Sweet Revenge Read online

  “I’m not sure.” Perched on the arm of the chair, Victoria indicated the pertinent pages. “Here she talks about her ‘love’ looking like a powdery ghost, and old Goggy having the perception of a clay turtle.” She glanced sideways. “I gather your grandfather’s not always the most sensitive of men.”

  “He has his moments. What’s this about his cunning being no match for her love’s?”

  “Foxes are cunning,” Victoria remarked.

  Zoe swore crudely and flopped back. “I can’t handle this stuff right now. It’s probably a lot of old cobblers anyway. Sophie was a flighty thing to the end. Off to Ireland she flew without a word to anyone. Why the frenzied departure? What was the big attraction in County Clare? Another lover?”

  “Maybe she explains herself.” Victoria thumbed through the entries, which became harder to read as time went on.

  “Don’t count on it.” Zoe rose with a grunt, bent to peer at Keiran’s handsome face and sighed as if in regret. “I have to go. I’m on a new case. Anyway, I’ll catch up with you later. Tell Torbel my last report is on his desk, and this one’ll be joining it shortly.”

  When she was gone, Victoria pondered the bizarre situation surrounding the Hollyburn family. Twins at odds, one of them virtually disowned by an ex-high-court judge who’d had the power to affect at least one man’s career to a ridiculous extent. And then there was Sophie. Did the answers to this mystery lie in her diary? Or was that a false trail, and they should be concentrating on Robbie’s death instead?

  She glanced at Rosie curled up in the crook of Keiran’s arm and felt her mind beginning to wander. Where was Torbel? Why didn’t he return? Would he, could he, love her? What if he could? More disturbingly, what if he couldn’t?

  Trembling inside and out, she wrapped her arms around her upraised legs, pressed her forehead to her knees and prayed that he would return to her unharmed.

  SHE WAS ASLEEP on the sofa when Torbel got there. He stroked the hair from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. She’d been reading Sophie’s diary. It lay open on the carpet beneath her curled fingers. God knew what she must be dreaming right now.

  Crossing to Keiran’s bed, he was surprised to find his friend awake with Rosie curled up on the pillow next to his head.

  “You’re alive,” he noted in a wry tone he knew Keiran would not misinterpret.

  “No thanks to that prat with the gun. Did you catch him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That has an ominous ring to it.” Keiran fixed his bleary eyes on Torbel’s face. There was more shrewdness left in them than he would have expected. “I don’t suppose you’ve told her yet?”

  Torbel glanced at Victoria, then cast an astute sidelong look at Keiran. He weighed his chances of deceiving his oldest friend and cursed the answer.

  Keiran chuckled. “That’s what I figured. You’re crazy if you let her get away. You should know by now what you want in a woman. Me, I’m the Lady Caroline Dester type.”

  Torbel frowned. “Who?”

  “From Enchanted April. Polly Walker played—Never mind.” His Irish accent blurred with amusement and pain. “You’ve got a rare gem in Victoria.”

  “Yeah, a rare Gypsy gem from Bouverie Street.”

  “You’re an incurable cynic. Let it go, Torbel. It’ll only bog you down in the end.”

  The painkillers were bringing out the philosopher in Keiran. That the philosopher might be right, however, was not a thing Torbel was prepared to admit. Not yet. Not with a murderous maniac apparently dogging their every move.

  He sat on the edge of the chair and massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Guns, notes, nursery rhymes, forklifts—this one’s beyond me, Keiran. Someone wants revenge for Robbie’s death. Street’s dead. Peacock, too.” His brow furrowed at the last name. “Peacock wanted to tell us something about Sophie Hollyburn. Sophie was Robbie’s mother. An affair’s the best I can come up with. Seems obvious, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Depends on who she had the affair with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look beyond the obvious, Torbel. There’s Goggy’s old friend Scratch or Scranton or whatever his name is. And Chivers.”

  “The butler?”

  “Never overlook a butler.”

  “Keiran, that bullet hit your shoulder, not your brain. Nothing’s obvious about any of this—and the butler didn’t do it.”

  He saw the faint smile that quirked Keiran’s lips. He also saw his eyes close, and wisely he fell silent.

  Slumping back in the chair, he ran a meditative thumb across his lower lip. Never overlook the obvious. It was one of the basic tenets of police work and a lesson he’d learned early on—which was undoubtedly why his instincts had taken to screaming at him lately. Something was obvious here. Why couldn’t he see it?

  “Torbel?”

  Her soft question came from directly in front of him. Lifting his eyes, he regarded her in the gray light of dawn. She looked rumpled in his red jersey, which was far too large for her, and faded denim cutoffs that left her long legs bare and tempting beyond reason. The suggestion of a smile played on her lips. Had she heard his conversation with Keiran?

  As if in answer, she held out her hands to him. “Oswyn’s here. He’s going to bed sit for a while.”

  One of Torbel’s dark brows arched. “What about Zoe?”

  “On a case. The flat’s empty.”

  Oh, God. His eyes closed briefly as a wave of resignation washed through him. He couldn’t fight this anymore. No man was that strong.

  “Breakfast first?” he asked, his expression deliberately benign.

  A spark of mischief lit her eyes. “Not a chance, Torbel. Sex first. Then breakfast.”

  He was going to regret this, Torbel thought. Yet even as he took her hand, it occurred to him that he no longer cared.

  AUGUSTUS SAT ALONE in his large bed, ate his soft-boiled egg, drank his tea and brooded. They’d stolen Sophie’s diary. The dust on her desk had been smudged; he’d spotted it right off. Unfortunately he hadn’t thought to go searching for smudges until long after they’d departed.

  Blast their meddlesome backsides. And here he’d been so pleased at having located the missing documents in his magazine rack. Now he had a whole new set of papers to worry about. He should have burned all her belongings years ago.

  Had she written down anything that mattered to him? His body shook as he struggled to think. The thing spanned five years, from two and a half years prior to Robbie’s death until—well, until her demise.

  Had Blodwyn’s name come up? he wondered, too crotchety now to eat. Had Sophie known about her? No, he thought vehemently, she hadn’t. No one had. Damn her evil blood. How long would it taint his life? How long would he have to agonize over past mistakes and errors in his famed Hollyburn judgment?

  He tossed his fork fretfully onto the tray. “Curse you,” he barked to no one and everyone. “Chivers! Get in here and take this mess away.” The butler appeared as if by magic. “Leave my tea. No, not that runny excuse for an egg. And fire the cook while you’re at it. Can’t even boil an egg properly. He’s terrible.”

  Chivers nodded and took the tray. Augustus watched him leave, smoldering all the while.

  Where was Clover? Why hadn’t she returned home? A shiver worked its way through his old bones. Had Zoe woken up and caught her burgling her flat?

  Rubbing his sore chest, he climbed awkwardly from his bed and started for the bathroom. But even movement couldn’t shut out the cacophony in his head.

  Sophie, Sophie, Sophie…

  She hadn’t been as dense as he’d once thought. No, not dense at all. She’d put one over on him, all right. Not that he’d admit it under torture, but the truth was, she’d hoodwinked him good. She’d also flown off to Ireland, and what she’d found there, he shuddered once again to think.

  “Blod—” he growled, then stopped the thought cold by kicking the bathroom door barefooted. A new pain shot up his leg. Eno
ugh, he ordered himself. Wait for Clover. Maybe his silly daughter hadn’t written anything in her book. He’d skimmed the diary himself many years ago. It hadn’t made much sense to him. On the other hand, he’d never sat down and pondered the entries, either.

  The stabbing in his chest intensified, doubling him over. “Not yet,” he snapped through gritted teeth. “I’m not ready yet. I have to see justice served. I have to see the Rag Man and his woman die.”

  He fumbled out two pills and heaved a sigh of relief as the pain slowly subsided. Justice must come soon. It must. Shuffling to the phone, he picked up the receiver and dialed the number of the Stepney precinct house, where, for reasons still a mystery to him, Clover had requested to be assigned. It was a very odd choice, he reflected, now in middial. A very odd choice indeed…

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I want to help, Torbel.”

  “Then stay here where I know you’re safe, and keep the door locked.”

  Torbel jammed the hem of the red jersey Victoria had been wearing into the waistband of his jeans. It still carried the elusive flowery fragrance of her skin and hair.

  Three hours of making love, showering and making love again. He felt drugged and dazed—and desperate, mostly to have her again, but also partly to get out while the saner portion of his brain still had some say in the matter.

  Unfortunately his sanity was a fast-fading thing. She was angry, walking back and forth across the floor, defiant and glaring in a black silk kimono with a bright red dragon streaming down the lapel. Beneath that, she wore nothing except a pair of black lace bikini briefs and a matching bra. Talk about unfair weapons, he allowed dryly.

  “You call me stubborn,” she accused, pivoting to face him. “The least you could do is tell me where you’re going and why.”

  “I told you about Boots, Victoria. I’m going to see what I can turn up besides his footwear.”

  He wasn’t being sarcastic, and she knew it. She regarded him through her lashes and finally relented. “Oh, all right, if it’ll help find Boots, I’ll stay here. I still have a lot of Sophie’s diary to wade through. Her handwriting’s worse than Lord Hobday’s.”

  Torbel blew out a silent breath of relief. “I won’t be long,” he promised. “Six at the latest.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Her mumbled retort brought a smile to his lips, one he took pains to conceal. Any show of amusement would only annoy her further.

  He kissed her but took pains with that, as well. It would be all too easy to wind up back in that softly rumpled bed of hers. It wasn’t until he pushed his way into the pub that he began to relax.

  Ron was there arguing loudly with Ratz. Torbel caught the words “case” and something about “midnight” before Ron clamped his mouth shut and stomped out.

  Torbel shot Ratz a bland look. “Should I ask?”

  “It’s nothing.” Ratz shuffled his big feet. “You know Ron, all talk. He’s on a tear. It’ll pass.”

  Torbel’s interest, barely piqued to begin with, dissolved. “What’s the word on Keiran?”

  Oswyn emerged from the back room into which Ron had just marched. “It’s good, Torbel. He sent me packing an hour ago. The doctor was there when I left,” he added, offsetting any objection Torbel might have offered. “Uh—” he glanced at the back room “—are you on a case?”

  Torbel masked a smile at the boy’s obvious unease. “Of sorts.”

  “Can I help?”

  “That depends. Do you enjoy digging through rubbish bins?”

  Oswyn made a face. “For what?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not a body.”

  The boy hesitated, then drew himself erect. “Yeah, sure, I can do that. I, uh, is Victoria coming with us?”

  Torbel glanced upward. “She has her own digging to do.” Heading for the door, he said, “Let’s get to it, then, Oswyn. And hope the only bodies we find belong to mice and flies.”

  A LOUD CRACK OF THUNDER made Victoria jump in her seat. Her eyes, bleary from reading for hours on end, focused slowly on the lowering black sky. Another thunderstorm loomed, black and sinister—to match the current tone of Sophie’s diary.

  With a shiver, she slid from the chair, stretched her cramped back muscles and headed through the unnatural darkness toward the kitchen. Another ominous peal of thunder accompanied her.

  Her day’s reading had been a fascinating foray into the life and mind of Sophie Hollyburn. She hadn’t learned anything of practical value, but she did think she understood the woman’s inner demons a little better now. In one way, the two of them were very much alike—both dissatisfied with the directions of their lives, yet not quite able to pinpoint the reasons why.

  Augustus notwithstanding, Sophie felt she should have been happy and yet she was filled with despair. She’d liked and admired her husband, Duffy; she had a fine home and a talent for gardening, which had won her numerous trophies. She claimed not to have been seeking romantic liaisons; the opportunity had simply continued to present itself. And what better way to escape old Goggy’s dominating clutches than to meet her lovers at quiet village pubs and inns?

  Victoria heard Zoe drag herself through the door while she was fixing a sandwich and pondering Sophie’s somewhat bleak outlook on life.

  “Banana and peanut butter,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not in a gourmet frame of mine. It’s too hot.”

  “You look cool enough to me.” Zoe tugged off her black T-shirt and fanned herself with a copy of Majesty magazine.

  Victoria started a second sandwich. Her navy blue tank top, white shorts and bare feet were in fact very cool and comfortable. Zoe wore too much heavy black.

  “Did you find anything more in Sophie’s diary?” Zoe inquired, setting the teakettle on the stove.

  “Nothing that’ll help Torbel and me, but there were other things.”

  “Other affairs, you mean?”

  “In the beginning. Later she seemed to stick to one man.”

  “Not Duffy.”

  Victoria handed her a plate. “No, but I think your father knew what she was doing. I—” she took a deep breath “—I think maybe he did the same thing.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Zoe said glumly. “I wish I didn’t know that, but wishes aren’t horses and I do.”

  Victoria frowned at the odd reference. “That’s from an old nursery rhyme, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I thought it was just a figure of speech. Anyway, show me what you’ve found. I might as well know the worst.”

  Wiping her hands, Victoria retrieved the diary and brought it to the table. Beyond the window, clouds continued to mass. On the stereo, Gerry Rafferty sang “The Royal Mile,” one of Victoria’s favorites.

  “What’s that?” Zoe stopped her partway through the book.

  “A picture.” Reluctantly Victoria went back. “I found it earlier. I thought you might not want to see it.”

  “Ah, yes, the Hollyburn family—minus Clover. I don’t remember why she wasn’t there.”

  Victoria studied the subjects more closely. “I thought that was her and you were missing.”

  “Nope. That’s me. There’s Sophie, too. Oh, and Duffy. A real Irishman you’d think, with that red hair and those bright green eyes, but his people came from Norway—which tells you something about Irish history. Those Vikings really got around.”

  “That must be Robbie.” Victoria indicated a small boy. The brown curls surrounding his face gave him the look of a cherub. That and his big brown eyes, as wide as saucers and completely devoid of guile. She noted a mark on the side of his jaw and ran a light thumb over it.

  “It’s not a flaw in the picture,” Zoe told her. “Robbie had a scar. Something was removed—a mole, I think. Anyway, he was about eighteen months old here. This must have been taken right before Sophie took off for County Clare…Good Lord,” she exclaimed, then laughed. “Look at old Goggy. Have you ever seen such a pickle-faced old buzzard?”

  “He’s very distingu
ished,” Victoria remarked politely.

  She was cut short by an indelicate “Bull” from Zoe. “He’s a flint-hearted old cretin who had Clover cowed from the day she was born. Thank heaven I wasn’t as gullible. Sometimes I think it might have been easier for her if our triplet brother had lived, but you never know.”

  Victoria’s eyes shifted to Sophie’s pretty face. A blue-eyed blonde, she seemed more sweet than sophisticated.

  “Sophie was the reincarnation of Grandma Blanche,” Zoe told her. “The rest of us were jumblies. I can’t imagine why she kept this particular picture. Old Goggy looks like a member of the Inquisition.”

  Victoria swallowed a mouthful of tea. Zoe always made it too strong. “Maybe she wanted to remember him the way he really was. My aunt Prudie says there’s no point believing in lies. Better to face the truth and get on with your life.

  “Clover should have a chat with your aunt.”

  “Prudie lives in a Florida bayou.”

  “All the better. The alligators would love my sister, and vice versa. What about the diary entries themselves? Any startling revelations, or just the usual bosh? Funny, I never thought Sophie was the type to keep a diary. Maybe I should have searched her room better.”

  Victoria tried to read Zoe’s mood. How much did she really want to know of her mother’s thoughts and feelings? Probably not a great deal.

  A horse clopped past on the street. You still saw that in some parts of London; horses pulling carts, bobbies on mounts and bicycles…

  Bobbies. Police. Torbel…

  Eyes closed, she let her thoughts slide sideways into the one area she’d been desperate to avoid all day. If she couldn’t be with him, she was better off not thinking about what trouble he might be in.

  Except that he was too smart and self-sufficient to walk blindly into trouble. He’d be watching everything and everyone now. He’d be fine. And he’d be back by six o’clock, as promised. She would hold him to that.

  In answer to Zoe’s question, she said, “I don’t think Sophie intended to startle anyone. She was very guarded when it came to her feelings—and her relationships.”