Chapter Six
Tea and Sympathy – A Meeting – Unexpected Developments – DCI Lestrade – Best for the Best – No Mercy – Like Father, Like Son.
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Allowing herself to be drawn over to a small table with chairs at one side of the main hall, just like several dozen other small tables where conversations between teachers and parents were already underway, Cate was puzzled but not yet alarmed. The twins were not doing well? But that made absolutely no sense at all. Both their report cards contained nothing but 'A's across the board; their attendance was exemplary and she knew that, even though they had their sarcastic moments, they would be at least as polite as any of the other students. Nor had she been advised that her children were anything other than sociable or willing to help at school events, though their assistance was usually behind the scenes or, in Jules' case, in the painting of the scenes. Thus, to be told something was seriously wrong waved a number of concerning flags, but not yet red ones.
"What on earth are you trying to tell me, Leonora?" Cate sank into a chair, her eyes never leaving the older woman's face.
"Exactly as I said, my dear," Doctor Costigan sat down opposite, sighed, and shook her head. "Neither of your two are learning anything much at all from us, and I have no reason to believe the situation will change in the foreseeable future."
"But why?" Cate felt her mind whirling as it sought any possible reason or rationale for such a problem.
"Because they have already learned everything this school can give them," Leonora lifted her eyebrows and smiled, a little sadly. "They were far beyond their years when they arrived; I think we all knew that, but they were so precocious and special that we, that is to say, I, had hoped we could at least keep their minds busy and productive," the woman shook her head again, more slowly this time. "But to keep them here now would be more than a waste," she met Cate's troubled gaze. "They need a much more demanding intellectual regimen. They should be at university."
"University? They're barely fourteen."
Shrugging lightly, Leonora Costigan produced a small USB, pushing it across the table. "Here's a list of every school and university in Europe which run special programs for especially gifted and advanced students," she said. "It's not a terribly long list, and some of them may already have students in them as young as your two, but for the childrens' sake, you really do need to consider enrolling them in something far more demanding than a secondary education level, no matter how good the school might be," Costigan sighed again. "It's been lovely having them here, and I wish we had the wherewithal to keep them learning, but we simply don't," she said. "My recommendation is that they stay on until the end of this term, at which point they should be encouraged to enter a more suitable learning environment, which offers them a real chance to learn and grow, and to develop those wonderful brains of theirs at a pace and to the depth they both should have."
Cate felt all the energy had just been sucked from her entire body. How had she missed this? "Has any damage been done, do you think?" she wondered. "Neither of them have really complained about anything, you know," she said, thinking back over the last several months.
"And they certainly should have been," Leonora was nodding now. "They're simply too well-mannered to make a fuss, but I'm almost certain they've been adding to the standard academic schedule with their own extra-curricular projects, simply to keep themselves amused."
"I've never heard them complain about being bored," Cate thought some more, "but then, they've almost always got their heads in a book or an experiment or some sort of activity ..." she paused, realising this was precisely what the tutor was saying.
It was a lot to take in.
"Very well," Cate smiled, persuaded, though still a little staggered. "I'll speak to Mycroft tonight and we'll look at the options you've given us," she examined the USB before dropping it into her coat pocket. "If you would say nothing to anyone until we've had an opportunity to discuss this with Blythe and Jules and see what they want to do, that would be most helpful."
"Of course, my dear," Leonora Costigan smiled again, relieved that she hadn't been called upon to be any more persuasive than necessary. Some parents were not terribly interested in discovering their children needed to be moved into a different place of learning; for some, it was all just a bit too much effort. "Now, shall we have some tea?"
###
Blythe felt a chill wave wash over her. Being caught with Landry was bad enough, but being caught with Landry by his father was not something she'd planned to have happen tonight.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Devereux," she smiled politely, offering him her hand. "Landry and I are in the same class for several subjects."
The older man smiled, though it was more white teeth and the general impression of smiling. There was little about the act that made her feel smiled-at.
"Miss Holmes," he shook her hand, apparently he already knew of her. "How nice to meet you finally; Landry has told me so much about you."
Landry rolled his eyes.
"I must be going," Blythe paused briefly, then offered a circumspect smile. "I'm here with my parents and they'll expect me to be around," she turned. "Goodbye, Landry," she said. "I doubt I'll be seeing you for a while."
"But wait, Bly," Landry turned with her as she headed for the door. "You can't mean to leave things just like that?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "You should at least tell me about the situation so we can look at this like adults."
She had no wish to engage in any serious level of private conversation with James Devereux in the room; she paused again, looking directly into Landry's eyes, seeing the shadows of many unspoken things. "Friday afternoon, then," she said, softly. "After lunch, before I go home. I'll meet you here."
And she was gone.
###
Mycroft rejoined Cate just as she was accompanying Jules into one of the large art-studios the school boasted. Though many of the nation's political and religious leaders had attended Westminster, what was not so well known a fact was that also had a number of Britain's finest contemporary painters. The Arts were well espoused at this school, one of the reasons that, despite its religious underpinnings, Cate had been happy for the twins to enrol here in the first place; she had wanted to ensure they did not neglect the Humanities for the Sciences.
Jules had blossomed, or, at least, his artistic leanings had.
Their son had apparently taken to the creative arts in much the same way as his mother, and they were on their way to see his latest portfolio for themselves; he rarely brought any work home these days and Cate had wondered why.
Opening the wide double-doors, Jules looked unusually self-conscious, as if he hadn't really expected both of his parents to be so interested.
"So where is your work?" Cate looked around the walls and the various student display boards scattered across the room. A very dark piece standing on an easel near the centre of the large studio caught her eye; like the night sky, staring out into space. The abstract nature of the oil on canvas made her want to stare into the vortex and ponder the infinite. Whoever painted this knew exactly what they were doing.
"You like it?" Jules sounded questioning but not overly optimistic.
"This is yours?" Mycroft assessed the expression on his son's face before turning his eyes back to the painting.
"This is very good, sweetheart," Cate hadn't taken her eyes away from the thing. It kept drawing her in, making her wonder where the lights went when they had faded from the view of the audience. The sense of perspective was extraordinary. "Really, very good."
Julius grinned, pleased. "Now you see why I'd like as much decent light in the attic if I can get to live up there," he said. "I like working with a dark palette but you can't see the dark unless you have the right amount of light."
A truism that might be applied to any number of things, Mycroft realised, though Jules had probably not intended it as such.
"What else have you done, my love?" Cate wanted to see it all now; her boy had a distinct eye and she wanted to see what else he'd got to show them. If it was anything like this initial piece, then the Holmes family might be welcoming its first professional artist.
There were several other pieces, but the one that grabbed Mycroft in an almost visceral way was a life-size, charcoal-and-chalk drawing of the side-view of an unknown sitter. Only the neck, shoulder and side down to the hip had been depicted, but the strength of the drawing, as well as the three-dimensional solidity of the thing made it feel as if he could reach out and physically seize hold of the form. As before, this was a very dark but uncannily seductive vision and was easily as good as anything his mother had produced.
"If this is what you eventually decide to pursue as a career, Jules," Mycroft wondered if his son would allow him to hang the drawing in his office. "Know that you will have the support of both of us," he said, laying the fingers of one hand on Cate's shoulder. "This is truly excellent work."
"Maybe," Julius shrugged. "There's so many things that interest me right now, I'm not really sure which way to go."
"There's no rush," Mycroft smiled, his gaze meeting a pair of hazel eyes almost at the same level as his. "You have years yet to consider your future."
The sudden tension of Cate's shoulder beneath his touch was fractional but obvious and Mycroft looked at her inquiringly.
"Later," she said, quietly, the smallest shake of her head making it clear that whatever she had to say was for his ears alone. He squeezed her shoulder gently. Message received.
"Where's Blythe?" Cate was already headed towards the studio door. "I need to make sure we see anything she wants us to see before we leave this evening."
"Last I saw, she was heading down to the ..." Jules halted his words as he realised that his sister's destination might not be the one their father would have preferred her to take.
Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft said nothing, but the question was clear enough.
"Towards the, ah ..." Jules paused, fixing his eyes on the doorway.
"So here you are," Blythe grinned, hanging onto the doorframe and looking between them all. "I go to the loo and find you've all vanished when I get back to the main hall. I wanted you to see something of mine too, now that Jules has bored you all into a coma with his daubs."
"Daubs," Jules' tone was withering as he watched Blythe's expression. He knew damn well where she'd gone and why, yet despite the painfully obvious fact she possessed no artistic appreciation whatsoever, her secret was safe with him.
Taking her father's hand, Blythe led the small family group along a brief maze of old corridors and past an apparently infinite number of classroom doors, before pushing one open and ushering them all inside. It was a straightforward classroom, with a number of round tables scattered throughout, each serving as a hub for several chairs. A series of three enormous whiteboards stretched across the longest wall.
Ensuring all the lights were on, Blythe took Mycroft's hand again and pulled him towards the centre panel. A large section of the shiny white board had been carefully masked off with a sheet of drawing paper and bits of sellotape.
"Are you ready?" she asked, grinning up at him in exactly the same way her mother did when she was about to reveal something incredibly exciting.
"Fire away," Mycroft smiled, his daughter's enthusiasm infectious. Jules grinned; he knew what was coming.
With great theatrical flair, Blythe pulled the concealing paper away. "Et, voila!" she announced, pointing towards several lines of numbers and equations written neatly on the board at eye-level.
Stepping forward, both parents examined the simple black lettering.
To Cate, this was far too complex for her long-confessed numeric limitations. Getting essential arithmetic to go the way she wanted it to go was about as good as she would ever be for her, and she knew it. But it didn't stop her from appreciating the elegance of the deceptively simply lines of intricate mathematics, beautifully and almost lovingly scribed on the board.
Though delving deep into theoretical math had not been on his agenda for a number of years now, Mycroft was easily able to recognise these quadratic algorithms as being significantly advanced, far too advanced in fact, for even someone as bright as Blythe so obviously was. As he studied the foundation of the problem, he recognised prime numbers and clusters ... number theory that was on the edge of familiarity. Where had he seen this before? He racked his brain.
"This is Landau's Second Problem," he breathed, nonplussed. "The twin-prime conjecture."
"I haven't got it anywhere near right yet," Blythe admitted, pointing to the several question marks at the end of the last two equations. "But every time I have another go at it, I seem to be making tiny steps forward. Do you like it? The name of the problem attracted me. I did it for you both," she smiled, linking her arms into those of her parents.
"You and your sums," Jules hadn't forgiven her the earlier assessment of his paintings.
"I have only an idea of how clever this is," Cate hugged her daughter to her side. "So you'll have to tell me, darlings. This looks horribly difficult stuff and I'm not sure whether I should be amazed or shocked."
"I feel the former adjective is merited rather more than the latter," Mycroft took a deep breath and stood back from the whiteboard. "Though truthfully, I'm not quite sure which is the most apposite."
"Well, since it's not yet finished, it's all moot, in any case," Blythe grabbed an eraser and with a single swipe, dispatched the bulk of the details into oblivion.
Though he knew she would have the details carefully husbanded in her memory, such a brutal act of erasure made Mycroft catch his breath. He was still stunned at the fact of his daughter's ability, now doubly-so at her pragmatism. It was all a little much to take in.
"Home then, clan," Cate shepherded her brood towards the door, reaching back to catch Mycroft's hand as he stood, still staring at the blank space on the whiteboard where ghostly equations hovered before his eyes. "Come, my love; we have things to discuss," she said, pulling him unresistingly after her.
###
"So let me get this straight," Greg Lestrade rubbed a tired hand across his face. Only a handful of years left before retirement, and the DCI was still amazed that he could still be amazed at the requests thrown at his head by the consulting detective. "You want me to authorise you to access any and all police records on this guy Devereux, not only in Britain, but also via Interpol, with the option of tapping into both the South African and Australian criminal records databases?" he paused. "Why?"
"We can't really tell you," John winced slightly, knowing that to ask such blind faith even of their old friend, was unfair in the extreme.
"Devereux is trying to get Mycroft out of the way in order to stop my brother interfering with something underhand, but your summary, though vague, more or less covers the situation, Chief Inspector, yes," Sherlock nodded and continued sipping his tea, as if asking for private access to international criminal records was a mundane matter that ranked on par with buying an evening newspaper.
"And we need access in such a way that Mycroft cannot possibly get wind of any of it," John added, frowning at the younger Holmes. They'd promised Mycroft not to breathe a word of this beyond the three of them. He sat back in his aged and comfortable armchair. "It's critical we keep him out of this."
"Right, so, hang on then," Lestrade put his cup down and gathered his wits about him. "So then, right ... so not only are you expecting me to get you unauthorised access to some of the most sensitive databanks in the world, but you expect me to somehow accomplish this miracle without triggering any of the alarm bells or warning flags littered throughout all of these systems for exactly the purpose of alerting people at the top of any unauthorised intrusion?" Greg looked at the faces of both men staring at him to be quite sure this was, in fact, the general expectation and that he hadn't got everything confused with, oh, maybe the end of days, or something.
"And by 'at the top', I'm actually meaning your brother, one of the cleverest individuals in any of the British security services, who probably designed every single one of these alarm bells and bright red wavy flags?"
"No need to get into a flap, Lestrade. All you have to do is authorise my entry into the local system," Sherlock sighed and looked jaded. "I can manage everything from that point on, and you need have no worries that I shall be able to circumvent all the necessary security protocols in order to achieve our objective. It doesn't matter who designed them; our goal is critical."
"Which is what, precisely?" Greg knew that if he did this and any of it came out, his retirement would be a lot sooner than later.
"We, ah, we really can't tell you," John spoke now with quite some hesitation. "But it's something of critical national importance and if we don't find out some way to locate and neutralise this chap, then it's all going to hit the fan and ... well ..."
"The Queen is being blackmailed and Mycroft thinks he can solve this internally within his department and office," Sherlock announced. "Which he cannot, of course, but you know my brother, Lestrade; always too conceited to appreciate his own failings."
Something that both brothers shared, Greg stared across at John.
"This true?" he asked. "Are the royals involved?"
Taking a moment to scowl blackly at his friend, John looked back at the silver-haired man and nodded, reluctantly. "Yeah," he said. "It's all true."
And Mycroft would have their collective arses in the clink before they could count to ten if he ever discovered what they were doing.
"So your brother has told you to leave off; that he has everything under control, despite which, you're still going to go ahead and do your thing anyway?"
Sipping his tea, Sherlock smiled politely. "Your point being?"
"Someone's trying to get Mycroft made into a baron, if that's any help," John emptied his cup and tried a bit of levity. "Play your cards right and they'll make you a Superintendent at the very least."
"They offered me Super five years ago," Lestrade smiled easily. "I didn't want it then and I don't want it now, though if I had taken it, at least I wouldn't be in this sort of a mess anymore."
"And what sort of a mess is this, then, Chief Inspector?" Sherlock's eyes watched the older man carefully. It sounded very much as if ... ah. He smiled into his cup.
"The sort of mess where you just know I'm going to get you exactly what you want because I cannot bear the idea of what might happen if I didn't," Greg sat back and puffed out his cheeks in principled defeat. "But I suppose I should be asking you who's blackmailing Her Majesty and what it's all about," his tone was uneasy. The minute he knew something factual, he was bound by both law and his own personal sense of ethics to act upon it.
John looked agonised. "We really can't ..." he shook his head, turning his eyes to Sherlock, warningly.
Who sighed, theatrically. "No, apparently, we can't," he grumbled.
"Well, thank Christ for that," Greg finished his tea.
###
It wasn't really all that late when his temporary family returned from the school. Despite Cate's recommendation that he prepare nothing in the way of supper, Jack had found himself at something of a loose end, unable to relax until he'd spoken personally with Mr Holmes about the incident in Fortnum and Masons earlier in the day. He had no wish to stay in this house with such a remarkable group of people under any but the most straightforward of circumstances. Meeting everyone in the hall, he assisted Cate and Blythe with their coats, before announcing that a light supper in the kitchen awaited anyone who was interested. Both twins grinned and dashed off.
"I've also made some tea, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... Cate," he said. "There was a new blend of Earl Grey that I've wanted to test for some time," he added. "Would you and Mr Holmes care for a cup?"
"Actually, that would be lovely," Cate patted his arm. "I'll just change my shoes and then I'll be down. It's very thoughtful of you."
Putting Mycroft's coat on a hanger and placing it inside one of the hallway cupboards, Jack caught his employer's eye. "Might I have a brief word, sir?" he asked.
"Of course," Mycroft indicated the door to his office, his brow creasing at the unmistakable note of concern in the younger man's voice. "Is there a problem?" Unsure where to begin, Mycroft indicated a chair. "Sit down, there's a good chap," he said. "It can't be that bad, surely? Though if you've done damage to any of my wife's best porcelain, you may have to weather that particular storm by yourself."
"I saw my father this morning when I was out shopping with the children," Jack rushed the words out. "He's back in London and neither of us expected him to be, so I thought I should tell you and then pack my case and go."
"Go? Why go?" Mycroft sat himself at his desk. "Did your father see you?"
"I don't think so," Jack Parrish shook his head as he thought back. "He was in conversation with a police officer and had his back to us the entire time, but sir ..." the tall blond looked up, clearly uncomfortable. "You made it clear when you hired me that it wasn't just for my butlering skills that you wanted me here, though, to be honest, you did say your family was increasingly in need of assistance with the household management ..."
"A fact which has not changed in the least, Jack," Mycroft linked his fingers before him on the desk. "Here for only a matter of hours and I am already able to see the differences you have been able to make for us, no no," he lifted a hand and shook his head. "You cannot possibly think of leaving just yet. Now that you've alerted me to your father's presence in London, I shall take steps accordingly, but you must not think of leaving on that basis alone," he paused, meeting the blond's grey eyes. "Unless there were some other reason you wished to leave? Something to do with the children, perhaps?"
"No," Jack grinned and looked down at his hands. "Your family is refreshingly direct and approachable, though the young ones can be a little overwhelming both together."
"They seem to like you, which I take as a recommendation," Mycroft sounded amused. "Though you may find their admiration to be a heavy responsibility at times," he smiled fleetingly. "I realise more clearly after tonight, that my children are exceptional individuals who will accept only the best from themselves and those around them," he raised his eyebrows, his sight inwardly directed. "The best for the best," he looked somewhat pensive.
"Then, if you're sure it's alright for me to continue here for a while longer, sir, I'll be glad and happy to do so," Jack stood, a weight clearly gone from his shoulders.
"Delighted to hear it," Mycroft stood also. "Now did you say something about tea?"
###
It was late. Jack had finally been persuaded to leave the kitchen for the night, and the twins had long gone to their beds. The house was silent and Cate sat up in bed with her arms folded, watching Mycroft as he prepared himself for sleep.
"And so, Leonora recommended we send them to an advanced learner's program at a university," she finished. "She gave me a list of every school in Europe who ran such a thing, though she said the list wasn't all that long."
Mycroft was in the bathroom. It sounded like he was shaving.
"Do you have an early meeting?" Cate wondered out loud. It wasn't something he usually did at night unless he had to leave very early in the morning.
"Not tomorrow," he called back, the sound of water running as he cleaned his teeth.
"So, what do you think?" she asked, as the sounds of her husband's ablutions ended. "About Leonora Costigan's suggestion?"
"Not terribly surprised," swinging his pyjama jacket over his head until both arms slid into the sleeves, Mycroft walked around the bed to his side, pulling the pillows up against the headboard and rummaging around for his reading glasses. "It's what Sherlock and I did, after all."
Cate was surprised. This was the first she'd heard of the event.
"You and Sherlock entered university before you were eighteen?" she asked, fascinated. "Why did you never tell me?"
"It wasn't of any great importance," Mycroft peered at her over the tops of the small black frames. "I was accepted into Magdalene College at Oxford just after my fifteenth birthday, and Sherlock entered Corpus Christi about a month after his sixteenth. He was supposed to go to Balliol, but his interview didn't go terribly well, as I recall."
Cate felt all sorts of emotions swirl around her head. She had known from the very start of her relationship with Mycroft that the intellect of both brothers was frighteningly high, shockingly so, at times. But she'd had no idea that it had made itself so obvious at so young an age.
"My darling wife," Mycroft smiled down at her. "Your children are brilliantly clever individuals; did you not imagine this might happen?"
It hadn't. Not really.
"I knew they are very advanced and all their tests and exams and all the behavioural stuff has always pointed to them both being exceptional," she said, evenly. "But I never imagined that it ... that this ... would be so soon," she paused. "They're too young to go to university."
Dropping the report he was skimming, Mycroft removed his glasses and rolled over towards her. "I was only a year older."
"You were never that young," she smiled at him a little wistfully, pushing a curl of hair back from his forehead. "We've already agreed you went directly from your childhood to your early twenties."
Sliding a long arm around her shoulders, Mycroft pulled her towards him, rolling until she was entirely on top of him so he could loop both arms around her as she stared down into his face.
"I already know the names of every university on the Costigan woman's list," he murmured, his eyes smiling at her. "And I think I know just the place for them both to go."
"Bloody Oxford, I suppose," Cate muttered. "You've never stopped telling me how much better the place is than Cambridge," she stroked the line of his mouth and the smoothness of his face after the recent shave.
"Not Oxford," he smiled, pleased, leaning up to touch her lips with his own. "Nor even Cambridge."
"Then where?" taking a deep breath, Cate rolled them both the other way, until he was lying on top of her. A giggle broke free as the air was squashed from her lungs. "Tell me, O Oracle of All Knowledge."
Tightening his arms around her back, Mycroft nuzzled the side of her neck, finding the soft lobe of her ear, tugging it gently between his lips. "Guess," he smiled against her velvety skin.
"I have no intention of guessing anything," Cate curved away until she could meet his eyes again. "Tell me what you have in mind."
"I have many things in my mind," Mycroft murmured, nibbling down the column of her throat.
"You know that's not what I'm asking," she sighed and closed her eyes as his lips followed the line of her jaw, pressing soft kisses until he returned to her ear. Which tickled. She giggled again. "Be serious."
"I am being perfectly serious ..." she felt his body tense just before he rolled them both to where they were before, with Cate back on top. "But if you'd rather not talk about the twins' future at this precise minute, I can think of more productive things we might discuss," his arms tightened hard about her, eliciting a gust of quiet laughter as she squirmed around until she got comfortable. It took quite a bit of wriggling.
"You did that on purpose," his voice was barely audible as he brought one hand up to slide through the silky thickness of her hair. The other reached down between them until he found the hem of her nightdress.
"I thought you wanted a productive discussion?" she whispered, wriggling some more until she heard the breath hiss between his teeth. "Tell me."
"You'll never be able to break me, you know," there was laughter and desire in his voice as Mycroft drew her closer, his free hand already roaming over the smooth skin of her hip and lower back. "I've been trained by experts."
"Tell me or I'll be forced to keep squirming about and I know how much you like me doing that," she laughed, matching her words to the deed.
Mycroft groaned. This was hardly sporting.
"I do hope you're not planning to use this method of persuasion in future negotiations," his breathing seized as she moved ... just so ... a sensuous heaviness in his loins pulsing pleasure outwards to every part of his body. "I may cave in embarrassingly swiftly," he sighed as the last of his pyjama buttons parted way.
"Tell me, or there'll be absolutely no mercy for you," Cate's voice was husky with her own desire as she stroked his chest with her fingertips.
"With you as their mother, you worry about how the twins will cope?" Mycroft's gravelly laughter morphed into a deep groan as Cate was true to her threat.
"Show some charity," he gasped as his wife's caresses threatened to overload his ability to think of anything at all.
"Then tell me," she whispered.
"Oh, very well," Mycroft pushed back up and murmured three words in her ear.
Cate stopped all movement, the expression on her face one of moderate astonishment. Thoughts flung themselves through her brain as she realised, once again, that he was miles ahead of her.
"You knew we'd be having this talk tonight, didn't you?" she leaned forward, capturing his gaze which was extremely blue and laughing.
"I suspected the possibility," he blinked solemnly.
"Hence the shave?" she raised a suspicious eyebrow.
"An integral element of my eventual capitulation and ultimate defeat at your hands." The corner of his mouth twitched.
"So I wouldn't be uncomfortable when I interrogated you," Cate widened her eyes. "Oh, you are in such deep water right now," she laughed. "Prepare for unspeakable suffering."
Closing his eyes, a broad smile on his face, Mycroft Holmes willingly sacrificed his all.
###
Landry Banister was a boarder at Westminster, which meant he only returned to the care and supervision of his mother in Sussex at weekends, which was just the way he liked things, but as soon as he reached his majority, he'd probably never go back.
Being a boarder had certain advantages.
He didn't hate his mother; on the contrary, she was a reasonably normal person who had long since allowed him to go pretty much his own way. Not much she could have done about it anyway, he thought, smiling to himself. Not only that, but the income generated by his mother's expertise in managing horses and even more importantly, in managing the horses' owners, paid for him to have a decent education and to explore a variety of interests. No, he didn't hate her.
Neither did he care for her overmuch.
When she had thrown his father out the last time after his return from Australia following an admittedly disastrous speculation project, there had been an almighty row, though it hadn't been the first time his parents had almost come to blows. There had been an uneasy truce between the two of them almost for as long as he could remember. She'd even gone back to using her maiden name of Banister after Devereux became too synonymous with financial scandal. Why they hadn't divorced years ago, he couldn't imagine, except that she was the only one really bringing any money into the family while his father gambled in venture capital. His parents were in equal part-ownership of the freehold of the Sussex stables and farm, neither being able to sell unless the other agreed. He was confident his father had wanted to use the farm as collateral on many occasions, and equally as confident that his mother would never have permitted it. So Devereux had taken off, spending the vast majority of his time these days, overseas.
Which meant that he saw his father only infrequently, probably a good thing too, as it gave him the best of both worlds; financial support and relative freedom from any parental oversight.
On the rare times that James Devereux was in London, he made a point of catching up with the youngest member of his family. Though Landry had little affection for his father's poor business choices, his life was always so exciting, involving world-travel and access to all sorts of fascinating opportunities. This last trip of his to Sydney had been both particularly attractive and particularly ruinous. Landry had begged to be taken along so he might study some of the indigenous cave-paintings first hand.
Though that particular trip had not eventuated, certain promises had been made and Landry was determined to see those promises fulfilled. So determined, in fact, that when his father had told him to make friends with the Holmes twins, he had done so without any great demur or the need to ask probing questions. His father usually had a reason for these kinds of requests.
Julius Holmes wasn't all that interesting; always off doing something weird or stupid, like observing rainfall patterns or drawing engine schematics, but his sister ...
Blythe Holmes, Landry had to admit, was not difficult at all to look at. Despite her being a little on the young side for his personal tastes, she was already the right kind of shape ... and those eyes. Deep blue, like the shadows of an underwater cavern. He wondered what those eyes would look like right after she'd been kissed.
He'd worked out the easiest way to get Blythe's attention was through their shared fascination with historical documents and ancient languages, and he'd made sure he was in possession of the book he'd overheard her talking about. After that, it had been a simply matter to engage her in conversation and gradually build up to the point where holding her hand on the way to class one day, seemed a natural development.
But now there was a problem. Now her father had told her to stop seeing him, to have no contact with him at all, in fact, though Blythe had said she didn't know why. As she was always so trustingly honest, he had no reason to doubt what she said.
Being a boarder had certain advantages, including the ability to entertain guests in his room, though all members of the opposite sex had to be out of residence by eight at night.
He had a guest in his room now, in fact, though not one who was likely to be thrown out anytime soon.
"So you're seeing Blythe Holmes again on Friday afternoon, eh?"
Landry nodded. "I'm going to bring her back here, I think," he smiled, knowingly.
His guest frown slightly, before a very different expression covered his features. "Why not take her to Sussex to meet your mother?"
"You think she'd come?"
"I'm sure she can be convinced," James Devereux smiled just as deliberately as his son.