Roses in Moonlight (31 page)

“It was a long time ago,” Derrick said with a shrug. “Water under the bridge.”

“Degree?”

“Acting, from LAMDA,” Samantha said. “Scholarship. Insanely good reviews.”

Her father looked at her as if he weren’t altogether happy that she knew that, then turned back to Derrick. “Your brother acts. Why don’t you?”

“Because he can’t,” Connor spat.

Derrick looked at his brother and wondered for the first time why he had spared a moment’s thought over him. He was a petty, jealous, little man who had never had any friends but those who didn’t know him well. The rest lasted until they wearied of having him tear them down to make himself feel better.

He looked at Samantha’s parents. “I am going back to London myself. If you would like, I would be happy to take Samantha so you could speak a bit longer with Edmund. I can’t imagine he’ll want to let you get away before he’s able to tell you how flattering it is to have a couple of your reputation and stature visit his production.”

Samantha’s mother puffed up. Her father puffed as well, though not quite as much. He looked at Derrick.

“I suppose,” he said slowly.

“I’ll deliver her safely to Gavin’s. Your son and I have done business together in the past and he knows me.”
Just don’t call him for a character reference
.

“Very well,” Richard said slowly. “We have an appointment with him at seven.”

“Seven it is,” Derrick said cheerfully. He looked at Samantha. “Miss Drummond?”

Samantha would have said good-bye to her parents, but they had already decamped for a spot in front of the press. She walked with him away from the crowd. She perhaps would have spoken, but apparently she realized at the same time he did that they were not alone. Connor was following them like an Elizabethan London stench.

“Don’t tell me you’re still dogsbodying for Robert the Usurper,” Connor sneered. “Can’t find a better job?”

Derrick sighed. Sometimes there was just no talking to people.

“And how desperate is that girl there—”

Derrick stopped and looked at him. “Shut your mouth right there, Connor,” he said coldly, and in Gaelic. “If you say one more thing, I promise you, you’ll regret it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, he would,” Samantha said cheerfully, also in Gaelic. “And if you don’t want him to kick your arse six ways to Sunday, I’d suggest you, well, I don’t want to be impolite.” She took Derrick’s arm. “Come on, Derrick. You can drive the car this time.”

“What car?” Connor shouted after them. “Some rental Ford?”

“Just keep walking,” Samantha said firmly. “Don’t look back.”

“I want to hurt him,” Derrick said distinctly.

“No, you don’t. You want to spend many years out of jail driving your car and sitting in front of your house and enjoying the money from the sale of your gem.”

“A fairy breathed on it and made it magical. I can’t sell it now.”

She looked up at him, laughed, then pulled him along.

“And why didn’t you tell me you spoke Gaelic?”

“A girl needs her secrets. Walk faster. Your brother is following.”

He didn’t imagine he would make it all the way to the car park without some sort of confrontation. It made him feel slightly better to have Oliver almost run over his brother as he jaywalked across the street. And if Oliver had left his hand on the horn a bit longer than necessary to alert everyone in the area to the indignity, Derrick wasn’t going to complain. He stopped in front of the passenger’s side of the car and waited until he heard his brother come huffing and puffing up. Connor looked down his nose.

“This isn’t yours.”

Derrick clicked the lock, opened the door, then saw Samantha inside. He closed the door, walked around the back of the car and got in under the wheel. He started it up, let the engine idle for a moment or two, then backed out of the stall without looking at his brother.

“He looks like he’d like to throw up,” Samantha remarked.

“Did you take a picture with my phone?”

“I thought I should.”

“Did he see you?”

“Well, of course. What good would it have been otherwise?”

He paused, leaned over and kissed her, then smiled into her eyes. “You are a wonder.”

“And you have a forgiving heart.”

“Well, that’s debatable. Will you text Oliver for me and see what he’s up to?”

She did, then laughed a little now and then. “He says he’s on his way home, assumes you’ve tidied up the scene of the crime, and wonders if the reservation at the Ritz is still good or if he should stop at Marks and Spencer for something prepackaged.”

“Tell him thank you, that we have a few fairied gems to split up, and no, I’m not paying for his dinner. I’ll call him when we hit London. He loves art galleries and Peter could do terrible things to your brother’s computer system.”

“Sounds promising.” She laughed a bit more, then set his phone down and looked at him. “Do you want to come with me to Gavin’s?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. I need to go fetch something out of the flat.”

“What?”

“Your drawing of the sea.”

“Where is it?”

“In my bedroom, lass,” he said seriously. “Where I had intended to look at it every day.”

She was silent for so long, he had to look at her. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I can draw you another,” she whispered.

He only reached for her hand.

And he held it the rest of the way back to the city.

•   •   •

T
he
brief foray into Gavin Drummond’s gallery was less satisfying than he would have hoped. Gavin was absolutely gobsmacked by Samantha’s sketch of the view in front of his house—submitted anonymously for inspection, of course—wanted to know where Derrick had gotten it, and demanded that since he dealt in art and Derrick didn’t that he be given the artist’s number. He also demanded the piece so he could sell it. Derrick didn’t want to let it go, but the chance to give Samantha a start in something she loved was too powerful to refuse.

And just as he knew when a good deal was about to go sour, he knew that she was going to go off with her parents and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. He managed to get her off into a corner by herself whilst her parents and brother were otherwise occupied. And once he had her there, all he could do was look at her.

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to go?” she asked quietly.

He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure this is my day to boss you.”

She looked slightly shattered. “I see.”

He reached out and pulled her against him, then held her as fiercely as he dared.

“I want you, Samantha Drummond, to make up your own mind,” he whispered against her ear. He had to take several decent breaths before he could pull back only as far as was required to be able to look at her. “And while I’m not an advocate of ruining relationships, I can’t take away from you what you need to gain by drawing the line for your parents yourself.”

Her mouth fell open.

He realized his was hanging open as well.

“Where did
that
come from?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“You sound so reasonable and grown up.”

He started to defend himself when he realized she was teasing him. “Trust me, it’s like a fever. It’ll be gone soon enough and I’ll be back to my world-weary, unpleasant self.”

She threw her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly. She held on to him even though harrumphing had started up over in the direction of her parents. She lasted much longer than he’d expected she would. She sank back to her heels and looked at him.

“I need to go.”

He nodded, because he couldn’t say anything.

She kissed him, a fleeting kiss he scarce felt, then she turned and walked across the room.

Derrick walked out of the gallery and went home. Because he could do nothing else.

•   •   •

H
e
got up the next day, showered, went downstairs and made himself coffee, then found his keys and walked to the door. Because that’s just what he did.

There was an envelope that had come through the mail slot. His first instinct was to call a bomb squad, but he rolled his eyes instead and picked it up. His name was on the front, which was somewhat reassuring. He opened it, then pulled out the single sheaf of paper.

All the Things I Like About Derrick Cameron
.

He looked off into his salon, then decided that he should save something for a reward after he managed to get through the day. He returned the page to its spot inside the envelope, shoved the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, then left his apartment and caught a cab to his office. His phone rang. He looked down, then sighed, but answered anyway.

“Interesting, that a piece of Victorian embroidery turned up here in my office,” said a familiar voice.

“Yes, Detective Inspector Avery,” Derrick said politely, “I imagine it was.”

“Don’t suppose you would have any idea where it came from.”

“Did it find itself back in the proper hands?”

“Happily, it did.”

“Then I would have to say that I can’t remember anything about it.”

“Why did I know you would say that?”

“Because you know there might be other times when I might say something else entirely and hope springs eternal?”

“I suppose so.” Avery cleared his throat. “Stop sweeping for speed cameras on your long drives, Derrick. You’re about to bankrupt us.”

Derrick smiled, then rang off and continued on his way.

He wandered into his office half an hour later, cursing traffic under his breath and considering cursing other things quite audibly. He paused, then took stock of the situation.

Oliver was passed out in the middle of his rug, looking fairly dead. Peter was staring off into the distance as if he considered things he shouldn’t, a glass of some sort of green sludge in one hand. Sunny’s doing, no doubt. Rufus was happily buried in the
Financial Times
, but he at least looked up and winked.

“Cousin?”

Derrick looked over to see Cameron standing at his door. “Aye?”

Cameron opened the door fully and nodded for Derrick to come in. Derrick did because Cameron was his laird and he liked to make the odd display of obedience now and again.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Derrick asked.

“You aren’t just going to let her go, are you?”

“Why is everyone so interested in my love life?” Derrick asked crossly.

“Because I like her. She’s just the breath of fresh air you need.”

“I don’t need any fresh air.”

“Derrick, my lad, you need a woman who doesn’t care about what you own. And Samantha doesn’t care. Does she have
any
idea what you have in the bank?”

“Of course not. But she covets my Vanquish.”

“I never said she wasn’t a bright girl, just not a greedy one. As for anything else, I’m not sure what else you want.”

Derrick leaned back against the door. “I want her to have time. I might be the first bloke she’s ever kissed.”

“And this is a bad thing?”

“What if she’s not content?” Derrick asked, though the words were almost more than he could spit out.

Cameron looked at him seriously. “Derrick, I didn’t know your mother, but if I might make a comparison, she sounds as if she was every bit like mine.” He paused. “There are some people, men and women both, who will never be happy, no matter in what circumstances they find themselves. There is not enough money, no castle grand enough, no life easy enough to content them.”

“‘My crown is called content; a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy,’” Derrick said with a sigh.

“Exactly.”

“But Sunny’s content,” Derrick said slowly.

“In Scotland, in London, walking the floor with a lad who thinks naps should be limited to a quarter hour a day,” Cameron agreed. “If you want my suggestion, give your Samantha time, but give her a chance.”

Derrick sighed.

“I think she might surprise you. Oh, I have something for you.”

Derrick accepted the package, opened it, then looked at the mounted colored pencil sketch in his hands.

It was the drawing of Samantha’s that he had given to Gavin the night before, the drawing of his shore.

He looked at his cousin. “How much did you pay for this?”

“Five thousand, but that was a special price for me because of our long personal history with Gavin Drummond. He promised me that when he got his hands on more by this artist, the price would go up sharply.”

“His head will explode when he learns whose art he’s selling.”

“I’d suggest keeping it quiet then, until he’s well and truly hooked on the commissions this mysterious Scottish artist is bringing him. Apparently he hasn’t figured out who
Sam
is, though perhaps he thinks it’s the artist’s initials and not her name.”

Derrick smiled. “She’ll be pleased with both things.”

“I forced him to allow me to set up an account for her. The money’s waiting when she wants it.”

“Good of you.”

“He’s an untrustworthy whoreson, but there you have it.” He studied Derrick. “What are you going to do now?”

Derrick considered all the things he could do. He could go back into his office, nudge Oliver awake, and get back to business. He could go home, bury himself in his salon, and read fiction until he was numb.

Or he could take a chance on something that was so spectacularly wonderful, he hardly dared hope that it might be within his grasp. He looked at his cousin.

“I’m going back to the flat to hang up my gift. Thank you.”

Cameron smiled. “Then what?”

Derrick got up and walked to the door. He looked back at his cousin briefly.

“I’m going to go make a list for someone I love.”

S
amantha
stood at the French doors of her room that opened onto a balcony that overlooked the lake in front of her and made a list of things that had happened to her recently. It was, after all, one of the things that she did best. It was in no particular order, just things that came to her as she stared out over scenery that apparently artists had been making tracks to see for decades.

First on the list was that she had insisted that she was simply too old to have to sleep on a cot in her parents’ hotel room. If they could afford a room facing the lake, then so could she. She had paid for it with her own money, which had seemed like a reasonable thing to do. She had been there for a week, staring out the window, spending vast amounts of time on various benches, sketching. It had been glorious.

Having her own room had also given her the chance to unpack in privacy. She had been extremely relieved to find there had been nothing added to her suitcase. It was just the clothes Emily had bought for her, clothes Samantha was utterly convinced Derrick would get billed for. She hoped he didn’t mind.

Her bag, however, had not been similarly free of interlopers. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised given the fact that Derrick had a cadre of snoops and procurers of the impossible, but a bright, shiny new cell phone had been in her purse, already loaded with a list of numbers she might like to use in the future. Derrick’s had been first, but she assumed that was just because he was first alphabetically. Her phone’s wallpaper had been a shot of the sea from his house on the coast. She knew that because she could have drawn that view from memory. She
had
drawn it from memory, as it happened.

It haunted her dreams, actually.

Second on her list was that she had decided that perhaps she could occasionally be a textile historian. If absolutely necessary. If it were required by someone who might, if necessary, call upon her for her services. If that someone was a Scot who might want to decorate his empty house with the odd, historically significant piece of cloth. Or need company on an adventure to perhaps a safer time period, like Regency England or a duller part of Victoria’s reign.

Third on that list was the fact that she didn’t really want to date anyone. She wanted to just meet a certain someone in a parish church, take her vows, and get on with her life.

A life that she had no intention of living under her parents’ thumbs any longer.

Fourth was the fact that there was a rather substantial manila envelope sitting on her bed, an envelope that had been delivered half an hour earlier with only her name scrawled on the front of it.

She contemplated the view in front of her for a bit longer, then decided that there was nothing to be done but actually go and see what was in that envelope and who had sent it. She was fairly sure it wasn’t from Lydia Cooke, who was now safely wrapped up in a straightjacket, or her husband, who was still spending as much time in front of cameras as possible, apologizing for his sins, or Connor Cameron, who she imagined was polishing the handlebars of his bicycle—which was likely the only mode of transportation he could afford—and cursing his brother.

She was fairly sure of all those things because her name had been written on that envelope in Derrick’s hand.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, opened the envelope, then spilled everything out onto the coverlet. There was a set of keys, a handful of photographs that looked as if they’d been cut straight from books they should have remained attached to, and what turned out to be a sketchbook bound in leather, but bound in a way that it would lie flat when being used.

She looked at the keys. They were a mystery she would have to solve in a minute. She settled more comfortably on the bed and reached for the pages. They were attached with a binder clip that she removed so she could get a better handle on what they were. On the first, printed in very bold letters, was the following:

A List of Important Sights for Artists Who Have Just Earned a Great Whacking Check Selling Their First Piece
.

She set that page aside and saw there in black and white a check for £3,250, made out to her. Next was a letter from Robert Cameron explaining to her that the check had been cut from an account he’d set up in her name. The original funds had come from Gavin who had sold her painting to a very interested buyer. He apologized for having to pay a gallery fee but offered to continue to act as her broker with her brother for as long as she wanted to keep her identity secret. He suggested that perhaps she might want to keep that up until Gavin had sold enough of her art that he would feel an arse if he refused to sell her work simply because she was his sister. Samantha heartily agreed. She set the letter aside.

Next was a list of sights not to be missed, with the aforementioned pilfered pages offered as exhibits and mini-maps. She flipped through them slowly and noticed that they seemed to be leading her in a particular direction. A particularly northerly direction.

That left her a little breathless, actually.

She sat there for a moment or two, then looked at the clock. It was barely ten. It might take her a couple of days to get herself to that final X on the map she realized was the last page, but that wouldn’t happen if she didn’t get an early start and go find a car to rent.

She made a decision and decided there was no time like the present to implement it. She put everything back in the envelope, pocketed the keys, then quickly packed everything into her suitcase. Then she walked out onto the veranda, locking her room behind her.

Her father was sitting at a table, obviously going over some script or other. She didn’t care, honestly. He would be, she had to admit, brilliant in whatever he chose to do. She might even come see him, if she had the time and money to cross the Pond.

He looked up as she approached and actually smiled. “Samantha.”

“Father.” She sat down in a chair at his little bistro table. “Interesting script?”

“I’ve read better, but one does what one must when the director is tempting.” He set it aside and looked at her. “What about you?”

She was fairly sure that was the first time in her life he had ever asked her what she was up to.

“Someone sent me a list of sights to see. I thought I might like to go see them.”

Richard considered her for several minutes in silence. “I had an email from someone earlier this week. Actually, more than one, if memory serves.”

“From whom?” she asked in surprise.

“Derrick Cameron.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. “What did he say?”

“He sent me something from his accountant.”

She blinked. “He has an accountant?”

“He definitely needs one.” Her father looked at her shrewdly. “You have no idea what he’s worth, do you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, he obviously thinks your father might care.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I imagine that will occur to you in time. You’re an exceptionally bright young woman.”

She hoped he would mistake the color crawling up her cheeks for something she’d eaten for breakfast that maybe she shouldn’t have. “What else?”

“Oh, just something from his attorney, a few character references from other people, and a couple of reviews from his LAMDA days.” He shrugged. “I believe they were get-to-know-you things.”

“And what did you send him back?”

“Oh, nothing yet. I’m working on what would be appropriate. I’m not sure I’ll have any say in it, actually.”

“In what?”

He only smiled.

“Cryptic.”

“So it is, and here comes your mother.” He looked at her quickly. “Don’t you dare cave, Samantha.”

She blinked. “Cave?”

He reached out and covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you out of the nest sooner. Consider this penance—ah, Louise, here you are.”

“And here
you
are,” Louise said, sounding extremely put out. “Really, Samantha, trying to find you this week has been a study in frustration. I have things for you to catalogue for me before I send them off back to the States.”

Samantha had a look from her father that she had no trouble interpreting. If the time was ever to be, it had to be then. She stood up, took her mother’s hands, then kissed her on both cheeks. Her mother recoiled as if she’d been bitten.

“What are you doing?”

Samantha only smiled, then leaned over to kiss her father’s cheek. He smiled up at her.

“Have a lovely drive, Sam.”

“I think I will.”

“Well, you’ve certainly had enough practice over the years, haven’t you?”

She smiled. “I’ll call you when I decide what I’m doing.”

“What?” her mother screeched. “What are you talking about, you silly child?”

Samantha turned away, then stopped. She turned back to her mother. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’ve given me a love for old things. I think that will serve me well in the future.”

Her mother started babbling. Samantha shot her father a meaningful look, then walked away before Vesuvius erupted.

She went back inside her room, grabbed her suitcase, her bag, and Derrick’s envelope, then hurried to the front desk. She was somehow unsurprised to find she’d already been checked out and her car was just out the back doors, ready for a hasty getaway. She nodded over it all, then froze and looked at the manager.

“My car?” she echoed.

The manager took her suitcase for her and ushered her out the door. And there, underneath the portico was a 1967 MG, mint condition, wire wheels, and painted a lovely British racing green.

She caught her breath. Then she looked around quickly.

Those Cameron Antiquities, Ltd., lads could be, as Oliver would freely admit, ghosts when the situation warranted.

She looked at the manager. “Who brought this?”

“I don’t have any idea,” he said, looking faintly unsettled. “It was just here, your room was paid for, and the charge returned to your card.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember doing any of it.” He looked at her. “Do you have any idea?”

“I do,” she said with a smile.

He waited, but she didn’t think it was prudent to enlighten him. So she plunked her suitcase in the trunk that indeed opened with one of the keys on her ring, then got in under the wheel and simply took a deep breath. The top was down, the day was glorious, and she would have wept if she hadn’t been so tempted to laugh.

So she laughed instead.

There was a Garmin taped to a ruin-resistant part of the dash with a note telling her to turn it on. She did and the navigation system began.

Very high-tech, but she supposed she shouldn’t have expected anything else.

She pulled away from the hotel, almost convinced she could hear her mother still shrieking. But she wasn’t going to stick around and find out for sure.

•   •   •

T
hree
days later, she drove through the village near Derrick’s seaside house, then turned along the road she knew led out to the sea. She’d turned off the navigation program an hour ago, because to her surprise, she knew the way.

She pulled up next to a well-used Range Rover, turned the car off, then leaned her head back against the seat and enjoyed the late afternoon sunshine for a moment or two.

She supposed she could have hurried on her way north, but she’d decided not to. She had sketched, entertained deep thoughts, and relished every moment of knowing there was a man in the world who thought enough about her to give her that sort of journey.

She got out of the car, tossed the keys on the driver’s seat, then walked around Derrick’s lesser beast to see what she might find.

Derrick was sitting on one of their rocks, staring out over the sea. He didn’t move, which she had expected. If he hadn’t had a bug in her car tracking her every step of the way, she would have been surprised. Because, after all, there had been several things along the way—people in the right places, freshly charged batteries for her phone and navigation system waiting in odd places, flowers magically being delivered by small children while she was sketching—that had given her the idea he was involved in some kind of super-private spy network somewhere.

She sat down on the rock next to him and looked out over the sea for a few minutes before she came up with just the right words.

“So,” she said slowly, “is this how it’s going to be?”

He looked over at her and smiled. “How is that?”

“You sending me messages and waiting for me to come running?”

He scooted over and patted the spot next to him. “Didn’t check your rearview mirror all that often, did you?”

She laughed a little. “I didn’t. I was too busy being dazzled by the scenery.”

“Lass, you need a security detail.”

“I’m beginning to think I had one.”

He only smiled.

“How’d you get here first?”

“Aston Martin Vanquish, love. It goes faster than your car by quite a bit. And I had Peter sweeping for bobbies for me, which you did not.”

She moved to sit next to him. “Did you loan me that MG on purpose so I couldn’t go as fast as you?”

“Nay, I
bought
you that MG because a learner’s sticker doesn’t look quite as silly on that sort of car as it would on mine.”

She froze. “You bought me a car?”

He looked at her seriously. “I thought you might need one to get around in.”

“Awfully generous of you.”

He shrugged, but it didn’t look all that casual. “Again, sparing myself the embarrassment of an L sticker on mine.” He continued to look at her gravely. “Self-serving, as always.”

She looked out over the sea that rolled in endlessly against the shore. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen the sea before. There was just something about that sea when it found itself running up against a Scottish shore that gave it a certain cachet. Or that might have had something to do with the man sitting next to her. She considered the ramifications of that gift she’d just been given—and the keychain that said
I’m Scottish
on the front and
You’d better not kiss me or my husband will kill you
on the back, then looked at Derrick.