The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (20 page)

"Yes. I've noticed." Jigger pointed to a violin case tucked into a corner on the sofa. "Kate's friend Milton found a fiddle for you. Do you want to look at it?"

He carried the case to the bed like a tray of fine china and placed it in Conor's hands before bouncing up to sit next to him. Conor flipped opened the lid and they both peered inside.

"Pretty shiny," Jigger remarked. "And not old, like yours."

"No, but we won't hold that against it." He tuned the instrument and ran off a few scales before peeking through the f-hole at the label inside. The violin had come from the Naples workshop of Vincenzo Anastasio, a contemporary master luthier. Impressive.

He was in the sitting area, amusing Jigger with an interpretation of
I Am The Walrus
when Kate emerged from her bath. She wore a silk dressing gown of sky blue, her head turbaned in a towel, and as far as Conor was concerned she might as well have been ready to go. He couldn't imagine what she could put on to look any more beautiful. Kate met his gaze with an equal measure of concentration, and appeared less satisfied with what she saw. She sat on the sofa next to them and tugged on Jigger's ear.

"Your turn, kiddo. I've got the tub all ready for you. Bubbles piled high." When the bathroom door had closed she moved closer to Conor. "I'm having second thoughts about this plan. I think we should get you home. I'll make up some excuse."

"And be disappointin' yer poor aul' gran?" Conor asked in an exaggerated drawl. He took her hand and rested it on his knee. "I'll be fine. I'm sort of looking forward to this, to be honest. A shower and a shave and I'm a new man. Just wait and see."

Kate seemed unconvinced, and anxious. While doing his best to hide it he was worried as well.

Something is coming.

The whispering chant of his dreams clicked against his brain like the relentless tap of a metronome.

Something is coming.

He believed it. He could feel its approach. It wasn't far away.

T
HIS
TIME
THE
shower didn't produce the restorative effect Conor had hoped for, but the suit did. Milton the concierge was clearly a "fixer" of the first order. He'd come through with a full dress, tuxedo tail package complete with white vest and matching bow tie, studs and cufflinks.

It had been years since he'd worn white tie and tails. By the time he'd finished snapping and buttoning himself into the entire kit a burst of energy pulsed through him. After fitting the gun with its clip-on holster into a comfortable spot under the tailcoat, he combed his hair, took a generous pull from his bottle of prescription cough syrup and stepped from the bathroom.

"Oh my." Kate rose from the sofa, one high-heeled shoe dangling from her hand. "Who are you, and what have you done with my farm manager?"

"I pass inspection, then?"

"Pass? My God, you've aced it. You look perfect. It looks like it was made for you. You look—" Kate stopped abruptly. Unable to resist teasing her Conor waited, head tilted.

"You look very handsome," she finished quietly.

“And you look like a . . .” He grinned at her squint of warning. "Like a movie star."

In truth, neither "princess" nor "movie star" captured it. She was stunning in a strapless, floor-length gown of pale gold overlaid with a pastiche of autumn colors. It was like a gorgeously rendered canvas, accenting her hair, which she'd tamed into a shining coil. He thought she more nearly resembled a high queen of Celtic legend but held his tongue, aware that it would sound rapturous and might test her patience even further.
 

Jigger bounced in from the adjoining bedroom, shoeless but otherwise dapper in a white jacket and red bow tie. "You both look like something from a fairy tale," he exclaimed, having no qualms about sounding rapturous. "I think we're all beautiful, don't you? Kate, remember you have to help me with my shoes. I can get them on but I can't tie them. I'm excited to meet your grandmother and hear the music. Are we ready to go?"

Shoes tied, he bolted for the door and then the elevator while they followed him down the hallway.

"Is your family prepared for the social dynamo about to descend on them?" Conor asked.

Kate nodded. "I laid the groundwork but I'm not worried. Cocktail party chat is right up their alley, and right up his. He'll be a big hit."

With effort, Conor had mastered an urge to caress the glowing skin of her bare shoulders, but when the elevator reached the ground floor he instinctively placed his palm on the small of her back as the door rattled open. Kate leaned against the pressure of his hand before she stepped out, smiling at him.

The pre-dinner reception took place in the Conservatory between the main lobby and back veranda. The room was an airy circular colonnade, topped by a rotunda with a celestial blue ceiling featuring a tiny, soaring gull at its center. Around twenty people had gathered so far, all dressed in sparkling evening attire, drinks in hand. Jigger had trotted ahead and was already talking to a group settled in front of the fireplace.

In quick succession Kate introduced Conor to her brothers, their wives, her sister Jeanette, a small girl named Emily who wasn't identified as belonging to any of them, and an aunt Winifred.

"Have you got all that?" she teased, steering him toward the next wave of relatives.

"You'd be surprised," Conor said. "I'm good at memorizing things."

"Natural talent, or training?"

"A little of both."

Having met the siblings and spouses—all of whom smelled of money—and having surreptitiously examined the exits, the waitstaff and the random guests on the porch, Conor stationed himself beside the grand piano. He watched Kate chatting with her relatives as he tuned, and inspired by the hues in her shimmering dress launched into a solo version of the Grappelli and Menuhin arrangement of
Autumn Leaves
. Jazz standards seemed a good fit for the setting, and since he'd long ago mastered the Grappelli and Menuhin catalogue he carried on with
Skylark
.

The room filled, and its atmosphere had warmed to a festive buzz when the guest of honor arrived, flanked by a couple Conor assumed were Kate's father and step-mother. Her grandmother was easy to recognize as she stood in the doorway. Tall and slender, Sophia Marie had a smooth complexion and long silver hair pulled into a bun secured by a diamond brooch. Wearing a beaded gown of forest green she moved with aristocratic grace, but the air of nobility was softened by lively blue eyes and a warm smile that so reminded him of Kate that Conor momentarily lost his place in the tune he was playing. With a poise that managed to be both regal and self-effacing, the Bavarian-born princess swept in to general applause.

He continued serenading the room while observing the family dynamic. He'd noted Kate's stiff formality in introducing him to her three oldest brothers, and her more relaxed attitude now, chatting with her sister and Peter, the youngest of the brothers. Around her the guests revolved in a slow-moving orbit, the scent of their mingled colognes circulating with them as they moved.

Conor was no stranger to events of this sort. The well-groomed individuals here provided a familiar backdrop that could anchor similar scenes around the world. In his former life he'd spent many an evening performing recitals and concertos for the bejeweled, tuxedoed upper crust in Dublin, London, Paris and Rome. He'd chatted up the conspicuously wealthy at obligatory post-performance gatherings, drinking their Champagne and eating their exquisite hors d'oeuvres, and unlike many of his countrymen he harbored no automatic antipathy toward them. Like any other people, some he found interesting, others dead boring, and a few had made his blood boil. The only constant was that he'd always been happy to excuse himself after a polite interlude to search for a more filling meal and easier conversation in the nearest pub. Trailing in the wake of the "splendid set" wasn't his idea of a fun evening, and—he had to admit it—discovering Kate was a card-carrying member unnerved him a little.

She introduced him to Princess Sophia Marie, who welcomed him with grace and charm, and to Douglas and Anna Chatham, Kate's father and step-mother. From a cursory study Conor surmised that her gaunt, worried-looking step-mother was an anorexic with a compulsive tanning habit, and her short, balding father was a cocky little gobshite who liked hearing himself talk.

"Irish, eh? Markets still raging over there—Celtic Tiger, right? Won't last, you know. You people are way over-exposed. Investors are fools to put anything in Ireland, now."

Kate pulled at her father's arm, shooting Conor an apologetic glance. "Daddy, I don't think we need to—"

"Remember it was me who told you," Douglas commanded, his face a picture of smug satisfaction. "Hard times ahead."

"Sure that'll be nothing awfully new for us, sir," Conor said smoothly. Sophia Marie circled an arm around Kate's waist, and as the group prepared to move on she touched his shoulder.

"I'll be back with a request. I'd love to hear some Schumann."

When she approached a half-hour later, Conor segued from what he'd been playing to the swaying lullaby theme of Schumann's
Traumerei
. She put a hand to her lips, surprised and pleased, and took a seat on the window ledge behind him. He finished the piece, and turned to acknowledge her applause with a droll bow.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"A hopeful guess. Truth is, the rest of my Schumann is pretty dodgy."

A member of the waitstaff entered the room playing a set of chimes, calling everyone to dinner, but Sophia Marie inclined her head, indicating the space at her side.

"You're looking very flushed. Come and sit down."

Conor left the violin on top of the piano and obediently sat next to her.

"You've become quite an indispensable fixture at the Rembrandt Inn, I understand. Kate has been telling me all about you." His flinch of alarm was mostly for comical effect, and she smiled. "That makes you nervous?"

"Depends what she's been saying," Conor replied, with perfect candor.

"Only the best things, trust me, and even the things she doesn't say I can see on her face. She's hoping for my good opinion, I think."

Oh, God help me
. Conor's stomach tightened as though preparing to resist a blow. A matchmaking interview with Kate's royal granny was exactly what he didn't need. The shot of adrenalin propping him up had peaked a while earlier and perspiration was streaming down his back like a small river. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers and surprised himself by coming out with a handkerchief.

"Did you know her husband? Michael?"

Startled, he shook his head while wiping the back of his neck, offering hosannas for the incomparably gifted Milton. "I didn't. When I got ready to emigrate a good friend of mine in Ireland provided an introduction for me with Kate. He was a cousin of Michael's."

Conor stopped, hoping his silence would be enough to nudge the conversation elsewhere. It wasn't.

"I didn't care for him."

"Ah." He gathered the handkerchief into a soggy ball, flexing it inside his clenched fist. Sophia Marie nodded sadly.

"Kate and I have always been very close. She often stayed with me for months at a time as she grew up. So, when I disapproved it became hard for both of us. And then, he died . . . " She lifted her arm and let it fall helplessly to her side. "I felt so guilty. I wished I could have liked him better. I don't know why I didn't."

There was absolutely nothing to be said in reply to such a remark. Conor was mercifully spared from attempting one by the timid advance of Kate's step-mother. She stopped several yards in front of them and stood on tiptoe, nervously tucking a lock of honey-blonde hair behind one ear.

"Sophia?" Anna spoke the word with brittle uncertainty, as though expecting to be contradicted. "We're going in to the Sun Dining Room, now."

"Yes, dear. We're coming." The older woman turned back to him. "You'll join us for dinner, of course?"

"Oh, I've eaten already," Conor lied, distracted as he searched for Kate in the exiting throng. "I was hoping to go in and play some dinner music for you though, if that's all right."

He spotted Kate following her father and two of the brothers out of the room and relaxed a little. She had a hand on Jigger's shoulder and was bending her head to him with a smile. No doubt the boy was recounting the life histories of everyone he'd met so far. Conor turned back to Sophia Marie, who was standing now, regarding him with that same, nearly identical smile.

"There. You see I never saw
him
look at her like that. Yes. Please come. I'd be delighted to hear more of your dodgy Schumann."

Close to eighty guests were still filing across the floor of the main restaurant into the private dining room. Conor took advantage of the bottleneck to duck into the men's room and throw some water on his face. It helped, which was good because the antibiotics clearly hadn't. His fever was spiking again, and beginning to make him dizzy. He hovered over the basin, taking cautious snatches of breath, then emerged to join the last group as they passed through to dinner.

The Sun Dining Room shimmered, lit solely by candelabras placed between magnificent floral arrangements along each of four long tables. The guests, still in reception mode, milled around the tables instead of sitting at them, their conversation amplified to a garbled roar in the high-ceilinged room. The candlelight dazzled Conor. It bounced off the windows, reaching up to illuminate panes of stained glass near the ceiling, and stretched to raise dramatic shadows in the corners. The effect was spellbinding, but he soon discovered something fundamentally wrong with the scene. Kate was not in it.

19

"W
HERE
IS
K
ATE
?"

Hearing his own question made audible Conor at first failed to note its external source. When it came a second time, cutting through the conversational din around him, he turned to face her brother Peter. He was a handsome, dark-haired man—probably close to his age—and from his glazed, horizon-searching stare Conor deduced him well on the way to being squiffed.