Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (2 page)

After attending a performance by the
London Symphony Orchestra at Windsor Castle, the Cavendish family enjoyed a
late dinner. The four were seated at a long table covered in crystal, silver,
china, and flowers. They consumed the third course. Fish.

Hillary used her fish knife to spread cucumber and dill
sauce onto a bite of chilled salmon. Gently pushing the morsel onto her fork
with her knife, she gracefully transferred the bite to her mouth. Quietly
placing the utensils where they belonged, she considered her strategy while
chewing.

“Ruminating on devious plots?” her mother asked, interrupting
Hillary’s cogitations.

Dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, she gave a cool smile
before answering, “Devious, no. Ruminating, yes. I would like to move into the
house in Chelsea.”

Her parents exchanged a glance before her father, Edward
Cavendish, took the reins of the conversation. “What do you have in mind,
Hillary?”

In precisely chosen phrases, she answered. “After graduate school,
I’d like to set up my own house. It would be the ideal time to strike out on my
own. Get a feel for independence.”

Before either parent could speak, Phillip, her protective
older brother, asked, “Does this have anything to do with the Duke of Montrose?”

Caught by surprise, Hillary sputtered, “Of course not. I
don’t even know the current Duke of Montrose. What have you heard?” The drawn-out
intonations of her upper-class enunciation were clipped and sharp.

Phillip reclined against the high-backed chair. “Apparently,
nothing correct. George seemed to think that a Duke or some such from Scotland
was interested in you.” George was their absent brother.

“Well, George is mistaken.” Passing her gaze between her
parents, she said, “I am looking at a position with the Institute for
Philanthropy.”

“Wonderful. Now, are you planning on living alone?” her
mother inquired.

“You’re not going to have that dreadful Marian there, are
you? Or, for that matter, the Americans? The Italian would be fine.” Phillip
offered his opinion.

“Marian is not dreadful. She’s a bit rough around the edges,
but she’s the salt of the earth. So are Charlotte and Kathleen. They’re true
friends.”

Edward Cavendish looked at his daughter sternly. “Alone or
with friends?”

Swallowing her irritation, she responded in a bored voice,
“I’m planning on living there alone. Until I die.”

“No need to get melodramatic,” her mother dryly interjected.
“Unless your father objects, I can see no reason why you shouldn’t live there.
Alone. Until you die.”

Her father, regaining his humor, agreed then added, “Perhaps
you will acquire a cat or two.”

Hillary intoned, “Perhaps even a dog.”

***

On the back of her boyfriend,
Gianni’s, scooter, Tiziana sat with her legs tucked against his muscular ones,
her arms wrapped firmly around Gianni’s waist. She enjoyed the feel of him
beneath his fitted shirt. The scent of his cologne drifted to where her cheek
was pressed against his back. Her white scarf, tied loosely around her
shoulders, fluttered in the breeze.

After dodging traffic, they drove around the San Giovanni
neighborhood of Rome, finally finding a parking spot on Via Turno. Gianni
parked and waited for Tiziana to safely plant her strappy, black heels on the
ground before swinging his leg over and setting himself free. Since he was much
taller than average, even Tiziana looked up at him; she admired his swarthy
features before giving in to the urge to brush a loose lock of hair off his
forehead. Reaching for her hand, he kissed her palm before leaning down to
taste her lips.

Instead of giving him a kiss, she quickly brushed her thumb
over his dimpled chin, coyly teasing, “Later. I don’t want Alessandro telling Mama
that I arrived looking like I just climbed out of bed.”

He pulled her up against him and sighed deeply, as the heat
of their two bodies sizzled. Just before combusting, Tiziana placed a hand in
the middle of his wide chest, pushed him back, and turned to give him a view of
her curvaceous backside. Resigned, he walked beside her, his hand on her lower
back, guiding her down the romantically lit sidewalk to the popular nightclub,
Mahalia.

Tiziana’s brother, Alessandro, worked there; he had promised
to save a table for them close to the low-rise stage. The two siblings had
inherited their mother’s dazzling good looks and their father’s charm. For both
reasons, Alessandro’s boss always kept him at the front door and was overjoyed
when Tiziana paid a visit.

Tonight, dressed in a barely-there black dress, Tiziana and
her accentuated décolletage floated their way to the front of the line, while
Gianni glared at the leering men she passed.

Tucking her scarf into her tiny, sparkly purse, she spotted
her brother. “Alessy!
Ciao bello!
”

“Titti!” He greeted her with a kiss. “It’s good you are
here. There are only a few decent tables left.”

“
Perfetto!
” She looked beguilingly at her boyfriend.
“
Siete pronti?
”

“
Sì, bellissima
. I am always ready.”

Alessandro gave Gianni a scowl. Though his sister and Gianni
had been dating for quite some time, it was his job as brother to scowl. At the
table, Gianni pulled Tiziana’s chair out, giving Alessandro a look that told
him to piss off.

Squeezing her shoulder gently, Alessandro said to his riot-inducing
sister, “Be good, for god’s sake.”

The last time she had come by the club with a group of
girlfriends, three men had had to be thrown out. While one was at the bar
buying her a drink, another decided to say hello. After the first guy returned
with the drinks, the two started yelling at each other. Taking advantage of
this, a third pulled up a chair and started chatting with her. When the two
other men realized what was going on, harsh words were spoken and punches
thrown.

It was now a rule that, when Tiziana entered Mahalia, all
the bouncers and bartenders kept a careful eye on things.

***

The phone rang across the sea to
distant shores. Butterflies rioted in my stomach as I sat on the floor, facing
my mother, who was there for moral support.
Why am I so nervous? It’s
Mikkel!
Trying to convince myself everything was fine, I gave my mom a
thumbs-up.

I was so distracted by my nerves that it took a moment to
realize someone had answered. Mikkel had told me his family spoke English.
Nonetheless, I enunciated clearly. “Hello. This is Kathleen Ehlers, a friend of
Mikkel’s. May I speak to him, please?”

My mother drew a happy face across her own, reminding me to
be happy.

“Excuse me?” I said. The heavily accented voice on the other
end was hard to understand. There was a thud and talking in the background.

“Hello?” said a different voice.

Time to try again. “Hello, I’m a friend of Mikkel’s. My name
is Kathleen. May I speak to him, please?” My voice sounded calmer to my ears.

My mother continued to smile encouragingly.

What followed was an unnatural plunge to earth. I heard him
speak the words, but they didn’t register with my brain or my heart. I lowered
the phone to my lap, unwilling to hear more, then grasped for my mother,
anxious to hold onto something real. Surely, the words I’d just heard could
not
be real.

My mother picked up the phone. I forced myself to listen.
“I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

A brief conversation followed; my mother’s words sounded
soothing. When she said goodbye, she wrapped herself around me, where I had
curled into a ball on the floor.
Will it swallow me?

Tremors passed through me as mournful keening escaped my
lips. My mother tugged me close, holding me like she had when I was little,
when I’d needed a barrier between me and the world. But her kisses and
whispered words of reassurance were not going to fix what had happened this time.

Piercing pain hit. It stole my breath and my voice but
curled around my heart and snaked into my soul where, once tethered, it
exploded, flinging my hope and joy carelessly aside.

The house was pitch black when I awoke, stiff, my head
throbbing almost as much as my broken heart. My mother, beside me, gripped my
hand tightly when I finally managed to ask, “How do you ever fall out of love
with someone who dies?”

“DECLAN, YEAH, IT’S ME,
Marian. I’ve got a table at The Long Hall, all the way in the back,” Marian
shouted into her cell phone. “Okay, see you soon.” She rang off and looked around
the crowded bar, hoping that they would be able to hear each other once the
lunch crowd returned to work.

The Long Hall was everything an Irish pub ought to be:
noisy, yeasty-smelling, and bedazzled in décor from the late 1800s. The walls
and ceiling were painted the color of merlot, accentuating the oak woodwork
throughout. Chandeliers hovered above the long wooden bar, where patrons of all
shapes and sizes waited for their orders. Bottles of drink lined shelf upon
shelf, and the barmen pulled three and four lagers at once.

When Declan walked in, he waved hello to a few men at the
bar as well as the barman, himself, and made his way to Marian. “Hello,
gorgeous!” He leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “What would you
like to drink?”

“
Er
, don’t mind. Large. Very cold!”

Declan’s cologne mingled quite pleasantly with his natural
scent, overwhelming Marian’s senses. While he stood at the bar looking manly in
a pair of well-worn jeans and white fitted shirt that was buttoned a little
insufficiently, she wondered at the impairment to her power of speech when he
was around
.
She went all… girly.

When Declan returned with a perfectly pulled pint of
Guinness and a spectacularly large frosted glass of white wine, Marian smiled
up into his gorgeous brown eyes and said without preamble, “What the
feck
is wrong with Henry Conyngham? He went arseways, didn’t he? Complete eejit!
This is our weekend. We should be wildly drunk, dancing like maniacs to the
Rolling Stones, Iggy Pop, or Coldplay! He’s gone and completely fecked up our
annual clandestine hook-up!” Her girlish ways were forgotten.

The Marquess Henry Conyngham, often referred to as the
Rock-and-Roll Aristocrat (as a result of the very successful rock concerts held
on his estate), had neglected to book acts for the concert at Slane Castle.
Since escorting their grandmothers seven years prior, Declan and Marian had
enjoyed all manner of indulgences with each other, one weekend per year, ever
since. They’d kept their assignations private, since they didn’t want either
granny pestering them about weddings and great-grandbabies.

“He is a gammy piece of shite. But there’s nothing to stop
us from finding other forms of entertainment.” His voice sent a sublime ping
ricocheting through her body, as his Adam’s apple bobbed on his clean-shaven
throat. Her eyes were riveted there. She’d mused more than once, sometimes
while nibbling it, that there was something unusually sexy about his throat.

Time had been very kind to Declan. Where he had once been a
tall, thin boy, his body had now thickened with muscle and was dangerously
delightful to touch. His dark hair was a little too long and had a tendency to
flop in his eyes when not gelled back. His mischievous brown eyes were parked
below slashing eyebrows that intimated a wide range of emotions. And then there
were his lips, which knew how to work all kinds of magic.

“Well then, what do you have in mind?” she asked brazenly,
with the lift of an eyebrow, before taking a big gulp of her wine.

Tilting his head at his glass, he thought for a moment then
suggested, “Well, at least one or two of these here, a bite to eat somewhere
else, then, perhaps a stroll through St. Stephens Green or some such. At some
point, we should have dinner at a nice restaurant and then make our way to
Camden Street, if you like, to see what the entertainment is.
Then
, I am
hoping to persuade you to join me at The Merrion for a night of debauchery.”

“Sounds like you have considered a small range of
possibilities.” She endeavored to keep her tone light. Her inner turmoil was
great. Her yearly one-night—all right, two-night—stand with Declan had come to
mean
something to her. Did she dare hope he had feelings for her, ask him if he
wanted more? She was crap at the whole romance thing. Hoping her heart wasn’t
beaming out her eyes, she averted them by digging through her purse for her
sunglasses, “How about Il Primo? They have incredible food. I love the smoked
haddock and chive risotto.”

“Sounds perfetto!”

***

Many, many hours later, they counted
as they clutched the black iron railing attached to the brick façade of The
Merrion. “One, two, three, four, five! Well, I’ll be buggered. There’s only
five steps.” Wobbly, Declan glanced behind him at what had seemed a mountain of
stairs. Turning around slowly to prevent throwing himself off hard-won balance,
he saw the doorman offering a stabilizing hand to Marian as she tripped over
the carpet threshold. “Thank you,” Declan said with as much dignity as he could
muster in his drunken state.

Trying not to offend the guests gathered in the lobby at 3:00
am, Marian and Declan weaved their way past the Drawing Room in all its
refinement and began climbing the curving stairway. Still clutching the
railing, with his hand resting on her lower back, he whispered far too loud,
“All right?”

The insanity of it all washed over her, and she began to
laugh hard. He was the picture of dignified stoicism as she announced, “Stop
making me laugh or I’ll wee.”

His response was, “
Shh
! We’ll be tossed out on the
pavement if you don’t stop being so vulgar!” His affected tone added to her
laughter. Declan waved to the doorman, who had been watching the goings on. He
immediately rushed up the few stairs the two had managed to climb.

Staring at the brass nametag attached to the man’s lapel,
Declan’s vision cleared enough to read. “Ronan, help me out, will you, mate?
She’s completely ossified.”

“Why’d you let her drink so much?” the doorman muttered
under his breath.

Her head snapped up. “Ronan, is it? I’ll have you know I
drink how much I like. He didn’t
let
me do anything! I had the correct
amount to drink, I assure you. I’m not drunk—I’m happy!”

He looked at Declan and shook his head. “Well, let’s get
your happy friend to the toilet, shall we, before we’ve all had it.”

The trio walked with as much dignity as possible up the
stairway and down the hall, while Declan recited Dermot Byrnes’s comedy routine
that they had caught at the Ha’Penny Inn. The comedian’s routine was inspired
by the government’s anti-drunk campaign, “Know the One that Is One Too Many!”

Marian fell into a fit of giggles when Declan tripped over
his feet trying to shuffle down the hallway. Providing a stabilizing hand, Ronan
urged them to whisper. At the door to the suite, he slid the plastic card into
the slot for Declan and, with a final shove, pushed them inside and pulled the
door shut. Firmly.

***