Where the Heart Chooses

Chapter 2-2

The Best of Times, as Father had said, was in a tiny cul-de-sac off Fleet Street. It was dim and musty-smelling. I climbed the circular metal stairs to the second level.

“Breezy.” The whispered voice came from a shadowed alcove.

“Jefferson.” I moved closer as if browsing the shelves. “How on earth did you learn that nickname?”

“Bryan dated one of your Tau Zeta Epsilon sisters. Quite amusing what girls will call themselves.”

“Yes, well, it’s no more amusing than Tony’s fraternity brothers calling him ‘Toenails.’”

My middle brother laughed quietly. “That does make him sound like a member of the Cosa Nostra.”

I pulled out a volume at random and thumbed through it, watching him from the corner of my eye. “I thought you’d be home by now.”

“I’m not keeping an eye on you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Aren’t you?” Father might have every confidence in my abilities, but until I was actually on home soil, he’d make sure there was someone to look out for me.

“You don’t believe me? I’m cut to the quick!” He became serious. “Actually, little sister, I’ve learned something that you need to be made aware of.”

“About Folana Fournaise?” I replaced the book.

“It’s about Folana Fournaise. She’s back in town. It seems the Special Intelligence Section intends to go beyond merely seeing if you’re a possible player, and—” His brows met above his nose. “Wait a second! You do know?”

I gave a prim smile. “How did you get this information?”

“Let’s say I’ve renewed an old acquaintance. You know how persuasive I can be.”

I glanced around quickly, but we were alone, and I took a step closer to him. He was wearing a dark suit, and I plucked a blond hair from his lapel. It curled around my finger. I dropped it to the floor.

Jefferson was the only one of us who took after Mother’s side of the family. His hair was dark auburn.

Both our parents were very fair-skinned, and it was easy to see the red on his cheek and chin, which could only be whisker burn.

This close to him, I could also smell the musky odor of a man’s cologne that permeated his suit jacket. He never wore cologne. He would also never let a man get that close to him. Unless…

“What have you gotten into, Jefferson?”

“That’s not quite the phrase I’d use, little sister!” His smile was wolfish, and I knew he’d tell me nothing further. “I have to go. Oh, and Portia? Check the fifth shelf from the bottom midway as you come into the shop on the lower level.”

I didn’t need to look into the alcove to know that I was once more alone. I went back down the metal steps, my footsteps ringing loudly on them. On the shelf, exactly where he’d told me, I found a first edition of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho, the four volumes in excellent condition for being a hundred and sixty years old.

Lady Portia had a weakness for “horrid” novels.

I was reaching into my purse for my wallet when I noticed a rather worn portfolio. Something that aged always intrigued me, and I couldn’t pass it by; I set down the books and reached for it.

The leather was cracked and dry, and the fragile cord that bound it frayed in spite of my careful handling. Fastened under the flap was a tattered calling card. The front was simply embossed, “Chauncey Hare Townsend.” I tapped the card thoughtfully on my palm, wondering if he might be the 19th Century millionaire art collector, then turned it over. On the back, in faded blue ink, was scrawled Gustave Le Gray—photographs taken 1856/1857.

Within were two photographs, seascapes that were absolutely breathtaking. One reminded me of Father and would be perfect for him. The other…for some reason I was drawn to it, and I knew I had to have it as well. I slid them back into the portfolio and brought it to the counter.

“How much?” I asked casually.

The clerk looked up, a bored expression on her face. “You want the Mrs. Radcliffe too? Give me a hundred quid for the books, and I’ll throw in that, luv.” She nodded toward the leather envelope.

“That’s highway robbery,” a warm contralto just behind me murmured. There was amusement in the voice.

It was Folana.

“The books alone are worth the cost. Hello.” Even before Jefferson had said anything, I’d known she was back in London, but I hadn’t expected to see her so early in the day; I assumed Sir Bowne’s section had learned where I was and passed the intelligence on to her. I took the pound notes from my wallet and paid for my purchases. “Why don’t you join me for tea? We can discuss brief encounters,” I flirted lightly.

“It’s early for tea, but I’d like that.”

At the other end of the cul-de-sac was a tearoom. We took our tea and cakes to a table off to the side and chatted. She didn’t say anything about where she’d been for the past six months, and I didn’t pressure her. Instead, I rattled on about the places I’d visited and the people I had met.

“Lord X pinched my backside last night,” I remarked as I pondered taking the last of the cakes. “Dirty old man. Split this with me?”

“No, I’ve had enough, thank you. I hope you didn’t take it personally. He pinched mine also.” She looked angelically pensive. “Her Royal Highness was making her entrance, and as I sank down in my curtsy, I spilled my drink down the front of his trousers. Of course I apologized profusely.”

“Ah. So that’s why he beat such a hasty retreat. I did think Her Highness seemed rather amused.”

“Although she had to hide it.” Folana chuckled, and then fell silent.

“I didn’t know you were there. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t…” She toyed with a napkin, pleating it repeatedly before she gazed up at me. “I thought of you the entire time I was away. Would you come with me?”

The expressions that ghosted across her face, caution, desire, need, were so quickly gone that if I hadn’t been looking at that precise moment, I would have missed them. My breasts suddenly felt heavy, and there was an ache between my thighs. I moistened my lips. “Where?”

“A friend of mine has a flat not too far from here. I want to take you there.”

“Yes, sweet girl!” My hands were trembling as I gathered up my belongings.

The flat was in a terraced house not too far from the tearoom, which was fortunate, because it began to drizzle. Folana fished a key from a flower pot to the side of the shallow front steps and unlocked the door. We got inside just as the skies opened up.

“That was a narrow escape!” She laughed and shook the raindrops out of her hair. It was the first time I had heard her laugh. She stroked her fingers over my arm, and then led the way two flights up. I watched the way the material of her coat shifted from side to side over her firm buttocks as she climbed the stairs.

“This belongs to Bart.”

The flat was so small it would have been impossible to swing a cat in it. There was a kitchen with room enough for a cooker and a small refrigerator. The sitting room was crowded with only a loveseat and a console television that would air the few stations available to Britons. A door standing ajar revealed the bathroom.

“Leave your purchases here.” She took our coats and draped them over the loveseat. “The bedroom is this way.”

The bedroom was also tiny, with barely enough room for the dresser and the narrow bed. She crossed to it and threw back the coverlet, and the musky scent of a man’s cologne rose in the air.

“Bart’s?” I held up a blond hair that I’d found on the pillow. It curled around my finger and clung to it. Interesting that I’d found two such similar blond hairs in one day.

Folana smiled, a soft, fond smile, and suddenly she looked about sixteen. “His housekeeper is a good cook, but she can’t keep house worth a tick.”

“Do you often sleep in his bed?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with my past. I don’t sleep in any man’s bed. I’m an emotional cripple.”

I knew she had been raped at the age of twelve, and again at thirteen. I also knew she had killed both men.

“But you’ve brought me here. Have I read this wrong?”

“No. I want to make love with you, and this is the safest place. Sir Joseph’s superiors don’t pay much heed to Bart, more fools they. Of course, they also bought my story that you turned down my advances.” She stood before me and unbuttoned her blouse.

I was wearing flats and had to look up to meet her eyes. “I know you’ve had enough experience with the intelligence community to realize we’re always under surveillance. How do they rationalize our unproductive chance encounters?” I pulled my boat-necked cashmere sweater over my head.

She stared at my chest. “Don’t you ever wear a brassiere?”

“I’m not large enough to require the support.” And the ones that were in style right now reminded me of something Brünnhilde would sport in Wagner’s Ring des Nibelungen. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I often don’t.”

“No. But this time I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” I told her with an apologetic little smile.

“Even though you’ll be leaving tomorrow?”

“Ah. So they told you that.”

“Would you have left without sleeping with me?”

“I’m not the Syrian, and I’m not Rashayd.” The men who’d hurt her.

Her eyes widened. “How did you know…?”

I sighed and slid my arms back into my sweater. She reached out a hand to stop me.

“You’ll leave?”

“If what I want isn’t offered freely, I don’t take it.”

She swallowed. “Portia, I’m offering freely.”

She was pale, though, and I stroked her hair. “I didn’t hurt you the last time. I won’t hurt you this time either. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

Her smile was rueful. “You won’t let go, will you? Very well. I’ve persuaded them that given enough time, I believe I can weaken your resolve. However, they’re growing impatient.”

“And I’m leaving tomorrow. Will there be problems for you, because you were unsuccessful in their mission?”

“Your country and Great Britain are allies. I imagine they’ll shrug it off as a ‘rum go’ and settle for keeping the occasional eye on you.”

I unfastened the button at the side of my pencil-slim skirt, pulled down the zipper, and let it puddle on the floor around my feet. “Then let’s forget about them. We don’t have much time, and I’d rather be doing something more interesting.”