LITMIR.BIZ

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sent him sprawling to the floor beside Madeline. For a few brief seconds, he was aware of her body close beside him, and of her hair, like silk against his fingers. He reached out and feebly cradled her head. My love, he thought. My dearest love.

      And then his hand fell still.

       Chapter 1

       Buckinghamshire, England

       Twenty years later

      Jordan Tavistock lounged in Uncle Hugh’s easy chair and amusedly regarded, as he had a thousand times before, the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, the hapless Earl of Lovat. Ah, the delicious irony of it all, he thought, that Lord Lovat should stare down from that place of honor above the mantelpiece. It was testimony to the Tavistock family’s sense of whimsy that they’d chosen to so publicly display their one relative who’d, literally, lost his head on Tower Hill—the last man to be officially decapitated in England—unofficial decapitations did not count. Jordan raised his glass in a toast to the unfortunate earl and tossed back a gulp of sherry. He was tempted to pour a second glass, but it was already five-thirty, and the guests would soon be arriving for the Bastille Day reception. I should keep at least a few gray cells in working order, he thought. I might need them to hold up my end of the chitchat. Chitchat being one of Jordan’s least favorite activities.

      For the most part, he avoided these caviar and black-tie bashes his Uncle Hugh seemed so addicted to throwing. But tonight’s event—in honor of their house guests, Sir Reggie and Lady Helena Vane—might prove more interesting than the usual gathering of the horsey set. This was the first big affair since Uncle Hugh’s retirement from British Intelligence, and a number of Hugh’s former colleagues from MI6 would make an appearance. Throw into the brew a few old chums from Paris—all of them in London for the recent economic summit—and it could prove to be a most intriguing night. Anytime one threw a group of ex-spies and diplomats together in a room, all sorts of surprising secrets tended to surface.

      Jordan looked up as his uncle came grumbling into the study. Already dressed in his tuxedo, Hugh was trying, without success, to fix his bow tie; he’d managed, instead, to tie a stubborn square knot.

      “Jordan, help me with this blasted thing, will you?” said Hugh.

      Jordan rose from the easy chair and loosened the knot. “Where’s Davis? He’s much better at this sort of thing.”

      “I sent him to fetch that sister of yours.”

      “Beryl’s gone out again?”

      “Naturally. Mention the words ‘cocktail party,’ and she’s flying out the door.”

      Jordan began to loop his uncle’s tie into a bow. “Beryl’s never been fond of parties. And just between you and me, I think she’s had just a bit too much of the Vanes.”

      “Hmm? But they’ve been lovely guests. Fit right in—”

      “It’s the nasty little barbs flying between them.”

      “Oh, that. They’ve always been that way. I scarcely notice it anymore.”

      “And have you seen the way Reggie follows Beryl about, like a puppy dog?”

      Hugh laughed. “Around a pretty woman, Reggie is a puppy dog.”

      “Well, it’s no wonder Helena’s always sniping at him.” Jordan stepped back and regarded his uncle’s bow tie with a frown.

      “How’s it look?”

      “It’ll have to do.”

      Hugh glanced at the clock. “Better check on the kitchen. See that things are in order. And why aren’t the Vanes down yet?”

      As if on cue, they heard the sound of querulous voices on the stairway. Lady Helena, as always, was scolding her husband. “Someone has to point these things out to you,” she said.

      “Yes, and it’s always you, isn’t it?”

      Sir Reggie fled into the study, pursued by his wife. It never failed to puzzle Jordan, the obvious mismatch of the pair. Sir Reggie, handsome and silver haired, towered over his drab little mouse of a wife. Perhaps Helena’s substantial inheritance explained the pairing; money, after all, was the great equalizer.

      As the hour edged toward six o’clock, Hugh poured out glasses of sherry and handed them around to the foursome. “Before the hordes arrive,” he said, “a toast, to your safe return to Paris.” They sipped. It was a solemn ceremony, this last evening together with old friends.

      Now Reggie raised his glass. “And here’s to English hospitality. Ever appreciated!”

      From the front driveway came the sound of car tires on gravel. They all glanced out the window to see the first limousine roll into view. The chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a fiftyish woman, every ripe curve defined by a green gown ablaze with bugle beads. Then a young man in a shirt of purple silk emerged from the car and took the woman’s arm.

      “Good heavens, it’s Nina Sutherland and her brat,” Helena muttered. “What broom did she fly in on?”

      Outside, the woman in the green gown suddenly spotted them standing in the window. “Hello, Reggie! Helena!” she called in a voice like a bassoon.

      Hugh set down his sherry glass. “Time to greet the barbarians,” he said, sighing. He and the Vanes headed out the front door to welcome the first arrivals.

      Jordan paused a moment to finish his drink, giving himself time to paste on a smile and get the old handshake ready. Bastille Day—what an excuse for a party! He tugged at the coattails of his tuxedo, gave his ruffled shirt one last pat, and resignedly headed out to the front steps. Let the dog and pony show begin.

      Now where in blazes was his sister?

      AT THAT MOMENT, the subject of Jordan Tavistock’s speculation was riding hell-bent for leather across a grassy field. Poor old Froggie needs the workout, thought Beryl. And so do I. She bent forward into the wind, felt the lash of Froggie’s mane against her face, and inhaled that wonderful scent of horseflesh, sweet clover and warm July earth. Froggie was enjoying the sprint just as much as she was, if not more. Beryl could feel those powerful muscles straining for ever more speed. She’s a demon, like me, thought Beryl, suddenly laughing aloud—the same wild laugh that always made poor Uncle Hughie cringe. But out here, in the open fields, she could laugh like a wanton woman and no one would hear. If only she could keep on riding, forever and ever! But fences and walls seemed to be everywhere in her life. Fences of the mind, of the heart. She urged her mount still faster, as though through speed she could outrun all the devils pursuing her.

      Bastille Day. What a desperate excuse for a party.

      Uncle Hugh loved a good bash, and the Vanes were old family friends; they deserved a decent send-off. But she’d seen the guest list, and it was the same tiresome lot. Shouldn’t ex-spies and diplomats lead more interesting lives? She couldn’t imagine James Bond, retired, pottering about in his garden.

      Yet that’s what Uncle Hugh seemed to do all day. The highlight of his week had been harvesting the season’s first hybrid Nepal tomato—his earliest tomato ever! And as for her uncle’s friends, well, she couldn’t imagine them ever sneaking around the back alleys of Paris or Berlin. Philippe St. Pierre, perhaps—yes, she could picture him in his younger days; at sixty-two, he was still charming, a Gallic lady-killer. And Reggie Vane might have cut a dashing figure years ago. But most of Uncle Hugh’s old colleagues seemed so, well…used up.

       Not me. Never me.

      She galloped harder, letting Froggie have free rein.

      They raced across the last stretch of field and through a copse of trees. Froggie, winded now, slowed to a trot,

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