Chapter 9: London
Laura woke on Sunday to a tickling sensation on the back of her calves. It took her a moment to identify it as Remington’s hands. She rolled to her back, hoping to gather her thoughts before her lover found too many ways to distract her. He wore only a boyish grin as he stretched out nude on the bed.
She tried to be appropriate. She really did. “Remington. Is this ... is this what we should be doing?”
“Mrs. Steele, my lovely, have you forgotten we have only been married for thirty-six hours? What else should we be doing?”
The words wouldn’t come. Not wanting to spoil the day for either of them, she rolled out of bed. “Eating. I’m starving.”
He roared with laughter. “That’ll do. For now,” he
promised with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
*****
Monday morning, they delivered birth and marriage certificates to the INS after filing the appropriate paperwork with the attorney general's office. Then, after a trip to Laura’s loft so she could pack and another to the agency for a few last minute details, they caught a late afternoon flight to London.
By the time they landed late Tuesday morning at Heathrow, Laura thought understood at last both the depths of Remington’s sorrow and the abilities he’d honed to perfection. She’d had glimpses over the years of the con artist at work—enough to know he was extraordinarily gifted. Since Saturday night, he’d donned an airtight mask of charm and affability.
She went along with it—and tried not to feel guilty about the amount of time they spent flirting and making love.
The Earl and Countess of Claridge met them at the airport—an
unusual honor. But even during the car ride, Remington’s demeanor
never cracked. He played the saddened son well and disclosed
nothing about the previous week. It was Laura who admitted they’d
been married only four days when the Countess (a real countess!)
commented on their wedding rings. The Earl made quiet
congratulatory noises while his wife gave Laura a sympathetic look.
*****
The funeral on Wednesday was incredibly small—only a scant double handful of people attended, mostly staff and family members of the Earl.
Laura pressed her lips tight in annoyance until Remington explained. “Word will get around. Tonight, at some pub or another, the others will lift a pint for Daniel. It’s what we do, Laura. Not go to a burial where the coppers are waiting for most of us.”
The “we” startled her. She hadn’t realized that, at heart, Remington still thought of himself as the street kid dependant only on his own wits to survive the day.
The first chink in his façade appeared when he tried to give her the slip as night fell. He interrupted her conversation with the Countess after dinner to tell her he was going for a long walk alone. He might have gotten away with it, except that she’d been expecting something like this.
Once he left, the Countess handed her an old leather jacket and a cap for the drizzling rain. “Be careful, Mrs. Steele. Don’t stray from Mr. Steele. If you need anything, call and someone can pick you up right away. London can be a bit dodgy at night.”
“I think I remember that.” Laura swiftly changed, then—via the servants—discovered which way Remington had gone.
She caught him as he put a hand on the taxi’s door handle. “Going somewhere?”
He had the grace to look chagrined. Dressed in a scarred leather coat of his own, dark corduroys and cap, the clothing made him look five years younger and a little rough around the edges. “You can’t go where I’m going, Laura.”
“You have a choice. I can go with you, or you can take a chance on my following you blindly through the streets of London.” She crossed her arms and waited.
“Laura, these are the kind of people I don’t want knowing about you—about us. It’s too bloody dangerous.”
In response, she slipped off her wedding rings and stuffed them into her front pocket. “Fine. We won’t be together.” She dove into the cab before he could think up another argument.
He joined her with a muttered curse and gave her a quick assessment as the cab drove on. “No one will mistake you for a local,” he told her. Halfway through town, he asked the driver to stop at a small grocery store. He returned with a small bag of cosmetics and a bottle of fragrance. “You look and smell expensive, love. They’ll be on you like flies. Cheapen yourself up a bit.”
Laura smudged on a brighter eye shadow and a too-pink lipstick before spraying herself with the heavy floral scent that barely qualified as cologne. “Better?”
“Hardly,” he said gruffly as he adjusted her collar and cap. “Don’t talk much. You don’t have the accent or the lingo; you’ll be marked as an outsider for certain. I’d rather you changed your mind. The taxi driver can take you back to the Earl’s.”
“Not a chance. I might be out of my league here, but do remember I’m not stupid,” she said icily.
“If it wasn’t for that, you wouldn’t be here.”
The cabdriver dropped them at a seedy bar called Angel somewhere in the south side of London. The dark street contrasted with the dull lights inside the ale and smoke-soaked pub where a startling number of folks had gathered to honor their old friend.
Laura waited for Remington to exit the car, then had the cab circle the block and drop her off as well. She mumbled a greeting at the door and began exchanging brave smiles with various folk as she searched for a corner with a good vantage point. She hadn’t felt this out of place since crashing a party full of seniors in her first month of college at Stanford. She did now what she did then: sidled up to the bartender, ordered whatever the person next to her was drinking and took a healthy swig.
The detective in her took note of relationships, power plays and roles in the ebb and flow of the crowd. She kept an eye on Remington—not for signs of distress because that was pointless in his current state—but for old enemies with a bone to pick.
Each person seemed to have his own name for the man she’d married only days ago— “O’Leary,” “Mick,” “Michael,” “Harry”—or just a simple “mate” or “old boy.” They greeted him as he shook hands, patted shoulders and grabbed someone in a quick bear hug. He caught her eyes once as he noted her location, but otherwise ignored her.
Long after when she thought the bar was full, people kept trickling in. Laura wondered how much the bartender had bribed the fire marshal to stay away. Of course, the fire marshal could be the one steadily drinking pint after pint at the opposite end of the bar for all she knew.
No one was more surprised than she when a stunning blonde stepped through the entrance. She looked expensive—and probably smelled it too—Laura thought a little resentfully. But, despite her glamour, there was no doubt she belonged here as well. And that, Laura, is why she can get away with looking gorgeous in a place like this.
Felicia spotted her former lover, gracing him with a kiss and a hug that irritated Laura—less so when Remington didn’t allow the woman to linger at either one, though he kept a hand on her waist for a few minutes before excusing himself and moving on through the crowd.
Deprived of her initial target, it wasn’t long before Felicia zeroed in on Laura. “Still keeping tabs on Michael?”
“Someone has to do it.”
“And it might as well be you?” Felicia raised an eyebrow in a manner Laura had seen all too often.
Leaning in, Laura asked in all seriousness, “Did you two practice that?”
“What’s that?” the blonde asked in irritation.
“The arched eyebrow thing.” Laura waved a finger at her own forehead. “Remington does it all the time.”
Felicia colored—a first in Laura’s experience—before recovering in a pouty retort meant to imply much more. “We did, actually.”
“Ah. It’s effective.” Laura sat back and sipped her beer, wondering what Felicia had in mind.
“Let me see it,” the other woman demanded.
“See what?”
“Your wedding ring.”
Laura kept her face impassive. “What wedding ring?”
“That’s the third time you’ve used your thumb to stroke a ring that isn’t there. Sorry, darling, but that’s a classic gesture for someone who’s used to wearing one and isn’t,” Felicia said smugly. She pivoted to eyeball a certain handsome Irishman. “Michael knows better, so he’s keeping his hand in his pocket so he won’t do the same.”
“We’ve been undercover for the past two weeks. It’s what we do.” The lie tripped off Laura’s tongue easily enough that Felicia paused, searching her face for deception.
“You’re very good, Lisa. I almost bought that one. Don’t worry. I won’t tell your little secret. Though I do wonder how you managed to lure him to the altar.”
Laura smirked for she hadn’t lured anyone anywhere. “Now you presume too much.” She waved toward a man standing on a chair, preparing to make a speech. “Go mourn your friend, Felicia. I don’t want to spar with you tonight. It’s been an awful week.”
“Daniel meant a great deal to Michael. And he was a good man at heart,” Felicia admitted quietly.
“I know.”
“Raise a glass, Lisa. You’ve a right to it.” The beautiful woman slipped off into the heart of the crowd, leaving Laura to watch her thoughtfully as the toasts began.
When the low light of dawn brightened the windows of the pub, the tired, drunken crowd of mourners left in ones and twos. A few hours back, Laura had wedged herself into a corner near the bar so she could use the wall for a backrest. She leaned her head against it as she watched the bartender wipe down the bar one last time while the last few stragglers shook hands and patted shoulders on their way out the door. She could hear the click of glasses as someone washed them in the kitchen sink.
“Can I get ye anything else, miss?” the bartender asked.
“Oh, no. I’ll go when my friend is done.”
“Harry is a good sort.”
She shook her head in weariness, annoyed that she’d given their association away. “Yes.”
“Known him long?”
“A while.”
“From your accent I’d say you’re from America. That makes you the detective he’s been hanging about these past few years.”
“You’re very good at this.”
“I know all the players, miss, and hear a lot of gossip.”
“I imagine you do.”
“I’ve never known Harry to have the sort of friend who would hang out at a bar all night long to do no more than watch his back. Especially not a woman.”
Laura only smiled. There wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t give away more than she intended, and she was far too tired to be witty.
Breaking away from the last of the mourners, Remington came to stand beside her. He held out a hand across the bar. “Tommy, old boy, my thanks.”
“Anytime, mate."
“We settled up?”
“Aye.”
Remington turned to Laura. She pursed her lips, thinking he looked good even with a layer of stubble and a missed night’s sleep. But the shadows in his eyes were gone, along with the mask he’d worn since Saturday. The curve to his lips was genuine and for her alone. “Come on, love. I think it’s time to go.” Laura put her hand in his and slid off the barstool.
Tommy idly polished a glass. “Your girl is somethin’ else, Harry. A rare bird. Kept an eye on you, she did. Even did a pair of shots for Daniel and lifted her pint in a toast. Didn’t pick a fight with your old girlfriend, nor did she flirt with the blokes who would have taken her home.”
Remington quirked his lips to Tommy. “I know.”
“Bugger me,” the man said in wonder. “Felicia had it right. Congratulations. Go home and be happy.”
“We will.”
Remington sagged in the back of the taxi with his cap drawn low to block the light. Laura yawned hugely and made herself comfortable in the opposite corner—at least until he yanked her to him, sending her sprawling across him for a hot kiss tasting of beer, smoke and spicy maleness.
“Mr. Steele—”
He framed her face in his hands. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything except hold up a wall.”
“You were there. For me.”
Laura only laid her head against his shoulder.
They staggered into the Earl’s home, showered together with predictable results, then tumbled into bed after Laura drew the heavy curtains shut, darkening the room in spite of the morning sun. Surprisingly, Remington didn’t go right to sleep. He lay next to her with his head propped on a hand and ran his fingers through her hair with the other.
It took her a moment before she understood. She shifted,
drawing him down so that his face rested on her shoulder—then pretended
not to notice the hot tears dampening her skin.
Somewhere in the mid-afternoon, Laura and Remington found their way to Daniel’s freshly-turned grave.
“Only Daniel could end up being buried in an Earl’s family cemetery in the heart of London. For the rest of history, there will be those perusing the names on the stones and wondering which branch of the family Daniel Chalmers came from,” Laura said lightly.
Remington nodded. The sadness—real sadness this time—was apparent in his eyes. “It’s the ultimate con. He deserves nothing less.”
“You’re a good son.” She patted his arm.
“I only wish I could have spent more time with him,” he said moodily.
“On the other hand, you spent twenty years with him.”
“Yeah. Well, one thing’s for certain. I’m not going to waste precious time showing people who are close to me how I feel for them.” He slid an arm around her waist, tugging her to him for a sweet kiss that made her body hum.
“I’d ask you to elaborate, but I’m fairly certain I know how that will turn out,” she teased.
“Ask me later, love. Right now we have a plane to catch.”
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