Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) (39 page)

“I am still your friend, if you allow it.”

Will was in motion before his thoughts caught up with his fist. He punched Art and sent him sprawling, then went after him. Women screamed. Art half rose, blood spurting from his nose.

A bellman blew a whistle, and a second sounded a moment later as Will pummeled Art’s face. Art let out a guttural cry and pushed him away with his legs, sending Will hard against a nearby sculpture of a woman, tipping it over. He winced as the sculpture’s hand dug into his shoulder before shattering beneath him. But he was rising, intent on going after Art again, when he saw two policemen clamp down on either of Stapleton’s arms. A moment later, two others did the same to him. He tried to wrench away, but it was no use. They had him.

“He attacked me!” Art cried.

But the manager was speaking in rapid German with another policeman, waving in their direction, then over to the broken sculpture and spattered blood across his luxurious carpet. “Bring them,” the fifth man said to the guards holding Will and Art, “and we’ll sort it out at the station.” The four officers immediately hauled them out of the lobby, past women with handkerchiefs to their mouths, hands over heaving breasts, past men with frowns of dismay and protective stances.

This
, Will thought as they loaded him and Art into the back of a barred wagon—a jail cell on wheels—
wasn’t how I’d planned it.

But what was new? Nothing seemed to be going his way. He stared helplessly through the bars to the wide Ringstrasse that had borne Cora’s motorcar to the rail station.

No, nothing at all seemed to be going Will’s way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

~William~

The police chief let them sit in separate cells, side by side, for hours.

Or rather, he let Will pace, and Art sit and dab at his bleeding lip and cover his bruised eye with his hand, as if the eye ached.

“So you didn’t
really
wish to speak with me,” Art said at last, watching him pace.

“I did,” Will responded, turning to face him, hands on hips. With the bars between them, he couldn’t go after him again. “I wanted to know how a man we all thought was honest and true could be an out and out liar. A user. But then when I saw you, I knew I wanted to deck you too.”

Art shrugged. “If you see a journalist as a liar and user, so be it. I do not. I write it as I see it. And if you do not wish to be written about, live life as a hermit.”

“You are not a
journalist
. A journalist would’ve made it clear that he was writing a story about a group on the Grand Tour. Received their permission. Not covertly gathered his information, catching his friends at their weakest, using that weakness to create a more titillating story.”

“Vivian recognized my name. Adrien said I liked to gather stories.”

“You know as well as I do that she recognized it but could not place it. And that we missed that casual reference! How do you do it, Art? How can you stand yourself? How can you sleep at night?”

“It’s a job, Will. Something I figured you’d understand. Do you love everything about being a bear?” He paused and then smirked. “Clearly not. But do you do your job well anyway? Of course. Because that is what is expected of you. Just as my editor expects the same of me.”

“You crossed a line, Art.”

“I did,” he said, dropping his hand with a sigh. “But you have to admit it came together in one compelling story. My editor telegrammed me yesterday. They had to go back for a third printing, sales are so good.”

Will shook his head. “What are you expecting from me? Congratulations?”

“No. Understanding.”

“For using your friends? For being less than honest?”

“Did you not do the same? Use the Kensingtons and Morgans as a means to an end? To remain close to Cora?
You
be honest. Once your uncle died, everything in you wanted to head home to the States. But you stayed. Because you wanted more time with Cora. And the payday at the end of this tour.”

“I had a job to do. I had to see it through.”

“A job to do. You had to see it through,” Art repeated. “That was my experience too. No matter how I came to care for you all. I had to see the job through.”

“Why? Why?” Will sputtered. “Why not go and be the man Adrien portrayed you to be, sowing goodwill across the Continent on behalf of your family and vineyard? Why not see to that task over this?”

“Because I do not want only that task.” Art stood and paced away, running a hand through his hair and turning back to him. “I want my own task. To be my own man. Not simply follow the dictates of my father.”

Will let out a groan and waved an angry hand in the air. “So you are but one more wealthy son striving to make his own way in the world? I’m so weary of men like you! So weary! Do you not know what you have? What you’ve been given?”

Art considered him. “I thought you were free. Your own man. But you are as constricted by those who have gone before you as I am, are you not?”

“Indeed,” Will bit out. “But without the fat bank account to fuel my way. Worse, I’m saddled with debts. Some of which are now held by none other than Wallace Kensington.”

“There’s a way, Will. Lead me to them. Gain me access so I can finish the third part of my story, perhaps even a fourth, and I’ll cut you in. My editor has already offered me bonuses if this series continues to gain steam and—”

“You expect me to help you?” Will stared. “Yes, I want to make my own way in life. I want to be free. But I shall not get there across the backs of my friends.”

Art sighed and sat down on the edge of his bunk, head in hands. “You need to help me, Will.”

“No, I do not. I intend to keep you as far away from my former clients as possible. In my book, you and the louts that tried to kidnap Cora are on the same level, Art. I’m going after them next.”

“They’re already ahead of us. Another reason for you to lead me to them.”

Will stilled at his deadly, defeated tone, his words laced with knowledge. “You know who tried to kidnap Cora.”

Art shrugged.

Will moved to his side of the cell and met his gaze. “Tell me, man! What do you know?”

“I don’t expect you to understand this. Will…I hired them.”

“You what?
You
!” Will shrieked and vainly tried to grab him, longing to ram the man into the hard steel. He pushed against the bars as if he could bend them, until his rage passed. “You
hired
them?” he said, panting. “When? Where? Any
why
?”

Art spread out his hands. “In Paris. I came across your party at Pierre’s ball. Saw that he was taken with Cora and knew there was a story brewing. When I saw how you were smitten too, it was all the better. But I needed something more. An edge of danger. Intrigue. And a reason to tie Pierre to you all for good. To feel responsible for you.”

“So you hired the men to attack us?” Will said, feeling as if his head were about to burst. “The butler died in that attack, man! He died!”

Art’s head was back in his hands. “I never intended them to go as far as they did. But once they knew who you were, they knew there was an even richer pot of gold at the end of the Kensington rainbow than I could offer.”

“No, no, no,” Will groaned, walking away, hands on his head. “It’s impossible.”

“I only intended this to be a onetime event, in Paris. Some chasing. Maids tied up. They were to get close to you all but not actually touch you. No one was to die. You have to believe me.”

“But then they showed up in Nîmes….”

“And I paid them off. I thought we were done. Through. That it was over and you all were safe. I stayed with you as far as Vienna to make sure. And then our man showed his face here, to Cora, because she’d recognize him. He wanted me to know he was still around. Hoped I might have to provide additional funds to get rid of him for good. Sure enough, he contacted me.”

Will paced his cell, hands on his hips. His heart leaped in his chest. It was far worse than even Arthur thought. Was it possible they knew already? News of the Dunnigan strike had been in the papers. Had the men put two and two together? Or found another means of information? “No, no, no,” he muttered. “They can’t know yet. Not yet.”

“Know what?” Art asked.

“Nothing!” Will barked. He wouldn’t give Art more fodder to write about if he could help it. “Who is he? What will it take to end it?”

Art heaved a sigh. “I’d say there’s only one way to end it forever,” he said, shooting Will a meaningful look. “His name is Luc Coltaire.”

It was Will’s turn to take a seat and slump over, head in hands. “At least that’s one reason I can be glad the Kensingtons and Morgans left. Gotten away. With luck, they’ll shake Coltaire from their trail.”

“I wouldn’t count on luck. I would count on this man’s skill to follow among the shadows. I’ve never seen anything like it. I hate to say it, but I’d wager he’s likely on whatever train your clients are on. Right now. And waiting for the right opportunity to take Cora, or another.” Art paused. “There’s only one way I can see us intervening before Coltaire does something foolish.”

“Let me hazard a guess. It involves you writing more of your story.”

“Yes,” Art said carefully. “And no. Will you hear me out?”

Will heaved a sigh, searching for his own ideas, but there was no way Wallace Kensington would even let him near Cora again. “I’m listening.”

Part IV

~V
ENEZIA
~

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

~Cora~

As we moved from a train that wound through the mountains to another train that descended into the rolling hills and fields of northern Italy, and then to a ferry across a lagoon, I decided my mind and heart had settled into a numb paralysis—as if they’d taken on too much and could endure no more. And that was all right by me. I accompanied my siblings and friends, our fathers, Pierre, Antonio, and our new guardians, nodding politely and answering any direct questions. But mostly I allowed the journey itself to wind around me like gauze on a wound. Cradling me, holding me, until I could begin to feel and think on my own again.

Sailing across the silver-green water to Venice, I fell in love with the uniquely salty scent of the Adriatic, feeling as if I were taking my first full breaths in weeks. I leaned against the small ferry’s rail and watched as sailboats skipped across the water, narrowly avoiding the more stately steamers. Across the lagoon, in the distance, white-tipped, alpine mountains like those we’d crossed marked the northern border of Italia. It felt good, so good to be on the water again. It brought back memories of being on the
Olympic
, and then on the Channel in that sailboat….

“Ahh,” Pierre said, edging near. “You look as you did that first day I met you.”

I smiled softly, daring to glance his way, feeling melancholy. “I was just thinking about that.” On that day, so much had begun. So much stretched before me as possible, exhilarating. I shook my head when he stepped closer. “I can’t, Pierre. I’m too…raw. It’s too soon.”

I left him there, moving to the other side of the boat, knowing I was probably hurting him. Why was he so stubborn? When he knew my heart was with Will? When I’d said as much? Was he hoping I’d give up on Will? Soften toward him in Will’s absence? I didn’t mind if he felt the full measure of my displeasure. Even if it had been my father who had orchestrated this recent series of events. How could he agree with my father’s decision to send Will away? Did he so lack the confidence that he could win my heart, with or without William McCabe in the picture?

Venezia was a colorful mishmash of earth-toned three- and four-story buildings and church steeples, dense and constant, one on top of the other. But when we reached the mouth of the Grand Canal, or
canalazzo
, as Pierre called it as he dared to move to my side of the boat again, my mouth dropped open. He came around me to see my face, and I couldn’t convince myself to look away from him or cover up my joy. Here, the palaces lined the canal on either side and ran straight into the water. They were grand—some covered in colorful mosaics, others built in a clearly Turkish-inspired style. There were palaces of pink stone and others of white. “Palazzo Oro,” Pierre said, gently gesturing toward one shining with gold.

“You have been here before, then?” I asked, trying to let go of some of my anger at him. Anger was simply so…wearying.

“Mmm, many times,” he said. “All my life, really, several times a year. But each time I enter, she is a wonder anew.”

“Oh, Cora, aren’t they stunning?” Lil asked, clapping her small hands in excitement and moving to my other side. “And we get to stay in one!”

“Indeed,” I murmured. “Simply stunning.” Palace after palace was before us, each with four levels and many with a Turkish flair at the top of the windows—a delicate, curving swoop. It was almost as if we were entering Constantinople rather than Venezia.

“The palazzos are hundreds of years old,” Pierre said to our small group, “and some clearly show the ravages of time, but considering their age and how they were built, they’re something of an architectural wonder.”

“How were they built?” Andrew asked from behind me. “Given the sandy soil of a lagoon?”

“Atop thousands of pilings driven into the soil, ten, sometimes twenty feet deep. San Marco, the basilica we’ll tour this afternoon, was built atop a hundred thousand pilings. Most of these palazzos are on at least ten thousand.”

“Good grief, man,” Felix said, “that must’ve been a business in itself, importing all that wood.”

I shifted uneasily. Did Pierre feel he had to fill Will’s role as tour guide? I had to bite my tongue as he went on. I wanted to tell him that he had his own strengths, his own charms. He did not need to assume Will’s as guide.

“Venezia was a trading force for centuries. Almost everything came through here. Crusades were outfitted, armies set sail, and Venezia?” He shrugged and lifted a brow. “She capitalized upon it, of course. Her founders arrived here destitute, but their great-great-grandchildren became some of the world’s wealthiest.” He looked out to the canal. “Yes, you, my friends, are on waters that ruled the world for a very long time.”