In Their Footsteps

Nina glanced at Reggie, who was noisily slurping his whiskey. “Yes, I can see you both believe in discipline. No wonder the evening was such a disaster.”

“We weren’t the ones who blurted out the truth,” snapped Helena.

“At least I was sober enough to know what I was saying!” Nina declared. “They would have found out in any event. After Reggie there let the cat out of the bag, I just decided it was time to be straight with them about Bernard and Madeline.”

“And look at the result,” moaned Helena. “Hugh says Beryl and Jordan are flying to Paris this afternoon. Now they’ll be mucking around in things.”

Nina shrugged. “Well, it was a long time ago.”

“I don’t see why you’re so nonchalant. If anyone could be hurt, it’s you,” muttered Helena.

Nina frowned at her. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, really! What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Helena snapped.

Their conversation came to an abrupt halt. But Anthony could tell his mother was fuming. She sat with her hands balled up in her lap. She even ordered a second martini. When she rose from her seat and headed down the aisle for a bit of exercise, he followed her. They met at the rear of the plane.

“Are you all right, Mother?” he asked.

Nina glanced in agitation toward first class. “It’s all Reggie’s bloody fault,” she whispered. “And Helena’s right, you know. I am the one who could be hurt.”

“After all these years?”

“They’ll be asking questions again. Digging. Lord, what if those Tavistock brats find something?”

Anthony said quietly, “They won’t.”

Nina’s gaze met his. In that one look they saw, in each other’s eyes, the bond of twenty years. “You and me against the world,” she used to sing to him. And that’s how it had felt—just the two of them in their Paris flat. There’d been her lovers, of course, insignificant men, scarcely worth noting. But mother and son—what love could be stronger?

He said, “You’ve nothing to worry about, darling. Really.”

“But the Tavistocks—”

“They’re harmless.” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I guarantee it.”

Chapter 3

From the window of her suite at the Paris Ritz, Beryl looked down at the opulence of Place Vendočme, with its Corinthian pilasters and stone arches, and saw the evening parade of well-heeled tourists. It had been eight years since she’d last visited Paris, and then it had been on a lark with her girlfriends—three wild chums from school, who’d preferred the Left Bank bistros and seedy nightlife of Montparnasse to this view of unrepentant luxury. They’d had a grand time of it, too, had drunk countless bottles of wine, danced in the streets, flirted with every Frenchman who’d glanced their way—and there’d been a lot of them.

It seemed a million years ago. A different life, a different age.

Now, standing at the hotel window, she mourned the loss of all those carefree days and knew they would never be back. I’ve changed too much, she thought. It’s more than just the revelations about Mum and Dad. It’s me. I feel restless. I’m longing for…I don’t know what. Purpose, per-haps? I’ve gone so long without purpose in my life…

She heard the door open, and Jordan came in through the connecting door from his suite. “Claude Daumier finally returned my call,” he said. “He’s tied up with the bomb investigation, but he’s agreed to meet us for an early supper.”

“When?”

“Half an hour.”

Beryl turned from the window and looked at her brother. They’d scarcely slept last night, and it showed in Jordan’s face. Though freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, he had that ragged edge of fatigue, the lean and hungry look of a man operating on reserve strength. Like me.

“I’m ready to leave anytime,” she said.

He frowned at her dress. “Isn’t that…Mum’s?”

“Yes. I packed a few of her things in my suitcase. I don’t know why, really.” She gazed down at the watered-silk skirt. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? How well it fits. As if it were made for me.”

“Beryl, are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that—” Jordan shook his head “—you don’t seem at all yourself.”

“Neither of us is, Jordie. How could we be?” She looked out the window again, at the lengthening shadows in Place Vendčme. The same view her mother must have looked down upon on her visits to Paris. The same hotel, perhaps even the same suite. I’m even wearing her dress. “It’s as if—as if we don’t know who we are anymore,” she said. “Where we spring from.”

“Who you are, who I am, has never been in doubt, Beryl. Whatever we learn about them doesn’t change us.”

She looked at him. “So you think it might be true.”

He paused. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m preparing myself for the worst. And so should you.” He went to the closet and took out her wrap. “Come on. It’s time to confront the facts, little sister. Whatever they may be.”

At seven o’clock, they arrived at Le Petit Zinc, the café where Daumier had arranged to meet them. It was early for the usual Parisian supper hour, and except for a lone couple dining on soup and bread, the café was empty. They took a seat in a booth at the rear and ordered wine and bread and a remoulade of mustard and celeriac to stave off their hunger. The lone couple finished their meal and departed. The appointed time came and went. Had Daumier changed his mind about meeting them?

Then, at seven-twenty, the door opened and a trim little Frenchman in suit and tie walked into the dining room. With his graying temples and his briefcase, he could have passed for any distinguished banker or lawyer. But the instant his gaze locked on Beryl, she knew, by his nod of acknowledgment, that this must be Claude Daumier.

But he had not come alone. He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened again, and a second man entered the restaurant. Together they approached the booth where Beryl and Jordan were seated. Beryl stiffened as she found herself staring not at Daumier but at his companion.

“Hello, Richard,” she said quietly. “I had no idea you were coming to Paris.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “Until this morning.”

Introductions were made, hands shaken all around. Then the two men slid into the booth. Beryl faced Richard straight across the table. As his gaze met hers, she felt the earlier sparks kindle between them, the memory of their kiss flaring to mind. Beryl, you idiot, she thought in irritation, you’re letting him distract you. Confuse you. No man has a right to affect you this way—certainly not a man you’ve only kissed once in your life. Not to mention one you met only twenty-four hours ago.

Still, she couldn’t seem to shake the memory of those moments in the garden at Chetwynd. Nor could she forget the taste of his lips. She watched him pour himself a glass of wine, watched him raise the glass to sip. Again, their eyes met, this time over the gleam of ruby liquid. She licked her own lips and savored the aftertaste of Burgundy.

“So what brings you to Paris?” she asked, raising her glass.

“Claude, as a matter of fact.” He tilted his head at Daumier.

At Beryl’s questioning look, Daumier said, “When I heard my old friend Richard was in London, I thought why not consult him? Since he is an authority on the subject.”

“The St. Pierre bombing,” Richard explained. “Some group no one’s ever heard of is claiming responsibility. Claude thought perhaps I’d be able to shed some light on their identity. For years I’ve been tracking every reported terrorist organization there is.”

“And did you shed some light?” asked Jordan.