Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (18 page)

"Perhaps restraint is overrated. And of course you must consider yourself on the payroll," Tony said. "Your first task? Begin the process for me to obtain that blasted license. I always used to say the government should make it a crime for unqualified PIs to harass private citizens and use investigation as an excuse for breach of privacy. I never guessed it would actually happen and put me in danger of arrest if I don't pass an online class. Or, heaven forbid, attend seminars."

"I think with your credentials, you'll be grandfathered out of any seminars," Mrs. Snell said. "If you'll forgive the terminology."

"It's appropriate. I'd surely be the oldest man there."

"I only fear the process won't be quick enough."

"Quick enough for what?"

She looked surprised. "Why, for you to clear up this matter of the dead art dealer, present the answers to the media, and humiliate Scotland Yard."

He laughed. "I can't fault you for dreaming big. But alas, Vic has charge of it now. If I managed such a thing, he'd be the one pilloried, not the people who forced me out. I couldn't do that to him."

Mrs. Snell's eyes narrowed behind her hugely magnifying lenses. "I'm not convinced this change in DCI Jackson will last. He's tried before."

"I haven't the foggiest what the future holds for Vic. But Kate's on his team, and she'll solve the Hardwick murder, I'm sure of it. Perhaps my license will come through in time for me to lend some sort of hand. But at the moment, I have no base of operations, unless you count Wellegrave House."

"Surely two of its rooms can be converted into temporary offices?"

"Let's go find out."

Rather than call Harvey, who certainly wasn't expecting to collect his employer in the Bentley at half-eleven, they took a black cab to Mayfair. The driver started grumbling as soon as he turned on Euston Place.

"I see your destination, but there's no getting close to it, sir," he told Tony. "Probably on account of the murder round these parts last night."

A
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news van, garishly decorated with its trademark, a cartoon bee with an overlarge stinger, blocked half the narrow street. Cameramen milled about. A striking brunette in a trench coat, either a celebrity reporter or someone determined to become one, paced the sidewalk with microphone in hand, rehearsing questions. From the cab Tony couldn't read her lips, but the questions were obviously of the "gotcha" variety, judging by how she paused to practice each one's corresponding reaction: astonishment, disbelief, or righteous indignation.

"Charming. The tabloid vultures descend to pick the art dealer's bones," Mrs. Snell sniffed.

"If only. That's not Hardwick's house they're camped outside," Tony said. "It's mine."

"Codswallop! How on earth did they find out? And why all this? The worst I expected was some sort of triumphant opinion piece in
The Independent
."

Hetheridge, who read
The Independent
, suspected its editors had larger concerns than yet another fossil purged from the Met. Perhaps
Bright Star
would run something, but only if every pop star, footballer, and royal in Britain spent the next two weeks leading blameless lives. His wedding to Kate had been covered because of its potential for disaster, but afterward, the tabloid's readership had returned to Justin Bieber, Joey Barton, and the Kardashians.

"I suspect this might be an altogether different matter," he told Mrs. Snell. "I'll see about it. Wait here."

She cleared her throat in a most unladylike fashion. "Hardly."

He looked at her, amazed.

"If I'm to be in your private employ, Lord Hetheridge, I think we shall have to negotiate new and different terms. I've had enough unquestioning obedience to last a lifetime. And if you intend to wade into that carnival of atrocious taste masquerading as news, you shan't do so alone."

It didn't take long for them to locate the eye of the scandal-rag hurricane: Louise and Maura Wakefield. The latter looked the worse for wear—uncombed hair, rumpled donkey jacket, cigarette in one hand and mobile in the other. She wore no makeup, but Louise had on enough for both of them. Foundation had rendered her face three shades darker than her neck. Once again she wore a FUBU tracksuit, this one sky blue, her hair tied up in a spangled kerchief. Her hand-lettered protest sign read:

UNFAIR TO GRANDMOTHERS

Another sign hung from the bars of his wrought iron fence. Less grammatically sound, it read:

KIDS NEED MUM'S

NOT BUTLER'S

"There he is!" Louise cried, catching sight of Tony. "That's the man who won't let me see my own grandson. Not without a warrant, he says! And me not knowing him from Adam. What's a geezer want with a little boy? Is he a paedo?"

The striking brunette whirled. Signaling her cameramen to follow, she glided between Louise and Tony, thrusting her microphone under his nose.

"Lord Hetheridge! Ann Spann,
Best Buzz
news. Congratulations on your marriage, sir. But some are asking—do you think it's quite fair, putting yourself between a mum and her son?"

"No comment."

"Documents obtained by
Best Buzz
indicate your wife, Kate, never adopted young Henry, and her sister Maura has applied for restoration of parental responsibility. In light of those facts," Anne Spann continued, checking the cameras to ensure she was optimally placed, "would you be adverse to allowing Henry's mum and gran to visit him now?"

"It's noon. He's at school."

"Shows what you know!" Louise crowed. "Little scrapper got sent home for fighting." Raising her sign, she tapped the word "unfair" with a sparkly fingernail. "Troubled, that one. We wanted to talk him off the ledge, but your almighty butler won't open the gates. My grandson is held hostage not a stone's throw away"—her voice quavered—"and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Sent home?" Tony repeated, wondering if school officials had called Kate. Would she turn up in the midst of this chaos, fly into a rage, and try to finish last night's fist fight? He cared little for the safety of Louise and Maura, but he had to prevent Kate from giving this gossip correspondent what she wanted: the sort of footage that made careers in the entertainment biz and ended them in the Met.

"Yes, my son was sent home, and no one could reach you or Kate, so the butler had to fetch him," Maura announced, crowding Louise to one side. "After you practically set the dogs on us last night, what could I do but try to see him at his school? He was having a break in the schoolyard when I got there. One of the posh boys called me a clot, and Henry slugged him. After the teacher broke up the fight, Henry said
my sister
taught him violence is the answer. Too right she did! Didn't she do this to me?" Maura demanded, pointing at her swollen nose.

Tony struggled to rein in his temper. Henry, though not yet nine, would never have said such a thing. Maura was trying to make the boy seem poorly-adjusted as a result of Kate's guardianship. And while Tony could forgive the cameras, the reporter, and the accusations in general, he could not forgive a misrepresentation of Henry's character.

"I'll thank you not to lie, Ms. Wakefield."

"You hear how he talks to me!" she screeched at Ann Spann.

"Thinks we ain't human," Louise agreed, grabbing the microphone to be certain she had everyone's attention. "I guess my grandson will be a poor little rich boy, alone in a big house. With nobody but a servant to pick up the pieces when he descends into violence."

Ann Spann nodded wisely. "A tragic picture," she said, wrestling her microphone away from Louise, only to thrust it back at Tony. "These ladies make a passionate case for continued involvement in young Henry's life. No doubt there are many advantages to living in
Mayfair
," she said, her added emphasis seeming to connote sleeping on stacks of cash, "but blood is thicker, eh? Some might call this proof of class warfare in modern Britain. So tell us, Lord Hetheridge, now that Mum and Gran have taken their case to the public, can you reassure us as to young Henry's future?"

"Indeed I can." Mrs. Snell stepped forward, and the Wakefields stepped back. Even Ann Spann visibly quailed at the sight of those blue-rinsed curls, the 1960s-era tweed suit, and that black leather pocketbook. Such unassailable correctness could be terrifying, even to those who ignored convention.

"And you are?" the reporter asked.

"I am Mrs. Snell. From this day forward, I shall be Master Henry's nanny, overseeing his needs when he is not at school."

"Oh, ain't that just like the rich. Hire another servant! Throw money at it!" Louise cried. "Listen, Ann. You need to pry into my Katie's life. Her job's dangerous. Got herself held at gunpoint awhile back. Always mixing it up with serial killers and the like. Never works less than sixty hours a week. And him!" She stabbed a finger at Tony. "Never less than eighty. Pull the records and see what kind of guardian he'd be. Don't be put off just because he has the high and mighty act down pat."

"Ms. Spann." Forcing himself to smile at the reporter, Tony held her gaze till she softened. "Might I make an announcement? Something I feel certain your viewers will find interesting?" Without waiting for her to answer, he plucked the microphone from her hands as if it had belonged to him all along. Louise Wakefield was mistaken about a great many things, but in one respect, she'd pegged him right. He had the high and mighty act down pat.

"It's true, over the course of my career at Scotland Yard, I've worked eighty hours a week or more, serving the public. But this morning, I resigned my position to devote more time to my family. I have no objection to Henry's relatives visiting, if the courts choose to award access. I would never separate a child from his blood. But he's lived with my wife for several years, and stability is essential. This is about what's best for Henry, not the whims of adults. To that end…." He looked directly into the camera. "Kate and I will adopt him, and make him my heir."

* * *

After that declaration, it took some time for Tony and Mrs. Snell to safely retreat to the desirable side of Wellegrave House's nine foot gate. As they approached the house, Tony saw the curtains in an upstairs window ripple. Then they fell back into place as if a small boy, afraid of being seen, had left his vantage point.

He's probably off to Google
Best Buzz
news
, Tony thought.
Heaven knows how quickly they'll have the footage up. An hour or two at the latest.

His pulse still beat in his ears, breath coming so raggedly, Mrs. Snell probably thought him mad. Was he? In the middle of Louise's rant, the best way to answer had come clear to him, the masterstroke to end it all. And so he'd acted, convinced of his own rightness, utterly sure. Now the full realization of what he'd done was sinking in. He'd never discussed the question of adoption, not with Kate and certainly not with Henry. As for the heir to his personal fortune, how was Kate likely to react to him deciding such a thing unilaterally? On television?

At least this answers the question of how I'll spend my retirement. In a box, six feet under.

Harvey had the front door open before they reached the steps. "Forgive me, milord, I hope I did right by refusing them entry. They promised reprisals, and before I knew it, that van pulled up…."

"You performed admirably," Tony said, ushering Mrs. Snell inside first. "Harvey, you remember my administrative assistant?"

"Of course. But if I might ask, why are you home so soon? Has something happened? Did a neighbor call to inform you of the commotion?" the butler asked, giving Mrs. Snell an uneasy smile. He'd always been a touch wary of her at the office. Finding her at Wellegrave House, smack in the center of his territory, seemed to alarm him.

"Things are under control. In a state of flux, but under control." Tony clenched his hands into fists to conceal how they shook. "Would you excuse me if I don't put you in the picture till this evening? Or possibly tomorrow? The day thus far has been… less than ideal."

"Good heavens. That bad? Well, I've no wish to pry. But milord, if you you'll forgive me for saying so, you look rather—florid. Can I get you something? Green tea? Some fresh squeezed orange juice, perhaps?"

"No, thank you."

"Sir, forgive me. But this isn't some sort of health scare, is it?"

Tony bit back a smile. The poor man probably thought he'd been diagnosed with something dire, like the need for a quintuple bypass. He owed Harvey the truth, but there was a good chance the manservant would weep longer and harder than Mrs. Snell, and Tony couldn't face another round of consoling. It would have to wait until the morning.

"I'm fine. Hot under the collar, that's all. Mrs. Snell is embarking on a special project for me, one that will operate out of this house. I believe I'll take her through the ground floor myself, see what space we can free up."

Looking more than a touch worried about what Mrs. Snell's incursion into his domain might mean, Harvey withdrew back to the sanctuary of his kitchen. Tony, still beset by waves of adrenalin, stiffened his back, set his teeth, and led Mrs. Snell to the first likely spot, a disused guest room. He was attempting to open some rather stubborn brocade curtains when she said,

"This is not only excruciating, but unnecessary. You're too flustered to operate a pull-cord." She waved him aside and parted the curtains herself, letting in a flood of winter sun.

"I'm not flustered…."

"Yes, you are. Never mind, I'm perfectly capable of exploring the ground floor on my own. When I'm finished, perhaps you can introduce me to Henry. My offer to serve as nanny, at least until things are more settled, wasn't just for the cameras. And I think you'll find I'm rather better with children than my interactions with DS Bhar may have suggested. But that can wait until after you've spoken to the boy."

"I'm not ready to speak to him. I've no idea what to say," Tony said, still clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Well, you still possess epees and a piste, do you not? Suit up, and face him over crossed swords."