The Laughter of Dead Kings (29 page)

“Surely not that many.”

“Look it up. They had only one child, but he had three, and their descendants bred like rabbits. I’m not even in the direct line; I’m descended from their younger granddaughter. That and two pounds ten, as the saying goes, is good for a cup of coffee at any Starbucks.”

“Be blasé if you want to. I’m impressed. Amelia P. Emerson is one of my heroines. It was their house we were in, their things we saw. Her legendary parasol, his knife—”

“According to tradition, the knife and the swords belonged to their son.”

“But he was a scholar, not a soldier. Degrees from all sorts of places, dozens of books to his credit.”

“There are a lot of stories about Ramses Emerson, as he was called,” John said. “Some almost certainly apocryphal…Never mind my damned ancestors, Vicky, I have to talk to you about something important.”

“Okay.”

He turned around, opened his mouth, closed it, coughed, and then said, “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“I think I will, if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead.”

He took his time about mixing it. Here it comes, I thought. Anytime John needed liquor to strengthen his nerve, the news was going to be bad.

He sat down in a chair next to the couch and cleared his throat. Suzi had managed to get the goods on him after all? He was dead broke and had decided to go back into his old business? Jen was on
her way to Munich? When he came out with it, I was caught completely off guard.

“You want to have a child.”

“I do?”

“I saw it in your face, when you were working on that pathetic baby cap.”

“You did?”

“I lack the qualifications for being a proper father.”

“You do?”

“That being the case,” John said, taking a deep breath, “the only decent thing is for me to get out of your life so you can get on with it.”

I sat up straight, yelped, and clutched at my side. “Are you dumping me, you rat?”

John’s face turned red. The color contrasted nicely with his cornflower-blue eyes. “Bloody hell,” he shouted, “it is impossible to carry on a reasonable conversation with you.”

“You weren’t being reasonable, you were being noble,” I growled. “It doesn’t become you. Be yourself.”

“Be myself.” The angry color faded from his face. His mouth twitched. “I’m over my ears in debt. My business is failing. Another situation like the last one may arise at any moment, without the slightest warning.”

“Go on,” I said encouragingly.

“Isn’t that enough? Oh, all right. My mother is a consummate nuisance. She will never love you. After four weeks in your company I have lost my command of proper English syntax. Do you want to get married, or what?”

“Are you proposing, or what?” My face opened in a big, silly grin.

“According to family tradition, it’s the woman who does the proposing.”

“The tradition ends here.”

“Oh, hell.” He dropped to one knee next to the couch and clasped his hands over his heart. “Will you marry me?”

Mouth open, tongue lolling, Caesar looked adoringly at him.

“Not you,” John told him. “Vicky?”

It might not be the high point of my life, but it came close.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

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