Chapter 13: Pepplers Once More
Remington pushed up into a sitting position then slowly raised himself out of the bed shortly after dawn. Last evening, Laura had slipped from his side before he was fully asleep then with the wall of pillows safely erected between them, had tossed and turned for hours. Nearly twenty, twenty-five minutes ago, he estimated, she'd left the bed to pace then stand by the window… and hadn't moved since. Something was troubling her for certain, and he dearly hoped Felicia hadn't managed to get under her skin, despite their conversation.
Crossing the distance to the window, he slipped an arm around her waist. She jumped, startled, then settled softly against him.
"Care to tell me what's troubling you?" Stroking her hand down his forearm until it lay over his hand, she shook her head.
"Maybe on the way to getting those passports? How soon can we leave?" He tilted his head to the side then back up again.
"It will take us about two hours to get there. If we stop for breakfast, I imagine we'd arrive at an hour he'd be amenable to." She started to pull away, but a press of a hand on her waist had her turning around instead. He studied her face and eyes at length, not liking what he saw there. Nonetheless, he patted her on the hip, pressed a kiss on her forehead and suggested…
"Then I guess we should get dressed."
"Yves, allow me to introduce you to my partner, Laura Holt," Remington offered, as the couple followed a tall, broad shouldered man with short shorn blonde hair into the home. Laura blinked, trying to adjust her eyes after leaving the bright sunshine to step into the dark entry way. She offered her hand as she took in her surroundings. A door on each wall, a bench and coatrack was all the room offered.
"Pleased to meet you," she greeted.
"The pleasure is mine," Yves replied, bending over to buss the back of her hand. Her brows lifted in surprise. "It's been a long time, Mick," the man noted as Remington closed the front door, enveloping them in near blackness.
"Mmmm, I've been a bit tied up... on a matter of some urgency." Even in the dark, she could feel the smug smile on his face. She rolled her eyes.
A door swung open revealing a softly lit elevator. Feeling like she'd suddenly been warped into a Bogart movie, she stepped inside and Remington followed.
"Shall we?" Yves suggested, as he depressed the lower of two buttons
The couple followed and this time the blink of Laura's eyes had little to do with the change of light although it was substantial. Despite the fact the home appeared to be a diminutive country cottage made of stone and mortar on the outside, on the inside it could have been in featured in Architectural Digest as the epitome of modernity. They stepped into what was the first of two floors, facing a wall of glass that extended from ceiling of the two-story living room to floor, some thirty odd feet below. Sunlight streamed through those windows, bouncing off white marble floors. Artwork splashed with bright colors hung strategically on stark white walls. Furniture with sleek lines was complimented by glass and chrome tables. The entire effect was stunning, but the view of rolling hills and horses running free in a meadow beyond was nothing short of breathtaking. She could envision what it would be like as the snow fell on a Christmas morning, a family gathered around the slate fireplace.
"Yves has a degree in both Architecture and Fine Arts from Manchester School," Remington leaned down to whisper next to her ear. Her brows lifted in a dare as she turned her head to look at him.
"Is that where you met? At Manchester School?" His lips lifted ever so slightly, recognizing the challenge: Would he evade or tell the truth?
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
"Mick and I shared much of the same course schedule during first year," Yves filled her in, having overheard the words exchanged. "To my office?" he suggested, holding out an elbow to her. She smiled as she took his arm and Remington crossed his hands behind his back, an amused smile on his lips as he observed Yves and Laura.
"Did you design this house?" Laura wondered.
"I did," Yves confirmed. "I'm a man who enjoys my privacy but not at the cost of having my draperies drawn at all times. Natural light…" he indicated an easel near the wall of windows with a canvas balanced on it "...is essential, you see. Most won't give an old cottage in the middle of nowhere a second glance and the hill beneath it was ideal for what I had in mind…" he shrugged.
"Which was?"
"I built the house inside the hill. It can't be seen unless you are behind it, which I assure you is not possible. The perimeter is quite secure."
"It's very impressive," she praised. "And the paintings? Yours as well?"
"They are," he confirmed again.
"Do you mind if I take a moment…?" she indicated the walls of pictures.
"By all means," he held out a gracious hand toward the walls. He came to a stop and was shortly joined by Remington who'd been following a step behind.
"Would I be presuming too much if I speculated this is the Yank you've been rumored to be hanging about these last years?" Yves asked. Both men's eyes were on Laura as she strolled from one painting to the next.
"You wouldn't," Remington grinned, then got straight down to business. "I need a rush job, mate."
"Your sudden urge to travel wouldn't have anything to do about that nasty bit in the paper, would it?"
"Mmmm. Very much so. A bit of time to recover before we're back on the trail of whomever it is that wishes to take a piece of my hide."
"And the lady. Will she be requiring one as well?"
"Do you sell your work?" that very lady called back over her shoulder. Yves left his conversation to join her.
"I do indeed. Has a piece in particular interest caught your eye?" She indicated the piece she was standing in front of consisting of three canvases: One with a black backdrop that fed into a painting with a white backdrop then yet another in red. "It would be perfect for the office, don't you think?" she asked, turning to look at Remington, whose back was to her as he contemplated the painting before him.
"Actually, I find myself drawn to this one," he answered without looking back. "She reminds me of you." A woman was portrayed from chest up on a bright red backdrop. The painting depicted a woman garbed in a wide-lapeled, cream with brown pinstripe suit jacket, with a cream colored fedora dipped low enough to cover all of her face except a pair of red lips, a fair jaw and a long, graceful neck. But the corker, for him, was the pair of fingers touching the brim of her hat. How many times had he seen Laura in a similar pose?
Laura laughed from where she now stood just behind him.
"It does, doesn't it?" Grasping her hand, he tugged her forward to stand next to him, tangling their fingers together when she stilled next to him. She titled her head to examine the painting more thoroughly. "I might have owned a similar suit once," she mused.
"Well, might I suggest you pull it out of storage?" he requested. "You'd be positively ravishing in it, I'm sure." The remark earned a light laugh.
"I'll see what I can do." Hand secured in his, she looked over her shoulder at the trio of pictures that she'd been admiring, then looked back at the painting before them. "I don't know if it would be appropriate for the office though, whereas the other set…" She let him finish the thought for the other.
"Mmmm, but I'd want to keep this one much closer to home," he clarified.
"To warm your heart on those cold, lonely nights when I'm not there?" she teased. He turned his head and quirked a brow at her.
"Come to think of it, why hang a poor imitation of your likeness on the wall when I can hold the original in my arms, hmmm?" he turned to face her and caught her eyes with his. "That is our plan when we return home, isn't it?" Her heart thrummed in double time and her eyes flitted away. He'd never asked to live together so directly, and they hadn't had the opportunity to discuss the issues with both of their homes and what that might mean. He wanted to have this discussion now? Her lips parted, intent on telling him now was not the time for this conversation, but was given a reprieve when...
"A poor imitation, you say, Mick?" Yves laughed. He looked at Laura as though sharing a confidence. "Mick may be able to tell you about every masterpiece ever painted and through who's hands each have passed, but he was always so provincial in his own etchings drawn – forgive the pun – to the portraits and pastorals. Mick simply can't grasp the nuances and intricacies of other forms of art."
"The intricacies?" Remington chuckled, then shifting so he could see Laura and Yves, shared, "In Spring of first year, I allowed Yves, here, to drag me along to a gallery opening where I found myself surrounded by endless walls of substandard Pitkins." He'd made no secret of how he felt about Joanne Pitkin's 'works of art'. He'd happily cut those 'paintings' to pieces revealing the masterpieces hidden beneath. "Pitkins, Laura!"
"I understand," she commiserated in a sympathetic tone, while patting him on the shoulder although her eyes glimmered with humor. "Do you think you could survive those paintings hanging in the office?" He glanced in their direction.
"They're impressionism," he conceded, "But—"
"I never even though to ask, just presumed," Laura told Yves apologetically. "Are they for sale?
"They could be made available or the right buyer," Yves acknowledged. Those paintings were part of his personal collection but the idea of them hanging where Mick would see them each day was amusing.
"Laura…" Remington tried to warn in an undertone.
"How much, if you don't mind my asking?" Laura pursued.
"A trio such as that would sell for between ninety and one-twenty," Yves offered.
"Well that seems low," Laura frowned, "They're—"
"Thousand," Remington deadpanned and watched as some of the color left Laura's face and her eyes darted to him. "Pounds," he added, rubbing it in. She did the quick math: Those paintings would run somewhere between 135,000 and 180,000 U.S. Dollars. "Yves is an artist of some renown."
"You could have said something," she hissed in an undertone.
"I believe I tried," he replied with a pointed lift of his brows. She puffed out her unhappiness with him.
"Let's address the matter at hand, shall we?" The corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed laughter and his eyes twinkled with humor.
"Yves. How quickly might you be able to put us together a pair of passports?" Remington inquired, his eyes still on Laura.
"One for each of you, then?" Yves verified, while offering Laura his arm again.
"Aye," Remington confirmed, following behind the pair a step as they walked in the direction of a hallway that Remington knew from the past led to Yves office and work area.
"Well, then, you're in a bit of luck. I happen to be in the midst of finalizing a pair of Canadian passports for a couple in Monte Carlo with whom we are mutually acquainted." Remington's brows lifted in interested.
"Tell me the old bugger and his bird aren't still working the con," he laughed. "They must be nearing seventy by now."
"Past, actually," Yves replied, acknowledging to Remington they were speaking of one and the same. "I have plenty of time to get to theirs, so would an hour be quick enough for you?"
"Just about…"
An hour later Bob and Judy Peppler departed Yves' home with a pair of forged passports of such expert quality that Laura was still examining them as Remington maneuvered the car over the roads. The names had taken some consideration. He immediately suggested she use her favored alias of Myrtle Groggins – a joke that earned him a heated glare. He, of course, had fallen into old habits naming one Bogart character after another only to have Laura shoot them down and found his suggestions of the characters of Cary Grant equally rejected. It was a topic they should have debated on their way to Yves', clearly. It was finally Remington who had seized on the names, when the glint of his Peppler wedding band caught his eye. The names held an undeniable appeal for him – he'd enjoyed the role and even more so the implication that Laura was his. As soon as he'd said the names aloud, Laura's eyes had warmed and declared it…
"Perfect."
After that Remington and Yves had insisted on simple measures to alter their appearances so people would have difficulty saying for certain it was they who had been spotted. Laura's features were sharpened dramatically: Black wig with a harsh bun at the nape of her neck; scrubbed free of makeup, her brow darkened, dark shadows brushed under her eyes then a slightly sallow foundation applied to her face to both conceal her freckles and make it seem she hadn't seen sunlight in years; and a pair of practical, thick black framed glasses sat on her nose. As suggested by Remington, when her picture had been taken she'd affixed a pinched look of impatience on her face.
As for Remington? His brows were thickened, hair mussed and streaks of gray were added at his temples and right above his ears; he hadn't shaved the night prior or that morning, providing the early start of a beard; a little bronzer with a hint of olive tone; and brown contacts along with wire rimmed glasses completed his look. He looked at the camera with bored disdain when his picture was snapped.
"When I met you," Laura said now, "You had 5 passports with the same picture in each of them. Why did we need to alter our appearances?" she wondered now. His eyes flickered to her then back away.
"To begin with, no one was looking for who I was at the time. Looking for Le Renard, yes, but all based on a comparison of prior heists in which a unique skill set was used. They'd no idea what I looked like, what name I went by."
"You said to begin with?" she inquired, as her attention turned to the bag of paraphernalia
"Well, the more obvious reason being a good deal of people here in London may remember Remington Steele, much as they might in Malta and Cannes. There was a great deal of publicity surrounding our endeavors while we were in Europe."
"And the less obvious?"
"It's easier for one person to disappear alone than it is for two to disappear together. If we want these buggers off our tails, I'd suggest Laura Holt book passage back to LA for Monday morning." She frowned.
"I'm not leaving you here when—"
"I said book, not get on," he emphasized. "We'll arrive early enough to share fond farewells over a cup of tea for anyone who may be watching. We'll part company momentarily at the loo…"
"And by the time anyone is the wiser, Bob and Judy Peppler will have departed for Italy," she concluded. It wasn't a bad plan.
"That's the idea," he grinned.
"Do you have an idea where in Italy?" she wondered. "I don't exactly think you're up to playing tourist right now, and given the situation, laying low seems to be in order."
"Otranto, Puglia," he replied. She reared back her head slightly and turned to look at him.
"Decide against Italy?" she wondered, earning her a warm laugh.
"Otranto is on the Adriatic Sea and is the Italy's easternmost town," he informed her. "There's a few historic sites of interest, but more importantly, we're unlikely to run into anyone known to me while we enjoy relaxing days of sea and sun."
"Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. I'll have Mildred make the reservations." The thought humored him. How quickly she tended to forget Europe was his playground.
"No need," he brushed aside. "I know a place. It'll just take a call."
"Oh?"
"Henri has a seaside cottage he uses for a bit of R&R," he shared. "There are a few, myself amongst them, invited to enjoy its accommodations whenever the mood strikes."
"Or whenever you've needed disappear from the radar?" she smirked. He flashed her a wide-eyed innocent look.
"Not I," he protested, then gave her a sly smile. "Of course, he bought the place 'bout the time I arrived in LA…" he finished with a shrug. She rolled her eyes.
"Of course." She set aside the passports and bag, stretched, and curled up in the passenger seat facing him. A thought flitted across her mind as she watched him drive. He was still in a great deal of discomfort from his injuries, and with his arms outstretched on the wheel, the constant sitting, the bumps on the road… "Are you alright? I can drive," she suggested. "You don't need to overdo it." He flashed his pearly whites at her.
"Nonsense. I haven't felt this invigorated since those buggers blindsided me. If anything, I'd say it's done me a great deal of good to get out today." He glanced at her again. "You, however, look exhausted, what with all your tossing and turning, prowling and pacing last night."
"I'm fine." Even as she denied the charge she unconvincingly tried to squelch a yawn.
"Get a bit of shut-eye," he recommended. "We'll be back at Daniel's in an hour or so. We'll have ourselves a bite of lunch, then perhaps a walk down to the pond again?" Her eyes narrowed on him.
"Don't you think you might be overdoing it? The trip this morning and now another walk through the maze?" He lifted a pair of brows at her.
"This from the woman who'd normally tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself, there's work to be done?" he challenged teasingly.
"For minor bumps, bruises and scrapes sure," she retorted, "But not near death," she finished in a voice suggesting he'd gone daft.
"A situation long in the past now… thankfully. Can I help it if I am looking forward to taking what one might call our first true holiday together."
"I don't know that I'd call hunkering down while you heal a holiday," she ruminated.
"The two of us, all alone. The sun, the sand, quaint restaurants and tourist traps to visit," he suggested. "The two of us beneath a blanket of starts, enjoying, tall, cool pina coladas while listening to the waves lapping against the shore."
"Sounds lovely," she breathed as her eyes closed.
As the car flew over the road towards Daniel's, he envisioned the days ahead in Otranto. Long walks on the beach, eventually frolicking in the sea; she spreading lotion over his back and shoulders, he doing the same over her slim frame; quiet nights, enjoying one another's company… and the day that he might make love to her once more…
Daniel sat on the terrace, cup of tea in hand, dressed surprisingly casual in short-sleeved polo, chinos and a belt. Across from him, Felicia – draped in a long, airy and flowing dress cut much too low, as was her habit – fingered the cup she held in her hands.
"I'm afraid we may have miscalculated, my dear," he addressed the woman. "Whatever powers of persuasion you once held over the boy are long in the past." Her nose shriveled with disapproval.
"Nonsense," the cool blonde dismissed with a snooty air, "Had Lisa not so rudely interrupted I would have had him leaving her bed for mine after only a few more minutes." He lifted a brow at her.
"I hope you found your time in mine enjoyable instead." Slipping a foot from her pump, she stroked it along his calf.
"Don't I always, darling?" He gave her a quick smile then returned to the matter at hand.
"Nonetheless, we've fully lost him to whatever spell Linda has weaved around him," he noted, somewhat sadly. "She's his now."
"Don't be ridiculous," she replied with some confidence. "Now that Michael's finally had a taste of the forbidden fruit, he'll bore with her soon enough."
"I thought as much once myself, but I'm not so certain of that any longer. He intends to ask the woman to wed him…" A frown furrowed his brow and rubbed at his chin "…if he hasn't done so already." Her laughter rang out.
"Michael? Shackled to little Lisa? Well, we can hardly allow that!" Daniel nodded his head, slowly.
"Mmmm, yes, but I no longer believe your… charms… are the right way to go about that," he mused. "Harry may believe Linda is devoted to him, but there is one thing that matters far more to her than he ever will."
"Ooh, do tell," she urged.
"That little agency of hers, of course," he provided with a sly smile. "If she—" He abruptly stopped speaking when the terrace door swung open and Milton emerged from inside the house.
"Master Daniel, His Lordship, the Lord of Claridge, has arrived and informs me he has a meeting with you. I've installed him in the library, as you prefer," Milton announced.
"Thank you, Milton. Bring a fresh bucket of ice to the library, if you wouldn't mind, I suspect we'll be needing it."
"Yes, sir," Milton confirmed. With a slight bow in Felicia's direction, the elderly man disappeared back into the house as Daniel approached Felicia and took one of her hands in his.
"I'll try not to be too long," he promised, then bussed the back of her hand.
"Don't worry about me, darling," she assured, "I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself." He chuckled warmly.
"Of that, I've no doubt."
With those words he departed the room and wended his way through the large home to the library. Plastering a smile on his face, he swung open the door.
"Your Lordship," he greeted, as Thomas swung round to face him. "How good to see you," he offered holding out a hand.
"Daniel," Thomas offered in return, exchanging the handshake. "I have to admit I'm more than a bit worried by your insistence we meet immediately. Has something happened to Remington?"
"As I assured when I rang you up, he's healing remarkably well," Daniel assured, then added with a lift of a brow, "Although I imagine Townsend has confirmed as much in his daily reports."
"He has," the Earl didn't deny. "So, why the urgency? Although, I must admit, I welcome the opportunity to spend a bit of time with Remington."
"He and Linda have locked themselves away in his room all morning, but I'm certain—" Daniel paused at the tap on the door. "Enter," he called. Milton entered the room.
"Your, ice, as asked, Sir." He sat the bucket of ice on the small bar.
"Thank you, Milton. I'll see to our drinks. Give His Lordship and I about a half hour to conduct our business then please ask Harry to join us," Daniel directed.
"Harry and the Miss left out shortly after dawn," Milton replied in a surprised tone, just having assumed Daniel would know. The way Daniel's brows shot up to nearly his hairline attested otherwise.
"Left out? To where?" Surely Linda hadn't made good on her little threat… Had she?
"I didn't ask, Sir," Milton replied.
"Well, did they have bags with them?" Daniel demanded to know. The Earl took a sudden interest in the conversation.
"Were they planning to depart?" Thomas inquired.
"Not that I saw, Sir," Milton answered the question posed by Daniel.
"Then should Harry return before the Earl departs, inform him we'd like for him to join us," Daniel instructed.
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"That'll be all," Daniel dismissed, then reached under the bar for a pair of crystal tumblers as Milton discretely left the room.
Outside of the library, Felicia peeked her head around the corner, watching surreptitiously until Milton was out of sight, then scurried over to the library door and pressed her ear to it, already wondering what she might learn that could be of use to her later.
"Are Remington and Laura planning to leave?" Thomas asked again.
"What's your poison?" Daniel asked, holding a tumbler aloft. Thomas held up a hand, in refusal.
"Too early for me, I'm afraid. Now—"
"There was a small… incident… last evening," Daniel provided as he dropped a pair of ice cubes into a singular glass, then splashed a liberal amount of scotch over the cubes.
"Incident? What kind of incident?" Thomas demanded to know, alarmed. Daniel sighed.
"I'm afraid Li—Laura decided to do a bit of snooping while I was out last evening." He fortified himself with a long draw of scotch. "She found the watch, and needless to say, that discovery led to a host of questions."
"And what exactly did you tell her?" Another long swig of scotch to fortify himself and Daniel looked the Earl in the eye.
"Why that I'm Harry's father, of course." Thomas's countenance turned thunderous. Outside the library Felicia pressed a hand to her mouth and a calculating smile lifted her lips beneath it. What a delicious bit of news! Michael… Daniel's son? More, she wanted, much, much more… but the peel of the doorbell forced her back to her position behind the corner of the wall.
"You did what!?" Thomsa roared, his chest heaving up and down in his fury. He took several menacing steps towards Daniel, before veering away. Struggling to maintain his self-control, he dragged a hand through his hair. "My God! Have you any idea what you've done? Mark my words, we'll both pay dearly for this fabrication of yours!"
"I couldn't very well tell her the truth!" Daniel defended. "You've no idea how insatiably curious the woman is! Had I not offered an explanation, she would have dug until Harry found himself six feet under!" Another knock at the door incited his temper. Now was not the time for intrusions! He strode briskly across the room, yanked open the door…
And quickly planted a genial smile on his face.
"Inspector Lombard!" he greeted loudly enough. "I wasn't aware you intended to stop around. Please, come in. Can I fix you a drink?"
Inspector Lombard, bowler held in hand, stepped into the room, declining the drink with a shake of his head.
"I wouldn't turn down a cup of tea," Lombard replied, dropping his hat on the bar.
"I sincerely hope you're here to announce you've found whoever has orchestrated these attacks on Remington," Thomas commented, taking several steps towards the other man, then holding out his hand in greeting.
"Milton, if you'll ask Tildy to see to the good Inspector's tea?" Daniel requested.
"At once, sir." With a slight nod of his head, the elderly servant backed from the room. From her hiding spot, Felicia again watched until Milton disappeared from view then took a step towards the library doors, only to mutter an oath beneath her breath when she heard the sounds of Laura and Remington entering the house.
"Lunch and then that walk?" he repeated his earlier suggestion.
"If you're sure you're up to it," she agreed with caution. A playful smile lifted his lips as he closed in, wrapping his right arm around her waist and tugging her towards him until they were pressed together.
"I can think of something I'd rather do," he suggested with a waggle of his brows, humor dancing in his eyes. "Hmmm?" He leaned in and touched his lips to hers. Leaning back in his embrace, she patted him consolingly on his shoulder.
"Easy there, speed racer," she scolded lightly. "A drive in the country is a far cry from what you seem to have in mind." His face fell and she smiled. "I tell you what," she brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead, "You jog up and down these stairs a pair of times without stopping or losing your breath and we'll talk." He glanced at the stairs then back at her, humor glimmering in his eyes.
"It hardly seems fair to use a feat I couldn't accomplish when perfectly healthy as a benchmark of my endurance now." He feigned a sulk. She smiled up at him, and pressed another kiss to his lips, before stepping from his embrace.
"Nevertheless—"
"Begging your pardon, Harry, Miss," Milton interrupted as he stepped into the hall, having heard the couple's arrival, "Master Daniel requests your company in the library, Harry." Laura's eyes narrowed with suspicion while Remington's widened slightly with curiosity.
"Laura and I were just planning on imposing upon Tildy for a bite to eat. Have you any idea why?"
"Master Daniel didn't say, although the Earl of Claridge and Inspector Lombard have joined him." Laura and Remington exchanged glances.
"Perhaps the Inspector has identified the bugger who's been on my tail," Remington offered.
"There's only one way to find out," Laura noted. He held out an elbow to her.
"Shall we then?..."