Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (2 page)

Not to mention as dangerous
. He'd known this unhappy day would come. He just hadn't reckoned on split knuckles and spilt blood.

"Mum, stop?" Maura repeated, incredulous. She gave Henry a hurt look. "Your poor old mum's just defending herself, love. Look at my face! Your precious Kate attacked me. Broke my nose. All because—"

"Kate," Tony thundered.

The parlor's acoustics weren't as impressive as the kitchen's, but the result was similar. Maura halted in mid-rant, mouth hanging open.

Color flooded into Kate's face. Her left hand curled around her right, concealing the freshly-applied plaster.

Only Louise seemed glad to see him. Drink halfway to her lips, she paused, staring at Tony with undisguised fascination. "Look at you! A peer of the realm." She sipped. "Thought you'd be taller."

"Kate." Tony adopted a determinedly civil tone. "Forgive me for intruding. I believe I caught you unawares. I see we have guests. Please introduce these ladies to me."

That dissolved Maura's paralysis. Perhaps because, according to tradition, social inferiors—"commoners"—were always introduced to lords and ladies, never the other way round, a convention she seemed to find offensive.

"Oi! If you haven't heard, Jane Austen's dead,
Lord
Hetheridge, and Charles Dickens ain't looking so hot himself," Maura said, slurring a bit. "Guy Fawkes is the horse I bet on. What's more, this is the twenty-first bleeding century, and I can introduce myself, thanks very much. I'm Maura Wakefield." Putting down the icepack and drink, she advanced with right hand out.

Henry was trembling all over. Stepping behind the boy, Tony ignored Maura's demand to shake, resting his hands on the boy's shoulders instead. Beneath the typical schoolboy layers—hooded jacket, cable knit sweater, button-down shirt—the tremors lessened. As Tony waited, he watched from the corner of his eye as Maura slowly withdrew her hand. Her mortification was of no concern to him. He wanted Henry to feel safe.

"Perhaps you should go downstairs?" he asked the boy. "Wait for dinner with Harvey? It's sure to arrive soon."

"I can't. They're arguing over me." Henry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "If I can't go to Robbie's, I'm staying here."

"Of course. In which case—" Tony looked from adult to adult "—we'll strive to keep matters civil. Perhaps even cordial. Now, Ms. Wakefield—Maura, isn't it? Forgive any rudeness a moment ago. I was simply concerned about your son. As are you, of course." Smiling, he crossed the room, took her hand in both of his, and shook it warmly.

Apparently that was the very last thing she'd expected. In surprise, she looked vulnerable, and when vulnerable, her chin trembled just the way Kate's did.

"I'm Anthony Hetheridge," he continued. "My friends call me Tony. I hope you'll do the same. It occurs to me I really ought to beg your forgiveness for eloping with your sister. It was terribly selfish of me. I do hope you'll let me make it up to you."

Maura looked starstruck. She didn't seem to want to let his hands go. Gently freeing himself, Tony threw in a bow from the waist, the sort of thing considered overdone anywhere outside Buckingham Palace. Maura managed a tremulous smile; Kate emitted some other sort of noise. He didn't dare look in her direction.

"Marvelous," Louise cooed. Belting back the last of her Dalwhinnie, she sprang up, seemingly cured of the various afflictions—backache, knee pain, flat feet—that had prevented her from seeking gainful (legal) employment her entire life. "Kate! Introduce me. Never mind all that about Guy Fawkes and anarchy in the UK. I want it done proper."

"Tony." Kate sounded like a person under extreme duress. "This is my mum, Louise Wakefield. Mum, this is my husband, Tony."

"Title," Louise said out the side of her mouth.

"Lord Hetheridge. Baron Wellegrave."

Thus cued, Tony gave the old woman a longer, deeper bow, imagining Queen Elizabeth II in a conservative suit instead of Louise in her FUBU tracksuit and trainers.

"
Enchanté
." Louise dropped a passable curtsey.

"Mum," Kate and Maura groaned.

"Bloody hell, I'm only human. First time I ever met a person of quality."

"I'm a baroness, if you didn't notice," Kate ground out.

"Nobody likes a braggart, Katie." Plopping back on the settee, Louise splashed more scotch into her glass. "Now that we're all acquainted, Tony, love, let me clue you in. Our Maura's been through the wringer—all the way through, mind you. No thanks to your lot at the Met, always hounding her for this and that, but no hard feelings, either. Them doctors gave her a boatload of diagnoses, too, because that's what doctors do, diagnose. So Maura went to hospital instead of prison. But she done her time and now she's out, so—"

"Out, as in a halfway house," Kate cut across her mother. "Pending conditions."

"—and it's high time poor little Henry was back in her life," Louise finished serenely. "High time he was in my life, too. I need my grandson. I have a right to him." She took a sip. "You've done right by him, Katie, but being rich isn't the same as being God. You can't bully poor Maura just because you bully everyone else. You can't expect her to slink off, tail between her legs, when her only child's happiness is at stake." She lifted her glass at Tony. "Good stuff, this! Smooth as a baby's bum."

"Bully poor Maura? What are you on about?" Kate cried. "Bullies get things. I've never had a thing from either of you, not once in the whole of my life. Practically raised myself, didn't I? Found work and paid the bills when you scarpered. Nicked food when I had to. Chatted up the landlord to keep a roof over our heads. And as for you…." Kate swung toward Maura with such fury, Tony feared he might have to physically restrain her. "
You
flushed your life down the karzi, not me. All I did was keep Henry from going into care. I've seen the system from both sides, and it's rotten. I wanted him to have stability! A good, safe home with his own blood. And
this
is the thanks I get?"

"I don't—I wish you wouldn't—" Henry faltered, beginning to tremble again.

"Look what you've done!" Maura accused Kate. "Look at my poor boy's face. Is this your game? Tell him how terrible I am? Poison him against me?"

"Of course. That's our Katie, always keeping score," Louise said. "Probably expects me to apologize for all those Christmas mornings when she didn't find her heart's desire under the tree. You held me to impossible standards, Katie. Judged me night and day. It's etched in my memory, carved in my bones. So when it comes to young Henry, I know—"

"You don't know!" Henry exploded. "This is stupid. You're all so—so—stupid!"

Before Tony could concur, albeit in slightly more diplomatic language, Kate said in a voice of dead calm, "Mum. I don't expect you to apologize because I never got what I wanted under the Christmas tree. We never
had
a Christmas tree. And if your memory's so sharp, answer me this: when is Ritchie's birthday?"

Louise blinked. "What?"

"Ritchie. My brother. Your son." Kate folded her arms across her chest. "He's in his room, playing with his Legos, thank God. Do you know he's an artist? He does things with Legos that are good enough for galleries, Mum. One of his pieces will be shown at a Legoland fair next month, which you'd know, if you ever bothered to call. You've been in this house for two hours and you haven't even asked about him. When is Ritchie's birthday, Mum?"

"This isn't about Ritchie, it's about Henry," Maura sniffed. Wiping her eyes, she tried to get down on one knee in front of her son. Perhaps because of the fraught atmosphere, perhaps because of the whiskey, she failed in that attempt, overbalancing and falling on the carpet.

Henry backed away, tears spilling down his cheeks. As Tony helped her up, she whined, "Henry! Baby! You still love me, don't you? You understand I had to go in hospital, I had to get well…."

"Tell me what day Ritchie was born," Kate continued, still locked on Louise. "Amaze us. Never mind the year, the day and month is good enough."

"Katie." Louise rose with all the dignity available to an inebriated senior citizen in designer trackies. "Never mind that art nonsense, Ritchie's a lost cause. Not because of me, because of you. You stole him from me. Bribed him and lied to him and made him forget me. But you won't do that with Henry, because you're giving Maura custody."

"I don't want—" Henry tried to interject.

"I don't take orders from you," Kate shouted at Louise.

"Henry's my son," Maura put in.

"I'm right here!" Henry cried. "Doesn't anyone care what
I
want?" Whirling, he tried to dart out of the parlor, but Tony blocked his escape.

"You have to stand your ground," he whispered in the boy's ear. "Run now, and you'll never stop."

Forcibly turning Henry to face Kate, Maura, and Louise, Tony said, "Well, ladies? It's a fair question. Do any of you care what he wants?"

Kate made a shocked sound. "How can you ask me that?"

"I would die for Henry!" Maura surged forth as if to embrace the boy.

"No!" Throwing himself against Tony, Henry sobbed noisily into his coat. Unsure how to respond, either to the gale of emotion or the death grip around his middle—it was his first time being seized by a weeping child—he decided to just carry on.

"I await your answer," he told Louise. "Do you care what he wants?"

"Kiddies don't know what they want. Or need. That's why God made adults, innit?"

"Terribly sorry, milord," Harvey announced jubilantly from the door. His uniform had been replaced, his comb-over back where it belonged. "Scotland Yard is on the line. They've rung your mobile several times, sir. Must be a satellite issue."

Tony, infamous among his younger colleagues for switching off his mobile when it suited him, nodded as if carrier failure was obviously at fault. "Who called?"

"Dispatch, milord. There's been a homicide. SCO19 has been summoned. The scene may still be hot." Harvey kept his face blank, as if he took no pleasure in casual use of Met lingo, but satisfaction radiated off him in waves. Tony knew how much his manservant enjoyed coming to the rescue.

"What's a hot scene?" Henry asked.

"One where the bloke what did it might still be loitering about," Louise said wisely. "Bloody hell, Katie, don't you let the little bugger watch
Crimewatch
?"

"What's the address?" Tony asked Harvey.

His manservant indulged in an infinitesimal pause for effect. "Twenty-four Euston Place, milord."

Kate caught her breath. "But that's.…"

"In this very neighborhood," Tony agreed. "Just down the street. Therefore, though it pains me to do so" —he smiled—"I fear I must ask our guests to leave."

"Right. We'll bugger off. But we're taking Henry with us," Maura announced. "You can't just leave him in this drafty old house while you and Kate go gallivanting."

"Madam, I shall be with him." Harvey said haughtily.

"Oh, sure, a butler. Might as well put Ritchie in charge."

"Ritchie can look after me. He looks after me just fine," Henry said, defending his chief nemesis with a fervor usually reserved for Jedi knights. "He's older than Kate."

"He's been daft every day of his life and you know it," Maura snapped. "And a butler isn't your blood. I'm your mum, and I'm taking you home."

"Maura, I swear to God—" Kate balled up her fist, crinkling the plaster across her knuckles.

"Kate, please." Hetheridge didn't meet his wife's eyes. He didn't need to; the force of her glare could have been felt from orbit. Turning to Maura and Louise, he said, "I understand your position perfectly, ladies. But a certain expression applies. I've had it said to me countless times, yet never had occasion to use it myself." Resting both hands on Henry's shoulders, he said, "Not without a warrant."

Chapter Two

Detective Sergeant Kate Wakefield Hetheridge still found it difficult to omit the "Wakefield" and supply the "Hetheridge," even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Several times since returning to Scotland Yard as a married woman, she'd introduced herself to new colleagues as DS Wakefield, resulting in cleared throats and curious glances. Everyone at the Yard, including file clerks, secretaries, and janitors, seemed aware she'd been featured (briefly and coolly) in newspaper society columns. Many could quote entire paragraphs of the tabloid coverage, which had been colorful and expansive. "Beggar Bride and Geriatric Beau Baffle West End," published in a scandal rag called
Bright Star
, was now required reading for the Metropolitan Police Service, judging by how often Kate heard about it. Only in the fame and title-obsessed world of
Bright Star
could a career detective, who'd paid her own way since her teens, be called a "beggar," and a fit, handsome sixty-year-old be called "geriatric."

He'd deny the "handsome" part
, Kate thought. That triggered an automatic flood of fondness, which she mentally squashed, incinerated, and cursed out of existence. She was furious with him, and he deserved it. So what if she accidentally introduced herself as DS Wakefield at the crime scene? Maybe she'd do it on purpose while he was in earshot.