CHAPTER 22
Remington sat down on the edge of the bed next to Laura where she still slept soundly upon her side, her folded hands taking the place of the arm that had been beneath her head not terribly long before. Tucking back a lock of hair behind her ear, a tender smile played on his lips. He'd been awakened not because he'd slept his fill but because his body had been unamused by his antics the day prior, the nagging aches and occasional spasm reminding him of as much. They'd finally driven him from the sheets and into the bathroom where he'd knocked back a trio of Tylenol before stepping beneath a steamy spray, letting the hot water work out what knots it could.
Like a whisper, he drew the back of his fingers along Laura's cheek, then jaw. He'd been so consumed by his own injuries – and recent events – that he'd failed to pay close attention to what mattered most: Her. She'd arrived in London concussed and battered, leaving the Agency to fend for itself – more or less – in order to be at his side and since had come face-to-face with his would-be assassin, had tangled with Keyes, been framed for murder – placing the integrity of her beloved Agency at risk, nonetheless – and now was on the run. For the man who believed he knew Laura Holt better than anyone, to miss this was simply unacceptable.
A pat on her hip and a pair of lips pressed against her cheek saw Laura's eyelashes fluttering upwards. Her brows furrowed slightly as her mind assimilated the images around her. Castle. Got it, she confirmed silently before rolling to her back where she found Remington, fully dressed and smiling down at her. Her brows furrowed again as she rose to a sitting position and drew a hand through her hair while eyeing his attire.
"I'm afraid to ask what time it is," she commented in a wry tone. She could count on a single hand how many times he'd risen before her since they'd begun sharing a bed… Well, at least once you eliminated those times he woke with an early romp in mind. "Is it even dawn?"
"Just," he answered. "I was hoping you might join me for a walk." Those brows furrowed again.
"Now?" Capturing the hand that had fallen to rest on her lap, he brushed his lips over the back of her hand.
"Now is all we have," he replied with a lift of his brows. Then, with a sigh, added, "I need a bit of time alone with you, Laura, without the constant, no matter how well-intentioned, interruptions and time alone is something we won't have much of once Michaels arrives." She climbed out of bed.
"I'll just need a few minutes to get ready…"
"After you," Remington offered with an outstretched arm, after pulling open one side of the double wood doors at the front of the old stone building. Laura stepped over the threshold, her agile mind quickly assessing their surroundings. Much like the castle, it had been maintained with meticulous care, beams and rafters gleaming, compacted dirt floors swept, and equipment pristine.
"The castle employs a farrier?" she questioned, examining what resembled a giant pair of pliers. Remington looked at her with pride in his eyes.
"Laura, the depth of your knowledge on tools that require physical labor is astounding." She set down the shoe pullers while lifting her brows at him.
"My father and I happened to enjoy watching Westerns together," she informed him with a slightly haughty tone.
"Ah," he nodded, "But, yes, at least of a sort, to answer your question. It would seem many of the staff members take on multiple roles." With a hand on the small of her back, he guided her towards the rear of the barn. "Cillian, as it happens, is both farrier and chief mechanic." She turned her head away from him and laughed once, silently. Of course, he'd already be on a first name basis with staff members, she mused. The man had never met someone he wouldn't chat with.
"Frankly, I don't understand why there is anything more than a skeleton staff when no one has so much as visited for more than three decades."
"A matter of pride, I suspect," he speculated. "To allow one's properties to fall to disarray would draw unwelcome rumors one has become impoverished."
"Then why not sell?" she questioned, logically as they turned down a corridor with stalls on each side. "The cost to maintain the property must be exorbitant." Slight pressure of his fingers against the small of her back guided her to turn into the third and final stall on their right.
"I can think of any number of reasons," he replied, holding out his hand. "If you'll—" She handed off her backpack without further prompting.
"Such as…" she encouraged, while slowly walking around the bike, arms crossed, considering the machine.
"Well, to begin with, the castle has been in the Earl of Claridge's family for nearly three centuries," he explained, standing and swiping the dirt off his hands, once satisfied the bags were safe from view.
"And unused the last three decades," she countered, as she climbed onto the motorcycle and gripped the handles. "Not to mention inhabited for only two weeks a year for who knows how long before that. Not bad," she commented about the bike. Taking her hand, he tried to ease her from the bike, drawing a puzzled look from her.
"What—"
"Mmmm, can't have you getting used to that, now can we?" he grinned. That look turned into a scowl.
"And why exactly is that?" she asked, haughtily, tapping a toe.
"A machine such as this requires a certain amount of… knowledge… of finesse," he pled his case.
"I hope you're not implying that because I'm a woman-" An arm found the way around her waist.
"Never," he muttered, sweeping her up into a kiss. Their lips had barely glanced when she put space between them.
"Then what are you saying?"
"Simply that your driving skills are perhaps more suited to vehicles of the four-wheeled variety." Her lips pinched with displeasure, making the corner of his mouth twitch with amusement. But he was a man who knew – well, most of the time, at least – not to take it too far, so with a faint whine to his voice he added, "Besides, you can hardly expect me to fit comfortably in that," he pointed to the small side car. Turning her head away from him, she snorted a short laugh.
"So, other than sentimentality?" she asked, letting him off the hook – for now. His hand fell to rest on the small of her back as they reversed their path and strolled towards the front doors of the barn.
"Tradition," he offered, then expounded, "For several centuries it has been quite the thing for aristocracy and those of means to maintain more than one home – a summer home and winter home at the very least."
"A status symbol," she concluded, unimpressed. "You'd think the title would be enough."
"A title is not an assurance of wealth, Laura," he informed her, pushing the barn door open for her to pass through. "Just like anyone else, wealth is determined by sound financial planning and good investments. A single generation of poor decision making can affect countless generations after." He closed the door behind them then returned his hand to the small of her back. "Then, of course, there are entailments and even wills that could prevent the sale of properties."
"Entailments?" she questioned, as he guided her back towards the direction of the stable and castle beyond. "What are those?"
"Well," he began, "For instance, it's not unheard of for properties of the castle to be essentially 'on loan' to a particular line. If the entailment provides the property must be handed down to the first male heir of direct descent and should the line fail to produce that male heir, the property could be forfeited."
"Thereby reinforcing the archaic notion that men are superior to women and that a woman should be dependent upon a man's financial support," she noted with disdain.
"Not always," he corrected. "Some entailments have been challenged to permit women to inherit." Her gaze turned towards the approaching castle, her eyes narrowing.
"Last year," Laura began contemplatively, "Inspector Lombard showed me a book which detailed the descendants of each line…"
"Their Noble Lordships," Remington supplied.
"That's it," she nodded. "I can't imagine there isn't a copy in the library…" He caught her by the elbow when she made to part company, her mind already on the case, drawing her outrage. "What are you doing?!"
"If there is a copy," he answered, tucking her arm through the crook of his and patting her hand, "It's been collecting dust for decades and will still be there."
Her eyes slanted towards him and, seeing the strain that had returned around his eyes and the soft plea in them, her pique evaporated. Setting aside the book, for now, she focused instead on the grounds surrounding them. The early morning sun glistened on the glasslike surface of the lake, while lawns and landscaping sparkled with morning dew. The scent of stocks, irises, sweet pea and dahlias from the garden beyond rippled through the air on a soft breeze and somewhere well past where the eye could see came the quiet sounds of bleating sheep.
"Straight out of a fairytale," she murmured aloud, caught off guard when Remington replied, not realizing she'd said the words aloud.
"Of the Brother's Grimm variety, the originals, or course." He swept an arm in the direction of the castle some distance ahead. "Ethereal grounds surrounding the grand castle, the walls within filled with unimagined darkness." She looked up at him, questionably.
"Is that really how you see it?" He draws a troubled hand over his mouth.
"I don't know. I don't know," he admits. "I certainly don't see it the same as I did this time yesterday." His eyes slant in her direction then away. "How long have you known, Laura?" She shook her head.
"That's a long, complicated story. The short of it is, I didn't know for certain until the same time you did. I merely suspected." He nodded his head slowly.
"And the long of it?" She took a deep breath and released it slowly.
"You knew I had my doubts last fall when Thomas denied you were his son." He hummed his confirmation. "You and Thomas resembled each other a great deal, not to mention you were the right age, born in Ireland and the watch had been sent to you. I'd seen how much you'd hoped Thomas was your father and that you might finally find answers to a lifetime of questions. I wanted that for you, badly, even if it meant you wouldn't want to return to L.A." She glanced up at him. "To tell you the truth, I'm worried the possibility of losing you may have influenced my so readily letting go of those doubts." He did a double take then reached for her hand.
"Laura, there aren't too many things I'm certain of about my own bloody life at this moment, but there are three things about which I have not a single doubt: Firstly, had I found out I was second in line to the throne, I would still have returned to L.A. with you. The promise of the life we might have together mattered – and matters – more than any title or any amount of wealth. Secondly, you may have an annoying tendency to hold things close to the vest until you have proof one way or another," he slanted an indicting look in her direction, "but you are incapable of keeping the truth from me once you know what that truth is…" he paused then added "…whether I wish to know it or not," thinking of those days when Anna had stormed through their lives.
"And last?" she inquired when he'd seemed lost to his own thoughts. He reached for her hand and turned his head to smile down at her.
"You love me and you would never be able to live with yourself if you put your own happiness in front of the happiness of someone you love. It's why you bear Abigail's visits and command performances." The last drew a snort of laughter from her. "So, let's have it."
"I suppose it began the night we had dinner at the Earl of Claridge's," she considered aloud. "Watching the two of you standing side-by-side in the kitchen preparing dinner, those similarities I'd noticed the fall before were once again on display. When you find something amusing, both of you quirk up one side of your mouth—"
"Quirk?" he repeated, sounding offended, then gave a snooty sniff. "Remington Steele does not quirk." She released his hand and gave it a pat.
"Think what you must, but you do, in fact, quirk. The color and thickness of your hair—"
"There must be millions of people across the world with the very same," he countered.
"Yes, and taken alone, it certainly wouldn't raise a brow," she agreed. "But then there's the shared hairline, your brow lines, your eyes, your ears—" He reached up and tugged at a lobe of his ear.
"Our ears?"
"Yes, your ears, both running to the large side." He frowned, feeling said ear. The larger side? "Then, there are your hands: Large, with long, slim fingers, both… graceful, the both of you gesturing with them often when you speak." She fell silent, but ever sensitive to her moods, he knew that wasn't all of it.
"What aren't you telling me, hmmmm?" Her eyes flickered towards him, then away and she sighed heavily. "Laura?" He gently drew out her name.
"I suddenly feel like we've gone back in time. We're standing at Mildred's desk again and I'm about to get my head lobbed off for telling you what I've discovered about Anna," she answers, ruefully. His brows knit together, not understanding at first. Then, when the reference clicks, he closes his eyes and nods his head, steeling himself for whatever is to come.
"Felicia or Daniel, then," he deduces aloud, while placing a hand on the small of her back. The slight stiffening beneath sensitive fingers is all the confirmation he needs. "One or both?" Her hand lifts to knead a brow.
"I don't get the feeling Felicia knows, more that Daniel is using her towards his own end." Defending Felicia on any level left a bad taste in her mouth.
"To seduce me away from you, you mean," he concluded irritably.
"Yes." Which brought up an entirely other distasteful thought. "I'll never understand what you find attractive about that woman. She's sold you out to the Yard, blackmailed you, turned you into an assassin, goes from your bed to Daniel's and even while in Daniel's is doing whatever she can to climb back into yours!" He drew a hand through his hair.
"Do you think we might put off yet another conversation about my poor judgment where women, particularly Felicia, are concerned – present company excepted, of course – until another time?" She held up both hands in apology.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"And Daniel?" he inquired, lifting a hand to gnaw at a nail. She took that hand in hers and drew it downward, reaching into her pocket with her free hand at the same time. She held up the pocketwatch by its chain, then slowly lowered it into his hand. He needn't examine it to know what it was.
"How? When?" Remington was at a loss for words briefly. "Laura, please tell me you didn't relieve the Earl of Claridge of his watch." She dropped his hand and plopped hers on her hips while tipping up her chin.
"When, exactly, would have I had time to do that?" she demanded to know. "So far as I am aware, we were at each other's sides the entirety of the evening we spent at his home."
"It's seems this time the apology is to be mine." A hand on the small of her back guided her towards a path that trailed off into the woods ahead. She looked back over her shoulder towards the castle.
"Where are we going?"
"I found something yesterday I thought you might enjoy. It's not far," he explained. "If not from His Lordship's residence, where did you come upon his watch?"
"I did a bit of investigating while Daniel and Felicia were out the other evening. I found the watch in his room." Along with those bottles of medication, she reminded herself silently. The sooner Murph arrived, the sooner she might know the extent of Daniel's illness. Until then… "I waited on him and Felicia to arrive, then confronted him about why it was in his possession." He drew a troubled hand over his mouth.
"I'd suspected he was after the His Lordship's baubles. I'd hoped I was wrong."
"Far be it from me to defend Daniel, but I don't think he's after the Earl's jewels. I saw no evidence of any other jewelry in his room that seemed out of place."
"Why nick only the watch? The value is far more sentimental than monetary." Laura cast a sideways glance in his direction.
"I asked a similar question of Daniel. He claims to be the thief who originally stole the watch." His eyes narrowed on her.
"What?!" he asked, thoroughly baffled.
"It was to be legacy for the child he once lost—"
"His what?! What kind of game is Daniel at now?" he demanded to know, temper flaring. He marched several steps away from her, then drawing a troubled hand through his hair, faced Laura again. "I've known the old man for twenty years and bloody well know he's never fathered a child and you can lay odds had he ever pulled one over on the Earl of Claridge, even if only for a watch, he'd have told me the tale repeatedly across the years, preening the whole while!" Her fingers rubbed that brow a little more vigorously.
"According to Daniel, he found said child on the streets of Brixton—" She'd expected an explosion, not the man turning as pale as he'd been when she'd arrived at his bedside in the hospital, alarming her.
"Enough. Enough," he pled, wearily, holding up both hands.
"Let's go back to our room," she suggested. "I'll request some tea be brought up and you can kick up your feet and—"
"I'm fine," he waved off the suggestion.
"You're white as a ghost," she contradicted. "Between the walk last night, then again this morn—"
"My pallor has nothing whatsoever to do with my health, Laura, and everything to do with the fact my life has been out of my control ever since the bloody INS showed up on the doorstep. C'mon, c'mon," he urged, "Only a hundred yards or so and we'll be there. I'll have a bit of a rest then." He hadn't been deceiving her. The worse of the beating – and the gunshot – had released its clutches on him and he felt no worse for the wear than after Buckner's men taken a go at him a year prior.
"Exactly where is it we'll be?" she questioned, taking his unspoken cue they'd talk more once they arrived at the mysterious destination.
"Just around this bend in the path."
True to his word, a dozen steps later they stepped into a meadow surrounded on all four sides with woods like the ones from which they'd just emerged. On the west side of the meadow stood a stone chapel with ivy covered walls, arched stained windows and turret. The early morning sun made the dew on grass and flowers alike glisten.
"It's lovely," she praised, as a hand on her back guided her towards the chapel. She couldn't help wondering if this was the meadow where Thomas and Eilis had secreted themselves away that fateful day. "How old do you think it is?" Tilting his head and pursing his lips he gave it some consideration.
"The castle was built towards the end of the thirteenth century, so certainly not quite so old as that, given there'd be no need for clergy of any type on empty land. The stone walls, cylindrical shape of the turret and arched windows would suggest Hiberno-Romanesque style, which would date it to the fourteenth to late fifteenth centuries, the latter being my guess."
"I'll never understand how you can remember details such as Hiberno-Romanesque style, but you can't remember when you have a committee meeting," she deadpanned, drawing a smile from him.
"Architecture and its history is interesting," he retorted with a lift of his brows, "Committee meetings are not." He reached for the old wood door and pulled it open. "Here we are."
They stepped inside and for a moment Laura was dazzled by the prisms of color refracting over walls and ceilings thanks to the morning sun and those stain glassed windows. In her eyes, the chapel set in the meadow only added to the illusion of the fairytale she'd spoken of not long before. Of course, making mention of that now was out of the question given Remington's prior response. She turned a critical eye on the interior of the small building instead.
"It's much smaller in here than it appears from the outside," she commented.
"Mmmm," he confirmed, "The stone walls in buildings such as these consume a good deal of the square footage." Nodding silently, her eyes roamed over the six rows of pews on either side of a main aisle.
"No more than two dozen people could fit in here," she observed. "I assume between the staff and their families alone, there would not be near enough room."
"Church in the Middle Ages is not the way it is today. While Christianity had taken hold in Ireland by the time this chapel was built, there were still many who practiced Druidism so not all the staff would require the service of the clergy. It was commonplace for a priest to travel across a broad swatch of Ireland – his territory, if you will – to distant locations, such as the castle, to perform the sacraments and last rites as well as offer services, sometimes multiple times a day to assure all were served." He took her by the hand and led her to the front pew. "Let's have a seat, shall we?" Far be it for her to disagree, not only for his continued recovery but also because she sensed he was finally ready to share what was troubling him.
"Of course," she agreed aloud. Once they sat down, she waited silently until he spoke. After a half-minute had ticked by on her watch, he heaved a sigh as he leaned back and drew his hands through his hair.
"I'm angry, Laura," he began, dropping his head and looking at her, "Perhaps even angrier than those days when I was trying to survive on the streets of Brixton and the bugger of it all is that I can't help thinking I brought all on myself." She frowned, not understanding his meaning.
"What do you mean?" Remington bolted to his feet.
"My past, Laura. My inglorious past! It's come back to haunt me!" he all but shouted. "If not for those bloody passports, Keyes would have had no reason – no reason! – to go to the INS. I was careless bringing them to Las Vegas with us as I did and damned well arrogant enough to believe Keyes would never do anything with them. I should have destroyed them then and there, but did I? No! I kept them in case there was an occasion that called for a quick getaway." He laughed wryly, while dragging his hand across his mouth. "And getaway I did." He flicked a hand in the air. "Off to discover the truth of who I am, to finally have a name all my own..."
Laura winced visibly, as memories of that journey – and why he'd made it – took forefront in her thoughts.
"Laura, you're the one who said we needed time apart."
"I needed to find something… Me"
"When it seemed our time together had come to an end, I realized Remington Steele was just another name I'd borrowed and if I was going to give it back, I should have to replace it with something that was truly mine."
She forcibly shook off the memories and focused on him, unsure how much she'd missed.
"…land right in the hands of Scotland Yard! Well, the secrets attached to those passports were brought to light only to be scrubbed free at the orders of the very many who likely not only knew he was the father I'd been searching for but had denied I was his son. Then Keyes…" he laughs sarcastically "…being the vengeful little prick he is, sets out for London presumably to collect another piece of my hide, only to end up dead and you framed for his murder. And if that were not enough, one of the people I have trusted most in my life is in collusion with the man who is very possibly my father, while we're here on that man's property waiting for Murphy to arrive presumably to help, although we both know what that will entail!" His anger expended and exhausted by the effort, Remington flumped back down onto the pew near her, once more dragging his hands through his hair. "I was happy, Laura. For the first time in my life, I was truly happy. I had a job I enjoyed, the respect of people around me, a home I'd purchased and a family, of sorts, with you and Mildred. All of it… gone… and I've no one to blame but myself and that past." Finished, he rested his elbows against his knees and dropped his head into his hands.
Laura carefully considered her options. Handling her Mr. Steele when he was in a mood such as this was as… touchy… as handling an injured Mr. Steele. It required a carefully balanced mix of levity, compassion and tough love, lest he wallow in his feelings or feel she didn't give appropriate weight to them. It was made an especially difficult task when she understood his angst, having had a front row seat while watching his life spin out of his control. She wanted to take him in her arms, to comfort him, to assure him all would be fine. It was an assurance she was unable to give, having had little control over her own life of late. They were at the mercy of others and they both knew it…
And she hated it as much as he did.
What to do… What to do…? If she had her druthers, she'd go ferret out whatever chocolate was in the castle kitchen, find a closet and secrete herself away as she devoured it. Since that wasn't an option, she decided on a bit of levity to start.
"You left out the part where you were almost killed," she noted. His head snapped up and he was positively glowering when he looked at her. Oops, that had been the wrong choice. She blew out a deep breath and tried again. "You seem to forget, Mr. Steele, that it's not only your life that has been turned inside out these last months and that mine has been as well. Do I understand why you feel as you do? Yes, I do. But we don't have the luxury of self-pity right now, not if we're going to come out of all this on top."
"Self-pity?" he sputtered his outrage, jumping to his feet. She leaped off the bench as well.
"Yes, self-pity!" she shot back at him, surprised to realize she was maybe as angry as him. "You're so busy feeling sorry for yourself that you've lost all…" she cut a hand through the air in front of herself "…perspective. Yes, Keyes found those passports. But even if he hadn't he was still going to come after us because he blames our efforts – not just yours but ours – for making him look bad to his bosses at Vigilance. Do I need to remind you he tried to frame me for theft? As a matter of fact, if he weren't dead I'd think he was behind framing me for his murder." Remington had the decency to look chagrined, recalling his very recent vow to show her the same care she'd shown him in his hour of need.
"Laura—" She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.
"Yes, those same passports ended up in the hands of Scotland Yard and perhaps if they hadn't then maybe the INS wouldn't have had grounds to expel you from the country. You seem to forget, Mr. Steele, I hold my own share of blame for that happening. It was, after all, my ending our personal relationship, our partnership, that was responsible for your need to get away, as you put it. It was me who provided you with that passport for Remington Steele, the very same passport with its 'irregularities' that saw you facing deportation. Do you think I haven't connected the dots: If I had taken better care when arranging for that passport then not only wouldn't you be here, but you wouldn't have nearly died?" He hadn't seen that one coming, and the shocking realization that she'd been blaming herself was a gut punch.
"Laura—" he tried again with the same result: A hand held up to stop him. She drew in a breath, taking a moment to settle herself, then continued, her anger replaced by chagrin.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she apologized, sitting back down beside him. "That wasn't fair of me. I'm just as frustrated as you are."
"Mmmm. Frustration is as good as any word, I suppose," he concurred, "If by that you mean utterly out of control of our own lives."
"I seem to recall a certain detective once telling me…"
"Maybe it's about time that you realize we're none of us in complete control of our fates."
He gave a silent half-laugh.
"Clearly that was before I was under the illusion I was at last in charge of my own destiny." She lay a hand on his upper arm and rubbed it, a show of comfort. Reaching up, he covered her hand with his.
"I wasn't aware you felt that way," she told him honestly. Pursing his lips, he nodded his head slowly.
"I may not have known who I was at birth, but I'd come to realize it no longer mattered because I not only know who I am now but I like the man I've become." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Thanks in no small part to your efforts."
"And now?" she wondered with a tilt of her head.
"If you're asking if I still know who I am, the answer is yes."
"But…" she prompted giving him a little push towards what she knew he'd wanted to talk about when he asked they take a walk.
"To quite possibly know who I was at birth?" He took to his feet again, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I don't know, I don't know," he admitted truthfully. "Five years ago I'd have been thrilled. I mean, me, the son of an Earl, who'd have ever thought? But now…" He stopped with a shake of his head.
"Now, what?" she asked silently. He paced several steps away, then turned around and paced back, gnawing a nail.
"A year ago, I thought I'd a father who'd spent most of my life searching for me, that he hadn't tossed me away as I'd once believed."
"If your father is the Earl of Claridge that still stands true," Laura reminded softly.
"But it's the outcome that matters. He lied so easily when he denied I was that son…"
"My son has hazel eyes, like his mother."
"I have to give him credit, he would have made quite the conman. I believed him, without question. I didn't consider for a moment – not one moment," he gestured, holding up a single finger towards her, "That he may have denied he was my father for…" his eyes skittered away from hers and the look on his face left her heart aching "…other reasons," he finished.
"What reasons would those be?" she gently encouraged, carefully schooling her expression. She suspected, of course, but until he was willing to say the words aloud, those suspicions could not be addressed.
"Those passports and the…" he licked his lips and forced the words past them "…deeds… associated with them. I mean can you imagine, the Earl of Claridge's long-lost son – eleventh in line to the throne – nothing but a gutter rat turned thief and conman? The blight on the family name alone would be reason enough for someone of his standing to deny our relationship."
"You are not and never were a 'gutter rat,'" she defended. "What you are is a survivor and anyone with half a brain would know that. From where I stand, Thomas is an intelligent man who knows firsthand how situations can take a person's life down unexpected paths. Need I remind you of his… propensity… with prostitutes, not all that long ago? It seems the family name withstood that particular stain."
"There's a vast difference between His Lordship and I, Laura: He's part of the peerage by legitimate birth and proper upbringing, whereas I am the bastard son of a servant who's spent most of his life on the shady side of the street. The peerage will forgive the transgressions of the former, not of the latter." She shook her head decisively.
"I'm not buying it. He made it a point to erase the pasts on those passports, essentially wiping your slate clean and allowing you to live your life without looking over your shoulder any longer. Those are not the actions of a man who views his son as a 'blight on the family name,' as you put it. Quite the opposite, actually: They're the actions of a man wielding his influence to set his son free."
"Or to protect the family name should that son's existence ever come to light, Laura," Remington countered, bitterly. She took to her feet to do some pacing of her own.
"Yes, there'd be logic behind your conclusions if his denial were the end of the story, but it's not," she passionately insisted. "Why would a man of his station, as you call it, spend time in Brixton? What would inspire him to contrive a project like Haven House?"
"Pity! That's what!" he shot back. "Daniel's been sharing tales from my past with His Lordship, if you remember."
"Why? What reason would Daniel have to do that? The man's normally as tight-lipped about your past as you are! Do you actually believe he would have sat around the fire discussing your youth with the Earl without a very compelling reason?"
"If I've learned anything in the last year, it's that the people in my past who I've given the slightest bit of trust, can and will sell me out if it's to their advantage." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away from her, a sign of how deeply that betrayal cut.
"We've already established it doesn't seem Daniel is after the Earl's jewels, so what is his end game? From what I gathered from our recent tete-a-tetes, he is of the belief I'm an endangerment to 'all you've ever wanted.'" He laughed a loud, sarcastic laugh.
"The Duke of Rutherford comes to mind. By installing me as the new Duke, I would not only receive all the riches attached to the title, but unfettered access to the wealthiest of marks and thereby he would as well."
"That's what I thought as well… at first and maybe it is part of the game he's playing. But I think there's more to it than that. Becoming the heir apparent would mean unimaginable wealth, the respect of those around you…" she stepped to him even as her heart ached "…A name of your own, a father, a home. It's everything you ever wanted." Then she waited. If he wanted the life the Earl offered him, she would support him… and let him go. It wouldn't be she standing in the way of his dreams, even if Daniel had charged her exactly with that.
"Perhaps at one time," he replied distractedly, with a dismissive flip of his hand as he strolled away from her. "The life I now have is infinitely more than I ever dreamed possible." She blinked a pair of times as he continued on. "Daniel rarely does anything unless it in some way it benefits him, but if not setting up His Lordship's associates as marks, I'm at a loss as to the why."
"As the Earl's head of security, he'd already have access to those associates," she mulled aloud. "The only theory that fits is Daniel knows the truth of your parentage and is working with Thomas to conceal it, which brings us back to why. What makes a man deny his relationship to his son, while contriving reasons to spend time with him?" She began to pace again.
"Laura—" he began, intent on making her face the truth. She spun on her heel to face him and plunked her hands onto her hips.
"It's not the passports, Mr. Steele," she cut him off in a tone that ended any idea of pursuing that vein further. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rested his backside against the sill of a window, put out with her. She softened. "Ask yourself this: What man would sit for hours in a waiting room while that son was fighting for his life? Why would he assign his personal physician to care for his son? Why would he cook him meals, knowing he would turn up his nose to hospital fare? Why would he throw himself at a gun wielding Inspector from Scotland Yard and help his son flee England, knowing he could be charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive? These are not the actions of a man embarrassed by his son, but those of a father protecting his child." She was relieved to see the scowl had left his face to be replaced by lips pursed in thought. "Now, what could have happened between when I brought him the watch and when you met him in the library that would make him feel he needed to deny you are his son?"
They fell silent, Laura pacing and Remington gnawing a thumbnail while pondering the question. The answer had just begun niggling at the edge of her thoughts when he spoke up.
"Edward the Martyr," he announced, finding the thought brought him some peace. She rolled her eyes. Of course, a movie.
"I don't recall that particular title in your playlist," she noted drily, tapping her lips with a finger.
"It's not a movie," he informed her. "In the late tenth century, the English were ruled by King Edgar the Peaceful. Edward had not been recognized by Edgar as his legitimate heir, so upon the King's death debate arose over who was to become king: Edward the Martyr or his younger half-brother, Æthelred the Unready, whom had been recognized as Edgar's legitimate heir. The decision was made to crown Edward king, but only three scant years later, his stepmother arranged his murder whilst he was in residence at Corfe Castle…"
"Making Æthelred the Unready the new king," she murmured pensively.
"Mmm," he confirmed with a hum.
"It explains the attempted assassination, his denial you are his son and the attempts on your life." She looked up, her eyes bright, invigorated by a mystery to solve. "Mr. Steele, it seems if we unearth the identity of the person who would inherit the Earl's titles and entailments, we'll find out who was behind the assassination plot last year and the attempts on your life." Rather than breaking for the door with her mind set on that book in the library, she studied him for a trio of seconds, trying to decide if now was the time to share with him the other news about Daniel.
He watched as her left brow twitched and sighed heavily.
"No need to prolong the inevitable, Miss Holt." He was beyond weary of all the secrets, revelations, nasty surprises and bad news. "May as well get it all out at once."
She fretted momentarily over how to tell him, worried about how he might react and hoped she'd respond correctly to whatever that reaction might be. Now, was not the time for distance between them, especially in light of the meeting she'd arranged with his Aunt Molly and with Murph appearing at any time. He would need her near as he tried to process all that had been thrown at him these last weeks.
Hell, she needed him near given the way their lives had been turned upside down and inside out. He was the singular steadying presence in her life at the moment… something she'd have never thought possible four scant years ago.
She reached for his hand and led him towards the nearest pew. He followed with great trepidation. She watched as he sat, nervously wetting his lips.
"That bad, eh?" he predicted, as she took a seat next to him. She tilted her head, considering the question.
"I'm not sure in regard to the first, but yes to the second," she answered honestly. He steeled himself.
"Let's have it then."
"Molly's bringing pictures of Eilis… of you… with her today" She reached up and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "I imagine you were adorable." He squirmed under the compliment and accompanying touch. Mortified, he covered.
"A lad is not adorable," he said the last with a snooty air. "A handsome tyke is far more appropriate." She merely smiled in answer. His eyes dropped to her hand and he took it in his. "I remember her, Laura," he shared, raising his eyes to look at her again. "Snippets and flashes and dreams, but I remember my mother." She blinked a pair of times, stunned by this bit of information.
"You do?"
"Mmmm," he hummed his confirmation, while lifting a hand to his mouth to worry a nail. Laura claimed the hand in hers and weaved their fingers together. His eyes flickered to their joined hands then back at her. "There was a swing in the garden. Nothing fancy, mind you, just a board with a pair of holes bored through it and some rope to hang it from a tree branch. She'd hold me in her lap and whenever the swing would slow, I'd beg 'More, Mamaí, more!'" He smiled softly. "And she'd laugh. I loved her laugh. It was… mellifluous." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
"Do you have any other memories of her?" His eyes met hers and he nodded slowly.
"A couple. I had this little, wood rocking horse. It had these little handles up by its ears," he gesticulated with his free hand, "But I favored holding onto its mane when I was on it. I'd ripped a good bit of that hair away," he laughed. "I'd rock on the horse while my mother cooked our meals." His eyes glazed over as he retreated, in mind, into the past. "She'd speak to me as she cooked, as though I were an adult and I could understand. I hung on her every word. And at night, when she'd put me to bed, she'd read to me. Much like the swing, when the story was done, I'd beg her, 'More, Mamaí, more!', only settling in when she began singing me a lullaby. 'Over in Killarney many years ago, me mother sang a song to me…'" he sang the first couple of lines of the song, before he returned to the present, quirking an almost shy smile at her when he realized what he'd done. "She leaned towards soprano, much like yourself."
"She loved you very much. I imagine that's why you've held on to those memories."
"It's the only time I can recall feeling safe as a child," he shared in a low, sad voice, "Until the morning she died. I couldn't understand why she wouldn't wake." He abruptly released her hand and scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to erase that particular memory.
"You were there?" she asked in quiet horror. He took to his feet and strode towards the window. Clearing his throat, he turned to look at her and abruptly changed the subject.
"And the bad news?" He couldn't imagine anything worse than recalling his mother lying there, still, unresponsive. Recognizing he wouldn't speak more on the subject, at least for now, she transitioned to the next topic. She struggled, momentarily, over how to tell him, then decided it was best to just rip off the Bandaid.
"The night I searched Daniel's room, I found multiple prescriptions that were recently filled by him. He's not well, Remington." He waived off the notion.
"It's one of his more favored cons, nothing more. He feigns illness to draw in some unsuspecting woman then relieves her of all her baubles once he's won her favor." She scowled, irritated she'd actually felt empathy for the man and more than a little annoyed he'd pulled one over on her.
"How you turned out so well when that man was your mentor is beyond me," she all but snarled. The words were said in anger, but he'd focused fully on the underlying compliment. Crossing the room, he gathered her in his arms.
"I'm glad you think so," he murmured, bussing her atop the head. Her words were a balm to the open wound that was his past. She leaned back in his arms and examined his face. The distress had been muted but, although he'd deny it, he'd overdone it over the last twenty-four hours. She made an executive decision.
"How about we go back to our room, I'll have breakfast brought up and after we talk with Molly, we can do the crossword together and, if you behave yourself, I may even give you another massage. What do you say?" His lips lifted in a smile. She'd righted his world – again – and rather than returning to 'duty,' she was offering up some time all to themselves.
"I'd say, 'I offer myself to you, all of me. My heart, my lips, my legs, my calves. Do what you will.'" He dropped a lingering kiss upon her lips, then lay his hand on the small of her back when they separated.
"Now, I know that comes from a movie," she informed him, as they walked together towards the chapel door.
"Oh, how do you know?"
"It's too cheesy…" She lifted her brows at him, then added pointedly, "Even for you."
"The Court Jester, Danny Kaye, Glynis Johns, Angela Lansbury, Dena Enterprises, 1955." He stepped to her side to open the chapel door for her. "A band of rebels orchestrates a plot to overthrow the evil king who usurped the throne through dastardly deeds." He shrugged and grinned at her. "It somehow seemed appropriate."
She laughed, as much because she was amused as in relief that he seemed to have found peace with his demons… at least for now.