Chains of Fire (4 page)

It made him want to shake her, or shout at her, or kiss her until the mask shattered and she was his Isabelle once more.

Lady Frances Winstead tapped his ribs with the bent head of her cane. “Young man, you shouldn’t be gabbing to an old crone like me when you could be courting that beautiful creature.”

Recalled to the here and now, he refocused his attention on the spry, cheerful, bent octogenarian beside him. “One beautiful creature a night is all I can handle.” He offered his arm. “They’re starting to set out the buffet. May I escort you?”

“You are a sweet boy. I always thought so. I wish I could take advantage of you.” She sighed with real regret. “I used to drink and dance and eat all night, but since the accident”—she glanced at her watch—“Cinderella must turn in at ten.”

“Accident?” He sounded, looked relaxed. But he was anything but casual, because in his experience, very few occurrences were actually accidents.

“Last year, defective brakes on my car sent me and my poor chauffeur off a cliff in Maine into the ocean. The impact blew out the windshield. Brendan died.” Her voice quavered, then strengthened. “I got out before the car sank, and I’ve always been a swimmer, so I made it to shore.”

“You swam the Atlantic Ocean in Maine?” He felt her biceps admiringly. “If you can do that, heaven knows what you could do to little ol’ me. I’ll make a note to be more respectful in the future.”

“You are so full of poop,” Lady Winstead said forcefully. But she laughed.

“What did you do then? Climb the cliff and hitch-hike home?”

“No.” She still smiled, but it was a formality only. “I was pretty much done for. But that dear young lady you were leering at earlier had seen the car careen off the road and she came to my rescue. If it hadn’t been for Isabelle, I would have died from my injuries.”

“She . . . healed you?”

“Ah, you know her secret,” Lady Winstead said with deep satisfaction.

Samuel looked up from Lady Winstead to gaze at Isabelle.

As if she felt his interest, she looked back at him, her dark blue eyes cool and considering. Then she shifted her attention to Lady Winstead and smiled.

“I do like her,” Lady Winstead said, “and not merely because she saved my life. Didn’t you two used to date or something?”

“Or something.”

“Why did you break up?” Lady Winstead frowned at him. “You’re handsome. You’re suave. You’re one of
those
, aren’t you?”

“Those?” he asked cautiously.

“An adulterer.” Lady Winstead smacked his arm with her cane. “You cheated on her.”

“No, I did not. We’ve been on-again, off-again for years, and we’ve both made our mistakes, but when we were together, we were
together
. There was no cheating from either of us.” He spoke clearly and forcefully.

“I’m glad to hear that. I hate the underhandedness of a cheater.” She rubbed his arm in apology. “You two should give it another try. Get married this time. I know it’s old-fashioned, but there’s something about standing in the eyes of God and making vows that binds you more tightly. Makes you work out your problems.”

“She isn’t interested.”

“Piffle. I saw her look at you. I saw you look at her. And I’m not so old I can’t feel the heat when I’m standing by a blast furnace.”

He chuckled. “No one in his right mind would ever call you old or unobservant.”

“Isabelle is single. You’re single. Think about it,” she urged.

“I most certainly will.”

“I’ve enjoyed our little chat.” Lady Winstead was leaning heavily on her cane, her usual erect posture sagging. “But as I said, since the accident, I’ve not been my usual bouncy self.”

“Can I take you to your car?” He offered his arm.

“That sounds lovely, but Todd said he would accompany me home.”

“Todd.” Unspoken was Samuel’s addition of,
That insignificant little worm
.

But Lady Winstead was sharp, and she heard the reaction in his tone. “He’s not worth much. I’ve never understood how one of my grandchildren could be satisfied doing nothing, but he is. At least he makes himself useful when I need an escort.”

Samuel scanned the ballroom. Todd, of course, was nowhere to seen. One thing Samuel knew Todd could always be depended on to do was to be undependable. “Todd’s a big boy.”

“Forty.” Lady Winstead rolled her eyes.

“He can get himself home. Why don’t I tell your chauffeur to bring the car around?” She was going to resist, he could see, so he gave her mind a little push.

She wavered.

He gave another push.

She sighed and nodded. “That would be pleasant.”

He gestured a server over and gave him the instructions, then turned her toward the door.

“You know,” Lady Winstead said, “my family moved from Oklahoma to California during the dust bowl. We worked in the orchards and got our educations.”

“I didn’t know.” A lie; he had heard the story more than once.

“By the time I met Lord Winstead, I owned my own flower store. All that youthful experience—I hesitate to call it hardship, although I guess it was—taught me how to work and the value of an occupation. Todd thinks I should pay for him when he flies with me to a party. First-class. On my nickel. I do so miss Lord Winstead on occasions like these.” She patted Samuel’s arm. “Not that you aren’t an admirable substitute.”

“I’m delighted to assist you.” He helped her into her coat and carefully wrapped her scarf around her sagging throat. “And devastated to lose your company so soon.”

Her bright blue eyes scrutinized him. “Such pretty manners. If I were fifty years younger . . .”

“You’d be too young for me.” He steered her outside into the cold, windy night. “I like a little maturity in my women.”

“Do you ever run out of the soft soap?”

“God forbid. I’m a lawyer.”

She chortled as he helped her into the backseat of her limousine. “Next time you’re in Boston, stop by for a visit. I do enjoy our conversations.”

“I’m living in New York City now. . . . Let me know when you’re in town and free, so I can take you to dinner and a play.”

She chortled again, an old-lady snort of amusement; then he stood and waved while the chauffeur drove her away.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he huddled his shoulders and stared out at the landscape. The scene out here resembled a bad painting; whipped by the wind, record-breaking snows grew to great drifts against every tree and hedge. Clear skies and a full moon illuminated the ragged Alpine peaks and the now-idle ski lifts.

“Even God cooperates when Patricia Mason throws a party,” he muttered sourly.

Today had been a hell of a long day, the most recent in a series of hellish long days filled with grief, anguish, and worry. After the explosion that destroyed the Gypsy Travel Agency and all of the Chosen Ones except for Samuel’s group of seven newbies, they had been lucky enough to find a mentor in Irving Shea. He had supported them, helped them, directed their missions. Samuel doubted that they would have survived those first two and a half years without his tutelage . . . or his fortune.

Then he tumbled down the stairs. No one expected him to live.

But he did, conscious only in brief intervals, and their difficult lives had grown impossible. Irving was still in the hospital. He refused to allow Isabelle to help him—he had some dumb-ass notion about being a willing sacrifice—and the Chosen endured anguish as they watched him suffer.

It was Irving’s butler, McKenna, who first called their attention to the practicalities.

Irving’s fortune had supported the Chosen Ones. Irving had handled the money, dispensing it as needed to run the household where they lived and worked, and to fund their missions to hold back evil. He had made provisions that the fortune be put in trust for the Chosen when he died.

He had not made provisions for this lingering illness.

Now the taxes on Irving’s New York City mansion were due. The electric company wanted to be paid. Their cook and loyal supporter, Martha, needed money for groceries. And if the Chosen Ones didn’t somehow receive an influx of cash, they would not be traveling the world to rescue children abandoned by their parents.

This was, Martha said, the traditional dilemma that stalked the Chosen Ones. If they used their gifts to help others, they starved. If they used their gifts for profit, they went to hell. The Gypsy Travel Agency had traditionally provided them with support, but now the Gypsy Travel Agency had been blasted to smithereens.

Their leader, John Powell, had a fortune he’d made by sheer intelligence and determination. Isabelle, of course, had access to her trust fund.

But . . . the Gypsy Travel Agency had been making a profit ever since Irving took over as CEO, and that money had been carefully stashed in Swiss banks. The trouble, of course, was that the people who knew how to access the accounts were gone. So after some discussion, Samuel had been sent to retrieve the fortune.

He rubbed his eyes wearily. Yes, it had been one hell of a long day.

A man’s British-tinged voice spoke behind him. “Sir, it’s cold out. Would you care to come back in, or should I fetch your coat?”

Samuel turned on his heel and stared at the militarily upright posture of the man in the doorway. “Dad! I didn’t know you’d accompanied the Masons to Switzerland.”

“Well! Son. This is a mutual surprise. I didn’t know you’d come to the party.” A faint disapproving note sounded plainly in Darren Owen’s speech.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I was invited.”

“Not by Miss Isabelle, surely.”

“Most definitely by Miss Isabelle.”

“She and you are not—”

“No. We’re not together again.”

Darren’s stiff form relaxed. “Thank God.”

“Although they say the third time’s a charm.” At his father’s open alarm, Samuel laughed. “I’m kidding, Dad.
I’m
here on business.
She’s
here to help Mummy Dearest. This was a chance encounter which will lead the same place the other encounters led—nowhere.”

“The other encounters took some ruinous detours before they got nowhere,” Darren said tartly.

“But I’ve learned my lesson, and I daresay Isabelle has learned hers.” He waited for his father to correct him, to require him to call her “Miss Mason.”

But although Darren quivered at having to restrain himself, he bit his tongue, satisfied with Samuel’s disavowal—which was so much crap. Given the chance, Samuel would grab her, run with her to his cave, and keep her there forever.

Yet Darren didn’t have to know that.

Nor did he have to know that if Samuel tried anything the slightest bit bold, Isabelle would slap him silly.

Samuel had found that out the hard way.

The wind gusted snow into his face. He looked up at the mountains. “Adelbrecht Wagner said this was avalanche weather.”

“Yes. The ski patrol will be out tomorrow, setting charges, and all the guests will be stuck inside instead of out skiing.”

Samuel grinned. His father sounded disgusted, but he would be in his element, juggling meals and entertainment for a full house. “There’s no one better than you to handle the situation.”

“You could help,” Darren said.

Samuel’s smile faded. “No. I couldn’t.” Almost from the first moment Samuel had come into the Mason household, his father had persuasively explained that being a butler was a profitable, respectable profession for Samuel to follow. He had shown Samuel everything there was to know about being a top-end servant. He was almost medieval in his desire for Samuel to follow in his footsteps.

That, as far as Samuel was concerned, conclusively proved he was not Darren’s natural son. Not that he needed proof; he’d been five when Mrs. Mason had convinced Darren and his wife to adopt a needy child, and he well remembered his new parents’ fumbling attempts at dealing with a proud, headstrong son of indeterminate Gypsy heritage.