Chapter 25: Hanover Terrace

With no further leads to follow in Mexico, Laura and Remington departed for LA mid-morning the following day. While LA was a welcome sight, their afternoon was filled with their typical weekend errands and household chores. By the time darkness had descended, Remington had happily puttered around in his kitchen for hours, putting up several meals for the week ahead and simultaneously preparing a fabulous chicken alfredo and salad for their dinner. After, they indulged themselves in a relaxing soak in the hot tub before retiring to his viewing room. Lounged carelessly, with feet propped on the coffee table and Laura laying with her head in his lap as they watched the newest movie in his collection, Suspicion (Cary Grant, Joan Fontaine, RKO, 1941), he contentedly sighed. She hadn't been mistaken in Mexico. As soon as he'd returned home to his routines – shopping, cooking, and movie – his energy had been immediately restored.

Patting Laura on the hip, he waited until she looked up at him.

"Would you mind?" he asked, eyes traveling the length of the couch then back to her.

"Not at all," she agreed absently, engrossed in the movie. Standing, eyes not leaving the screen, she waited until he stretched out, then lay down next to him, using his arm as a pillow. His lips quirked upwards with amusement when she didn't wriggle closer to him as she normally would.

"Laura, I don't think I've ever seen you so captivated by one of my movies in a long time," he observed. She resisted the impulse to shush him, but instead patted the hand of the arm slung around her waist.

"Maybe because this is one I haven't seen before, let alone a dozen or more times," she answered, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Surely you jest," he challenged. When she retained her silence, he tried again. "You can't honestly tell me we've never—"

"Shhhh," she scolded. He frowned at the back of her head, astonished to realize he'd just been quite emphatically hushed. With a shrug of his shoulders, he decided silence could be even more amusing. He patiently waited for her to lose herself fully in the movie again before talented fingers stealthily released the top three buttons of his pajama shirt, then brushing the fabric aside bared a shoulder. His lips blazed a slow path from below her ear to the tip of her shoulder. He smiled smugly when she began to squirm against him.

"Remington…" she murmured his name. His hand slipped under the tail of her shirt to caress her sensitive waist.

"Yes, love?"

"Fourth Sunday." Two words, it was all it took. His hand stopped stroking and his mouth stopped tasting the tender skin underneath of it. Damn, he uttered the oath silently, regretting that he'd need to stop his planned seduction. Guilt kicked him swiftly in his shin. Here he was worried about his libido when she'd likely spent the day suffering in silence, as was her way. He removed his hand from under her shirt, and made to get up.

"Let me just get the lotion. I'll have –"

"I'm alright," she interrupted, then with a sigh, picked up the remote control and paused the movie. Wiggling over onto her back, she looked up at him. "Our festivities yesterday and the hot tub this evening are no doubt responsible for keeping the muscles loose."

"No headache?" She pursed her lips and shifted her eyes upwards, then shook her head.

"No," she answered simply, reaching for her shirt to rebutton it.

"Leave it," he urged. "'Your ucipital mapilary is quite beautiful.' Suspicion, Cary Grant to Joan Fontaine," he cited with a nod towards the television and a wink.

"A sentiment you seem to extend to my supraclavicular fossa and trapezius as well," she commented, her fingers brushing over two bruises along her clavicle, and settling a frown upon him. Damn, he cursed silently again. Inclusive of the bruise at the hollow of her throat, he'd marked her as his own three times the prior evening during his exuberant display of devotion. Not intentionally, mind you, although there were times such marks were very much intended. Still, he imagined she'd spent a good part of the afternoon mulling her attire for the office the next day, trying to determine what outfit would best hide the love bites. That she'd made mention of the marks was a clear indication he was in hot water for them.

"My apologies, Mrs. Steele." He brushed his lips over each mark in turn, then cast what he hoped appeared to be a sincere, conciliatory look upon her. He nearly grimaced when she instead rolled her eyes.

"To hell you are," she laughed. "For future reference, it's difficult to appear contrite when you have a self-satisfied, masculine gleam in your eyes, Mr. Steele," she scolded in good humor. Pursing his lips and lifting his brows, he silently offered a sincere apology for the insincere attempt. Touching his lips to hers, he hummed deep in his throat, settling in to nibble and tease. She finally tore her lips away from his.

"This isn't going to do either of us any good," she warned, only to find her lips covered by his again. In spite of herself, her fingers weaved their way into his hair and her mouth willingly opened at his merest of hints. She hummed as his tongue traced the back of her teeth, before delving deep to explore, to taste. A groan rumbled deep in his throat as she feasted on his rich flavor, and he shifted, trying to drawn her body underneath of his. With a great deal of the self-discipline that had kept him at bay for years, she planted both palms flat on his chest and put space between them, as she wrenched her lips away from his, panting.

"Rem, we can't go where you're quickly taking us," she reminded him breathlessly. Her tongue ran along her lips, tasting him still on them, and the action not lost on him, stirred his body even further. Eyes darkened to nearly indigo darted back-and-forth across her face, his desire and frustration evident. Breath heaving, he dropped his head so his forehead rested against hers.

"I know, I know," he answered with no little regret. Her hand brushed over his shoulder before laying at the back of his neck, her thumb stroking the skin there as her other arm gripped his side. Shortly, he reached for the remote control. Hitting play, he shifted himself to lay on his side behind her, his hand urging her to return to her side. She tittered when he wrapped his arm around her, chastely holding her even as he breathed out a sigh of aggrieved acceptance. Placatingly patting the hand lying against her stomach, she settled in to find out if Johnnie Aysgarth was the murderous fiend his wife suspected him to be.

Like the week prior, Laura and Remington crammed a full work week into three days. Remington had the security system details for Lloyd's Gallery completed by the end of Monday, then as Monroe's men focused on the installation Tuesday and Wednesday morning, he visited each of Fournier's stores in the greater LA area, evaluating the current systems and planning the needed upgrades. With an April thirtieth deadline to have all of Fournier's stores revamped, the eight stores he'd focused on gave them a good jump on the deadline and would free up time for their trip to London. On Wednesday afternoon, he inspected the system at Lloyd's and after one minor correction, signed off on the project as complete. By the time he tromped through the front door of their home on Wednesday afternoon at five o'clock, he'd put in just shy of forty hours across the last three days. If that wasn't enough to put a man in a foul mood, certainly the fact he'd spent barely four waking hours with his wife during that same time span was.

Laura's week had been similarly chaotic, although she had to acknowledge it was her decision to change their departure from Thursday to Wednesday was largely to blame. Mildred had managed to wrangle she and Remington a meeting time at one in the afternoon on Friday. The only logical decision was to leave Wednesday evening which would have them landing Thursday evening in London, given the time difference, allowing she and Remington the opportunity to get a solid night's sleep before their meeting. That wouldn't have been the case had they departed for London on Thursday morning.

So in the three days she had in the office, she wrapped up the Patterson and Casperson cases while partnering part-time with Mildred, had given Bernice directions to clear her schedule and Remington's until the first of the month, and had provided Mildred with the list of individuals she needed visitor logs for. On Tuesday, she contacted Sargent Halston, filled him in on the contents of Jenny's journal, and secured his promise to take the journal to the Army's Criminal Investigation Division to see if long overdue charges could be pressed against Roselli for the murders of Johnny and Jenny MacDonald. She departed the office at three o'clock on Wednesday to go home and pack for the trip, having clocked nearly thirty-six hours for the week herself. And she felt it in every bone in her body. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so depleted. If all the travel were making her husband feel old, it left her feeling as though she'd run a half dozen triathlon's in the last three days.

They both packed in short order and after eating one of the meals Remington had prepped the Sunday before for just such an occasion, they were on the way to the airport. When they were finally in the air at a shortly after ten p.m., Laura wilted before Remington's eyes. Lifting the arm rest separating them in their first class seats, he held open an arm to her. Leaning into his side, she reached for his hand.

"Tired, love?" he inquired quietly. She tilted her head back to look at him.

"I guess it's my turn to feel old," she answered, giving him a wry look. "It's been a busy week." She dwelled on those words for a moment. "Three weeks actually."

"They have been at that," he commiserated. "Any speculation on what lies ahead for us in London?"

"I've given it some thought…" The comment earned a chuckle from him.

"Of course, you have. I wouldn't expect anything less," he chided teasingly, for which, of course, he earned a mock frown. "So, what has that agile mind of yours come up with, eh?"

"I think… the answers we're looking for won't be easy to come by. If Lombard is behind… erasing… your past, it may be the only answer we get tomorrow. The background checks on Roselli's list? The names are all we can provide. No dates of birth, no time or place of when Roselli may have come in contact with them. Then when we do receive the information," he smiled at her assumption Lombard would be so cooperative, it was so typical of her, "how will we even begin to narrow it down?" She shrugged. "As for Farleigh Wilson and what Roselli was doing in London from '84 until '85? There's every chance the MI5 will not be forthcoming with information on either. But any way you look at it, we face a waiting period. I don't suspect we'll have anything actually in our hands until early in the week." He mulled her words and found no fault in her logic.

"So you believe we'll have a couple of days without any leads to chase down, moles to ferret out, suspects to pump, mur—" She placed two fingers on his lips, stopping him before he could ramp up.

"You've made your point," she admonished. "But yes, we'll probably have some time on our hands. Maybe we'll finally find an answer to that question you posed to me at the Hampton a year and a half ago."

"Do you like London, Laura?"

"I haven't exactly hit the usual tourist attractions."

"Have a yearning to become acquainted with Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and the like, the, do you?" he queried, immediately understanding the reference she'd made. She tilted her head to the side, thoughtfully.

"To a degree, but I was hoping for a more… personalized… tour as well." She felt his subtle shift beneath her.

"A tour of London film locations? What a marvelous idea! There is, of course, the studio where the leech scene from The African Queen was filmed, if it still exists as such, of course. Binsey Walk, Wandsworth Bridge Roundabout and Southmere Lake from A Clockwork Orange. If I'd known it was being filmed at the time, it might well have been worth a trip back to—" She let him go on for a bit before stepping in and setting the conversation back on track.

"That's not what I mean," she interrupted, firmly.

"So what, precisely, do you mean?" he asked, a warning in his voice. She tipped her head back to look at him and mentally sighed at seeing the tick in a tense jaw.

"Some of the places that hold fond memories for you… in London, Brix—"

"Laura," he cut her off, frostily, "I assure you, the only way you'll get anywhere near Brixton is if I'm six feet under and even then, that's debatable."

"Reming—"

"No!" he bit out, louder than planned. Several heads turned to look at them. Running a tongue over his lips, he fought to moderate his volume. "Let's set aside, just for a moment, the fact there's not a single good memory to be found among those streets. I'll not have you in danger merely to assuage that insatiable curiosity of yours!"

"It's been twenty years. Surely it's not as bad as you remember any longer," she argued. Shifting away from her, he leaned his back against the wall of the plane, casting a disbelieving look at her.

"Less than two years ago, as I lay up in that flophouse, do you not recall the riots in Brixton being the headline news?" he challenged. Her brows knitted together trying to recall, then shook her head. At the time her full attention had been focused on finding him, then getting him well, and pursuing the Whitehall Slasher. "Brixton is as dangerous as it ever was, if not more. Laura, please, let it go," he requested with no little exasperation.

"Alright, I'll let it go," she agreed. At least for now, she amended silently. Relaxing at her words, he sat back against the seat again. "And London?" she persisted. So relieved that she'd let go of the idea of Brixton was he, he'd probably have agreed to introduce her to every woman he'd ever bedded in London if asked.

"I'm sure I can manage to customize our travels throughout London a bit," he acceded. Appeased by the concession for now, she lay her head back on her seat and closed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips as she wondered how many movie houses would now be included in their tour.

They arrived at the townhouse shortly before eleven p.m. Thursday, London time, an aspect of traveling which Laura still found disconcerting. They'd lost a full day during a twelve-hour flight, the hands of time moving at warp speed due to the time difference. They'd now been awake, for the most part, for over twenty-nine hours. Well, she had been at least, a catnap here and there hardly constituting sleep. Remington on the other hand? She'd watched enviously as his ability to sleep anywhere had once more born him through and he'd slept three-quarters of the flight. By the time they walked through the front doors of the townhome, she'd made a beeline for the shower then had tumbled into bed, damp hair and all, Remington's warmth enveloping her when he'd joined her after a shower of his own.

When she woke to the sun streaming into the bedroom the next morning, she was seized by the disconnected feeling of not knowing quite where she was. Peering around the room, she found nothing was familiar. Closing her eyes and throwing an arm over her face, she forced her sleep soaked brain to concentrate. Office, home, packing, flight, London, Daniel's townhouse, check. As for the location of her wayfaring husband? She imagined the smells wafting upstairs from below held the answer to that mystery. Getting out of bed, she went downstairs to join him.

Just as the villa in Theoule Sur Mer had been, the townhouse was another welcome surprise. She was beginning to understand Daniel had been a man who appreciated light. While the floors of the lower level, like the third floor she'd just left, were covered in rich, dark, hand hewn wood, the walls facing the street in the living room… Or parlor, she silently corrected herself, as we are in England… featured four six-by-eight foot windows, allowing the sunlight outside to stream in. Soaring, fifteen foot ceilings only added a warmth and airiness to the room. Allowing a nod to the historical features of the home, the walls were wood clad from chair rail down, although from chair rail and above they'd been drywalled. The large fireplace tucked at a diagonal into a corner of the room, was rich wood from floor-to-ceiling. The furnishings were elegant yet warm, formal yet inviting, the wing chairs and sofas covered in a cream brocade that both absorbed and reflected the light at once while coffee tables and end tables were wood, appearing handmade, a just a smidgen darker than the floors of the room. Underneath the living room ensemble, a stunning oriental carpet that simply breathed life into the room with its flashes of color. A massive mirror above the fireplace mantle only brightened the room further. Decorations were sparse and impersonal, as though selected by an interior designer then never thought of again.

A spacious, formal foyer acted to separate parlor from the study. The foyer was elegance at its finest, the marbled floors extending upwards on each step of the wide staircase, which she'd descended not long before. If asked, she'd bet the fur Remington had given her the Christmas before, that the chandelier above was made of crystal. The transom above the imposing double front doors cast light upon each pendulant making them sparkle. The credenza, which matched the furnishings in the living room, featured a large vase filled with fresh, blooming lilies.

The imposing study was far more what one would refer to as a library and was the one room in the house that she'd seen so far which had retained all the original architectural details. The floors, walls and fireplace were redolent in rich, gleaming mahogany, absorbing much of the light that came in through the massive bay window. The furnishings in the room were sparse: two dark brocade, wingback chairs facing the fireplace with a table between them, and a long, surprisingly modern desk with chair. Leaving the room, she crossed through the foyer and living room, continuing to the kitchen from where the heavenly smells were emanating. And stopped dead in her tracks…

Remington watched Laura with a great deal of amusement, her reaction much the same as his own when he'd entered the kitchen for the first time that morning. If the size of the study was imposing, the kitchen was downright intimidating in both size and magnificence. White and gray marble floors extended the girth of the room, complementing the white marble counter and island surfaces as well as backsplash. White cabinets prominently extended half the length of one wall, and one side of the island. The appliances were state-of-the-art, and included a subzero fridge, hidden as cabinetry, a six burner with griddle gas stove, double ovens, dishwasher, and wine fridge. In front of the wall of windows at the end sat a dining arrangement, with a bench seat against the wall and a table and four more chairs in front of it. Windows banked the wall across from the bench street, and looked out onto the private garden below.

"I'd much the same reaction, myself, when I first saw it," Remington commented.

"Our living room, dining room and kitchen would fit into this one room," she observed. She lay a critical eye upon him as she walked towards him. "I could have sworn you said Daniel didn't enjoy cooking as much as yourself?"

"He didn't," he confirmed, leaning down to tap his lips to hers. "Good morning, Mrs. Steele."

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," she smiled, before returning her attention to the room. "But this kitchen is…" she searched for the words "A cook's paradise."

"I'll give you that," he agreed. "From what I've seen of the property, this is where Daniel preferred to entertain these last years," he speculated. "I'd honestly no idea the extent of this holding. When the solicitor informed us he had a townhouse here in London…" he shrugged. "Frankly, when I saw the address, I assumed it to be an old Nash home converted to flats."

"'Extent of this holding,'" she mulled the words aloud. In her head she calculated the approximate square footage of the one floor she'd explored in part, then multiplied that by three. "Exactly how much does twenty-four hundred square feet go for in London."

"Depends on the area of London we're speaking of. This is on Hanover Terrace Mews directly overlooking Regent's Park." He tugged at his ear nervously, knowing how she'd react. "I'd guess around five hundred a square foot."

"Five hundred?!" she squeaked, eyes rounding.

"And it's closer to six thousand square feet, I'd wager, if we take into consideration the mews house at the rear," he hastily added. May as well give it to her all at once, he mused.

"Six thousand?!" she squeaked again. She plunked down on a bar stool and ran her fingers through her hair. "Just how large is this 'mews house' and what exactly is a 'mews house' anyway?"

"In answer to the last: a carriage house converted into living quarters," he provided helpfully. "In our particular case, this one stands at right about a thousand square feet across the two stories. There are an additional two bedrooms, full bath, sitting room, and kitchen in the one attached to this property." He gave the side of his nose a scratch. "Giving it some thought, we could let out the place for a two thousand quid or so a month," he proposed.

"There's twenty-six hundred square feet unaccounted for," she pointed out, still trying to digest the size of the property she'd assumed would be relatively modest. With a mental shake of his head, he took a step back in the conversation then gave her a puzzled look, as he pulled a pan from the flames and slid an omelet on a plate before him.

"I've no idea what you mean. There's easily five thousand square feet of living spread across the six floors."

"Six floors?"

"Well, yes," he answered, as though she should know. "The below ground, referred to in the States as the basement. The servant's quarters is located there… bedroom, bath, kitchen, a small living area, along with the laundry, wine cellar and sauna as well. The ground floor, which we're on at the moment. The second floor with drawing room, sitting room, a half bath and sunroom. The third, with the master suite, of course. Then four more full beds and baths on the fourth and fifth floors."

"Why would Daniel need a house this size?" He gave his shoulders another shrug.

"I've no idea. To entertain, I presume, which I've already said. He never made mention of it much at all to me, except to say he'd gotten a place in the city proper a couple years back." She looked at him askance.

"And you never asked where or any details about it?" she asked, incredulous.

"Pumping one another for information was not exactly a cornerstone of our relationship, love," he noted, setting her breakfast in front of her. "He said he'd picked up a place in the city, I was welcome to use it anytime I wished, and that was the end of the matter."

"At five hundred a square foot, this house would be valued at three million pounds! Where would Daniel have come across that type of money?" she wondered, suspiciously.

"Believe me, I've asked myself the same question since touring the place earlier," he acknowledged, sitting his plate down then settling himself next to her at the island. "He taught me from early on to squirrel aside a nut or two here and there from each job, but there's not a job, or even several jobs, at least of which I have knowledge, that would allow him to put back quite this much."

"What about his investments? Could the money have come from them?" He shook his head in the negative as he took another bite of his meal.

"I've been through all the records provided by Phillips. Daniel made a healthy profit, but only a quarter of what this property would have cost." Setting down her fork, she looked first at her hands, then him.

"Remington…" she led off, only for him to hold up a hand.

"I've already had the discussion with myself, no need to repeat it," he informed her. "We're going to have to look into the house. If he conned someone out of it, we'll have to make it right."

"It's going to be that easy?" She was stunned. He gave her a look.

"It is. I believe we agreed in Phillips' office we couldn't accept any inheritance obtained through harming someone undeserving of such action, didn't we?"

"We did," she cautiously agreed.

"There you are, then." He studied her still uncertain gaze. "Look, Laura, would I like to have this property amongst our portfolio? Of course, I would. Not only could we squirrel away a few more nuts of our own by letting it out, but it would be nice to have it at our disposal anytime we're in London. But, that said, not only have I been trodding the straight and narrow for some time now, I've only recently discovered my slate has been wiped clean. I've no desire to tempt fate to reconsider." She nodded her head slowly. He considered it a good sign when she picked up her fork and resumed eating.

"Where would we go to find the deed's history?" He frowned as he considered the question.

"The Land Registry, I imagine. Trafalgar House in Bedford Park, if memory serves." Standing, she took her plate to the sink, rinsing it off as she spoke.

"Would we have time to go there after our meeting with Lombard?"

"I don't see why not," he answered, joining her at the sink with his own plate. Taking it from him, she began to rinse it as well. "It's a bit of a jaunt, forty-five minutes or so, but I'd think we could make it in time." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, if we plan to be on time for Lombard, we need to be getting ready."

"What time is it?" she asked, surprised. She put the dishes and their silverware in the dishwasher, then closing the door stood to face him.

"Near on half-past eleven." Laying a hand on the small of her back, her herded her out of the kitchen.

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I ran to the market to lay in some supplies. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't see a point in waking you." Laura came to a halt in the middle of the foyer on the way to the stairs and pointed upwards towards the chandelier.

"Is that-?"

"Baccarat crystal?" He finished the question for her while nodding. "It is."

"Do I even want to know how much it's worth?" she pondered aloud, the note of dread in her voice easing a laugh from him.

"Suffice it to say, we could buy another of your car… or two… should we wish to let it go." He grinned as he watched her blanch at the thought.

"That's ridiculous!" she exclaimed, looking back over her shoulder at the chandelier as she began to ascend the stairs. "For something that's nothing more than a dressed up light?"

His laughter filled the hallway, as he wondered if his practical and frugal Miss Holt would ever adjust to the fact that she was the now quite comfortable Mrs. Steele.