Chapter 6 age 50

Having finsihed dressingin her dark mauve, silk ball gown, Queen Clarisse thanked her personal maids and dismissed them, wanting a moment by herself before going downstairs to meet Rupert. For the annual Pear Ball that night, she and Rupert had invited ministers and ambassadors from Genovia's closest neighbors along with representatives from several other European monarchies and trade partners.

Tomorrow, the traditional picking of the first pear would take place and it was her turn to do the honors. Fortunately, there was a very low hanging limb so she could simply stand on a small dais and pluck a pear without climbing up a ladder as in years past. She refused, however, to wear the traditional outfit, leaving that to her honorary attendants. Her teal Jules Drew-designed outfit would work very well and certainly look much better on her than the flounced skirt and apron.

Wondering if her maids pressed the skirt and jacket, but not wishing to call them back, she went to see. Like most women, Clarisse enjoyed clothes. Unlike most, she had two rooms filled with them and another smaller one for her shoes, hats, and accessories.

The largest room held gowns for every sort of occasion- formal or semi-formal, balls, receptions, and dinners- and for each season. One-half of the second room held clothing suitable for afternoon tea and cocktails. The other half held her "work" clothing, the sensible suits she wore when conducting affairs of the country and speaking in public. A large, walk-in closet held specialty items such as her riding outfits along with 'down time' wear, as she called them. These were casual clothes for working in the garden or simply walking about the palace grounds.

Clarisse moved slowly along the wall, searching for the mauve skirt and jacket then stopped when her eyes fell on a blue outfit, still wrapped in plastic from the cleaners. It was the one she'd worn in Brussels, six months earlier. Hesitantly, she pulled it out and lifted the plastic. Faint but visible bloodstains covered the front and back of the jacket.

She bit her lip, blushing in shame at the memory of how she'd fought the man trying to help her. With eyes closed, she held the outfit to her chest and again wished she could have apologized. It was dark and she never saw him, but knew she hurt him; Rupert explained what a kick in the privates felt like. She still remembered how the man fell against her, clinging to her after she'd kneed him as hard as she could.

It puzzled her why he allowed her to hit and kick so, but when he'd finally grabbed her, pinning her arms in a vice-like grip so hard that she could hardly move or breath, she understood. During the time she was fighting, he was trying to calm her down and not hurt her.

A director from Interpol aided her in quickly leaving the building and saw to keeping her identity secret. On the drive to her hotel, he gave little information except that she'd inadvertently walked into an operation and the maneuver was already in progress when they saw her. About her rescuer, the director laughed quietly and said only that the man was a skilled soldier and agent accustomed to rough work and for her not to give it another thought.

That proved impossible.

There were times when she awoke, heart pounding and out of breath, and could almost feel the man's arms around her, his breath on her cheek as he held her close, protecting her. When she could draw a breath, it was as if she could smell the scent of his aftershave mixed with that of his sweat and black powder from the explosion. And his voice… she could still hear his voice low and insistent, a curious mix of accents.

She would never forget.

Clarisse placed the suit back on the rack, her hand lingering for a moment. What kind of man would charge headlong into a room of terrorists, risking his life to save someone he didn't know?

He must be, she decided, extraordinary.

Baron von Strupp eyed Clarisse Renaldi with a gleam in his eyes. She was beautiful, rich, royal, and, starving for attention from a man. While she and Rupert appeared happily married, the baron had it on good authority from his cousin von Troken that the arranged marriage was in name only and Clarisse had her eye out for some action.

Yes, the baron thought, watching her feign interest in what Rupert was saying, Clarisse must be ripe and ready for someone to take her to bed and liven up her life. He was just the man to do it.

Clarisse glanced his way then pretended to laugh at something her husband said. The baron carefully ran his hand through his toupee and sucked in his gut. She wanted him, he was certain; he could tell by the way that she looked at him coyly. von Struppig rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Two of his past mistresses told him he was a handsome man. He would not describe himself as stout, but as sturdy in build. Standing close to two meters in height, he knew he cut an impressive figure to the ladies. It should not be difficult to get her away from Rupert and out of the room. The garden held many secluded nooks and they could always sneak off to an unused bedroom later.

Baron von Strupp laughed to himself then knocked back the rest of his scotch and started out across the ballroom. He was going to cuckold old Rupert right under his undeserving kingly nose.

"Rupert!" Clarisse admonished, trying her best not to laugh at her husband's comments about Baron von Strupp. She glanced at the preening baron, then broke in to laughter and quickly looked away, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.

"He's my cousin, although a distant one, my dear, and a pain in the ass."

"Still, you shouldn't say such things!"

"Why not, pray tell?" Rupert asked, lifting her hand to his lips. "He looks as if he's planning a palace coup... or prowling for an unlucky woman to accost."

Rupert was right. The baron was swaggering across the room as if he owned the place. He probably thought he should; his side of the family nearly had the crown, at one point in history.

"My dear, I must speak with the Prime Minister for a moment about that conference in Vienna next month. Will you excuse me?" Rupert asked, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.

"Of course."

The Ambassador from Liechtenstein and his wife approached Clarisse and they chatted for a moment before the music began and the ambassador excused himself and his wife to dance. Clarisse stood watching the couples whirl around the dance floor, enjoying a moment alone.

"Queen Clarisssse," someone hissed in her ear. She jumped, turning around. It was the baron.

"Oh, I'm afraid you startled me," she offered in apology, backing away.

Baron Von Strupp looked at her through half closed lids. "May I have this dance?"

"Oh, well, I…" she stammered, trying to think of an excuse, but took too long. She had no choice or else she would appear rude. "Well, yes.. thank you."

The baron took her in his arms, pulling her tight against his body. She tried to move away, but he held her. In the many years she was queen, she danced with numerous men, some good dancers, and some bad. But, none had held her this close. It was just not done.

"Baron, I'm afraid this is a bit uncomfortable," she said, pressing away from him.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he replied, letting her go. "Forgive me, please. It was the excitement of the evening and lovely music."

"Yes, of course," she answered, as good manners dictated. They danced for a minute before the baron guided her through the open doors, to the porch.

"Just a moment of fresh air," he said in reply to her questioning look.

The evening was very cool, but beautiful. Ignoring the baron, Clarisse walked to the balcony edge, where two glasses of wine and champagne sat. Their owners were most likely in a dark corner of her garden; she hoped they were not tromping on her newly planted petunias. She would have to remind the caterers to be more diligent in picking up glasses at the next function.

Gazing out over her rose garden, Clarisse was pleased. It was coming along nicely, she thought, ignoring the baron. She would stay a moment, and then go back inside, avoiding giving insult to him.

She felt a hand on her back, an arm steal around her waist, and she turned quickly, jerking away.

"Sir!"

"Clarisse, there's no need to play bashful with me," he said, moving closer. "I know you are a passionate woman and need someone to share your burning passions with."

"My what?"

"Your burning passions…your fiery, unfulfilled sexual desires that haunt your lonely bed and thoughts at night," he replied, trapping her against the stone wall.

"Baron, I'm not haunted, I assure you." Clarisse answered firmly.

She would have laughed at von Strupp's horrible lines were she not cornered on a deserted balcony in the dark with him. The thought of how she'd kneed the Interpol agent in Brussels came to mind; if the situation worsened, it felt good to know she could do the same to the pudgy man before her.

"I can quench those flames for you." The baron leaned closer and placed his hands on his shoulders. "I burn, too."

"My dear baron, with that I can certainly help," she said. The baron leered, delighted.

Clarisse picked up a nearly full glass from the wall behind her then dumped it down the front of von Strupp's pants.

Immediately, he let go and she made sure his fire was out by quickly pouring the other glass of cold champagne on him. The baron staggered back, staring at his soaked britches.

"Better?" she asked boldly. If nothing else good came from her experience in Brussels, her self-confidence had soared. There were times Clarisse felt she could take on just about anyone.

"Ah! There you are my dear!" Rupert said from the doorway. He walked over and casually put his arm around his wife then looked at von Strupp and asked, with all innocence, "Did you have an accident, cousin?"

The baron muttered something harsh under his breath before storming away toward the garden, out of sight of the other guests.

Rupert stared after his distant kinsman, a grin on his face. "Well done, my dear!"

"Were you there the whole time?" she asked, embarrassed.

"No, I'm afraid not. Only saw you pour that glass of champagne on him," he replied, regretfully.

"There was one before that, too," she admitted, unable to keep an enormous amount of pride from her voice.

Rupert laughed. "Really? How wonderful! You are incredible, my dear!" He gave her a hug and a kiss on her forehead. "Still, perhaps Johansson's suggestion you have a full-time bodyguard is something to consider."

"I suppose one cannot be too careful these days," she admitted.

"True," Rupert replied. "I'd very much like to dance with you. Dare I risk it?"

"I promise to stay away from the champagne," she answered lightly.

"Then, Queen Clarisse might I?" he asked with a bow, gesturing toward the ballroom. Clarisse nodded regally and gave him her hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor. They danced most of the evening and dissolved into embarrassing fits of laughter every time a waiter offered them champagne, thoroughly mystifying their guests.

A week later found her digging happily in her rose garden, seeing to the newest rose cuttings. Once or twice a month, she tried to schedule time for her garden or to ride her horses. It was time for herself, to let her thoughts sort themselves out. Today found them returning to the incident with the baron. He was a boor to have made advances toward her and she'd neither wanted him to nor done anything to encourage him.

Suddenly, something crept into her thoughts. She stopped, the rose cutting clutched in her hand.

What if one day she met a man and fell in love, and wanted him to approach her?

A ridiculous thought, she scolded herself, plunging the cutting into the rooting hormone. Even if the situation between her and Rupert was somewhat unconventional, there were marriage vows to keep.

Rupert doesn't.

Still, she insisted, shaking the excess powder off the roots, theirs was a solid marriage that would not end under any circumstances. They both had responsibilities to the people of Genovia, to each other.

But if it's love…

Love… Bettina Addington's words came back to her.

"Clarisse, my dear, do not let your heart grow cold to love…no matter what happens, you must guard against that. One day, you may find love- true love."

For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to have a man love her and to love him in return, to know that his heart, soul, and body belonged only to her and that she could open herself completely to him.

Clarisse tried to imagine feelings that strong. It was very… disturbing….even frightening to think about.

It would not matter, even if she were to meet such a man, Clarisse told herself firmly as she briskly shoved soil into the area around the cutting then tamped it hard with her gloved fist.

Above all, she was a queen with a duty to her subjects. She could do nothing to risk a scandal of any sort, no matter the reason. She would allow nothing to interfere with her service to her people.

It would be unforgivable. A queen must be above such things, even love, despite what is in the heart.

Clarisse reached for the basket of cuttings and moved to the next hole, locking away all thoughts of desire and love.

"You would think most people would be happy with a title, money, and influence, wouldn't you?" Elizabeth Connors asked.

Having just taken a bite of his steak, Joseph Coraza simply nodded.

"Just shows you that some just can't be satisfied."

"How's that?" he asked, reaching for his glass.

They met at a play earlier that evening, their seats next to each other. When she turned to him during the intermission and systematically decimated the playwright's understanding of the relationship between Queen Mary II and her sister, the future Queen Anne, he suggested they skip the rest of the play in favor of dinner. He was thoroughly enjoying her company; she was a history major, witty and intelligent, and pretty in an unconventional sort of way.

"Well," she said waving her fork threateningly over the salad without actually spearing anything, "we have all manner of parents at our school- I'm the assistant administrator at a private boarding school for girls- most wealthy and many titled."

"A school for girls? You are brave!" Coraza raised his water glass to her before drinking.

"Oh, the girls are wonderful- it's the parents that give us the most trouble. Some think their angel can't be failing math while others push the child so hard, the girl just can't measure up." The wind blew her blonde hair awry and she pushed it behind her ear impatiently. "One of our saddest situations is a father who's stopped supporting his daughters, two beautiful young ladies, because the eldest refuses to marry according to his wishes."

"That sounds…" It sounded like something his father would do.

"That sounds terrible, doesn't it? But, he's an example of what I was talking about- he's titled, a Duke from Switzerland- no, that small country on the edge of Switzerland, to the south…Cerneland, that's it! Anyway, we found out this week that he's stopped their tuition payments, even though he's well able to pay. It's apparently due to his displeasure over her disobeying him and his warped sense of what is means to be a father. He actually expects her to agree to an arranged marriage!"

"How old are they?" Coraza nearly held his breath.

"The youngest is seventeen; the oldest is nineteen, almost twenty- she's attending our college for young women sincethe campus is next to us. She refused to be separated from her sister." Elizabeth bit into a forkful of shrimp salad, unaware of the turmoil that was racing through her dinner companion's mind.

It was too much of a coincidence…the young ladies in question had to be his sisters. "What is the name of your school?" he asked casually.

"Covington School."

Coraza laid down his fork. Lucinda and Cassandra. He, of course, had never met or even seen his sisters, but from a distance, he kept up with the young women. He would not hesitate to get involved, the duke and his threats be damned.

"What will happen?"

"The older girl is of legal age, so she is free to come and go. There are scholarships available to the college, though not many are and already awarded for this year. I don't know what she will do. As close as they are, I can't imagine her leaving her sister. The younger girl is still a minor, so we assume her father will come for her." Elizabeth shook her head at the thought. "The girls have family here, but they tread lightly these days. Difficulties between the father and the girls' aunts, I think. Still, they might step in."

"Odd- he hasn't come for them or ordered them to leave?"

"No, but he's very unpredictable." She wiped her mouth. "Depressing talk on such a beautiful October evening! The salad was wonderful. Thank you so much for bringing me here."

"My pleasure. Would you care to walk a while, find a coffee shop?" There was nothing he could about the situation tonight, but tomorrow he would see to it.

"Sounds lovely! There's an art gallery five blocks from here- great stuff!"

"Not modern art, by chance, is it?" he asked, signaling the waiter for the bill.

"Heaven's no! Can't abide modern art- makes no sense at all!"

Coraza liked her even better than before.

Margaret Addington Howe smiled at the young woman sitting behind the impossibly clean desk. Her own, back at the mansion, had piles of paperwork for the various charities she was involved with. How could a person do any real work at an uncluttered desk? One had to keep the clutter somewhere or else it accumulated in one's brain.

"No, I don't mind waiting. Thank you, dear."

The Covington School and its adjacent college were small, but excellent schools. At least her brother, Morely Addington, had not squabbled about the school's expense. She quietly kept informed about how Morely was supporting Cassandra and Lucinda, and when the school told her that her brother had stopped payment, Margaret was livid.

Three years younger than her seventy-two year old brother, Margaret had learned a thing or two about dealing with him. One had to pick and choose when to fight or to compromise. She and Bettina's family had an understanding with Morely: he allowed them to take the girls during all holidays and school breaksand they, in turn, did not interfere in his concerns. In order to make the girl's lives as normal as possible, they invited her brother to their home on several occasions, but it had done more harm than good.

He'd not stepped foot in her home, or seen the girls, in two years.

Her brother's arranged marriage to Bettina, a lovely young girl at the time, was one Bettina's family soon came to regret. He was older than Bettina by many years, and unfortunately she died before him at a very early age, leaving their two young girls motherless with a louse of a father. Her brother thought that his title, the Duke of Thornfield, allowed him to order Cassandra to marry the son of that squat toad, Baron von Troken.

He was punishing the girls because Cassie refused. Cassie was of legal age, nearly twenty, but Luci was still her father's dependent. Margaret could not love the girls anymore than she did her own son Kent and she was determined that the dear child did not go back to her father.

The young woman at the desk pressed a button on the phone and spoke, barely loud enough for Margaret to hear. "Ma'am, the Duchess of Creshwell is here to see you."

Margaret laughed quietly- she was "Maggie" to everyone and even after forty years of marriage, "'The Duchess" sounded odd to her. She didn't have a snooty bone in her body. She stopped laughing as the secretary continued.

"Also, a Mr. Joseph Coraza is on line two. I will, ma'am." The young woman put the phone down and looked at Margaret. "She will be with you shortly, ma'am."

Joseph Coraza…Morely's son…her nephew.

Margaret looked to Elizabeth Connor's office- the door was half-open. From inside, she could hear the administrator talking, but not clearly enough to follow along. She bit her lip uncertainly then quickly decided.

Casually, but trying not to appear too casual, Margaret went to sit in the chair nearest the door then picked up a magazine lying nearby. Pretending to read, she strained to hear every word and prayed her husband didn't find out about her eavesdropping. If he did, she would never hear the end of it.

"Yes, I'd love to see you before you leave, Joseph! When would you like to meet? Sunday at five would be fine. You choose- some place where we can talk, walk around a bit. The museum café sounds perfect! There's a new exhibit on Vermeer in the loft gallery. I'll see you then!"

Margaret heard footsteps approaching and quickly buried her nose in the magazine, trying to act casual again.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Howe," Elizabeth Connors said. "I'm sorry you had to wait."

"Oh, good afternoon! I didn't hear you- I was so absorbed in this article. Fascinating." She had bluffed her way through worse, particularly while in her own girl's school, Margaret thought proudly. Despite the years, she hadn't lost her touch.

"One of our girls must have left that," Ms. Connors said, laughing, and then joked, "You enjoy the sport?"

"Goodness, yes! Why, my husband and I play it at home all the time," Margaret replied seriously.

Not surprised at anything these days, Elizabeth Connors didn't blink an eye as the gray-haired duchess laid aside the Paintball magazine she'd been reading upside down.

Elizabeth gestured to her office and smiled. "Please, come in, Mrs. Howe."

Sunday afternoon, Margaret found herself in the café sitting strategically behind a mass of potted palms waiting for her nephew to appear. Fearing Elizabeth Connors might recognize her, she'd worn a huge pair of green sunglasses and a big, flowery hat.

She felt like a spy.

A couple entered the café, but the lady wasn't Ms. Connors and Margaret let her thoughts drift where they may. She wondered if Joseph looked like Morely. She hoped not.

The waiter filled her coffee cup once more and she recalled her conversation with Elizabeth Connors. Someone had already paid the girls' tuition and it wasn't her brother, herself, or Bettina's family. She found the fact that Ms. Connors was seeing Joseph Coraza just when this occurred too much of a coincidence. It had to be him.

She glanced at her watch. Five-fifteen.

Somehow, he found out about the girls. He must have been keeping tabs on them all along, she decided. In turn, it was logical to assume he also knew of her. Should she contact him and offer to repay the girls' tuition? Both she and Bettina's family were more than financially able to see the girls through school without any difficulty, and Covington School was not cheap. He was a colonel in the army, but did it pay that well?

Her brother could be a very vindictive man and she would do nothing to bring his wrath down upon Joseph. If she contacted him and Morely found out, her brother might very well become angry and cause problems for him. Perhaps Morely would simply think she or Bettina's family paid the tuition; she would rather endureher brother's wrath, than Joseph having to.

Perhaps it was best to leave it be for that reason and also because it was the only way Joseph could care for his sisters…even if the girls did not know. Margaret understood the pain of being unable to recognize her own blood. What was it like for him, unacknowledged by the whole family? Margaret shook her head, the silk flowers flopping to and fro, and sighed.

A crowd of people entered the café and through gaps between the palms, Margaret searched for Elizabeth Connor's blonde head- and found it.

Margaret caught her breath. Beside Ms. Connors was a man…Joseph, her nephew.

Bobbing and weaving her head to see through the leaves, she watched as Joseph moved among the café tables. He was tanned and very good-looking, and moved self-assuredly and gracefully despite a very slight limp. He was well dressed, too; Margaret noted the leather jacket as one of Armani's designs. She nodded approvingly. Joseph showed little evidence of being Morely's son.

The couple came closer and closer to her until, to her alarm, they finally stopped at the table directly on the other side of the palms. Ms. Connors recognizing her would be disastrous!

Margaret slumped down, trying to make her less visible behind the menu.

"Does madam wish to order?" a voice droned from above.

Startled, she looked up at the waiter then ordered the first thing she saw. "Yes, please bring me a…a Little Artist Burger."

"Would madam prefer French fries or apple sauce?"

"Fries arefine," she said absently, trying to catch the couple's conversation. In their seats, Joseph- he'd helped Connors with her chair so was a gentleman, too- was discussing his return to Belgium.

"It also comes with milk…and a toy."

"Yes,of course," she replied, dismissing the waiter with a wave of her wrinkled hand. She was missing what her nephew was saying!

"Very good, madam. I'll return with your milk, shortly." The waiter finally took himself off, stopping at Joseph and Connor's table for their order.

While they were distracted by the waiter, Margaret took the opportunity to scoot her chair closer so that she might see and hear better, but cleverly kept the thickest part of the foliage between her and Ms. Connor.

Their order given, Joseph began, again.

"I'll be advising in the area of risk assessment and security arrangements," he explained.

"Not out in the field?" Elizabeth asked, surprised.

Joseph grimaced. After the fiasco in Brussels six months earlier, he decided that leading the charge was a job best left to younger men. It had taken over a month for his fractured nose to heal.

Nonetheless, at times he thought of that night and could not help but wonder about the woman he'd held in his arms as she fought him literally tooth and nail. There was no point in his asking her name and he'd never attempted to figure out which royal delegate she was since she was out of his reach.

But no matter how he tried, he found it impossible to forget her.

"For the most part, no."

"But the lesser part…."

"Well, once it's in your blood, it is hard to stay away," he conceded. "I'm sure I'll manage to be involved in a bit of the action now and then."

"How much longer will you be staying in the Army?"

"I'm not certain. I was told I'm being considered for general."

"Wonderful! Congratulations!"

"Thank you, but I don't really want it."

"No?"

He shook his head. "I'm not the office type and I've only stayed in the action by pulling in favors and sheer luck. With a star, I'd never get out from behind the desk."

She tilted her head, considering. "Good chance to make changes, though, a wider area of influence. I didn't think I'd ever like being out of the classroom, but being in an administrative position has its positives…although I must admit I sometimes miss teaching."

"True." He crossed his arms, settling back in the chair. "At any rate, I don't think I'll be selected- I'm not British."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Genovian."

"Oh! Genovia- the place famous for pears? A pretty country, is it?"

"I don't know. I left when I was six or seven and what I recall isn't the scenery." What he recalled was his grandmother's all-consuming grief and worry over his mother's disappearance and the hopeless poverty that pervaded every aspect of their lives.

"Do you still have family there?"

"No."

Her question seemed to have struck a nerve and Elizabeth deftly changed the subject.

"When I retire, and that won't be for a long while, I'd like to write about history- the lesser known rulers and historical events that had a big impact. It's a fascinating area of study. Have you given any thought to what you'll do…if you don't mind my asking?"

He smiled. "No, I don't mind. I'll probably stay in for a few more years, till the thirty-five year mark, and then retire. After that, most likely I will work as a security consultant- it's what I know."

The waiter brought their drinks and Joseph shook his head when offered cream and sugar for his coffee.

"Do you want to travel, or have you had enough of hotels, trains, and planes?" Elizabeth asked, stirring her tea.

He considered. There were places he'd yet to visit- Asia and the United States, in particular. "Yes, I'd like to take a few trips. I have friends in France I want to spend more time with, too."

Micha Tokrov and her husband and son were currently living in Paris and Joseph had visited their home. Her husband was a very decent fellow, and Joseph liked him despite not wanting to. Micha, of course, had invited every unmarried female in Paris, or so it seemed, to stop by during his three days there.

Her husband was the one who had finally persuaded Micha to let Joseph enjoy his visit without having women constantly hanging about. Extremely thoughtful of her husband, Joseph had to admit, given his and Micha's past. But then, Micha and the count's marriage was one of trust and love. It was a stark reminder of what he'd never had.

He later spent a week with the Helmars and could swear Maria scoured northern France for every female Micha missed and invited them over for a breakfast, luncheon, dinner, tea, snack, picnice...any excuse to throw an eligible female at him. Admittedly, Maria was on a crusade to get him married.

Despite her matchmaking, he always enjoyed spending time with the two families- they were the closest thing he had to family of his own.

Marcus' two boys were nearly out of school; one was considering the military, the other considering a career in medicine. Julia, Maria's daughter and his godchild, was nearly fourteen now and showing promise of her mother's great beauty. She called him just a week before to tell him of her dance recital and audition for a local ballet company, and to beg her Uncle Joseph to come for another visit. To entice him, Julia said her mother planned to set him up with another of her single friends.

Giggling, she reminded him not to forget his promise to her. At age ten, Juliadeclared that she had decided to marry him when she was old enough; therefore, he could not marry anyone else.

He assured her she would always have his heart.

The way his life was going, Joseph thought wryly, when she was grown he would still be available.

The waiter returned with their order.

Too nervous to eat, Margaret picked at the hamburger and fries on the teddy bear-shaped plate before her. She should have gotten the applesauce. Ms. Connor was telling about a childhood adventure in South Africa, so Margaret's mind wandered over what she'd already heard. More than ever, she wished she could meet her nephew. He was, in all respects, a very fine man.

Pushing the food aside, the toy caught her eye and she looked at it, curious. What on earth was it? There was a foam ring, marked to look like a UFO, and another piece with a lever. Ms. Connor started a new story about her grandmother's run-in with a band of gypsies, so Margaret picked the toy up and put the UFO in the slot. She pulled the lever back…. then let go. The disk whizzed up and over the palms.There was a cry of surprise.

"My word! Where did that come from?"

"The other side of these plants. Probably a child playing with his toy," replied Joseph.

Through the leaves, Margaret saw the UFO sitting squarely in the middle of his plate. She heard his chair slide back. Mortified, she quickly grabbed the menu and hid behind it, leaving nothing showing but her rose-bedecked yellow hat.

"Pardon me, but is this…"

Peering above the menu, Margaret saw Joseph look around for a child. He returned his gaze to her and quickly continued, "…yours?"

The old Addington bravado that had gotten her out of several scrapes, and into even more, kicked in and Margaret lowered the menu and smiled sweetly.

"Why, yes, it is. Thank you, very much. I'm terribly sorry- it works rather well, doesn't it?" she replied, taking the disc as if accepting a priceless relic from the British Treasury.

Her eyes met his and she could not help but stare. Even through her sunglasses, she could tell he had the Addingtons' blue eyes.

He was a handsome rascal.

"Yes, it does- good height, nice, steady flight path," Joseph said, chuckling. He bowed slightly. "Good day, and I hope you enjoy your…flying saucer, ma'am."

He returned to his seat and Margaret's pink face wrinkled in a huge smile. Joseph Coraza was delightful!

As she dropped the toy in her purse, Margaret promised herself that one day before she kicked the bucket, she would meet him openly as family- her fool of a brother be damned.

Within the study of the ancestral Addington home, an imposing pile of gray stone set at the foot of the Alps in southern Cerneland, the thirteenth Duke of Thornfield drained the last of the whiskey from his glass and waved to his servant for another. The man hurried to take his glass and refill it.

"Where the devil is Minton?" Addington growled. He snatched the glass from the silver platter and took a big swallow. "I'll fire him if he doesn't get back with that information tonight!"

The servant looked nervously at the duke, then moved away. When his employer became angry, anyone nearby would feel the brunt of it.

The duke stared morosely into his glass watching the liquid swirl as his hand shook.

Someone had dared to cross him.

His two daughters should have been calling home begging for his help and support, the elder girl promising to bend to his wishes. But nothing of the kind had happened. They were still at that school.

Addington wanted to know who had dared to take him on.

There was the sound of a door closing and footsteps in the hallway. Addington looked up as a harried man rushed into the room.

"Your Grace! Please forgive my lateness! There was a matter of-"

"I don't care to hear your excuses!" the duke barked. "I pay you to do a job on time, not show up here behind schedule with feeble explanations!"

"Yes, Your Grace," Minton quickly agreed. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do.

"Well, get on with it," the duke said impatiently. "What did you find out?"

Minton looked around, not daring to take a seat unbidden yet needing to retrieve papers from his briefcase. He gestured cautiously to a nearby couch. "Sir, might I…?"

"Yes, yes. Sit down and stop wasting my time."

Minton quickly sat and opened his case on his knees. Drawing out a paper, he handed it to the duke before beginning his report.

"The Misses Addington's school tuition was paid in full by an unknown benefactor," the lawyer began hesitantly, watching the duke carefully for any dangerous reaction. The last time Minton delivered bad news,a brandy glass sailed past his head.

"Unknown!" the duke thundered, rising to his feet. "What do you mean unknown?"

"That is, no name is listed as having made payment," Minton explained, then hurried to add, "But, I was able to trace the payment back to the originating bank."

Somewhat mollified, the duke nodded. "All right, that's not much, but better than nothing." He reached for his glass and took another healthy swallow.

"The bank is not one that your sister or the late Mrs. Addington's family uses, but one that caters primarily to military patrons, Your Grace."

Addington nearly choked on his whiskey. The glass flew across the room, this time toward the fireplace, not Minton.

For a full minute, the duke said nothing, but stood, hands clenched into fists, his face contorted in rage. Neither Minton nor the duke's footman dared move. Finally, the duke turned to his lawyer.

"Leave!"

Minton clutched his open briefcase to his chest and scurried away. By the far wall, the footman tried to melt into the paneling.

"Get out!" Addington said. The footman took that to mean him, and fled.

Without bothering to get another glass, Addington took the bottle with him back to his chair.

Coraza! It had to be Coraza.

In the ten years since he met him, the duke had kept apprised of Coraza's career and was surprised the man made it thus far. The colonel was on the list for consideration as general officer.

"Over my dead body," the duke ground out, slamming the bottle on the table beside him. He had plenty of influence and it would only take a couple of calls to high-ranking officials, the right words spoken in threat, to block any promotion.

There was dirt to be found on everyone, if you knew where to dig… and Morely Addington wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

Oh my! The duke is one nasty fellow, isn't he?

I have a confession- I was so excited writing about Clarisse whupping up on Joseph in the last chapter, I left out about four paragraphs, so had to make up this chapter to work in the information in! A blessing, though, since it allowed me to meet Joseph's slightly addled aunt Margaret. I think there's a bit of me in her...minus the wrinkles, of course!

One more chapter to go....