eyes met. He was silent.
“My uncle died over half a century ago,” she cried. But she was feeling ill.
His face darkened with anger. “Fine. I give up. You know what, you’re a ballsy lady for a society dame, and being as you are hounding me out of all patience, I concede the day, Claire. You win.”
He was shouting. Claire pressed her spine into the door.
“I’m not sure your uncle is dead,” Ian Marshall said. “I’m not sure he’s dead, and I’m not sure that
he
isn’t Lionel Elgin.”
CHAPTER 4
If a bomb had exploded right in front of her, she would not have been more stunned. “Are you nuts?” she demanded, but she began to shake.
He crossed his arms and stared. “No. I’m not crazy, Claire.” He hesitated. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”
“The bearer of bad tidings?”
She felt shell-shocked. “Excuse me. My uncle died in May of 1944. So if he was Elgin, Elgin is dead—and someone is a copycat killer!”
“Elgin is alive,” Ian said.
“And my uncle was a Frenchman,” Claire cried. “What are you suggesting, that he was born in England, that he was born an Elgin—which would make my father what, Ian?” Fury overcame her. “A liar, that’s what it would make him.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian repeated grimly. “I am more sorry than you can know.”
Claire didn’t like that. She stiffened in alarm. But this would explain why Ian had been so reluctant to be honest with her. “My father was born in a small village in France, about a hundred kilometers south of Paris. So was Robert. End of story. And Robert is
dead.”
“So it’s been claimed,” Ian said.
Claire stared at him, her breathing fast and shallow. So much fear consumed her that she could hardly think straight or see clearly. “Maybe you’re Elgin,” she said, jabbing her hand in his direction.
“I’m thirty-nine, Claire,” Ian said quietly. “Maybe you’d better sit down. You are as white as a sheet.” Kindness had crept into his tone. He seemed reluctant to allow it in.
“I’m not sitting anywhere,” Claire shouted. “You know what I meant. Maybe you’re copycatting Elgin!”
“You’re hysterical. I’m hunting Elgin, Claire. I’m
hunting
the man who killed your husband, George Suttill, and a number of others as well.”
Her uncle was dead. And he was a Frenchman—her father was a Frenchman. Robert Ducasse was not alive, and he was not an alias for Lionel Elgin. It was impossible.
“But you suspect William, too.” She met his gaze. She had been hoping to calm herself, but accusing William Duke, who was more of an uncle to her than Robert had ever been—obviously, since Robert had died twenty-odd years before she was born—did not help her to recover her composure.
’There’s three years missing from William Duke’s life in the mid-forties—it’s highly suspicious and too damn coincidental for me.”
Claire turned away. She felt ravaged, more so than she had ever thought it possible to be. But her father could not have deceived her all of these years, claiming to be a Frenchman, claiming that his brother was dead. “My father is fluent in French,” she said.
Ian was studying her very closely.
Claire shivered.
“What is it, Claire? What is it that you really want to ask me?” Ian asked softly.
Claire continued to tremble. She went to the bed and sat down, gripping the edge of the mattress. She hadn’t really heard him. “I need to understand now, Ian. I need to understand everything. Tell me about David . . . and Elgin.”
He seemed somewhat surprised by her response. “You don’t need to know.”
Claire launched herself at him. She grabbed his arms, on the verge of tears. “You can’t do this to me!” she cried. “You can’t appear in my life, and then the next thing I know, David is dead! You can’t come into my life this way and accuse someone I love of being a horrible, horrible liar.” She knew she referred to her father now, when it had
“My uncle died over half a century ago,” she cried. But she was feeling ill.
His face darkened with anger. “Fine. I give up. You know what, you’re a ballsy lady for a society dame, and being as you are hounding me out of all patience, I concede the day, Claire. You win.”
He was shouting. Claire pressed her spine into the door.
“I’m not sure your uncle is dead,” Ian Marshall said. “I’m not sure he’s dead, and I’m not sure that
he
isn’t Lionel Elgin.”
CHAPTER 4
If a bomb had exploded right in front of her, she would not have been more stunned. “Are you nuts?” she demanded, but she began to shake.
He crossed his arms and stared. “No. I’m not crazy, Claire.” He hesitated. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”
“The bearer of bad tidings?”
She felt shell-shocked. “Excuse me. My uncle died in May of 1944. So if he was Elgin, Elgin is dead—and someone is a copycat killer!”
“Elgin is alive,” Ian said.
“And my uncle was a Frenchman,” Claire cried. “What are you suggesting, that he was born in England, that he was born an Elgin—which would make my father what, Ian?” Fury overcame her. “A liar, that’s what it would make him.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian repeated grimly. “I am more sorry than you can know.”
Claire didn’t like that. She stiffened in alarm. But this would explain why Ian had been so reluctant to be honest with her. “My father was born in a small village in France, about a hundred kilometers south of Paris. So was Robert. End of story. And Robert is
dead.”
“So it’s been claimed,” Ian said.
Claire stared at him, her breathing fast and shallow. So much fear consumed her that she could hardly think straight or see clearly. “Maybe you’re Elgin,” she said, jabbing her hand in his direction.
“I’m thirty-nine, Claire,” Ian said quietly. “Maybe you’d better sit down. You are as white as a sheet.” Kindness had crept into his tone. He seemed reluctant to allow it in.
“I’m not sitting anywhere,” Claire shouted. “You know what I meant. Maybe you’re copycatting Elgin!”
“You’re hysterical. I’m hunting Elgin, Claire. I’m
hunting
the man who killed your husband, George Suttill, and a number of others as well.”
Her uncle was dead. And he was a Frenchman—her father was a Frenchman. Robert Ducasse was not alive, and he was not an alias for Lionel Elgin. It was impossible.
“But you suspect William, too.” She met his gaze. She had been hoping to calm herself, but accusing William Duke, who was more of an uncle to her than Robert had ever been—obviously, since Robert had died twenty-odd years before she was born—did not help her to recover her composure.
’There’s three years missing from William Duke’s life in the mid-forties—it’s highly suspicious and too damn coincidental for me.”
Claire turned away. She felt ravaged, more so than she had ever thought it possible to be. But her father could not have deceived her all of these years, claiming to be a Frenchman, claiming that his brother was dead. “My father is fluent in French,” she said.
Ian was studying her very closely.
Claire shivered.
“What is it, Claire? What is it that you really want to ask me?” Ian asked softly.
Claire continued to tremble. She went to the bed and sat down, gripping the edge of the mattress. She hadn’t really heard him. “I need to understand now, Ian. I need to understand everything. Tell me about David . . . and Elgin.”
He seemed somewhat surprised by her response. “You don’t need to know.”
Claire launched herself at him. She grabbed his arms, on the verge of tears. “You can’t do this to me!” she cried. “You can’t appear in my life, and then the next thing I know, David is dead! You can’t come into my life this way and accuse someone I love of being a horrible, horrible liar.” She knew she referred to her father now, when it had
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