A/N: Here we go. Baby steps as I wrap up the other story I've been writing for months in preparation to returning to my favorite world, that of Laura and Mr. Steele.
CHAPTER 19
If that twitching brow had been a sign of trouble to come, that Laura suggested they have a bit of breakfast and dress before having that 'talk' was as good as a marquee blinking 'Disaster Ahead!'
A warning her first words had confirmed, as she placed their empty plates on the tray and announced…
"We need to bring Murphy in on this."
Coming as far afield as it had, he had been rendered temporarily dumbstruck. Slack-jawed, he gave his head a hard, quick shake, convinced he must have heard her wrong. Then he'd seen the look upon her face as she'd straightened and he launched himself to his feet – aches be damned – to protest.
"No, Laura, no," he adamantly, refused, then strode agitatedly halfway across the room into the bedroom area.
"Just listen to me!" she replied, stridently. "Outside of us, there is no one I trust more to get the job done and—"
"All while looking upon me with that veiled look of suspicion and trying to convince you that you'd be better off without me!" he reminded. He shoved his hands in his pockets and averted his face, mumbling, indignantly, "I'd stand a better chance against a bullet." She huffed an exasperated breath.
"You're being a bit overdramatic, don't you think?" she offered, in a tone suggesting he was being ridiculous. "I.." she emphasized with a hand to her chest "…think I made myself pretty clear in New York? Am I mistaken?"
"Well, no," he conceded reluctantly, "But—"
"And I'll make myself clear again, if it's necessary," she cut him off. "The point, Mr. Steele, is we need someone on this who can move around London freely while we can't. Someone who can lie to Inspector Lombard as smoothly as we can, should the occasion call. Someone adept at hiding the fact Remington Steele, the man, didn't exist until 1982. Someone who can work with Mildred in LA, using our resources, which are otherwise not at our disposal unless we want to lead The Yard to our front door." Pulling a hand from his pocket, he drew it through his hair. She'd made an irrefutable point, but Michaels?
"But Michaels, Laura…" he protested, aloud.
"By all means, if you can think of someone better qualified, I'm listening," she challenged. His hand returned to his pocket and his lips thinned. Cornered and he knew it.
"And do you have a plan for contacting Michaels?" he wondered, raising the white flag without saying as much.
"Not yet," she admitted, lowering herself to perch on the arm of the sofa. "We can't very well call him directly."
"Billie," he suggested. "Given we destroyed the file, only the three of us are aware Billie Young and Chelsea Nash are one and the same." She stroked her throat with a pair of fingers as she considered the suggestion.
"It's not a bad idea," she replied slowly. "She'd need to call him from a payphone to be safe."
"A second call to Mildred might be in order." She nodded.
"You're right." She glanced at her watch. "Ten-thirty in California. We'll have to wait until this afternoon."
"Not necessarily," he countered, speaking as he crossed the room and sank down on the couch. "Billie watches the evening news then enjoys that Carson chap's monologue before turning in of an evening." This came as news to her.
"How would you know that?" she wondered.
"Oh, we've spoken here-and-there," he answered, leaning his head against the back of the couch and rubbing the back of his neck. He might not have a choice about involving Michaels, but that didn't mean it set right. That he'd be indebted to the other detective, frankly, stuck in his craw.
"How do I not know these things?" she mused. Standing, she retrieved her notes. "There's a phone downstairs in the office. It will give us some privacy." He hummed his acknowledgment and was halfway to his feet when a rap sounded on the bedroom door. They exchanged glances before Laura walked to the door and swung it open.
"A good morning to you, Mrs. Steele," Townsend greeted. "How is our patient this morning?" Laura looked back over her shoulder at Remington, a smile brightening her face when she turned back around. "The jury's still out."
Remington was the picture-perfect patient. Of course, given Townsend's praise of Laura's efforts on his patient's tight muscles, followed by his announcement they could forgo any medications that morning he had no reason to be testy. Townsend's further instruction Remington should get outside and enjoy some of the country air, had made him bloody well jolly.
As soon as Townsend departed, they adjourned to the office Laura had previously recommended. Remington dialed a number from memory into the rotary phone. That he was so familiar with the number might raise questions as to how often, exactly, he and Billie were in touch, but Laura knew Remington's recall of numbers was as swift and accurate as his memory for the history of artworks and pricey gems. Once the line began to buzz, indicating a connection, she perched on the desk next to him, their hips touching. The antique phone didn't sport a speakerphone, so share the receiver they would.
Fifty-five hundred miles away, an answering machine clicked on.
"If you're getting this message either the office is closed for the night or I'm off fishing. Leave your name and number and I'll get back to you." Remington spoke after the beep.
"Billie, it's Remington." Laura's ear left the receiver and she gave him a quizzical look. He lay his hand over the mouthpiece. "She's taken to screening her calls since—" Crossing her arms, she quickly stepped in with her own conclusion.
"Since I lead Slater straight to her," she self-indicted.
"I never said—"
"I gotta tell you, blue eyes," Billie greeted in lieu of a hello, "With all that stuff on the news about you, I didn't know if I'd ever hear from you again."
"Mmmm, yes, you and me both, darlin'," Remington answered, ruefully.
"Billie, it's Laura Holt," Laura spoke up.
"Miss Holt! Well, isn't this a nice surprise!" Billie exclaimed, a smile lighting her face.
"Laura, please," Laura insisted. "Billie, have there been any further news stories about Mr. Steele or myself in recent days?"
"Nothin' since the news blue-eyes was being released from the hospital," Billie shared. "Solve another big case?"
"Not exactly," Laura drawled while fingering her throat.
"To put it bluntly: Laura's been framed for murder," Remington supplied. Billie briefly stalled, then slapped her leg with a hand and guffawed loudly.
"Awww, you almost got me that time, handsome. Miss Holt wanted for murder," she laughed. "That's a good—"
"Laura," that very woman reminded, "I'm afraid he's not joking. I'm wanted by Scotland Yard for murder."
"Which is why we've gone underground until we clear Laura's name," Remington added. Then, tone softening, he turned on the charm. "We need your help, Billie."
"Anything I can do to help," Billie replied without hesitation, "Shoot."
On the other end of the line, sitting on the desk next to Laura, Remington found he couldn't force himself to utter the words that would invite Murphy Michaels to root through their lives and interject his opinions.
"We need you to call a detective that used to work with us, Murphy Michaels," Laura began.
"One sec, I'd better grab something to write with," Billie requested. As the older woman went to gather pen and paper, Laura turned to Remington.
"Is this how it's going to be?" she questioned, not hiding her impatience. "You, sulking?" Anger – that few would have taken notice of - flashed through his eyes, before he looked at her calmly.
"I might," he said with a lift of his brows and added on a light note, "Just to irritate you." Laura's eyes narrowed on him. This was not the time to have this conversation, but they would be… very, very soon.
"Got it," Billie announced as she sat back down with a pad of paper and a pen. "Murphy Michaels. Where do I find him?"
"He lives in Denver, his office number is 303-872-4468," Laura rattled off from memory. "He usually arrives at the office around 8:30 his time, 7:30 ours. If you can't reach him there, his home number is 303-714-8333."
"Gotcha." Conscious of leading the coppers straight to their door, Remington chimed in.
"You'll want to call from a payphone, so the call can't be traced back to you," he advised, then thought to add, "You might want to consider calling from another town even. We don't want the coppers showing up and grilling you, so to speak."
"You got it, handsome," Billie returned. "I gotta run to Santa Clarita this morning to pick up some supplies. I'll call then."
"We need you to pass along a few instructions to Murph," Laura stepped in to continue.
"Shoot," Billie replied.
"He'll need to go to LA to get the file on Norman Keyes – that's K-E-Y-E-S - from Mildred, plus anything she can come up with on his alleged niece." She looked to Remington for guidance. "What's the closest airport to here?"
"Knock in Lurga but he can't fly directly. I'd wager it won't take long for the good Inspector to connect him with us and he'll be watched." Laura's brows furrowed in concentration.
"You're right," she conceded. "Europe used to be your playground. What do you suggest?" He fingered his chin in thought.
"He flies into London and checks into a hotel. From there he can travel here with relative anonymity: First a night train to port, then a ship into Dublin. Should he contact Smithers when he arrives in London, arrangements can be made for someone to retrieve him from the airport."
"Did you get that Billie?" Laura inquired, as she thumbed through the papers she'd brought to the office with her, then read the number for the attorney off the card they'd been provided.
"Yep: London, night train, boat, Dublin, Smithers. Anything else?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Laura replied. "If you could call Mildred, let her know we're safe and tell her Mr. Steele and I said she is to stay in LA, we'd appreciate it. She's going to be the key person feeding Murphy any information he needs and we can't risk communicating with her leading the police to us before we figure out who has set me up."
"How can you be sure they won't connect you to me?" Billie wondered aloud.
"Well," Laura reminded, "Billie Young disappeared thirty-years ago and we couldn't solve her disappearance."
"And certainly no one would consider Miss Holt or I the outdoorsy type," Remington furthered. "There would be no reason for us to know Chelsea Nash." Billie laughed heartily.
"I gotta give it to you, kids: You're good," she praised.
"We'd certainly like to think so," Remington accepted the compliment for them both. "Laura and I can't thank you enough, darling."
"Aw, think nothin' of it," she insisted, with an unseen flick of her hand and a smile. "I kind of like the idea of playing a spy, secretly passing along information. It'll be a kick."
"Take care, Billie."
He hung up the phone, then stood and pacing across the room drew a hand through his hair, before plastering a smile on his face while smacking and rubbing his hands together as he turned to face Laura.
"So, what's it to be?" he asked jovially. "A game of chess in the library, a round of billiards or a friendly game of poker in—"
"I was thinking a walk around the grounds is just what the doctor ordered," she replied with a smile. She wasn't buying the act. The hand drawn through the hair, the muscle in his jaw that had been twitching since she'd first brought up Murphy and the rigidity of his shoulders were all testaments to how troubled he was…
And the brief flash of dread she'd seen flash through his eyes when she'd mentioned taking that walk?
Well, while his smile had stumbled it had rapidly widened again, yet she knew it would take a little convincing. She sidled down off the desk and approached him. Sliding her hands up his chest, then linking her arms around his neck, she pressed up on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his.
"Find somewhere secluded where we can stretch out under the sun…" she toucher lips to his again "…talk…"
He damned himself when his arms, quite of their own accord, wrapped around her waist and back and a traitorous hand cupped the back of her neck. Helpless, as always, when Laura initiated a moment of tenderness – even as he knew it was a trap, when her lips pressed against the side of his neck and she whispered next to his ear…
"Neck…"
Then sealed her lips to his, it was inevitable that he'd followed her anywhere she pleased. He stifled the groan that wanted to rumble up his throat as gut clenching need washed over him. In sync, he took a step closer as she took a step back, pressing her palms against his chest and looking up at him with desire clouding her brown eyes.
"I'll see what I can find in the kitchen," she said in a breathy tone, blinking as she cleared her muddled thoughts. "You find us a blanket." Lips still pursed, he nodded his head slowly a pair of times.
"I'll see to the food, you find the blanket," he corrected, with a pat on her hip. The remark earned him a playful scowl over her shoulder as she wandered back to the desk to gather her papers.
"I'm perfectly capable of packing a picnic basket," she admonished lightly.
"Nevertheless…." He let her finish the thought while his gaze wandered over her shapely bum as she bent over the desk. The lift of her brows when she turned to face him said he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and he flashed her a smarmy smile, earning him a roll of her eyes.
"The food, Mr. Steele?"
"Of course, Miss Holt."
She was shaking her head as he left the room. His temperament already precarious, she had no idea how he'd handle the next conversation they needed to have.
Remington lay back on the blanket, face tipped towards the sun above, as Laura placed the remains of their light lunch into the picnic basket. Removing a thermos and a pair of clear plastic cups from the basket, she looked at him with curiosity.
"No wine?" He turned to give her a quick, faint smile before returning his face towards the sun's rays and covering his eyes with his forearm.
"A bit early to be tipping one back, don't you think, Miss Holt?" he teased, with censure in his tone. "It's barely the noon hour."
"Ha!" she barked a laugh. "This from the man who pops open a bottle of bubbly, no matter the hour?" He peered out from beneath his arm at her.
"Only if the occasion calls for celebration, Laura," he admonished.
"Oh really?" she laughed. "I wasn't aware waking in the morning was cause for celebration." More fluidly than he had since the attack, he rose to a sitting position bracing himself on an arm while cupping the back of her neck in his other hand. Sincerity blazed in his blue eyes.
"It is when I wake with you next to me," he murmured as he leaned in and sealed his lips to hers.
She went willingly when he eased her down to lie against the blanket, one hand holding his shoulder, the other palming the back of his neck, keeping their lips pressed together. Her fingers toyed with the tips of his hair, another skimmed his back and shoulders, as he savored her lips, and she in turn relished his rich, spicy flavor. They took their time about it and when his lips suddenly slipped away, her brows slightly furrowed in disappointment then lifted when his lips skimmed along her jawline, then downwards.
She was drowning in sensation: The feel of his whiskers lightly scraping her flesh, his lips brushing over her sensitive neck, his breath against her skin, his scent surrounding her, the familiar weight of his body partially covering hers. Her fingers flexed against his back and her breath grew shallow while she instinctively arched her neck, encouraging him to continue.
He might believe he was the only one suffering due to the cessation of their physical love life, but he wrong – very, very wrong. She ached for him, likely more than he did for her, given she hadn't been the one recovering.
A shiver coursed through her when nimble fingers released the top two buttons on her blouse then brushed the fabric aside to bare her collarbone. She gasped, her fingers diving into his hair when he latched his mouth over the sensitive patch of skin at the crook of her neck and gently suckled. White hot need made her burn and when he lifted his head to look down at her, eyes smoky with desire met his. A satisfied smile flashed across his lips, there one second and gone the next, making her wonder if she imagined it, for when he leaned in again it was only soft hunger she saw in his eyes.
Remington froze, midway back to that place on her neck, having caught something out of the corner of his eye. Laura's eyes popped open, watching as he tipped his head back to study the shrubberies behind them then slanted towards her right. The subtle yet hasty manner with which he brushed her blouse back into place told her they had company.
"Good Afternoon, ta ya, Yer Lordship, Yer Ladyship," Mickeline called from the direction of where Remington's eyes had halted, confirming her suspicions. Ever the gentleman, Remington sat up, positioning his body in such a way that she was able to discretely button her shirt.
"Good Afternoon, Mickeline," Remington greeted with a joviality he didn't feel, "A perfect day for a picnic, wouldn't you agree?" Mickeline nodded eagerly.
"That it is, Yer Lordship," he agreed. "If'in' ye don't mind me sayin' so, it 'as been far too long since anyone but the staff 'ave enjoyed this view." Laura's quick mind snapped into focus, recognizing the metaphorical door he'd just opened and she promptly stepped right through.
"When was the Earl here last?" she inquired, the portrait of innocent curiosity.
"November o' '54, t'was, though 'e stayed only a short time," he replied with a nod that confirmed his certainty. "It 'as been near on thirty-four-years since we've 'ad the pleasure o' servin' 'is Lordship's family."
"Yesterday, in the library, you mentioned something along those lines," Laura recalled. "The Earl and his parents had come every summer prior to '52?"
"Aye, Yer Ladyship," Mickeline confirmed, "Ceptin' fer the summer o' forty-one, o' course, seein' 'ow 'er Ladyship 'n the young master had spent the better part o' a year wit' us."
"To escape the Blitz?" Remington speculated.
"Aye, Yer Lordship, t'was indeed the reason," Mickeline nodded. "'er Ladyship, ye see, 'ad found she was wit' child, again, 'n' fear o' the bombin's took an awful toll on 'er. 'is Lordship wanted only the best fer 'er Ladyship 'n' the young master, so 'e sent them 'ere ta keep them safe as 'e could."
"That must have been very difficult for him," Laura empathized, then added as an afterthought, "And them."
"Fer a minute, I'll give ye that," Mickeline acknowledged. "But soon enough the young master 'ad become fast friends wit' some o' the children 'o the staff and 'er Ladyship wit' all the pamperin' soon enough glowed wit' good 'ealth." Laura tilted her head in obvious curiosity.
"Thomas hadn't made friends with the children of the staff during his prior visits?"
"'is Lordship and 'er Ladyship kept a firm hand on the young master, 'is every minute accounted fer wit' tutors 'n lessons, given they was wit'out the spare 'n all."
"A spare?" she wondered.
"An heir and a spare," Remington explained. "It's not uncommon for those of royal lineage to have large families so should something happen to the eldest child someone else is in line to keep the titles and entailments within the family."
"That's an extraordinary amount of responsibility to place on a child's shoulders," Laura commented, her natural empathy extending to the Earl, "And it would make for a very lonely childhood, I'd think." Remington smiled fondly at her. This very aspect of her personality had always been one of the reasons he was drawn to her.
"It can be, I suppose," he agreed, then qualified, "Yet there are those who would say the sacrifice is worth a lifetime of security." The underlying wistfulness in his voice drew her discerning eyes to his face. He, in turn, smoothly faced Mickeline again. "But things were different during their retreat here?"
"Aye, that they was. Wit' 'er Ladyship restin' fer the babe as she was, so long as the young master attended ta 'is lessons 'e was free ta explore the castle 'n grounds ta 'is content." Mickeline grew misty eyed. "T'was the 'appiest I'd ever seen the young master, least ways 'til then. Never would I've believed some o' the darkest days o' our lives would come from it."
"What do you mean?" Laura asked softly, her instincts screaming at the memories in Mickeline's head were their starting point. No matter how softly spoken, the question drew him out of himself with a start. His eyes cleared and he straightened his back, at least as best he could.
"My apologies, Yer Ladyship, but 'tis not me place ta say," he declined to answer. "Memories are fer the dearly departed 'n discretion is fer those still amongst us. I 'ave already said more than I should 'ave. I got carried away 'n forgot meself, I did. My apologies, again." He accented the apology with a submissive decline of his head. Laura held up her hand, palm facing him.
"There's no need to apologize to us," she insisted, then to both men's surprise, continued, "If anyone is owed an apology it is you from us."
"He is?" Remington questioned, clearly baffled.
"My apologies, yer Ladyship, but ye do?" came Mickeline's equally confused reply.
"We do," she looked to Remington then Mickeline, "You are. We…" she indicated Remington and herself with a wave of her hand, "…are not Lord Naas and his wife, as you've been led to believe. I'm Laura Holt and this…" she held her hand towards her partner again, "…is Remington Steele. We're private detectives from—"
"Well, I'll be!" Mickeline howled with laughter and bending over, slapped a hand against his knee before standing straight again. "When ye arrived, I 'ad the feelin', I did, that I be knowin' ye from somewhere," he explained. "I wrote it off given how ye 'old such a resemblance ta 'is Lordship 'n Master James. But you'd be the detective who saved 'is Lordship last year, wouldn't ye?" Laura lifted her eyes heavenward: Even in Europe she was the 'unknown woman'. Remington, on the other hand, suppressed a pleased grin, tickled by the recognition.
"Never could have done it without the assistance of Miss Holt," he demurred, as was his habit, while Laura mumbled something unintelligible beneath her breath. Despite his efforts, the smile broke through.
"Mr. Steele," Laura marched onwards, "Is not recovering from a fall off a horse, but from attack on him, much like the attempt on the Earl of Claridge last year."
"Jesus, Mary 'n Joseph," Mickeline mumbled his horror while crossing himself. "The bugger's been caught, I 'ope?"
"I think the coppers are far more interested in Miss Holt than who accosted me at the moment." Remington looked at Laura with a bit of mischief in his eyes. "Wouldn't you say? I mean, being wanted for murder and all."
"Framed for murder," she proclaimed her innocence, spreading her arms wide and emphasizing the first word.
"Which is why the Earl of Claridge whisked us away and put together this little ruse," Remington finished.
"Last year, before the assassination attempt, Mr. Steele and I were on the trail of the Earl of Claridge's son or so we thought," she addressed, directly, watching Remington out of the corner of her eye. "It only seems logical that we conclude the search while we're here in Ireland. I'm sure you'd agree, no man should spend a lifetime wondering what's happened to his child. Wouldn't you?"
"Breaks me heart, it does, ta know 'ow 'e's suffered," Mickeline replied, clearly distressed and wringing his hands. "Ye must believe me when I say none o' us meant fer this ta happen, we only meant ta 'elp." Remington and Laura exchanged a look.
"I believe you," Laura replied, sincerity warming her voice as she stood and approached the man. Taking him by the arm, she invited, "Come, join us." His feet stalled as habits deeply ingrained kicked in.
"I appreciate it, Yer Ladyship, I do, but it wouldn't be proper," he balked, drawing a lift of Laura's brows.
"I don't see why," she replied with a light note, "Mr. Steele and I are no different than yourself: We all work for the Earl of Claridge in one capacity or another." Nervously, still wringing his hands, the older man considered her reasoning. Whether it was the guilt that seemed to be plaguing him or what she'd said, she didn't know, but he finally nodded his agreement. Remington sat up from his reclining position, tucking one leg in front of him and bending the knee up of the other before Laura settled in close enough their hips were nearly touching. Flipping open the lid of the picnic basket, Remington removed the thermos and opening it, poured three cups of the warm brew and handed one to Laura then offered the second cup to Mickeline.
"I find a cup of tea always soothes my nerves," he noted with a smile.
"I'm much obliged, Yer Lordship," Mickeline thanked him. Appearing the epitome of patience on the surface, Laura anxiously waited as the man slowly sipped at his tea and began to relax. Finally, she felt it safe to speak.
"I want you to know, whatever you share won't go beyond us," she offered the assurance. Mickeline's eyes darted to Remington, silently seeking confirmation. Remington lifted a careless shoulder and dropped it.
"I've always been of the mind the past is better off left in the past," he told the man honestly. Inwardly, Laura winced, his words foreshadowing his reaction to the conversation yet to be had. Mickeline stared at Remington for a trio of seconds, before releasing a heavy sigh.
"I suppose ye could say it begun in Fall o' '40. Molly Bell was the 'ead cook in them days, a widow who'd been workin' 'ere fer more than twenty-years by that time. Molly 'ad no family ta speak o', 'ceptin' fer a younger brother she'd practically raised 'erself after their Mam was taken by the cancer 'n their father run off. Sean – Sean MacGeraghty, that be the name o' Molly's brother – 'ad wed 'imself a lovely lass from the village o' Westport, that bein' in County Mayo, where 'e was learning the fishin' trade, 'e was." He looked the couple full in the face, at last. "Sean 'n me was brought up toget'er, ye see, me Mam 'n Pappy 'aving worked their 'ole lives in the castle 'n Molly carin' fer Sean as she did. T'was 'end o' summer o' forty when Molly learned Sean 'n Aoibhe 'ad been killed in a 'orrible accident 'n little Eilis 'ad been 'urt somethin' terrible."
"What happened?" Laura quietly inquired.
"T'were walkin' 'ome from the village when a car come speedin' round the bend," Mickeline shared, his sorrow all these years later still evident. "It was said Sean 'ad thrown 'imself at Eilis, elsewise she woudn't 'ave lived. As it were, it took 'er near on a year before she could walk wit'out 'elp." He shook his head remorsefully.
"Go on," she encouraged.
"When Molly suggested she'd 'ave ta leave Ashford ta look after Eilis, well, we were 'aving none o' it, I tell ye. Most o' us considered Sean'n Aoibhe family, 'aving come up wit' 'im or 'aving watched 'im grow inta a man 'n like a family we come together. Eilis was in the 'ospital near on a month when she arrived at Ashford. We took our turn watchin' after 'er while Molly saw ta 'er duties." He smiled, almost shyly. "She stole our 'earts she did. A wee slip o' a lass, barely five, all casted up 'n in pain, 'aving just lost 'er Mam 'n Da, but never once did she complain, always 'appy ta see who come through the door next. Sean always said what Eilis was lackin' in size she more than made up fer wit' determination." He laughed fondly. "Stubborn, she was. Once she got somethin' inta 'er 'ead there was no changin' 'er mind." Remington chuckled.
"Mmmm, I'm familiar with the type." Laura's back straightened and she leveled him with a narrow-eyed look of displeasure. He grinned, unapologetically at her.
"Go on," she encouraged Mickeline.
"Eilis 'ad been out o' the 'ospital fer a pair o' months when 'er Ladyship 'n Master Thomas arrived. Despite them doctors sayin' t'would be six months ta a year afore she was back on 'er feet again, Eilis was movin' about on crutches. Five-years-old 'n braver than any chap I ever known, she was, payin' no mind ta the bruises under 'er arms or ta 'ow tired she'd become. 'er only concern, ye see, was ta play again 'n ta go ta school, most 'specially school. She loved ta learn, so much so that we took it upon ourselves ta show 'er the children's section in the family library. Tis where Eilis 'n Master Thomas met that fall…"