Father.” I knew better than to argue
with him. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, my dear.”

I set aside my disappointment and gazed into
space. Code within a code within a code. I wondered what my brother
wanted me for at the NSA.

Just before I put the receiver down, I heard
a muted click. It could have been the vagaries of the British
telephone system, but I rather thought not. Was someone in Lady
Portia’s household more than he…or she…appeared to be at first
glance? Lady Portia might pooh-pooh the idea, but I’d met her
husband a time or two, and I didn’t think Lord Creighton would.

If Jack were still here, I would mention it
to him and let him deal with it, but he’d been away for the past
six months.

I had Lord Creighton’s address in Africa.
Perhaps I’d better send him a wire.

* * * *

The Best of Times, as Father had said, was
in a tiny cul-de-sac off Fleet Street. It was dim and
musty-smelling. I climbed the circular metal stairs to the second
level.

“Breezy.” The whispered voice came from a
shadowed alcove.

“Jefferson.” I moved closer as if browsing
the shelves. “How on earth did you learn that nickname?”

“Bryan dated one of your Tau Zeta Epsilon
sisters. Quite amusing what girls will call themselves.”

“Yes, well, it’s no more amusing than Tony’s
fraternity brothers calling him ‘Toenails.’”

My middle brother laughed quietly. “That
does make him sound like a member of the
Cosa Nostra
.”

I pulled out a volume at random and thumbed
through it, watching him from the corner of my eye. “I thought
you’d be home by now.”

“I’m not keeping an eye on you, if that’s
what you’re concerned about.”

“Aren’t you?” Father might have every
confidence in my abilities, but until I was actually on home soil,
he’d make sure there was someone to look out for me.

“You don’t believe me? I’m cut to the
quick!” He became serious. “Actually, little sister, I’ve learned
something that you need to be made aware of.”

“About Folana Fournaise?” I replaced the
book.

“It’s about Folana Fournaise. She’s back in
town. It seems the Special Intelligence Section intends to go
beyond merely seeing if you’re a possible player, and—” His brows
met above his nose. “Wait a second! You do know?”

I gave a prim smile. “How did you get this
information?”

“Let’s say I’ve renewed an old acquaintance.
You know how persuasive I can be.”

I glanced around quickly, but we were alone,
and I took a step closer to him. He was wearing a dark suit, and I
plucked a blond hair from his lapel. It curled around my finger. I
dropped it to the floor.

Jefferson was the only one of us who took
after Mother’s side of the family. His hair was dark auburn.

Both our parents were very fair-skinned, and
it was easy to see the red on his cheek and chin, which could only
be whisker burn.

This close to him, I could also smell the
musky odor of a man’s cologne that permeated his suit jacket. He
never wore cologne. He would also never let a man get that close to
him. Unless…

“What have you gotten into, Jefferson?”

“That’s not quite the phrase I’d use, little
sister!” His smile was wolfish, and I knew he’d tell me nothing
further. “I have to go. Oh, and Portia? Check the fifth shelf from
the bottom midway as you come into the shop on the lower
level.”

I didn’t need to look into the alcove to
know that I was once more alone. I went back down the metal steps,
my footsteps ringing loudly on them. On the shelf, exactly where
he’d told me, I found a first edition of Mrs. Radcliffe’s
Mysteries of Udolpho
, the four volumes in excellent
condition for being a hundred and sixty years old.

Lady Portia had a weakness for “horrid”
novels.

I was reaching into my purse for my wallet
when I noticed a rather worn portfolio. Something that aged always
intrigued me, and I couldn’t pass it by; I set down the books and
reached for it.

The leather was cracked and dry, and the
fragile cord that bound it frayed in spite of my careful handling.
Fastened under the flap was a tattered calling card. The front was
simply embossed, “Chauncey Hare Townsend.” I tapped the card
thoughtfully on my palm, wondering if he might be the
19
^th
Century millionaire art collector, then turned it
over. On the back, in faded blue ink, was scrawled
Gustave Le
Gray—photographs taken 1856/1857.

Within were two photographs, seascapes that
were absolutely breathtaking. One reminded me of Father and would
be perfect for him. The other…for some reason I was drawn to it,
and I knew I had to have it as well. I slid them back into the
portfolio and brought it to the counter.

“How much?” I asked casually.

The clerk looked up, a bored expression on
her face. “You want the Mrs. Radcliffe too? Give me a hundred quid
for the books, and I’ll throw in that, luv.” She nodded toward the
leather envelope.

“That’s highway robbery,” a warm contralto
just behind me murmured. There was amusement in the voice.

It was Folana.

“The books alone are worth the cost. Hello.”
Even before Jefferson had said anything, I’d known she was back in
London, but I hadn’t expected to see her so early in the day; I
assumed Sir Bowne’s section had learned where I was and passed the
intelligence on to her. I took the pound notes from my wallet and
paid for my purchases. “Why don’t you join me for tea? We can
discuss brief encounters,” I flirted lightly.

“It’s early for tea, but I’d like that.”

At the other end of the cul-de-sac was a
tearoom. We took our tea and cakes to a table off to the side and
chatted. She didn’t say anything about where she’d been for the
past six months, and I didn’t pressure her. Instead, I rattled on
about the places I’d visited and the people I had met.

“Lord
X
pinched my backside last
night,” I remarked as I pondered taking the last of the cakes.
“Dirty old man. Split this with me?”

“No, I’ve had enough, thank you. I hope you
didn’t take it personally. He pinched mine also.” She looked
angelically pensive. “Her Royal Highness was making her entrance,
and as I sank down in my curtsy, I spilled my drink down the front
of his trousers. Of course I apologized profusely.”

“Ah. So that’s why he beat such a hasty
retreat. I did think Her Highness seemed rather amused.”

“Although she had to hide it.” Folana
chuckled, and then fell silent.

“I didn’t know you were there. Why didn’t
you tell me?”

“I couldn’t…” She toyed with a napkin,
pleating it repeatedly before she gazed up at me. “I thought of you
the entire time I was away. Would you come with me?”

The expressions that ghosted across her
face, caution, desire, need, were so quickly gone that if I hadn’t
been looking at that precise moment, I would have missed them. My
breasts suddenly felt heavy, and there was an ache between my
thighs. I moistened my lips. “Where?”

“A friend of mine has a flat not too far
from here. I want to take you there.”

“Yes, sweet girl!” My hands were trembling
as I gathered up my belongings.

The flat was in a terraced house not too far
from the tearoom, which was fortunate, because it began to drizzle.
Folana fished a key from a flower pot to the side of the shallow
front steps and unlocked the door. We got inside just as the skies
opened up.

“That was a narrow escape!” She laughed and
shook the raindrops out of her hair. It was the first time I had
heard her laugh. She stroked her fingers over my arm, and then led
the way two flights up. I watched the way the material of her coat
shifted from side to side over her firm buttocks as she climbed the
stairs.

“This belongs to Bart.”

The flat was so small it would have been
impossible to swing a cat in it. There was a kitchen with room
enough for a cooker and a small refrigerator. The sitting room was
crowded with only a loveseat and a console television that would
air the few stations available to Britons. A door standing ajar
revealed the bathroom.

“Leave your purchases here.” She took our
coats and draped them over the loveseat. “The bedroom is this
way.”

The bedroom was also tiny, with barely
enough room for the dresser and the narrow bed. She crossed to it
and threw back the coverlet, and the musky scent of a man’s cologne
rose in the air.

“Bart’s?” I held up a blond hair that I’d
found on the pillow. It curled around my finger and clung to it.
Interesting that I’d found two such similar blond hairs in one
day.

Folana smiled, a soft, fond smile, and
suddenly she looked about sixteen. “His housekeeper is a good cook,
but she can’t keep house worth a tick.”

“Do you often sleep in his bed?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with my past. I
don’t sleep in any man’s bed. I’m an emotional cripple.”

I knew she had been raped at the age of
twelve, and again at thirteen. I also knew she had killed both
men.

“But you’ve brought me here. Have I read
this wrong?”

“No. I want to make love with you, and this
is the safest place. Sir Joseph’s superiors don’t pay much heed to
Bart, more fools they. Of course, they also bought my story that
you turned down my advances.” She stood before me and unbuttoned
her blouse.

I was wearing flats and had to look up to
meet her eyes. “I know you’ve had enough experience with the
intelligence community to realize we’re always under surveillance.
How do they rationalize our unproductive chance encounters?” I
pulled my boat-necked cashmere sweater over my head.

She stared at my chest. “Don’t you ever wear
a brassiere?”

“I’m not large enough to require the
support.” And the ones that were in style right now reminded me of
something Brünnhilde would sport in Wagner’s
Ring des
Nibelungen
. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I often don’t.”

“No. But this time I’m afraid I’ll have to
insist,” I told her with an apologetic little smile.

“Even though you’ll be leaving
tomorrow?”

“Ah. So they told you that.”

“Would you have left without sleeping with
me?”

“I’m not the Syrian, and I’m not Rashayd.”
The men who’d hurt her.

Her eyes widened. “How did you know…?”

I sighed and slid my arms back into my
sweater. She reached out a hand to stop me.

“You’ll leave?”

“If what I want isn’t offered freely, I
don’t take it.”

She swallowed. “Portia, I’m offering
freely.”

She was pale, though, and I stroked her
hair. “I didn’t hurt you the last time. I won’t hurt you this time
either. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

Her smile was rueful. “You won’t let go,
will you? Very well. I’ve persuaded them that given enough time, I
believe I can weaken your resolve. However, they’re growing
impatient.”

“And I’m leaving tomorrow. Will there be
problems for you, because you were unsuccessful in their
mission?”

“Your country and Great Britain are allies.
I imagine they’ll shrug it off as a ‘rum go’ and settle for keeping
the occasional eye on you.”

I unfastened the button at the side of my
pencil-slim skirt, pulled down the zipper, and let it puddle on the
floor around my feet. “Then let’s forget about them. We don’t have
much time, and I’d rather be doing something more interesting.”