Annabelle smoothed the already perfectly smooth lapel of his jacket. “I didn’t tell you beforehand because there was a risk someone would confront you, and I assumed you’d rather not feign ignorance,” she explained. “In any case, your innocence would appear more authentic if you truly didn’t know.”
“This is outrageous,” he remarked.
“Did it work?”
He bounced the wiggling baby. “Perfectly. But the whole train . . . and the German Emperor, Annabelle?”
She had the decency to look apologetic. “It was Catriona’s plan. She involved someone at the German embassy—to smudge the tracks, as she put it.”
“Well, it did that. No one is particularly keen on investigating the Kaiser.”
“I only supplied the train,” Annabelle said. “Blackstone supplied the crew, and the German contact the ship. Lucie’s magazine at London Print shared news about the pieces with tens of thousands of households, good luck with interviewing all possible suspects. Before this goes any further at all, however, I was hoping you could take care of the sheriff.”
Her confidence in him warmed his chest despite himself. No, he didn’t like being left in the dark, but he very much liked that she thought he could fix anything.
“When does the day nanny arrive?” he asked. It came out clipped.
What she saw in his eyes made her blush. “At ten o’clock,” she supplied.
He wanted to pull the ribbon from her hair. He wanted to part her robe . . . James squirmed and plucked Sebastian’s cravat pin loose with astounding dexterity. Sebastian returned him into Annabelle’s waiting arms.
“Whatever you have scheduled from ten o’clock, can you reschedule it?”
Her plush lips curved into a smile. “To what time?”
“Lunch.”
They made thorough use of those two hours.
Chapter 39
The breeze blew freely through the high arches of the mansion’s balcony and carried the rich, warm fragrance of a summer afternoon in the mountains. A drowsy atmosphere lay over the family drawing room. Aunt Georgette was lounging on the striped silk divan, snoozing after a smoke. Charbel and Layal were playing Dama on the floor, next to the table that was cluttered with empty coffee cups and platters with leftover fruit. Elias was sprawled on a sofa, sharing an argileh with Nassim. Behind a veil of curling white smoke, his face was deceptively still, as if carved in stone.
Hana, the doorman, entered the room, his house shoes soundless on the marble floor.
“Mr. Elias. A gentleman is here to see you.”
Elias’s dispassionate gaze moved in the man’s direction. “Who is it?”
“A gentleman from abroad.”
He sat up, slowly. “Describe him.”
It was an older, dark-haired Scotsman, wasn’t it, keen on avenging his daughter’s honor.
“He is a young, fair-haired Englishman,” said Hana. “His name was unintelligible.”
A tiny spark glimmering in Elias’s gut extinguished back to black.
“He asked me to give you this,” Hana said, and held up an object.
Elias waved him closer. “Show me.”
The object was the size of a small pinecone, wrapped in fabric and tied with string. The fabric was, in fact, a handkerchief. Embroidered like a woman’s. Premonition struck his chest like lightning, making all the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. He felt Nassim’s alert gaze on him.
Layal craned her graceful neck. “What is it?”
She wasn’t the only one encroaching with a curious look in her eyes.
Elias rose and left the room with long strides.
He unwrapped the mysterious object on his way out the door into the front yard. The sunlight gleamed off polished ivory. The white king had returned. His head jerked up.
A man stood near the bottom of the stairs, evidently a guide. He held two disgruntled mules on their reins. Next to him, the English visitor. The young man looked red and quite miserable, Elias thought as he approached them; the foreigner had eaten dust during his ride up the mountains. The cut of the man’s suit, the high forehead, and raffish blond hair suggested an aristocrat.
Elias planted himself in front of him. “Ahlan wa sahlan. Welcome to my family’s home. I’m Elias Iskander Khoury, how can I help you?”
“Salam . . .” the cultured voice floundered. “Good day, sir.” A hand was offered, and hazel eyes met his. “Lord Peregrin Devereux. I’m a friend of Wester Ross.”
The chess piece bit into Elias’s palm. “Where is his lordship?”