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Chris Quinton

Fox Hunt

Published by Manifold Press

Text: © Chris Quinton 2012
E-book format © Manifold Press 2012

For further details of titles

both in print and forthcoming see:

http://www.manifoldpress.co.uk

ISBN: ISBN: 978-1-908312-05-1

Dedication:

Thank you as always to my friends

for your support, your nagging

and your whip-cracking.

Proof-reading and line editing:

W. S. Pugh

Any remaining errors are the sole

responsibility of the author

Editor: Fiona Pickles

Characters and situations descr ibed

in this book are f ictional

and not intended to por tray real persons

or situations whatsoever;

any resemblances to living individuals

are entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

Falling off a ladder is not a good idea. For

someone of my dad’s age, pushing seventy, it was
an extremely bad one. He ended up in hospital with
concussion, cracked ribs, a broken hip, and very
lucky that a reasonably sober Uncle Joe had chosen
that particular time to drop in for a chat.

“What,” I asked him as I gave him a careful

hug,“do you do for your next trick?” Going for
flippancy meant I could hide how upset I was. Dad
had come late to marriage and fatherhood and he
was of a generation that hated emotional displays.
My brother and I had long ago learned not to indulge
in them. My cousin Lisa was the only exception to
that unwritten rule. She’d come to live with us as a
child and Mum and Dad had cosseted her as if she
was a fairy princess.

“Fire walking,” he wheezed. “Don’t make me

laugh, Rob, it hurts. What are you doing here? You
should be at work.”

“When I get a phone call from Lisa saying you’re

at death’s door, what else am I supposed to do? Tell
her to call back after library hours, or drop everything
and hotfoot it from London to Salisbury?”

He tried to give one of his disparaging snorts.“She

always exaggerates. You know that.”

“Yes, which is why I assumed you were in no

danger of popping your clogs, but were badly hurt.
How far wrong am I?”

“We-ell…”

“Exactly.” I peered at his bandaged forehead and

wondered uneasily about concussions, haematoma,
other trauma. I’d already been briefed by his doctor,
of course, and he’d assured me there were no signs
he’d suffered a mini-stroke or anything else that
might have caused him to lose his balance, but even
so ... “You old fool. What were you doing up the
damned ladder in the first place?”

“Can’t remember,” he muttered. “Blast it, Robert,

stop fussing over me! I’m not made of glass.”

“No, and you’re not immortal, either,” I reminded

him. “You happen to be the only father I’ve got, and
I’d just as soon you stayed around for a few more
years yet.”

“I fully intend to, my lad.”
“Good. Which means you’ll be doing what the

doctors and nurses tell you without argument?”

“Of course! I never argue!”
Somehow I managed not to laugh. “Sorry, wrong

word. How stupid of me.” I gave him an affectionate
smile. “Discuss? Debate?”

“Huh. Any sharper and you’ll cut yourself.”
Something like his old twinkle showed in his

hazel eyes. “Did they tell you how long I’m likely to
be in here? I asked Lisa and Mike, but couldn’t get
any sense out of either of them.”

“Probably because your doctor won’t commit

himself to a date yet,” I pointed out. “He says it
depends on how you respond to treatment. But it’s
going to be weeks rather than days, Dad, so don’t
build your hopes up.”

“Damn!” The anger and frustration in that one

word spoke volumes.

“What have you started that can’t wait?” I sighed.
“Who have you promised delivery dates?”
“Baverstock. Remember the van Dyck you helped

with? He brought me a couple of Sixteenth Century
panels. I’ve almost finished Ann, but I’ve only
done the preliminary work on Adam.” He fixed a
thoughtful gaze on me, and a slow smile lightened
that carved-in-oak face of his. “Robbie-lad…”

“Dad,” I warned, “don’t start. I’ve only taken a

week’s leave - “

“That’ll be enough to finish Ann.”
“I’m a librarian, not a fine art restorer.” Oh, but

I wanted to be… The hard realities of life meant it
could be no more than a pipe-dream. For Dad, it
was a beloved hobby. For me to make it a career,
I’d need official qualifications, degrees, letters after
my name, and they don’t come cheap. My monthly
salary from the library gave me money to live on
with a bit to spare, nowhere near enough to fund
university courses.

“But you’re damn good at it, all the same,” he

countered. “Taught you all I know, didn’t I? And you
have a talent for it, more than Mike does, but he
could help you. Between the two of you, you could
finish Adam in a couple of weeks, and I’d be able to
rest easy in here knowing you’ll be taking care of
them.”

“That is blackmail!” I snapped. “You should be

ashamed.”

“No, it’s not! It’s a matter of the family honouring

commitments. Come on, son. I know you can do it.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said reluctantly, a part of me

turning happy cartwheels. It had been too long since
I’d done any restoration. “But it isn’t entirely down
to me, you know. There are the people I work with
who’ll have to cover my job for longer if I extend
my leave.” Knowing how difficult he could be about
obeying doctors and staying put, and that my brother
and cousin were simply not capable of controlling
the old tyrant, I’d already arranged another two
week option. But he didn’t have to know that or
I’d be accused of fussing again. “And talking about
family, where is Mike?”

“I sent him back to the workshop. I’d made a

bit of a mess landing on things, and the bench was
knocked over. There’s a fair amount of cleaning up
to be done, Joe said. Luckily I wasn’t working on
Ann, just an eighteenth century Orkney spinning-
wheel for Beau. Didn’t you go there?”

“No,” I said with an indulgent smile. “Oddly

enough I came straight to the hospital. How about
Uncle Joe?” Who was also conspicuous by his
absence.

“Mike took him away with him. He doesn’t get

any better, you know.”

“I know. And Lisa?”
“Had to collect Beth from the playgroup and

couldn’t get hold of Simon or a neighbour to do it
for her.” His voice sounded strained, and there were
frown-lines of pain as well as worry on what I could
see of his forehead. “Rob, the paintings … And keep
an eye on Mike. He’s - drifting.”

“Dad, he’s twenty-two, not twelve,” I said gently.

Dad had never played favourites between us,

taking my homosexuality in his stride, but he always
worried more about my brother. God knows Mike
gave him enough cause.

Dad didn’t say a word, just looked at me as if he

really believed the four years’ difference between
Mike and me actually gave me some kind of authority
over him. So I nodded and smiled, and patted his
hand instead of hugging him. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll do
what I can about all of them. I promise.”

Something knotted in my stomach. Here we go

again - Robert the Ever-Sensible is expected to take
charge. Again. Mum had died eleven years ago of a
totally unexpected aneurysm, and Dad took it very
hard. Because I was the eldest - fifteen years old -
it had fallen on me to hold the fort until he came
out of his grief-induced isolation. It took him nearly
three years. Just for once, I reflected wistfully, I’d
like to be able to say no, indulge myself in a stupidly
frivolous and irresponsible piece of nonsense, just
for the hell of it. I flattened the thought guiltily and
concentrated on Dad. I wanted to ask him about the
paintings, but didn’t. He always kept detailed notes
and I could find out all I needed to know from them.
Or ask him tomorrow.

I didn’t stay long after that. He was looking very

tired - old and frail - and if I let him see how it upset
me, it would make him even more uncomfortable. So
I meekly accepted the inevitable words of wisdom,
discussed finances briefly, then put on my brightest
smile and trotted out a few teasing remarks before
retreating. According to the doctor, Dad was in no

real danger, his heart was as sound as a bell and
he had the constitution of an Army tank. There was
no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery, it
would just take time.

* * *

Reassured to an extent, I drove through a dismal

November afternoon to Wilsford. On the outskirts
of the village I turned into the un-surfaced lane
leading to Dad’s cottage. Mike’s beloved Kawasaki
was parked outside the converted stable-block that
did duty as Dad’s main workshop, and a tarpaulin
had been thrown over it to give some protection
against the weather. I left my car beside the bike,
and splashed through the puddles to the workshop
door.

“Mike?” I called as I entered. And stopped in my

tracks. “Holy shit!” The barn-like room had once been
three loose-boxes with stalls opposite. The partitions
had been taken out years ago, work benches set up,
floor-to-ceiling shelving put in against the walls,
and a proper staircase replaced the ladder to the
hayloft. Now the reasonably ordered place looked
as if a whirlwind had gone through it. The chemical
reek was amazing. “I thought you were supposed to
be clearing up this mess!”

“I am!” That came from above me. The hayloft

had become a storeroom mostly filled with Dad’s
magpie collection of interesting things or items to
be mended, and were either too large to get into the
cottage or had overflowed from the shelves below.

Mike loped down the stairs, wiping cobwebs

from his shoulders and dark hair. Even unshaven,
dust-streaked and dishevelled, he was too damned
handsome for his own good. He took after Mum’s
side of the family. Me, I looked like Dad, rather
angular in face and build, a brown-haired, brown-
eyed Mr Average. “I’ve rescued Beau’s spinning-
wheel, mopped up most of the spillages, and hauled
all I could upstairs. Rob, how the hell can one old
man and a ladder create this kind of devastation?”

“Natural talent,” I sighed. “What actually

happened? Does anyone know?”

“Nope.” He shrugged. “And Dad doesn’t

remember a thing about it. Uncle Joe found him
with the ladder on top of him and the bench on its
side. Looked as if he’d fallen on one end of it and
a leg had collapsed, throwing it over. That glop of
his was everywhere. Just as well he’s stripping the
wheel - half his work’s done for him now.”

“For us,” I corrected. There was no sense in

prolonging the bad news. “He wants us to finish off
his projects.”

“What? No way!” Mike’s reaction was predictable.

“Rob, he can’t! I can’t! I’m no good at this sort of
thing, you know that and so does he!”

“Look at it this way,” I said. “It’s going to be a

while before he can do it himself, and he needs us to
honour his commitments for him.”

Mike groaned and sat on the edge of the

overturned bench. “When you put it like that…”
he said gloomily, “but there isn’t a lot I can do
without risk. Beau’s wheel is about my limit. At
least it’s vaguely mechanical.” Mike had a talent

with anything involving moving parts, and Dad had
called upon it more than once. Last year Mike had
done a wonderful job on a late Victorian music-box
Beau had brought in. Beau, otherwise known as
Cecil Hedges Antiques, owned and ran a small but
select shop in Amesbury, and had subsequently sold
the music-box for a tidy profit. He professed himself
eternally grateful to the Rees family in general
and to Mike in particular, which made Mike very
nervous in his presence. Beau had a fondness for
fine-looking young men.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” I smiled. “Dad has

every faith in us both. As far as I can gather, it’s just
the spinning-wheel and a couple of portraits he’s
cleaning for George Baverstock. They weren’t in
here, were they?” I asked, suddenly horror-struck.

Before I’d left the hospital, Dad had told me he

was relying on the fee for the two cleanups to go
towards the desperately needed rethatching of the
cottage next summer.

“No. They were in the tack room, wrapped up in

sacking inside the mash-copper.” That was a large
copper barrel inside a brick-built container with a
small hearth inset beneath it. Many years ago, the
groom who lived in the cottage had cooked up the
porridge-like mash for his charges in winter. Now
it was Dad’s safe, anonymous beneath stacks of old
picture frames and assorted paraphernalia. “The
one of Ann is a stunner,” Mike continued. “Dad
fell for her in a major way, and I can see why. My
kind of girl, right down to the fortune in jewels she’s
wearing. She and her old man are way out of my

league, though. Dad says they are almost certainly
by Hilliard. They’ll be for you to deal with.”

I was both elated and panic-stricken. Their

probable price ticket didn’t bear thinking about.

“You can help,” I suggested, but he shook his

head.

“Wouldn’t dare. They are worth a fortune, Rob. I’d

be scared to breathe on them, let alone start cleaning
them.”

“Okay.” I ruffled his rather over-long hair. It

flopped over his forehead, making him look even
more like the archetypal gypsy charmer. Mum’s side
of our family, the Wells, had links with the Romani
as well as local itinerant tinker communities, and it
showed up in Mike’s rather spectacular features.

“How much of Hepple’s jungle-juice is left, or did

it all end up on the floor?”

“No, it’s safe. Tucked away with the portraits in

the usual place, but there’s only half a bottle.

Enough to finish Ann, probably. Most of this is

Dad’s patent wood stripper and various dyes, glues
and solvents. Don’t strike a match whatever you do.”

He paused, hands shoved into the pockets of his

leather motorcycle jacket, all humour gone. “Rob,
the doc said Dad would be okay, it’s just going to
take a lot of time and common sense on his part. Is
that what he told you?”

“Yes.” Against all conditioning, I leaned forward

awkwardly and put my arms around him. He
freed his hands and wrapped his arms around my
shoulders in an answering clumsy embrace. “Don’t
worry. Dad will be back to his old impossible self

before we know it.” I believed it, I swear I did, but
all the might-have-beens came crowding into my
thoughts and by the tension in him, Mike shared the
same waking nightmares.

“Of course he will,” he said gruffly. “Go and have

a look at Ann while I put the kettle on. I’ll finish in
here later.”

“Okay.” We broke apart and gave each other

mutually reassuring slaps on the back, and I went to
inspect Dad’s latest miracle in the making.

The tack room was across the yard from the

workshop, and the extra windows he’d fitted were
adding a lot of natural light. Here was the only place
where Dad kept a steady ambient temperature.
Special bulbs hung from the ceiling and were fitted
in the two Anglepoise lamps, combining with the
north-facing double-glazed windows to give all the
illumination a restorer could need. This workroom
was solely for the cleaning of paintings, though at
first glance it looked more like a miniature version
of a cross between a library and a mad scientist’s
laboratory. Apart from the easel, and the large
magnifying glass on an extendable arm clamped to
it.

Carefully I extracted the paintings from their safe

place, and once again I discovered Dad had excelled
himself. The portraits had been painted on wooden
panels about thirty centimetres by twenty, and while
one was dull and all but featureless, on the other
most of the paint was as firm and the colours as clean
and glowing as the day they were first laid down.

Ann was an Elizabethan, a young woman in a

russet and gold gown sewn with braids and lots of
bows, and hung about with ropes of pearls and what
might be topaz. A supported white lace collar rose
up from her creamy shoulders, framing her face and
showing off the lovely column of her neck and the
tilt of her chin. Neat brown hair showed under her
head-dress and the laugh-lines at the corners of her
brown eyes had been lovingly painted in. So had a
dimple in one cheek and the hint of a smile on her
full mouth.

The artist, and okay, it wasn’t signed but the

meticulous detail of the lace was a pretty strong clue,
had captured more than a likeness. You could see her
vivacity, the joy in her, the twinkle of humour. She
and her husband were larger than Hilliard’s usual
work, but I was sure Dad was right in assigning
it. There wasn’t much left to do on her, the layers
of grime and muck and old varnishes had all been
lifted away, except for her left cheek and eye, and
part of her lace collar. My fingers practically tingled
with anticipation.

No matter who had painted her, Ann was a

sweetheart. I could understand how she’d made
such an impression on two of my family. I have to
admit, she could hang on my wall any time. But soon
she would be displayed for the private delight of a
cultural miser, and no one else would see her again
for a very long time.

I hadn’t actually met the man, but Dad had told

me about the type. George Baverstock wasn’t just a
collector. He was a Hoarder. One of those compulsives
who hugged their treasures close like secret vices,

shut them up in their own private galleries so they
could be gloated over in total privacy.

That sort of thing made Dad furious. He’d spent

most of his adult life until retirement teaching Art in
all its aspects at a good private school. In his opinion
such things were to be shared with all and sundry.
I didn’t like it much, either, but a commission is a
commission, the cottage roof needed that rethatching
and Ann and Adam were cash-in-hand.

Dad had taught me a lot, and not just about

cleaning and restoring paintings. By the look
of it, originally these two had been one panel.
Someone, somewhere, had committed the sacrilege
of cutting down the middle what was probably the
commemoration of their betrothal, since their coats
of arms had not been impaled, but were poised over
their outer shoulders. The panel might even have
been longer - a pair of lovers standing, hands linked
in token of their bond. I sighed. I’m an incurable
romantic at heart, though I keep it well hidden from
everyone.

Adam Courtney and Ann Darcy. I couldn’t wait to

see what Adam looked like under his layers.

I would have to, though. Mike was right about the

jungle-juice; there was just enough to clean Ann’s
last patch. A couple of hours’ careful work with
Hepple’s secret recipe, the anchored magnifying
glass, and a large supply of cotton buds, and I
could lift off the remaining grime of centuries and
the various layers of old varnish without disturbing
the paint beneath, and reveal any damage needing
repair. Dad had made notes on the various paints

the artist had used and I knew I could recreate them
if necessary. I decided to make a start on her in the
morning, then I’d have something positive to report
to Dad in the afternoon.

Chapter Two

The kitchen was a warm haven in what had

become a chaotic day. I half-collapsed into a chair
and leaned my elbows on the table, while Mike
poured out a large mug of tea and put it in front of
me.

“Dad’s notebooks are in the living room,” he said.
“I checked them out, and there’s no problem

with the spinning-wheel. I can finish the stripping
tomorrow and start the staining the next day.
Someone had slapped a few coats of fake mahogany
varnish on it and Beau wants it restored to aged
wood and working order.”

“Great,” I sighed. “All we have to do then is get

him to pay. Cash-on-the-nail, as usual?”

“Yeah. What about Baverstock?”
“I’ll give him a call when Ann’s finished,” I

answered. “Is it the same deal there, do you know?”

Mike nodded. “Payment in cash for Ann on

delivery, same for Adam when he’s done. All for
the Thatch Fund. Y’know, it wouldn’t surprise me if
they’re hot.”

“What?” I stared at him blankly.
“Hot. As in nicked,” my idiotic brother said

blithely.

“Don’t be daft!” I was in no mood for his wilder

flights of fancy. “If they’re stolen, he’s hardly likely
to dump them here for Dad to clean.”

“Isn’t he? Everyone knows our old man’s as

straight as a die and clear as window glass. Who’d

suspect him of anything questionable?”

“Except for not declaring extra earned income to

the taxman,” I reminded him. “As in those cash-only
payments.”

“That’s different.” He shrugged. “Everyone does

it. Are you driving back to London tonight?”

I took the conversation hop in my stride. “Of

course not. I’m staying here. Why? Does that cramp
your style, Stud?”

“Nope.” He gave me a jaunty grin. “Just as long

as one of us is here. I moved in with Donna last
week. She lives in Salisbury - “

“Spare me the details,” I interrupted, and

sighed.“The last I heard you were with Laura.”

“I broke up with her months ago,” Mike said

cheerfully. “Too possessive by half. Wasn’t going to
put up with that, was I? I’m serious, Rob. I think you
should keep your eyes open and be on your guard.
If you see anyone suspicious, let me know and I’ll
move back in.”

“Of all the half-baked, lunatic, over-imaginative -
Michael, if you can’t think of anything more

constructive to say, then you better get back to
Donna before she finds herself a saner boyfriend!”

He gave me a cocky grin. “I’ll finish off in the

workshop,” he said. “See you tomorrow,” and
reached for his helmet.

* * *

The thought that Dad’s fall might not have been

all it appeared to be, combined with worry over the
old fool, was more than enough to give me a restless

night. It didn’t help that I’d yet to acclimatise to the
cottage’s lack of central heating.

When dawn arrived, grey and miserable, I

was glad to crawl out of bed, drag my extra-thick
towelling bath robe over the tracksuit I wore in lieu
of pyjamas when staying there in winter, and head
for the kitchen.

The cottage was very quiet, and briefly I missed

my London flat with the ever-present traffic noise and
neighbourhood kids. Then I opened the back door
and heard a cockerel crowing somewhere, a signal
that set off an unidentifiable chorus of birdsong from
the small orchard that gave the cottage its name. A
dog barked in the distance, faint and forlorn, and
the elderly tabby cat from the house down the road
strolled across the yard with her tail held high and
dew glittering on her whiskers.

Country life had its advantages. I drew in a deep

breath of cold damp air, caught the tang of ripe
silage, and almost changed my mind.

* * *

I fell into Dad’s routine surprisingly easily.
Satisfied all fumes had safely dispersed overnight,

I lit the old wood-burning stove that heated the
workshop, and retired to the kitchen for a leisurely
breakfast with Dad’s notebooks while the place
warmed up. He raved for three pages about the
panels and the probable artist, about the heraldry
-Burke’s Extinct Peerages had come up with the
goods - and about Ann herself. Both she and her
man came from West Country families, it seemed. I

smiled with pleasure. That made them almost locals.

* * *

By the time I finally went back to the workshop,

it was just about up to an acceptable temperature, so
I tidied for an hour, then retreated to the tack-room
and made a start on Ann’s panel.

There was just enough left to do on her to sort of

ease me back into the knack of it. Thankfully, there
were no hiccups and no damage to repair. I finished
her by lunchtime and, if I say so myself, I’d done a
pretty good job. The work I’d done was up to the same
standard as Dad’s, and I felt a lot more confident
about tackling Adam. While I was still floating on
the glow of success (and relief), I looked up George
Baverstock’s phone number in Dad’s book and gave
him a call.

After I’d got through two secretaries and a PA, I

finally spoke to the man himself. His cool and distant
manner changed at once as soon as I mentioned
Dad’s name and Ann Darcy. He couldn’t wait to
get his sticky paws on her, and told me he’d leave
London right away, planning to be at the cottage by
three-ish.

That suited me fine. I could then pay a visit to

Stan Hepple in Stockbridge and collect another
bottle of jungle juice, then loop back to the hospital
and report a successful first stage to Dad. That
should calm him down better than any sedative - for
twenty-four hours, at least.

* * *

I felt a certain amount of trepidation about

Baverstock’s possible reaction to the fact that I, an
unknown quantity as far as he was concerned, would
be tackling his precious Adam panel. But within
minutes of him turning up on the doorstep, I found
I needn’t have worried. Dad had told him a while
ago that I’d helped out with earlier commissions,
and apparently waxed lyrical on my talent in that
direction. Which was embarrassing but useful. The
man didn’t twitch a muscle when I explained about
Dad’s accident and said I’d be finishing the contract
on his behalf. Admittedly, most of his attention was
riveted on Ann.

As soon as I’d handed her over he had carefully

unwrapped the brown paper and gazed at her with
misty-eyed adoration. He wasn’t a tall man, only
a couple of inches shorter than my five feet nine,
but he made up for it in bulk. Somewhere in his
late thirties, he must have been pushing seventeen
stone, with a thick neck and a fleshy, high-coloured
face under neatly styled brown hair. His features had
good bones but the handsomeness was blurred by
the pudge.

To give him his due, he did make an effort at

small-talk. About art, of course. He was, I discovered,
one of Dad’s old pupils, something the old man had
kept quiet about. He wouldn’t have been proud that
young George turned out to be a Hoarder, especially
as the man made a point of telling me that his love
of art was a direct result of my father’s teachings …
Whoops. Poor Dad.

All in all, Baverstock wasn’t quite what I’d

expected. However, there was no way I could

tactfully ask him if he’d arranged the theft of the
panels, or was aware of the possibility his supplier
might have stolen them specifically for the sale.

Besides, in the cold light of day the idea was

preposterous. The one oddity as far as I could see
was that he was only too happy to pay in cash. Two
thousand in an unsealed manila envelope. And
it wasn’t an oddity in itself, simply Dad’s way of
feeding the Thatch Fund and anything else around
the cottage that needed repair.

After he’d gone I shoved the envelope containing

the money into my backpack and zipped it closed,
a little nervous about carrying such a sum around
with me and wishing I had a padlock for it, if not a
security guard.

* * *

During the twenty mile drive to Stockbridge in

Hampshire I did some serious thinking, and came
to several conclusions. One, Dad’s fall was exactly
what it had seemed, an accident. Two, my brother’s
over-active imagination had finally blown a mental
fuse and there was absolutely nothing shady about
a man bringing much loved and valued works of art
to a trusted expert like Dad. After all, they could be
Baverstock’s own family heirlooms for all we knew,
or bought all legal and above board on the open
market. Yes, I was definitely the sensible one in the
Rees-Wells tribe. To be absolutely sure, I decided to
do some net-surfing when I got back to the cottage,
in case there was news out in the ether about stolen
Hilliards.

That settled to my satisfaction, I pushed a disc

into the radio-CD player and sang along to old rock
tracks the rest of the way.

* * *

Hepple - no one called him anything else - put

something of a fly in the ointment at first. He knew
all about Our George and the panels. Dad had
obviously been gossiping over the jungle juice and
mugs of industrial-strength tea.

Since he was a long-time crony of Dad’s and I’d

known him most of my life, I felt free to quiz him: did
he know how long Baverstock had owned them and
were they likely to be nicked?

He gave this due consideration, head on one side

like a slightly arthritic hoodie-crow.

“Well, he certainly hasn’t bought them openly,”he

said. “I’d’ve heard if they’d been up for sale or
auction. As for stolen, well, there’s a thriving market
in speciality thefts.” He grinned at me and winked.

“The local cops are always popping in for a chat

and a pot of tea, to see if I’ve heard of or seen a
particular thing. No one’s mentioned Hilliard-style
panels, so Alan should be in the clear. They’re just
as likely to be in the Baverstock family, you know.”

That was good enough for me.

* * *

The news that Ann had been completed, handed

over and paid for, certainly seemed to take a load
off Dad’s mind. Needless to say, I was not stupid
enough to pass on Mike’s theory.

Then Lisa turned up, looking her usual elegant

self in one of her own designs and bubbling with
enthusiasm about a trip to Paris Simon had promised
her. That poor devil adored her, even when she was
being a right royal pain and making his life absolute
hell. She’d never actually been unfaithful to him,
she’d once assured me during a late night out at
a local club, and she really was in love with him,
honestly. No one understood her like dear Simon …

Right. One day she was going to wake up and dear

Simon would be long gone with a bimbo secretary in
tow, looking for the quiet life. But, knowing Simon,
he’d be back with her after a few weeks because he
couldn’t stand the peace and quiet. Lisa had a heart
of gold, fingernails of tungsten steel and a firecracker
temper. She was as bright as she was beautiful, with
a business head a stockbroker could envy, and ran
her small chain of fashion shops with a rod of iron
and a lot of creative imagination.

She was as close to me and Mike as a sister, since

Mum and Dad had brought her up with us after
Dad’s brother and his wife had died in a car crash
when Lisa was five and I was seven. She had adored
Mum and was as devastated by her death as the rest
of us, and she couldn’t love Dad more if he had been
her natural father. Which is understandable. He
could be a manipulative old vulture when he wanted
to, but underneath it all he was a rather special,
loveable man - though heaven forbid anyone other
than Lisa actually said it in his hearing.

We chatted for a while until Dad began to look

tired, then I took off to dump the money in his
account via the hole-in-the-wall deposit point at

Lloyds. I was looking forward to getting back to the
cottage for a late and much needed meal.

* * *

There were two motorbikes parked by the

workshop when I pulled in off the lane. Mike’s
Kawasaki and another, bigger, beast in black and
chrome. As I got out of the car, my brother came
running from the workshop, his face white in the
swathe of light from the open door. “Rob!” he yelled.

“Ann’s gone!”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “Mr B has her and we have

his money. Or rather, Dad does. Why the panic? Did
you think she’d been nicked?”

“Bee?”
“As in Baverstock.” I peered more closely at him.
“Mike? Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen

a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” His smile seemed a bit forced. “Just a

bit hung over, and finding her gone was a jolt.”

“I’ll bet. Too much imagination, Stud.”
“Huh!” Then he seemed to remember something,

and the smile was turned up to full wattage. “Rob,
come and meet an old pal who’s going to solve a
problem for us.”

“Oh?” I said. “I wasn’t aware we have a problem.
Apart from Dad.”
“Exactly. I meant what I said, you know. Those

paintings could well be hot, and Baverstock may or
may not know it. Then there’s Dad’s fall which might
not have been an accident or even a fall. So-”

“Mike, you’re not making much sense.”

“Yes, I am. I don’t like the idea of you being here

alone, or the panel when we’re both away seeing
Dad, so - “

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!”

I snapped. “Will you stop equating gay with limp
wrists! I’m not a fainting waif and I’m no pushover!It
wasn’t me who ducked out of Karate classes because
they interfered with my love life!” I had a green belt
in Shotokan Karate, hardly Bruce Lee material, but
it kept me fit.

“So,” Mike continued, ignoring me, “I’ve

arranged a backup bodyguard.”

“What?” I scowled. “Who? Uncle Joe? What could

he do? Huff distillery-breath on them?” It began to
rain heavily, which did not improve my temper.

“Fox,” he said brightly. “He owes me a favour, so

I asked him to stay for a while. Until Adam’s finished
and gone back to Baverstock.”

“Oh. Did you.” Fox? What kind of name was

that?If he was one of Mike’s friends, he probably
smelled like one and was as house-trained; a spotty
would-be biker with delusions of style. Or the real
deal.This was Mike’s idea of being a responsible
adult?My nerves had been stretched raw from the
moment I received Lisa’s phone call telling me
about Dad, and this was the last straw. I had a choice
between anger or anger with violence, and the first
swept over me before the second could get a toe
in the door. Besides, satisfying though it might be,
punching Mike’s lights out would get us nowhere.
“Nice of you to consult me first,” I snapped. “You
can tell your old pal Fox his company is not required,

so he can jump on his toy bike and pedal off back
where he came from!”

“Don’t be hasty, Rob! Just stop and think for a - “
“I have, and foxes are superfluous to

requirements!”

“ - moment. He can sleep in my room - “
“No! Of all the arrogant, stupid, selfish - if you’re

so concerned about me and the bloody panel, why
don’t you and Donna move in here? Hmm? Thought
of that, Stud? So hop it, both of you!”

I spun on my heel and stalked into the cottage,

slamming the door behind me. It was old, of solid
oak, and slammed very satisfactorily. After a short
pause, a bike fired up and roared away.

One bike. A sharp tattoo of brass on brass rattled

in my ears as someone played a tune on the lion-and-
ring knocker. I jerked the door open, smiling with
all my teeth. “Fox,” I said, not feeling the need to
moderate my words with Mike’s strange friends.“On
your bike.” The figure on my unwelcome mat was
clothed head to foot in dripping wet motorcycle gear
- black leather topped off by one of those black full-
face visored helmets that looked like a leftover from
the Star Wars epics. He took off his gloves, and then
his helmet, and ran his hand through his matted hair.

“Robert Rees,” he said. His voice was quiet,

deepish and slightly husky, and started a slow curl
of warmth through my blood. “Can I come in?”

In the light spilling from the room I could see

he was pale, the almost transparent pallor that goes
with naturally auburn hair. His was not just red, it
was a copper mane that came past his collar in heavy

waves. The warmth became a pulse of interest, and
I flattened it quickly. I’d been dateless far too long,
obviously. He was about my age as far as I could tell,
just under six feet tall and looked as if he’d escaped
from a Hollywood Brat Pack: all lean grace and
cheekbones and thin high-bridged nose, and a gold
ring in one earlobe. He also had a chin with a jut to it
that begged to be introduced to a fist.He looked like
fire and ice. He looked like trouble.‘Can I come in?’
Who was he trying to kid? Not a chance ...

The impulse sort of faded away and, “Yes,” I heard

myself say. I was moving aside to let him walk past
me before I fully realised what I was doing. His eyes
were very green and as our gazes met, he smiled.
The conviction I was imagining things edged into
my mind and took over. This biker lout was no more
trouble than Mike. A pest and a pain in the backside,
but that was all.

“Thanks,” he said. “Mike told me to say he’s

sorry he upset you, but he is worried.”

“Huh. I’ll wring his neck when I get hold of him,

but it’s not your fault. You can stay for a day or so,
I suppose.” I shut the door on the night. I felt oddly
disconnected from my irritation with Mike and my
unwanted guest, and couldn’t recall why he was
unwanted, just that he was. The beginnings of a
headache twinged behind my eyes. “Have you got
any gear?”

“Yes, on the bike.”
“Bring it in, then. There’s another tarp in the

workshop if you want to cover yours up. You look as
if you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?”

“Thanks. Black, no sugar.”
“Go on, then. And wipe your feet!”
By the time I’d put the kettle on, he was back,

panniers draped over one shoulder, hair straggling
wetly over his face. He dropped the panniers and
held out a hand to me. “Thanks for the hospitality,”
he said and I wondered if he was being sarcastic. “I
am house-trained, I promise.”

That got a bit close to reading my thoughts and

I could feel my colour rising. “So I should hope,” I
snipped, shaking hands automatically. His paw was
narrow and long-fingered and chilled, the grip firm
without being a power play. I glanced down at our
joined hands.

On the first finger of his right hand was what

looked to be an antique gold ring, the armorial
design on the bezel worn close to obliteration.Hmm.
So the Brat Packer was wearing a fancy ring.That
didn’t quite go with the image. I wondered briefly
where he got it from, then it fuzzed and slipped
from my mind. “Furniture isn’t improved by being
dripped on,” I said sternly, determined to play the
bitch to remind him he was here under sufferance,
and if it sounded more bitch-queen, then tough. It
might even scare him off. “These are the house rules
and if you don’t like them you know what you can
do about it. Since you’re the resident Doberman,
you can sleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s
a lot closer to the workshop than Mike’s attic. You
can also do the cooking and washing-up for both of
us while you’re here, so I can spend more time on
Dad’s work. Do you have any problems with that?”

“No, Rob,” he said meekly. Too mealy-mouthed,

by half.

“Good,” I lied. “Get that wet jacket off and come

through to the kitchen. It’s the warmest place in the
cottage at the moment. Want something to eat? I can
run to eggs, baked beans and sausages.”

“No, thanks. Just the coffee’ll be fine.”
“Okay. The coffeemaker and stuff are in the

cupboard over the fridge. Help yourself while I fetch
towels and bedding.”

I collected the clean pillow, sheet and duvet from

Mike’s room, hooked a couple of towels from the
airing cupboard and left them on the chair by the
panniers. That would have to do. I wasn’t running
an hotel, after all.

When I got back to the kitchen, he was sitting at

the table, both hands wrapped around a steaming
mug. The ring drew my eyes. It looked too heavy
for the fine bones - he, on the other hand, looked
frozen. He’d taken off the jacket and all he’d had
underneath it was a black tee-shirt. The contrast
made his skin as starkly pale as veined marble.

“Would you like some whisky in that for the cold?”

I asked before I remembered he was an uninvited
guest.

“No, thanks,” he smiled.
A Brat Pack biker, teetotal? That was stretching

credulity a little too far, especially for Mike’s
crowd.“You do drink, don’t you?” I demanded
suspiciously.He smiled again, showing white teeth
this time.

“Yes,” he said.

Chapter Three

Another restless night, full of erotic but un-

remembered dreams, didn’t make it easy to get up
the next morning, and I was tempted to have a lie-
in. It was a foul day out there, a good old-fashioned
Wiltshire fog had descended and the moisture in the
air would have given a sponge pneumonia. To pay
the weathermen their due, they’d got their forecasts
right this time. If they continued to be right, we’d
be stuck with variations on this for the rest of the
week. But much as I wanted to burrow in and stay
warm, out in Dad’s workshop waited the other half of
Baverstock’s commission, and the sooner I finished
it, the sooner I would be rid of my unwanted guest.

He was part of the reason why I hadn’t slept so

well, and the fact that he was film star handsome
had very little to do with it.

I was no more immune to spectacular good looks

than any other human being, but at the same time, I
was wary. The few relationships I’ve had were with
good-looking charmers. I’d really thought I’d met
the one and only in John Newton, then I discovered
he was married. To a woman, and had a couple of
kids. So I’d told him a few home-truths and kicked
him out of my life.

For about a month he’d pestered me, until I lost

patience and temper and instructed him to back off
before I took a sledgehammer to his car and wrote
a long letter to his wife. I wouldn’t have, of course.
If the poor woman didn’t know what kind of a rat

she’d married, I couldn’t tell her. The car, though,
was fair game. Anyhow, one of the threats worked
and I hadn’t seen nor heard of him since. One more
to chalk up to experience and not to be repeated if I
could help it.

As far as Fox was concerned, handsome is as

handsome does and it didn’t matter I awoke with
semen sticking me to my tracksuit pyjamas, I
didn’t trust him an inch. If he was such a great pal
of Mike’s, how was it my idiot brother had never
mentioned him before? The first chance I got, I was
going to pin Mike into a corner and extract some
answers from him.

I changed into another pair of tracksuit bottoms,

dragged on my bath robe and yawned my way
downstairs. All in all, I was not feeling in love with
the world. However, a cup of tea would go a long
way towards curing that.

* * *

The living room was in darkness, the curtains

were still drawn and Fox was an unmoving lump on
the sofa. So much for house rules and breakfast.

“Yoiks,” I said, pulling back the curtains and

letting in what passed for daylight. “Tally-ho.” Fox
didn’t move. So he got the same treatment as Mike
when he tried to take advantage and didn’t keep
to bargains. I leaned over, took a good handful of
duvet and heaved. “Rise and shine, Reynard,”
I snapped, “or I’ll set the hounds on you.” He lay
like a disarranged statue, stark naked, a living
reproduction of a Mapplethorpe photograph, and

not as skinny as I’d thought he’d be. Believe it or not
I was too irritated to be embarrassed - and if I was I
would have died rather than let him know it.

He got his eyes open as if his lids weighed a ton

and blinked up at me. He was more than half asleep,
and all that red hair was tangled around his face like
unravelled silk. Without even trying for it, he was
a study in sensuality, and looked good enough to
eat. Wildly, I made a mental note to keep him out of
Lisa’s sight, just in case she decided she was in the
market for a bit on the side. My cousin gave her poor
long-suffering husband enough headaches as it was.
I would need to keep my own libido in check as well.

“Remember the rules?” I said coolly. “Breakfast.

Mine’s a large pot of tea, toast and marmalade. You
can have the same if you like. Or eggs and bacon.
The kitchen’s thataway.”

Something blazed up in his eyes, something feral

and savage that stopped the breath in my throat and
sent me back a pace. But in the same instant it was
gone, leaving me with only the searing memory and
the contradictory conviction that my imagination
was working overtime again.The curl of his mouth
became a smile.

“Yes, Rob,” he said and got to his feet, swaying

slightly. He pushed both hands through his hair,
shoving the weight of it back from his face. The thin
gold hoop glinted in his left earlobe, and there was a
pearl-white scar on his temple, a ragged line running
from the bony edge of his eye socket to disappear
into his hair. By the look of it, he’d come within a
millimetre of losing that eye. Someone took a bottle

to him? Sacrilege. Dad would not have approved.
One does not damage a work of art, after all.

He stretched, completely unselfconscious rather

than flaunting. He had the muscle definition of an
athlete but without that burned-to-tendon-and-
sinew look. He was something pagan, archaic, and
at the same time so distant and self-contained it
took away any hint of eroticism. Mate of Mike’s, my
foot. Fox was way out of his league. I might as well
compare a Toledo rapier with a falchion - that was it.
Sword blades, that’s what he reminded me of.“You
know,” I said, eyeing him slowly up and down, just
to see if I could rattle him, “Michelangelo would
have loved you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said

easily,“Though I don’t think it’s intended to be one.
Where’s the bathroom?” No, I hadn’t rattled him.
Where the blazes had Mike found him? Or maybe
that should be where did he find Mike - and why?That
thought took care of the problem rising beneath my
bath robe.

“Door at the top of the stairs, right in front of you.”
Something was going on here, and it wasn’t too

hard to guess what. There were one or two items
around the cottage worth a very pretty penny, and
that didn’t include Baverstock’s painted panel. If
so much as a teaspoon went walkabout I would do
more than wring Mike’s neck, I would rip his head
off and shove it.

Scooping up the panniers Fox turned on his heel

and headed for the stairs door. God, his body was
gorgeous, and he moved as lithely as a panther.

He defined poetry in motion. Yes. Definitely I must
steer Lisa clear of him. Poor Simon wouldn’t stand
a chance against that kind of competition. Briefly
I wondered if my unwanted house guest was gay,
or bi. But I should be so lucky. He was probably as
straight as a die, like Mike. It didn’t matter either
way. I was pretty much useless at connecting with
interesting people.

* * *

I turned my attention to the remains of the fire

until I heard the hinge-squeal from the bathroom
door, then I pounced on his jacket. It was of the up-
market, up-price tag kind, sans motif, sans studs,
sans fringes, in fact it was designer wear rather than
biking leathers. He’d left it on the floor by the couch
- another thing he had in common with Mike. I went
through the pockets, fast and thorough.

Bike keys, a moderately clean handkerchief, a

ditto comb, a Swiss Army knife with all the usual
gadgetry including wickedly sharp blades, and in
every pocket a haphazard assortment of coins and
notes that totalled up to about fifty or sixty pounds.
No driving licence, no credit cards, no identification.
I started on the trousers without much hope. There
were pockets, but they wouldn’t hold much. Those
trousers fitted him far too well for pockets to be fully
functional. Sure enough they yielded up a couple of
fivers and a handful of tenners and that was all. All!
This Fox had over a hundred quid about his person,
which seemed an unlikely amount for a mate of
Michael Permanently Broke Rees.

Curiouser and curiouser. I would have to ferret

through those panniers of his as soon as possible.
Upstairs the ancient plumbing groaned and crashed
and I dived back to the hearth. When he came back
into the room I was industriously building a pyramid
with kindling-wood, humming quietly to myself.

Barefoot, he padded past me to the couch,

dropped the panniers and started folding the duvet.
He wore faded blue jeans and the black tee-shirt,
his hair had been combed to a neatness that lasted
until he ran a hand through it. I had the feeling the
gesture was a habit of his.

“There’s an old chest under the window,” I

said.“Dad only keeps newspapers for lighting the
fire in it. You can stow your things there for the short
time you’ll be here. I don’t want the living room
looking like a squat.”

“House rules, Rob?” he said with an amused

drawl and a lift of an eyebrow that irritated the hell
out of me. Sooner or later I was going to get some
answers out of him, but for now I’d give him some
rope and see how long it took before he hanged
himself.

“Dead on target,” I answered.
He nodded acceptance, stored the things away

and headed for the kitchen while I lit the fire then
hared upstairs to have a quick wash and put on some
clothes.

By the time I came down, a pot of tea had been

made, toast was on the way and the table set for one.
“Not eating?” I asked, sitting down and pouring
myself out a mug.

“I don’t have breakfast,” he said. “This’ll do

me.”‘This’ was a steaming mug that contained, by
the smell of rich meat-extracts, hot Bovril in solution.

“Well, at least you won’t eat me out of house

and home,” I said, vaguely uneasy. Unobtrusively I
peered at his arms, but there were no needle tracks
on the thin blue-veined skin of his forearms. He
seemed even paler in the light of day, but looked
tired rather than strung out. I didn’t have a lot of
experience in that department, admittedly, but
as I’ve said before, my brother has some very odd
friends.

“Oh, I won’t do that.” He smiled and placed a

plate piled with slices of toast done to just the right
shade of brown in front of me.

“Nice. Sit down, Reynard, and tell me all about

yourself.” I’m afraid curiosity got the better of
me.“Looks like you were lucky,” I went on, tapping
my own left temple. “What happened? Come off
your bike?”

“No,” he said, easy and relaxed. “A bay mare

called Medusa.”

“No kidding? What happened?”
“Nothing much.” He shrugged casually.“Everyday

story of country folk. I was eight and knew I could
ride anything. She was my father’s favourite and had
a bit of a temper. So of course I sneaked a ride on her.
She objected and bolted with me, straight through
the South Wood. She scraped me off with the low
branches the first chance she had. I collected this
and was unconscious for two days.” For a moment,
a puzzled expression crossed his face, as if he’d

surprised himself by mentioning it.

“Strewth. What happened to the horse?”
“Medusa? Nothing. Father took his belt to me as

soon as I woke up,” he said with wry humour and I
laughed along with him, at the same time trying to
place this South Wood. I know most of the farms and
estates around here, but I couldn’t pin it down.So I’d
have to fish subtly.

“Local, are you?”
He shook his head, lounging easily into the

nearest chair and sipping the beef stock. “Somerset.A
village about ten miles from Glastonbury.”

“Pretty countryside in Somerset,” I observed.

There was no trace of the yokel in his voice.

“Yes. Lots of tourists think so. And travellers.

Remember when Mike was in his hippie phase?
He stayed in the area for a couple of weeks about,
uh, five, six years ago. We knocked about a bit and
stayed in touch when he moved on.”

That would have been when they were in their

teens, if it happened at all, and before Mike went
away to Reading University. I gazed into those
guileless eyes and wondered how much of it I could
believe. “And that was when he did you a favour and
now you owe him?”

“Right.” He nodded, and raked his hair back.
“Mike,” I said, “has degrees in Mathematics and

Design Technology and is using them to be an odd
job layabout. If he survives that long.” Along with a
sharp intelligence he managed to hide most of the
time, Mike had a streak of laziness a mile wide and
always took the easy option. “What are you good

for, Fox? Apart from falling off horses.” No glitter of
fire or ice followed my question, just a slow, earnest
blink.

“Not a lot. I know something about antiques

-weapons, mainly. I’m an apprentice specialist,
I suppose,” he added with a lopsided smile that I
liked far too much.

“I see. Dad in the trade, is he?”
“No, but he had one or two things which

fascinated me, so I read up on them.”

“A trainee antiques dealer. What else? That bike

didn’t come free inside a packet of cornflakes.”
Fox’s eyes were focussed on my face, catching my
gaze and holding it. The last few minutes became
an unimportant blur in my memory. “Pass the
marmalade,” I said. “Since I have an unexpected
lodger, I’ll need some extra supplies. You can do the
shopping for me.”

“Shopping?” he said with a wry smile. “I’m

your bodyguard, remember?” The cocky bugger. It
occurred to me there was something I was going
to ask him, or had asked him, but I couldn’t pin it
down. Which meant it couldn’t have been that vital.

“Shopping,” I pronounced with authority. “I’m

not buying my brother’s wild theory. I’ll write you
a list.”I half-expected him to refuse, to insist on his
Mike-imposed job title and its duties, but he didn’t.

* * *

The phone rang just as I finished the last of

my breakfast. Fox was in the living room and took
the call. “Orchard Cottage,” he said, as if we were

inhabiting a stately pile. Then, “Hold the line,
please. Rob, it’s a Cecil Hedges about a Regency fire
screen.”

“Oh, damn!” But an evil thought came to me as

I lunged for the phone. If I introduced Fox to Beau,
the Brat Packer would either be set up for life or
he’d be heading for Somerset so fast he’d burn his
tyres to the canvas. “Beau, you know we can’t do
embroideries - “ But it was the frame, not the fabric,
in need of restoration. By the time I’d sorted him out
and struck a deal I didn’t want but couldn’t refuse
because it would go into the Thatch Fund, Fox had
finished the washing up and was back in his bike
leathers. His helmet was tucked under one arm like
Ann Boleyn’s head and those bloody panniers were
slung over the other shoulder. Damn.

I followed him outside and leaned casually on the

door-frame, hands in my pockets. It was cold and
dank, and visibility was down to about twenty yards.
“Not the best of weather for travelling,” I said.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, lifting off the tarp and

folding it up. Every inch of the black and chrome
gleamed, the result of loving care and attention. To
coin a phrase, she looked like she could go like a
bat out of hell. I know Mike has been lusting after
a Harley Davidson for a long time now, but I would
have thought one glance at that beauty would have
given him an instant orgasm.

“A big beast,” I commented. “A Yamaha Fazer?”
“Yes,” he said briefly, fastening the panniers in

place. “What do you want?” Hmm. Bike fanatics
usually can’t resist an opening to wax lyrical about

their beloved pets. Mike’s mates, some of whom
really were bikers, certainly couldn’t.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. The shopping.” I fished a pencil

and an old envelope out of my pockets and scribbled
down some of the necessities of life, gave him the
list and a tenner from my wallet. “Know your way
around Salisbury?”

“More or less.” He gave me his rather charming

one-sided smile and my toes threatened to curl. “If I
get lost I’ll ask a policeman.”

“If you can find one.” I smiled back with all the

sweetness I could muster.

His smile became a chuckle and he pulled on the

helmet, undergoing an instant transformation into
Darth Vader’s other son. He swung astride the Big
Beast and shifted her off her stand, turned the key
and she fired up first time. I say fired up advisedly.
She sounded like NASA had supplied the engine.
He raised his hand in farewell and they disappeared
into the murk, her sibilant moan barely muffled by
the fog, her taillight a red Cyclopean glow.

I hurried back into the cottage and investigated

the chest. He’d obviously emptied the bike panniers
for my shopping. A couple of tee-shirts, several pairs
of jockey underpants, jeans, socks, and a washing kit
were all I found on top of the duvet.

Talk about travelling light.
Weather like this would keep the casual caller

away and I wasn’t expecting anyone - apart from
Beau this evening - so I could spend the day in the
tack room making a start on young Courtney. It
would be a longish, very delicate and painstaking

task before he could be revealed in all his true glory.

Chapter Four

Hardships aside and without any interruptions,

I retreated to the tack room and immersed myself
in the delicate work of lifting away the first layers
of muck from the panel, losing all track of time. My
stomach was supplied with frequent oatmeal biscuits
and the occasional apple, the lights were on for the
day as a matter of course to give me good consistent
light, so there was nothing to remind me how the
hours were ticking past. Until a sudden blast of rain
against the windows made me jump.

It was gone half past five, it was as black as

pitch outside, and a good imitation of a monsoon
was falling out of the sky. At least the fog had gone.
On the other hand, neither my bodyguard nor my
brother had shown up as yet. Mike’s absence,
despite his intention to start on the spinning wheel,
was no surprise. Fox was another matter. Regardless
of how absorbed I was in sixteenth century artwork,
I couldn’t have missed the Big Beast’s arrival, even
if Fox had headed to the house rather than interrupt
me.

So was he in a ditch, in the local police cells, or

an intricate and bloody part of a piece of modern
sculpture entitled “A Fox and a Motorcycle”?

I wondered what his real name was.
I tucked the panel away in the copper and went

across to the kitchen for a hot drink and a sandwich
or two. The temperature in the living room was cold
as charity, since the fire had burnt out through lack of

fuel. It took a while to relight it and get some warmth
into the place. As soon as the thatching was done,
maybe I should try once more to convince Dad on
the wonders of central heating. But I couldn’t keep
my missing watchdog out of my thoughts. I’d give
Fox another hour - no, I’ll give him until tomorrow
morning, then I’ll - no, he’s a big boy, old enough to
look after himself, and he wasn’t my responsibility.
Besides which, he almost certainly had designs on
Dad’s better items. Then I remembered Beau and
muttered a few more curses.With a cheese and pickle
sandwich in hand, I nipped back to the workshop to
clear some space for the fire-screen.

Minutes later the door opened and two men

walked in. Tall, wide-shouldered men with dark
coats and hats, and cold grim faces. Where the hell
had they come from? I hadn’t heard a car. Instincts
I didn’t know I had until now were ringing all kinds
of alarm bells in my head. How the hell did I handle
this? And where the hell was my bodyguard when he
was needed?

“Mr Rees?” said Tweedledum. “We’ve come to

collect a certain item.”

“What item?” I demanded, cool and calm on the

surface. Underneath was another thing entirely. “On
whose behalf?”

“A portrait of a young man, oils on an oak panel,

possibly by Hilliard. Our employer wishes to remain
anonymous.”

I frowned. “Sorry, chaps,” I said. “You’ve come to

the wrong place. If I had a Hilliard, I’d be laughing
all the way to Sotheby’s.”

“We are instructed to say,” said Tweedledee, as if

I hadn’t uttered a word, “that our employer is aware
the portrait is one of a pair, and the young woman
is currently in the possession of George Baverstock.

Our employer is also aware you and your father

are uninvolved third parties to his dispute with Mr
Baverstock. He will ensure that your status as such
will be respected, as soon as you hand over the
young man.” They sounded like a pair of lawyers.
And who else but Fox could have told them all about
us? When I got my hands on him, I’d -

“I’m sorry,” I said again, with a sinking feeling

that I soon would be, “but I don’t know what you’re
talking about. I haven’t got a Hilliard. The earliest
painting Dad has at the moment is seventeenth
century Flemish and it belongs to Wilkie-Scott in
Ipswich.”

“He purchased certain substances from Stanley

Hepple,” said Tweedledum.

“Yes, we’re expecting another commission from

Wilkie - “

“Mr Rees,” cut in Tweedledee, “we’re sure our

employer respects your integrity, but business is
business. No doubt you are unaware your father’s
client came by the portraits illegally, and would not
wish this matter to come to the notice of the police.
So you should seriously consider your involvement
in what is potentially a very difficult situation.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” I said. “Your

employer and Baverstock are both after the same
thing only he got there first, and now your employer
is working on the theory that half a cake is better

than none? Fine, I can see how that would be. But
I’m not the one you want. Oils on an oak panel, you
said - definitely not our speciality. Canvas or vellum
now, that’s a different story.”

“Mr Rees,” the first Tweedle said, and I gritted my

teeth. The way they said it really got my goat.“Our
employer’s information was quite specific.”

“Specific but wrong,” I said wearily. “Incorrect,

false, mistaken, whatever. Have a look if you
like,”waving a hand around me, “but I’d appreciate
it if you took a little bit of care while you do it. I’ve
got nothing to hide from you or the police. Unlike, it
seems, your employer.” I couldn’t resist that. It got
no reaction from the Stoneface Twins.

“Thank you, Mr Rees,” Tweedledum said,

ponderously polite, and ambled casually up the
stairs to the loft. Tweedle Two fixed me with gimlet
eyes. And spoke not a word.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who your

employer is,” I said, as much to break the silence as
to make conversation. He didn’t answer. “Oh, well. I
take it he’s a collector? You could let him know we’re
always open for commissions - all above board, of
course - so if there’s anything in particular he would
like cleaned up … ?”

“I’ll pass it on, Mr Rees.”
“Thanks.” All the time my ears strained to keep

track of One. The lack of crashes or splintering
sounds from upstairs was comforting, but didn’t
prove anything. I prayed Adam was safe enough in
the mash-copper - as long as it didn’t occur to them
to look anywhere else but the workshop or cottage. I

hoped I wasn’t sweating too much.

Tweedledum came down and searched

meticulously through the ground floor for a while,
his heavy features as inscrutable as when he’d
arrived. Then he came back to me and loomed. “Mr
Rees,” he said, “our employer had expected this
development and has instructed us accordingly. If
you can locate the portrait within twenty-four hours
and hand it over to us, you will receive a commission
of ten thousand pounds.” How I kept my jaw from
dropping to the floor, I’ll never know.

“He is fully aware of your father’s reputation, as

well as your own skill in this area,” went on Two,“and
has every confidence in you both.”

“That’s nice,” I said brightly. “But I’ll need

something like twenty-four days rather than hours.
Or even better, weeks.”

“We’re sorry, Mr Rees, but that isn’t possible.”
“We’ll come back at the same time tomorrow,”said

the other half of the double act, “to collect the
painting and pay your commission.”

“And if I haven’t found it?” But they didn’t answer,

just stared at me as if I was something clinical under
a microscope.

“Good evening, Mr Rees,” they intoned, one after

the other, and walked out.

Silence crashed into place. I blinked stupidly

twice before my reactions flooded me.

I was furious and not ashamed to admit I was

scared as well. This was not the stupidly frivolous
nonsense I’d longed for. Those men meant business.I
trailed a few metres behind them to make sure they

didn’t hang around, and as soon as they climbed
into a large black Mercedes with tinted windows
and drove off, I made a beeline for the tack room and
the copper. I reassured myself that Adam was safe
and sound, then stalked back to the cottage.

Fox had set me up. He’d had all yesterday to pump

my brother, all last night to poke around the cottage
and outbuildings, though he obviously hadn’t found
Adam, hence the twenty-four hour deadline from the
Tweedles. I wondered if he’d have the brass neck to
come back, but I doubted he’d appear again. After
all, he’d done his dirty work and what were a few
items of second-hand clothing to someone with over
a hundred quid on him -including, I remembered,
my tenner.

In spite of my terror, I fumed. I swore. Talk about

adding insult to injury. Something had to be done.
I picked up the phone, but froze with my fingers
poised over the number pad. Calling the police
-prompted by my law-abiding Rees genes - was my
first instinct. My second instinct came from the less
socially acceptable side of my ancestry. I needed to
know a hell of a lot more about what was going on
before I made a decision about contacting the cops.
Besides, I’d have to explain about Our George and
the panels, not to mention the cash that went into
the Thatch Fund was mostly undeclared.Everything
the police might demand answers for would drop
Dad right in the shit.

I was so tangled up in my thoughts that the growl

of an approaching engine gave me a distinct shock,
then I realised that it sounded more like a lawn

mower than the Big Beast. Beau and his infernal fire
screen. Damndamndamn.

* * *

Getting the rather plump Beau and the fire screen

out of his antiquated Citroen 2CV and into the
cottage - without the rain touching either of them
- involved a sequence of masterful manoeuvrings
on my part. I, of course, was soaked through. The
screen could stay safe and dry in the living room
until the rain stopped and I could get it across to the
workshop.

The frame was an instant distraction for

me.Fashioned in beautifully turned rosewood, it had
a delicate flower design in mother of pearl and ivory
inlay, though some of it was beginning to lift. The
embroidery was very nice, too. And in pretty good
condition. I gave it a thorough inspection while
Beau revived himself on Dad’s sherry and made
himself comfortable in the wing chair. “Robbie-love,
you’re a lifesaver,” he fluted, patting my hand. “How
soon, dear boy?” Personally, I’ve always thought he
overdid the gay stereotype thing. In comparison, he
made me look as butch as your average lumberjack.

“Come off it, Beau, it isn’t a rush job and you

know it,” I said. “Not if you want it done properly
and we don’t work any other way. Would you like
some coffee?”

“Oh, yes, please, but only a little brandy in it,

dear. I’m driving, you know.”

“Dad hasn’t got any,” I lied. So sue me. “You’ll

have whisky and like it.” He simpered at me coyly.

Beau thinks he’s a real charmer, but he’s also a good
friend as long as I keep my backside and crotch out
of reach. He likes patting things. Because he’s a
friend, I put the percolator on instead of the kettle,
and took out the porcelain cups in his honour.

As I came back into the living-room the hissing

bellow of a dinosaur began to grow in the distance.
How on earth could I have mistaken any other engine
for her? And he was travelling! Why the howling hell
had he come back? To make sure I handed over the
panel? I’d sooner hand over Uncle Joe. I’d lull Fox
into a false security, I decided, and wait for him to
make a mistake.

“Hmph,” Beau sniffed. “One of Mike’s odd

friends, by the sound of it. Are they staying with
Alan again?”

“Well, uh,” I stalled. “It’s a long story.”
“Yours usually are, Robbie-love,” he snickered,

patting my hand again.

“I’ll tell you all about it, one day,” I promised. The

dinosaur moaned past the windows and silence fell
like lead sheeting. It didn’t last long. Fox came in
with a lithe pounce to his stride and dropped helmet
and panniers on the sofa. His hair was a mane of
living copper and feral delight blazed in his face,
transforming already striking features to something
else entirely. Beau’s strangled gasp was all I’d hoped
for: his eyes bulged, his jaw sagged, his hands shook.
Lust at first sight. I could sympathise.

Fox paid no attention to him. “Sorry I’m late,”

he said. “I had some errands of my own to run.”
He pushed his hand through his hair and grinned

fiercely at me. “Did you miss me?”

“You’ll never know how much,” I drawled. “Let

me introduce you. Beau, meet Fox, he’s staying with
me, temporarily. He’s a friend of Mike’s. Fox, meet
Beau Hedges, he’s an antiques dealer, has a shop in
Amesbury.”

“How do you do,” Beau burbled, snatching Fox’s

hand before it was offered.

Fox seemed to draw into himself, to grow taller and

suddenly aloof. His green-eyed gaze laser-sharp, he
looked at me. Then he smiled. This means war, that
smile said, as if he’d guessed I was matchmaking.

I smiled back You and whose army? as sweetly as

you please.

“Such a pleasure to meet you,” Beau was saying,

practically drooling. Beau was gay as a carnival float,
but his flirtations with me were more of an automatic
reflex. When it came to pretty young men, present
company - the uninteresting twenty-something - was
an also-ran. Admittedly, Fox wasn’t strictly pretty.
That would be like calling a wolf a lapdog.

“Any friend of Rob’s,” Fox drawled, and left the

rest unsaid. Too self-assured, as well as mealy-
mouthed. The toe-rag. But I was determined I’d cut
him down to size, and before he or his shady pals
nicked Dad’s treasures. Or Baverstock’s.

“Mmm,” Beau purred, stroking Fox’s leather

sleeve. “My goodness, but you’re soaked to the skin.
You’ll catch your death! Take it off at once and come
to the fire.”

It was just as well I was getting a kick out of

playing gooseberry. “Coffee, Reynard? With or

without alcohol?”

“With,” he smiled. “I’ll get it - part of the house

rules, remember?”

“I can make exceptions.”
“I’ll bet you can. Why don’t you and Beau talk

about veneers and how much it’ll cost him, while
I follow the rules.” He disengaged his hand and
scooped up the panniers, then headed for the
kitchen. He was apparently unaware of how Beau’s
eyes were focused on his leather-clad bum but I
wouldn’t place money on it. Beau should have seen
the view I’d had this morning; he would have had a
seizure on the spot. Remembering it, my toes curled
again.

So Beau and I talked about veneers, or rather,

I tried to. His responses were distracted to say
the least, and his questions focussed on a certain
redhead rather than antiques and their restoration.

Fox came back with the coffees on a tray. I was

ensconced on the sofa by this time, but instead of
clearing off a space and sitting beside me once he’d
handed out the Royal Doulton, he folded cross-
legged to sit at my feet and lean back against my
knees. What the hell? Did he know I was gay - did
it mean he was interested in me? I stamped that
thought down pretty damn fast and told my toes
to uncurl. No. It was a defensive move on his part,
putting himself out of Beau’s reach by implying he
was with me.

Beau’s disappointment was obvious and his gaze

became accusing. I could read his thoughts as if
they were written in bold capitals, underscored and

highlighted. You always told me you weren’t into
rough trade and you wouldn’t touch any of Mike’s
leather clad cronies with a barge-pole… Which is
absolutely true and I meant every word of it, then and
now. I eyed Fox uneasily. It was rather like having a
hungry tiger curled up at your feet, pretending to be
a tabby hearth-cat. I wondered what he’d do next.

He glanced up at me, laughter brilliant in his

eyes. Suddenly I could see the contained power, the
overwhelming vitality and energy coursing through
him - I was mesmerised, and I must have looked
a little bemused, because Beau gave a somewhat
vicious titter. I ignored him.

“What about the shopping?” I demanded. I had to

pretend I suspected nothing, after all.

“I got everything you wanted.”
“Good. And, by the way, I’ve got a very large bone

to pick with you, but we’ll talk about that later.”

I tried to steer the conversation back to antiques

in general and the fire screen in particular, but Beau
wouldn’t co-operate. He had now decided he was the
gooseberry, and far from comfortable about it. Fox,
damn him, didn’t say another word and didn’t move,
either. In the end Beau gulped the rest of his coffee
and went into the farewell ritual. I didn’t attempt
to detain him. Part of my mind was struggling to
analyse what Fox was up to. The other part was still
reeling from that brief but dazzling revelation.

I shut the door on Beau’s heels and came back to

the sofa. “What do you mean, sloping off the whole
day when you promised Mike you’d hang around
here?” I asked. It didn’t come out as snappy as I’d

intended. Fox hadn’t shifted much, just lounged
back on the cushions instead of me. I sat in the
wing-chair.

“You said you didn’t believe in his theory,” he

replied, which was unanswerable. “Why don’t we go
out for a meal? On me, as an apology.”

“Don’t be daft! You’re supposed to be guarding

Dad’s things day and night, and I’m not having you
draped on that sofa all day, sleeping it off and looking
like a Praxiteles’ reject! Little old ladies come in
here.” So did beautiful blonde cousins, but that was
beside the point. “They’d have heart attacks!”

He shrugged, completely unconcerned. “Now

there’s a job prospect I haven’t thought of. Do you
know of a sculptor who might be looking for a
model?” he asked with that smile of his. Good grief.
He knew who Praxiteles was. I was shocked. Mike,
the son of an art expert and enthusiast, had asked
Dad if he played right wing for Real Madrid. The
pillock couldn’t even get the country right. Fox was
being extremely careless if he expected me to believe
his connections with my brother. On the other hand,
it was so unlikely maybe it was true.

“Beau will know someone,” I said. “In fact, I’ll

ask him if he can put you up, if you like,” I offered.
“As a favour to me.”

“No, thank you,” he replied gravely, but I knew

the laughter wasn’t far from the surface. “The Beaus
of this world are not to my taste.” As if he was a
hundred-year-old connoisseur and I’d offered him
supermarket plonk. “Well? Do I buy you a meal?”

Absolutely not. For all I knew he could be getting

me out of the way for the Tweedles to ransack the
cottage and the tack room. My thoughts wavered,
and the conviction grew that if he was with me,
the panel and everything else of value were safe
enough. Maybe I should rethink it ... I struggled
with the two impulses while he watched me,
something like admiration and bewilderment in his
gaze. That distracted me so much, I forgot what I’d
been dithering about and hunger won. “Yes,” I said.
“Apology accepted. The Rose & Crown in Harnham,
and we go to the hospital first so I can check up on
Dad.”

“You’re on,” he agreed.
I grabbed my jacket and my Volvo’s keys, but he

was picking up his helmet. “I saw Mike’s spare in
the kitchen,” he informed me, as if I didn’t know
already.

“There is no way I am sitting behind you on that

beast out there,” I said grimly. “We’ll go in my car,
or not at all.”

Chapter Five

I hated riding pillion. I’d far sooner be the one

in control of all that horsepower. Comfort and
convenience were the only reasons I stuck with
the Volvo instead of my old Triumph Bonneville
motorcycle stored under wraps at the back of Dad’s
workshop. Leaning against Fox’s back, my hands
locked on his lean hips, I didn’t have to see the
speedometer or the nightscape whipping past to
know how fast we were going. That bike felt like a
living thing under me, an extension of the body I was
clutching - as if I was riding a centaur - but flights
of fancy don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance when
your imagination would sooner dwell on things like
aquaplaning, excess speed and sharp bends, mud on
the road, oncoming traffic. Images like that would
never bother me if I was in control.

Besides, country roads are not designed for the

speeds we were travelling. But he had the Devil’s
own luck. And skill, I had to give him that. He was
enjoying himself, the rat. He handled the Yamaha
with cool competence, not really showing off, just
paying me back a little for Beau.

I have never reached the hospital so quickly, nor

been so glad to arrive. I dropped onto the chair by
Dad’s bed with a sigh of relief. Needless to say, I’d
left Fox kicking his heels in the café in the main
lobby. Nothing could have forced me to introduce
him to my father at this stage of the game; I wanted
Dad to recover, not relapse.

Dad and I talked screens and veneers and Beau

in general for a while, then I stood up and said
goodbye. I was going to have dinner with one of
Mike’s friends, I told him cheerfully and unwisely.
That didn’t save me from the Spanish Inquisition,
however, and the only way to escape it was to bolt
for cover. Which I did, collecting my not-so-tame
Doberman on the way. A short time later we reached
the safe haven of the Rose & Crown.

We ordered: he had the consommé and steak and

I had the seafood and steak. We consulted the wine
list together - I would have been happy with beer,
but Fox opted for red wine. Since he was paying, I
didn’t argue. Wine is nearly as good as beer. Then
he was asking sensible questions about Beau’s fire
screen and how I’d restore it, and we were halfway
through the main course before I realised it.

Fox had a razor-sharp intelligence, I soon

discovered, and a sardonic sense of humour that
appealed to me. He also had an appreciation of the
antique and the beautiful that Dad would thoroughly
approve. Fox seemed genuinely interested -
fascinated even - in what I had to say, prompting
me to expand on various subjects when I wavered.
All told, he was great to be with, and he seemed
to be enjoying my company as much as I enjoyed
his. Once or twice I thought I saw a kind of happy
bemusement drift across his face, and some of his
glances and comments were close to flirtatious.
Which was flattering, to put it mildly, but I was
wary of responding. I rarely found it easy to reach
out to people, and he was no exception. But though

the apparently two-way undercurrent of sexual
awareness fizzed through my blood and nerve ends,
I had no intention of it ever going further. He was an
unknown element, a potential threat to the panels
and Dad’s business.

Finally I noticed he didn’t seem very interested

in his chips and salad, and I was still starving.
So,“If you’re not going to eat all of that,” I hinted
cunningly. He laughed and off-loaded the veg onto
my plate. But he hung on to the remains of his steak.

“Rob, with all the talent you have for

restoration,”he said, “why are you a librarian? It
seems such a waste of - “ He broke off and shrugged.

I didn’t answer immediately. When I was

eighteen, I’d been taking care of the family as well as
getting an education, and I’d ended up with barely
enough grades to scrape into the librarian course at
a local University. Then or now, I simply didn’t have
the money for me to take all the necessary courses in
art history, art conservation and restoration. Besides,
what could I learn from them that I hadn’t from Dad?
All a stint in a university could gain me would be the
necessary degrees for a legitimate career, and I was
doing just fine as a librarian.

“I’ve become very attached to a regular

monthly pay slip,” I said succinctly. “Restoration is
amazing.Especially portraits. Those faces fascinate
me.Besides, helping Dad every now and then is
fun, a hobby. If I had to do it for a living, I probably
wouldn’t enjoy it so much,” I added, not believing a
word of it. Suddenly an opening occurred to me. “I
also like old places, old things, the way they look and

feel, the stories behind them. The human element, if
you like. The links between past and present. Like
heraldry, for instance.” Probably the clumsiest segue
outside of a DJ at a disco, but I was snatching at
straws. “Now there’s a timeless language for you.
Come to think of it, isn’t that an armorial ring you’re
wearing? May I?” holding out my hand.

He stared at me, wary and assessing. Then he

worked it off his finger and dropped it into my palm.I
took a quick glance at his hand. You know how it is
if you wear a ring for a long time - years, say - the
base of the finger where the ring sits narrows a little.
His now nude one had that telltale sign. Of course,
it didn’t have to be one particular ring which created
it, but part of me knew it was down to the ring I held.

I turned my attention to the ring itself. It was

beautiful. And old. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one
quite like it in the flesh, so to speak. The coat of arms
was pretty worn, but in better light at the right angle
I might be able to decipher it. There were supporters,
too, rising out of the band to frame the bezel. They
were wyverns, I realised, judging by what seemed to
be a serpentine tail, lack of back legs and a hint of
wings. Fascinating and oh-so-very familiar. I’d been
cleaning the muck of centuries from their twins most
of the day. Things were beginning to fall into place.

“Family heirloom?” I asked, wide-eyed and

innocent.

“What do you think?” he drawled and took it from

me, shoved it over the finger-joint and back in place.

I cackled. “You don’t want to know what I think,

Reynard.” The ring obviously came from the same

place as the portraits, which meant he did a little
burglary on the side. So perhaps he’d stolen the
panels, flogged them to Our George, and now was
going to steal them back for the Mystery Man. “I
had a couple of visitors this afternoon.” I wanted to
see his reaction.

“More Regency fire screens?” he smiled.
“Nope. A couple of well-tailored musclemen.”
“You don’t say,” he marvelled, amusement in his

eyes. “Police?” Cocky bugger.

“Oh, no. Far from it. Someone else got to hear of

the Baverstock panels and sent them to collect what
they could.” Startlement showed, alarm, fury and
then the Ice Age, in that order. I would take an oath
that none of them were feigned.

“Explain,” he said, silky-soft and dangerous.
A subtle pressure started behind my eyes, not a

headache, but something threatening to be one. I
took a large sip of wine to clear it. Okay, Fox, here’s
both barrels.

“Adam Courtney,” I said crisply. “George’s got

Ann, this other Hoarder wants Adam.”

“Who is he?” He stayed angry. It brought out

the autocrat in him. The pressure increased and I
blinked. Was it the precursor of one of my occasional
migraines?

“I don’t know.”
“Are they coming back?”
“Tomorrow, five-thirty-ish.”
He sat back and picked up his wine glass, and I

decided he was going up in my estimation. A lesser
man would surely have become foaming-at-the-

mouth profane. The Sauvignon glowed like dark
blood in the subdued lighting, and showed not a
tremor. His face was a carven mask, nothing visible
at all now. “I see,” he said. “What are you going to
do about it?” Oh, well, that knocked Theory Number
One on the head. He wasn’t in with Tweedledum
and Tweedledee. So, on to Number Two.

“That’s my line, Fox, or whatever your name

is.Something tells me you’ve got a stake in all this
and I want to know what it is - “

“Courtney,” he interrupted. “Adam Courtney.”
“What about him?”
“It’s my name. The panels are mine. Your friend

Baverstock has Ann’s portrait. I want it back.”

“Another family heirloom?” I asked quietly. “I

don’t know that I believe you, Fox. I thought you had
more class.”

That stung him a little, I think. “You wanted

answers,” he shrugged, cool and relaxed now, on
the surface. He paused and for a brief moment,
my thoughts hazed and wandered to the wine list.
Maybe we should order a sweeter wine to go with the
dessert ... “I had a fifty-fifty chance of success,”he
continued, “and it seemed worth the gamble. I lost.
Temporarily. I’m not interested in the other portrait,
it’s her I’m taking back with me.”

Now that was heresy, and the shock of it cleared

my mind, dispersed the pressure, and snapped
my attention right back to him. “Are you crazy?” I
squawked, startled off-balance. “As a pair they’re
worth a fortune, even if Nicholas Hilliard didn’t sign
them!”

“Why should he?” Fox said, sipping wine. A

slight frown creased his forehead and he stared at
me intently. “He didn’t paint them.”

“Baverstock thinks he did, so does the Mystery

Man. And they’re genuine,” I added with a
snap.“Dad said, and Dad knows!”

“Of course they are, but not by Hilliard. He stuck

mainly to miniatures and in any case the family
couldn’t afford his prices. They were originally one
large panel. By Penton.”

I choked. Literally. I wheezed, croaked, flailed

my arms and reached across to grab a double
handful of black fabric. “What?” I bellowed in a
whisper, forgetting the years of conditioning against
emotional scenes. I shook him. “He’s only a name
-none of his work has been identified - “

“He’d signed it, but a benighted idiot had it cut up

in the late seventeen-hundreds,” Fox said, ignoring
the death grip I had on his tee-shirt. “I’ve got the
household accounts listing its commission, and his
letter accepting it.”

“Oh God,” I moaned, releasing him and slumping

back in my chair. I wanted to howl. To read some
books, you’d think there were only a handful who
specialised in miniatures in those days, and most of
them were called Hilliard. But we know the names
of men whose works have never been linked up with
them - Thomas Penton was one of them.

“He was said at the time to be greater than Nick

Hilliard,” Fox continued, “but he didn’t get the Royal
custom. Offended Elizabeth somehow. He was an
eccentric, tended to refuse commissions if he didn’t

like the sitter.”

I could understand that. “He liked Ann,” I said,

remembering the happy vitality I’d revealed as I’d
lifted away the last layer of old varnish.

“Yes.” He smiled and those marble features

softened into an expression that made me want to
glance away. But I was starting to believe him. “She
had that effect on people.”

“Still does, by the look of you.” I smiled as

well.“Authentic household accounts?”

“’Item’,” he quoted softly, “’this tenth day of the

month of May in the year of our Lord one thousand five
hundred and-eighty-four, one hundred sovereigns for
Master Thomas Penton to record the marriage of the
Lord Adam Courtney and Lady Ann Darcy. To be set
in the wall between the windows of the long gallery.’”
He’d spoken it with a strong accent and stress on the
words that made it sound, well, genuine. That was
how Shakespeare should be spoken. But I would not
be distracted.

“Are you telling me you would throw away a

unique combination by splitting them?”

“I want Ann back,” he said quietly. “She was

stolen from the house and I intend that she returns.I
don’t care much how I accomplish it, or who is
harmed in the process. Unless they are innocent
parties to it. As you seem to be.”

“Thanks a lot. But how did you find out about

us?Or Baverstock, for that matter.”

“I traced the burglar. He decided to be co-

operative and gave me Baverstock’s name, plus
the fact that they’d already been handed over for

cleaning, but he didn’t know who’d be doing it. A
friend at Christie’s gave me the names of those who
specialise in panels, which led me to Hepple. He
told me he’d sold Alan Rees some of his patented
fluid and Rees had been commissioned to clean a
pair of Hilliards.”

So why hadn’t the old goat warned me someone

had been asking questions? He’d out and out lied,
damn him! I took a deep breath and tried not to let
my irritation show.

“Fox, I don’t have to be an art expert to know

those portraits are worth a fortune each with that
provenance, more if you’ve got household accounts
and wills down the years keeping tabs on them.
As a pair they’re - they’re - “ I became incoherent
thinking about the possible price ticket. And all this
lunatic wanted was one particular picture to take
home. There was an obvious conclusion to be jumped
to, and I felt a gut-wrenching disappointment as I
jumped. Even though I believed him by now, I still
didn’t trust Fox as far as I could spit a rat. But I had
to admit to myself I liked him. A lot. Or, to put it more
basically - I wanted him. “You’re a Hoarder as well,
aren’t you?” I accused. He knew what I meant.

“No.” He shook his head. “You have my word.

She hangs in one alcove in the parlour, with Adam
in the other. In plain view, Rob, even if I have few
visitors.”

“Oh. That’s all right, then,” I muttered. “So you

were sussing us out, trying to find out if we had her
so you could do a little burglary of your own?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “that was the original idea.

After all, no need for you to be involved. As it was, I
was too late. All I want is Ann.”

“Great. What about Mike and this debt you owe

him? How much does he know?”

“Nothing. His worry about your father was - an

incredible piece of luck as far as I was concerned,”he
said, refilling both glasses. “And it was easy to
suggest the cottage and you needed some protection
in such a way he thought it was his idea.”

Poor Mike. He’d be as sick as a parrot when he

found out what his so-called mate had been up to.
It was a crying shame that someone as smooth as
Fox had gone to work on him, he hadn’t stood a
chance.Well, I had this latter-day Adam Courtney
sorted out now. Daddy’s a West Country landowner,
private education - I’ve noticed that public schools,
especially the frightfully up market ones, tend to
churn out two types; your average ten-a-penny
chinless wonders, and occasionally your hundred-
year-old whiz-kids who are the Borgias reborn in
all but name. Like Fox. Once again I wondered if
he was gay, then wrenched my mind back to the
situation at hand.

“Okay,” I said. “Field this one. What are you

going to do about Ann and Baverstock?”

“Meet him,” he replied. “That’s where I went

today, checking out where he lives. I’ll talk to him.
Perhaps he’ll see reason. If he doesn’t - “ he broke off
and shrugged. “There are other ways.”

“None of them legal,” I pointed out. “How old

are you?”

“Twenty-six going on a century or two,” he said

solemnly.

“You’re not kidding,” I sighed. “You’re the same

age as I am, and you might as well come from another
planet! What happened to youthful insecurity?
Acne? Ever had a spot in your life? Too much poise
and education, Fox. It’s not natural.”

“I walk my own path,” he said. “Have done for

a long time. Some of us grow up a lot sooner than
others, Rob. It’s no big deal.”

That could explain a lot, if he wasn’t a borderline

sociopath. “Like hell it isn’t,” I snorted. “Listen, it’s
stupid, not giving a toss about the other portrait.
They belong together, damn it! Any fool can see that!
You can’t leave him behind, it wouldn’t be right.”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “But he has a use,

doesn’t he? As trade goods. That ball is in your court,
I won’t interfere.”

“If I hand him over, they’ll give us ten thou. They

said. If I hand him over.”

“What will Baverstock give you if you don’t?” he

asked.

“No more work for Dad.” I shrugged. “Baverstock

isn’t a villain, and I’m sure he doesn’t hire them.
Apart from his collecting, that is. He’ll cut his losses
and Dad’ll get no more cash-on-the-nail payments.If
I had more time, I’d ask Beau to find someone good
who could copy young Courtney and let the Mystery
Man have that. I don’t like the way he operates.”
I began to wonder how Fox would operate when
Baverstock gave him the heave-ho, but I wasn’t daft
enough to ask him. After all, what I don’t know I
can’t be an accessory to, can I? But I couldn’t ignore

the unease settling into my bones.

However, with a kind of truce between us, there

was something else that needed sorting out. “It looks
as if I really do need a guard for the workshop,” I said.
I might well believe him, but he didn’t need to know
exactly where the panel was stored. “Much though I
hate to admit it, Mike was right. But you don’t have
to sleep on the sofa. Mike’s bedroom overlooks the
yard and the outbuildings, so you can sleep up there.
It’ll be a lot more comfortable.” It would also be dark
and cramped.Since Mike rarely slept at the cottage,
being too deeply involved with various girlfriends,
Dad had started to use the room as another overflow
store.All but one of the small dormer windows were
completely blocked by a couple of narrow nineteen-
thirties wardrobes, bulging cardboard boxes and
piles of old books. At least Fox would have plenty to
read if he couldn’t sleep.

* * *

We finished off the main course in companionable

silence while I thought about what he’d told me. It
seemed logical, if potentially on the shady side of
legal, but nobody’s perfect. Then something struck
me. Dad had found the original Adam in Burke’s
Extinct Peerages, and there was no question in the
old man’s mind that the coats of arms in the book and
on the portrait matched up, and Fox’s ring certainly
had the same wyvern supporters. So if the barony
had lapsed through lack of issue, how had he come
to be the son of a land-owning Courtney?

“Um,” I said, unable to resist asking, “did Burke

get it wrong? Burke as in Extinct Peerages, that is?”He
smiled at me, eyes glittering with amusement.Damn
it, I liked fencing with this man. I also liked the way
my body was reacting to him, and by the way his
gaze lingered over me, he wasn’t exactly indifferent
to me either. Or was I seeing what I wanted to see?
I decided against making any overtures, just in case
...

“No,” he said. “The last Baron had only two

children. Michael and Julian both died in the Crimea
without legitimate issue. Note the key word.”

“’Bastard slips shall not take root’,” I intoned and

he chuckled.

“Exactly. But bastards can grow rich enough to

buy out an eccentric and impoverished old man,
lock, stock and barrel. Which is what my great-great
grandfather did - John Tarrant. Changed his name to
Courtney-Tarrant and dropped the Tarrant as soon as
the old man died.”

“Where did he get the cash from?” I demanded,

fascinated.

“Antiquities,” Fox said apologetically. “I suppose

the polite term for him was archaeologist, but he
made a fortune at it. There wasn’t a lot of it left once
he’d bought the estate, of course, but as a working
farm it made a living.”

“Is it still?”
“No. Over the last eighty-odd years the land’s

been sold off piecemeal. All that’s left now is the
house and a few acres. Part of the South Wood, as a
matter of fact,” touching the scar by his eye.

“So the portraits were stolen from the house?”

He nodded, face grim and angry again, and sad.
So I asked him what else was taken. The list

appalled me. “Some Limoges,” he answered
indifferently, “a couple of Fabergé things,” - I
winced - “some books, two Caxtons, Byron’s Corsair
signed by him and a fifteenth century book of hours.
A pair of Manton duelling pistols, some Turners, a
van Dyck - “

“Stop!” I couldn’t stand any more. “Have the

police got any leads?” Then answered my own
question. “No, because you haven’t reported it,” and
sighed my exasperation. “Fox, you’re a moron.”

We were on dessert by now, or rather I was

working through fresh fruit salad and clotted cream
while he’d opted for the cheese board. He didn’t
react to the insult, just smiled and shrugged. It
wasn’t an act. He simply did not care. Except for that
portrait of Ann Darcy. I shook my head. He needed
to be taken in hand and re-educated.

Chapter Six

It was gone eleven o’clock by the time we got

back to the cottage, and I stoked up the fire while
he went into the kitchen to make coffee. By the
time Fox joined me the fire was burning healthily
and I, full of food and wine, was half asleep on the
sofa.He, on the other hand, was so full of energy he
practically crackled. He handed me my coffee, then
sat cross-legged on the floor as he had before and
leaned back against my knees. It didn’t feel strange
this time, just a natural part of the evening and the
companionship. I felt as if I’d known him for years,
part and parcel of my life. Who needs a Labrador
when there’s a Fox available? At the same time, the
low background hum of arousal drifted closer to the
surface, and I had to clutch my coffee in both hands
to stop myself from stroking my fingers through his
hair.

“What are you going to do about the portrait?”

he asked, sipping his coffee. I took a careful sniff of
mine first. By the aroma he’d added a good quantity
of Dad’s brandy. A Fox with taste, this one. I sipped
it respectfully.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Could let Baverstock

know what’s going on, I suppose, but it won’t make
any difference. He won’t want trouble. I don’t either,
but I hate the idea of that lowlife sending in his paid
muscle to walk away with the panel.”

“I know. But let them have it.”
“What? Are you insane? No way!”

“Stop and think,” he said quietly. “Let them

take the panel. This man won’t settle for half the
cake.He’ll want it all. Which means that sooner
or later Baverstock will find Ann’s been stolen, or
he’s received an offer for her he can’t refuse. Once
they’re both in the same place, I’ll get them back
and I won’t have to be so fussy about how I do it.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. But how did the

Mystery Man know about Ann and Adam?Baverstock
wouldn’t have talked about them to anyone. Except
Dad, and then only up to a point.”

“Probably my burglar told him,” Fox said

quietly.“If he supplied one Hoarder, why not two?”

“Makes sense,” I agreed. Well, if that was the

case, one of my theories had nearly been right.

“I’ll go and have another talk with him,” Fox said

and rose smoothly to his feet, leaving his coffee half-
finished.

“Now?” I protested. “It’s midnight, for God’s

sake!”

“No, it isn’t. I can be back by dawn.”
“If the police don’t pull you over.”
“Rob,” he said, an affectionate laughter in his

face and voice that abruptly turned my bones to
liquid, “go to bed.” He looked like a living flame and
I came very close to resenting his vitality. “See you
tomorrow.”

“Don’t expect me to bail you out of the nick,” I

muttered. “Where are you going?”

“London,” he said. “Have you got a spare key or

should I get you out of bed?”

“You do and I’ll break your stupid neck.” I dug

my own key out of my pocket and tossed it to him.

“You’re crazy. Insane. Barking mad.”
Home truths made no difference. He put on jacket

and helmet and was out of the door with a casual
wave. Seconds later the Big Beast launched herself
into the night with a howl that rattled the windows.
Fox was a lunatic.

* * *

“Rob.”
I struggled from the quicksand of strange

dreams beyond the reach of memory, unsure if I
was relieved or bereft. I forced my eyes open and
found my bedroom gloomy in the watery dawn light
filtering through the gap in the velvet curtains. Fox
was a white-faced apparition perched on the edge
of my bed. All of the evening’s energy was spent -he
looked gaunt and tired. “I’m going to bed,” he said,
before I could speak. “He used an alias, but Jerry
recognised him from an art auction. His name’s
Henry Wendlow and he lives in Lockeridge, west
of Marlborough. He specialises in the sixteenth
century - books, paintings, weapons, jewellery, you
name it. A bad man to cross. I’ll give you the details
later.” He reached out as if he wanted to slip his
fingers through my hair, then he was gone and I lay
there blinking like a myopic owl, wondering if I had
dreamed that almost-caress and if I was awake or
not.

It took me ten minutes or so to decide I was and I

crawled reluctantly out of bed. Henry Wendlow.The
name rang no bells, not surprisingly. So legwork

would have to be done, but not necessarily by me.
After all, Hepple owed me one - God, did he ever! -
and Beau might be good for some leads.

And there were the family connections: I’d try

them first. Uncle Joe was my mother’s brother. Mum
had been a very sweet woman with a warm and
generous nature. He also had a warm and generous
nature. Unfortunately, he was also a semi-retired
poacher turned odd-job-man with a penchant for
alcohol, and as well-known to the local police as he
was in the surrounding villages. A loveable rogue
with a feckless charm when sober, fashioned in the
Falstaff mould. In his youth, he’d been movie-star
handsome, much like Mike. Mum had always said
there was Romani blood in the Wells’ line. Others
claimed it was Irish tinker blood, but whatever the
stock, they locked up their horses, chickens and
daughters, regardless.

While the kettle heated to the boil I picked up

the phone and dialled his number. It took him a long
time to answer it. “Good morning,” I carolled in
reply to his wordless grunt. “How are you this bright
day, Uncle?”

“Sod off,” he suggested. At least, I think that’s

what he said.

“Money, Uncle,” I said and the heavy breathing

acquired a sort of acquisitive overtone. “I want you
to make some very discreet enquiries for me - and I
mean very. This man could be a problem.”

“Ungh?”
“A bad man to cross, or so I’ve heard, but he’s

crossing me and Dad at the moment.” That earned

me yet another grunt. But as he hadn’t hung up
on me, I carried on with Wendlow’s address as far
as I knew it. “I need as much information about
him as possible, so see what you can find out,”
I continued,“but be careful; he plays rough, if his
goons are anything to go by. I’ll make it worth your
while.”

“What do you mean, rough?” he wheezed. Which

was promising. The old bear was actually coherent.I
gave him a quick run-down on Tweedledum and
Tweedledee - needless to say he swore a lot, and
amongst the profanity was a promise to be both
thorough and discreet. The Romani and tinker
connections gave us access to an information network
that made the French Resistance look like amateurs,
and Uncle Joe would use it to the best advantage. To
put it more politely than he did, no illegitimate issue
of an incestuous and cross-species relationship was
going to drop manure on the Wellses and their kin
and get away with it.

Lisa was my next contact. Or rather, Simon would

be, through her. I left a message on her voicemail to
give me a ring as soon as possible. I was beginning
to feel like Alexander the Great planning the Persian
Campaign.

However, I was still no nearer deciding what I

was going to do about the portrait, though I had a
horrible feeling Fox was right.

Time. That was all I needed, and it was the one

thing I didn’t have.

* * *

Breakfast over, I wandered into the tack room, got

Adam out and propped him on the easel. A sallow
oval above the small ruff, framed by a featureless
mass of brown hair, his face had become familiar as
an old friend. Brownish eyes stared straight out at
me, blank and unseeing. That final area I’d tackled
on Ann’s face had been nearly as bad, then all the
small details were there to completely bring her to
life once more. The top couple of inches of the panel
already showed bright and clear - the background
was a creamy-ochre and everything on it stood out
now in wonderful clarity, especially the heads on
the golden wyverns and the top of the shield. In
heraldry-speak it was argent a chevron sable with
five fleur-de-lys or and a label of three points azure
for difference. The label of the firstborn son and heir.
I wondered if he and Ann had produced any kids,
or if the line had descended through his brothers or
sisters.

Ten thousand pounds. True, it was a lot of money,

but there was no getting away from the knowledge
that he and Ann belonged in that house somewhere
in Somerset.

I sighed and covered him up again, not having

the heart to do any more work on his portrait. I didn’t
want to get as attached to him as I had to Ann, not
until he was safe. There was a strong chance I would
be handing him over this evening and an even
stronger probability I wouldn’t be seeing him for a
long time after that, if at all.

And then there was George Baverstock. I

wondered how much he knew about this Henry

Wendlow and the way he operated. How could I ask
without putting him on his guard? Abruptly, all the
answerless questions brought my mind juddering
to a stop. Sternly, I reminded myself that I would
have to wait, give Uncle Joe a chance to find some
answers, and get a full report from Fox once he’d
surfaced.

I hate waiting.
To take my mind off the waiting part, I started work

on Beau’s fire screen. After a few distracting‘what
if’s, I focused on the task at hand, and the
preliminary work occupied me until late afternoon.
Then I collected the Adam panel and retired with it
to the kitchen for a snack. I preferred to have it near
me while I waited for Lisa to call me back.

There was no sign of life from upstairs. I was

rapidly getting fed up with my own company when
the sound of a car pulling up outside brought an
excuse for an extended tea break. I might have
guessed Lisa would turn up in person.

“Hell-ooo,” she yodelled as she walked in through

the front door. “Are you home, Rob?”

“In here,” I called and started the makings of a

fresh pot of tea. Thanking my lucky stars that Fox was
asleep and out of her sight, I dug out our favourite
chocolate biscuits as she joined me in the kitchen.

As well as stylish suiting, Lisa was wearing a

new perfume, something extremely French and
horrendously expensive. I said so and she laughed.

“Simon bought it for me,” she said. “Next time

you go out on a date, you can have a splash or two.”I
winced and shook my head. It was an old joke. “Is

that a new motorcycle out there under the tarpaulin?
Yours or Mike’s?”

“You’ve been poking around.” I smiled. She

always was too curious for her own good. “No, it
isn’t Mike’s. She belongs to a mate of his.”

“Oh, no! Not another grease-rag of a biker?”
“What do you think?” I shrugged, then

remembered why I’d phoned her. “Lisa,” I said
thoughtfully as I pottered about with kettle and
teapot, “do you know someone called Wendlow,
Henry Wendlow?”

“Sounds familiar. I think he’s one of Simon’s

cronies. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. I just heard the name on the

grapevine and wondered who he was, that’s all.”

“I see,” she drawled knowingly. “Is he good-

looking? I should be careful, if I were you, Rob. If he
is one of Simon’s business acquaintances, you could
get your fingers burned.”

“Not me, coz. Could you ask Simon about

him?Give me a call as soon as you know, would
you? It’s important. He could be a useful chap to
know if he’s into antiques. He might have things to
be cleaned or restored, and the Thatch Fund needs
feeding. If I’m not here, Fox will be and he’ll take a
message.” I didn’t like lying to her, but I didn’t want
her involved if things started to get a bit dicey. To my
relief Lisa homed in on my houseguest rather than
Wendlow.

“Fox? Is that a name or a nickname?”
“Nickname. His hair’s so red you could use him

for a beacon.” I determinedly pulled her back to the

topic at hand. “What do you say?”

“Of course I will. A prospective boyfriend, this

Henry of yours? You can borrow the whole bottle of
perfume, if you like,” she added teasingly.

“No boyfriend,” I snorted. “More like the opposite,

so I’d be grateful if it didn’t get back to him that I’m
asking questions. I’m sure Simon will understand.”
No matter how soft he was with Lisa, when it came
to the cut and thrust of the stock market, Simon was
a jungle animal.

In the living room one of the clocks struck the

hour, while upstairs the plumbing gave me the two
minute warning. I swore on both counts. It was five
o’clock and Wendlow’s muscle would be turning up
in half an hour and the lodger was up and about.

Before I could get to the living room to head him

off, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot
and looking like he was posing for a Hollywood
glossy in his tight jeans and black tee-shirt. How did
he manage to look elegant while someone else in the
same gear would have merely looked scruffy?

Cousin Lisa, I noticed, was giving him the kind

of once-over I’ve seen people give to young hunters
they were thinking of buying. I half expected her to
inspect his teeth and hooves.

He smiled at her, radiating charm and sex appeal.
She smiled back, radiating sex appeal and charm.
Oh, well, that answered my question about Fox’s

sexuality; possibly bi but, given my luck, more likely
straight hetero. I stood between them. “Lisa this is
Fox, Fox this is my cousin Mrs Lisa Rees-Lockyer,” I
gabbled, “who is just leaving.”

“I am?” she asked, puzzled. “Rob, don’t be silly.

How do you do, Fox?” and held out her hand. He
took it and for a moment I thought he was going to
kiss it. Thank God he didn’t.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” he stated gravely,“Mike

has told me a lot about you.” I bet he has, the cretin.
Despite the blood-link, Mike and his hormones have
been in a flat spin over Lisa ever since he hit puberty.

“Come and sit down,” she said, “there’s plenty of

tea in the pot.” But he smiled and shook his head,
padded to the stove and heated the kettle again.

“I didn’t realise you had company,” he said

casually. The liar. My back to Lisa, I wriggled my
eyebrows at him and grimaced. Time was getting on,
and I wanted her safely out of the way in case the
muscle lurched in early. But he ignored me, didn’t
even glance at me. His eyes were on Lisa’s face,
appreciation and speculation in their depths.

Cousin Lisa, however, didn’t seem to get the

message, or perhaps he wasn’t her type after all.She
gathered up her shoulder bag and spread her smile
equally between us. “I’d like to stay and chat,”she
said, “but I really must fly or I’ll be late. It’s been
nice meeting you, Fox. I hope you enjoy your stay
with Rob,” and she was heading for the door. I stared
after her, nonplussed.

“What - ?” I began. Too late. The door had shut

behind her, and the smell of hot Bovril overpowered
her lingering fragrance.

“Have you decided?” he asked quietly, distracting

me.

“Yes,” I answered. He dropped into Lisa’s chair

and leaned his elbows on the table, the steaming
mug poised between his long fingers, waiting
expectantly. “I’ll go along with your idea,” I went
on.“What exactly did you find out from your burglar,
apart from the few pearls of wisdom you scattered at
my feet at some ungodly hour this morning?”

“Not a lot more. He’s unmarried, in his forties,

lives in Brayscott Manor just outside the village and
works in London. He’s a stockbroker.”

“With an interest in the sixteenth century.”
“More of an obsession, apparently. Jerry said it

gives him the creeps.”

Now that might be useful. “Jerry being your

friendly neighbourhood house breaker. One day soon
I’d like to know how you tracked him down.” I was
also wondering how it was that Fox’s burglar was
still running around free as a bird and apparently
happy to give information and assistance. A little
judicious blackmail, perhaps?

Help me out or I’ll shop you/damage you, delete

as appropriate? I wouldn’t put it past him. “The best
thing you can do now is grab something to eat, then
make yourself and the bike scarce until they’ve
gone. Then I’m off to visit Dad. We can continue the
Council of War afterwards.”

“All right,” he agreed cheerfully enough. “You’re

the boss, for now.”

“What does that mean?” I snapped.
“That we’ll try it this way first,” he replied

easily.“If it doesn’t work out, I do it my way. However
it’s done, the two portraits will end up back here.
Ann goes home with me, the other one is yours.” I

think my jaw sagged.

“W-what?” I bleated.
He smiled. “My gift to you. It’s yours to do with

as you choose, to give away, sell or keep. After I get it
back from Wendlow.” He meant it. The raving loony
meant every idiotic word. But what had happened to
the ‘we’? “I’ll be careful how I do it, so he won’t think
you’re involved in any way,” he went on blithely. “I’ll
give you the provenances as well.”

“You can’t do that!” I howled. “Fox, he’s worth a

fortune!”

“So?” He leaned back, relaxed and smiling,

charming and magnetic. “It’s mine, or rather, it was
mine. Now it’s yours.” He glanced up at the kitchen
clock. In a brisk voice, he added, “they’ll be here
soon, so I’ll make tracks.”

“Why me?” I demanded. “What’re you playing

at?You’re insane!” But he finished his Bovril and
stood up, gazing at me with what looked like real
affection as well as amusement, while I sat there
spluttering like the car on a bad day. I thought he
was going to answer, but he didn’t. He just chuckled
and ruffled my hair as he walked out of the kitchen.
Minutes later the sound of the Fazer’s powerful
engine announced his departure.

Chapter Seven

I was still sitting in the kitchen, feeling as if I’d

been taken for a spin by a tornado and trying to work
out what Fox’s game was, when the doorknocker
was assaulted a couple of times and a familiar voice
was raised.

“Mr Rees,” said Tweedle One.
“Just a minute,” I answered, and took the chance

to pull myself together before I opened the door.After
all, it’s not every day I’m given something valuable
enough to be a millionaire’s ransom and minutes
later have to give it away in turn, hopefully only
temporarily. It isn’t a pleasant feeling.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the living

room, mammoth-like in their dark coats and hats
and as menacing as sabre tooth tigers. Modern
Nature, red in cheque-book and shoulder holster. I
suppressed a shiver.

“Did you succeed in locating the portrait, Mr

Rees?” Tweedledum asked.

“Yes,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Tweedledee. “Our employer’s

faith in you has been justified. We would wish to
inspect it, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeated. “I’ll go and fetch him -

it,”and ducked into the kitchen to retrieve the panel
from the table. I whispered an apology and told
him it wouldn’t be for long, then took him back to
the living room. Even so, it was hard to hold him
out, harder still to actually let go. Tweedle Two took

the portrait, carefully unwrapped it and they both
studied it in silence.

“On behalf of our employer,” Tweedle One

pronounced, “we thank you for your services.” He
put a massive fist inside his coat and I froze, but all
he brought out was a narrow brown package. “Ten
thousand pounds,” he said, “in used notes, low
denominations. You are welcome to count it.”

I counted every last one and they waited in

respectful silence while I did it. It came to ten thou
exactly. “All present and correct,” I said with a
brightness I didn’t feel. What I actually felt was sick,
as if I’d sold a family member into a vice ring.

“Then our business is concluded,” One

said.“Good evening, Mr Rees.” Two echoed him and
they marched out - I swear they were in step.

Ten thousand pounds. I counted them again, just

for the sheer novelty of that much cash in my hands,
then made myself a whisky laced with medicinal
coffee. Fox didn’t return, but I had a good idea what
he was up to. Or at least, I knew what I’d do in the
circumstances: follow them discreetly to where they
came from, and explore the area. I wasn’t altogether
sure how I was going to explain all this to Dad, but
time was on my side in that respect. I’d think of
something, I was confident.

* * *

However, I’d conveniently mislaid the fact that

Dad was never easy to fool, and even harder to
fob off with generalities. By the time I got to the
hospital that evening, I had a story all planned out

in my head. In the event, I didn’t need it. When I
turned up at Dad’s bedside, he launched straight
into a question and answer session on my dinner
date which strained my self-control very nearly
to breaking point. Honestly, the old goat can be
intolerable sometimes. You’d think I was a fourteen
year old virgin girl, not twenty-six, male and far from
virginal.

* * *

I was back at the cottage within the hour, and

once I’d lit the fire and made myself a much-needed
cup of coffee, I flopped in the wing chair in front
of the hearth and tried to summon up the energy
to think about food. Fox arrived a few well-timed
minutes later, bringing me an aromatic lifesaver.

“Chicken in black bean sauce,” I enthused,

investigating the cartons he’d dropped into my
lap.“Special fried rice and prawn crackers. You must
have read my mind.” But there was only enough
for one, and he’d retreated to the kitchen to mix up
more Bovril and hot water, which didn’t seem right
to me. “What about you?”

“Already had mine,” he said, coming back with a

steaming mug, and a plate and fork for me. Instinct
told me he was lying. I’d already noticed his face was,
if anything, whiter than usual and pinched looking,
and there was a febrile tension about him that made
me uneasy. I wondered again about drugs.

“Go and grab another plate - there’s enough food

to share.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Any trouble with your

visitors?”

“No,” I said, filling my plate and beginning to

dig in. It tasted very good. But all he had was Bovril?
Was he injecting or snorting his drug of choice ... ? I
lost the thread for a moment and for some reason it
didn’t seem important enough to catch it back again.
“Went as smooth as silk. Let’s talk about Wendlow.”

Once more he took the floor with my knees as a

backrest. “I followed them when they left here,” he
said. “I know where he lives.”

“So? He’s going to have more security than the

Pentagon. Surely you don’t think you can just walk
in for a quick burgle? You can’t be that naïve?” I
added in between shovelling food.

He snickered into his Bovril. “I haven’t been naïve

for a very long time. Yes, I can do it, no problem. If I
need expert advice, there’s always Jerry.”

“Oh, yes. The so co-operative Jerry.” I sat in

thoughtful silence while I polished off the last of
my meal. “I would think,” I said cautiously, “that
getting past hi-tech security systems would take a
lot of planning and probably gadgets of your own. It
would be a lot easier if he invited you in. Instead of
breaking and entering, why don’t you go fishing?”

“Fishing?” He frowned up at me.
“Exactly. The list you gave me last night was all

of smallish things, easily carried. Did Jerry clean
you out?”

“No,” he said, eyes glittering with a growing

anticipation at odds with the laziness of his
voice.“Thinking of baiting a trap?”

“Why not? Do you have anything else Elizabethan

you wouldn’t mind risking?”

“I could find some things. What did you have in

mind?”

“Wendlow has a fetish. Feed it. Make contact

with him, tell him you’ve got an inside deal on
Elizabethan goodies. I bet he’ll jump at the chance
for a discreet meeting and you can talk your way into
the house. Then try the blackmail angle.” I couldn’t
believe the deviousness coming out of my mouth.
I’d obviously missed my calling and I should have
been a criminal mastermind. Well, that was probably
overstating it, but at least I had the basis of a plan.
“Can you get hold of them easily?”

“Of course I can.”
“Good. So what are they?”
“All sorts. What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed, rubbing my forehead

tiredly. “Here is a man with an obsession - why?Does
he believe he’s Raleigh reincarnated? Does he want
to retreat from the twenty-first century by recreating
the sixteenth? In either case what would appeal to
him?”

“Things he can hold,” Fox answered slowly,“things

he can use or wear - “

“And he obviously isn’t bothered about working

outside the law. Can you find that sort of stuff and
will you risk them?”

“Yes,” he said. “Rob, you are far too clever for

your own good. I’ll bring what seems best.” He stood
up, a rueful smile tilting his mouth. “I’ll be back as
soon as I can.”

“There’s no rush,” I pointed out. I was getting a

little fed up of these sudden departures. “You don’t
have to leave right away. Tomorrow will be soon
enough. You could get in touch with Jerry as well
-in fact, it might be better if he’s the front man and
makes contact with Wendlow with the offer of more
goodies. Let him take the risks - he’s the one that
started this unholy mess in the first place - and once
he’s inside - “

“Perhaps,” he said, sitting down again. But I

guessed he had no intention of letting Jerry do it.Fox
had plans of his own that I ought not to know about,
I was certain. But there was something I definitely
did want to know.

“Why do you want me to have the Adam portrait?”

I asked him casually and the shutters come down
behind his eyes.

“Why not?” he said, turning back to his Bovril.He

shrugged, and I could feel the movement of the long
muscles against my knees. “You’ll give him a better
home than Wendlow. Or Baverstock.”

“Not good enough. Try again.” He put the mug in

the hearth and turned round. There was that amused
affection back in his expression but his smile was
taut.

“Rent?” he suggested. I threatened to wallop him.
“Compensation?”
“For what?”
He shrugged again, expression becoming

grim.“We don’t know how this is going to turn out,”
he answered. “I want to be sure you’re not going to
suffer for it, be out of pocket. At times,” he continued,
and there was suddenly an incredible bitterness in

his eyes, “with some people, I cannot stomach the
lies - “ He broke off, coming to his feet with lithe
speed, taking me totally by surprise.

Something happened. I don’t know what. He

didn’t change exactly. It was as if he’d been pulled
into sharper focus. Everything about him was the
same as it had been before, only more so. I’d already
had a glimpse of this, I realised. Fire and ice.
Something elemental, savage and unpredictable and
overwhelmingly alive. And very, very dangerous.
Then he was just Fox again, like a switch being
thrown, but the tension in him was close to breaking
point. I had another swallow of coffee for the shock.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so quietly I could hardly hear

it. “That was - careless of me … “ His hands were
shaking as he raked them through his hair.

“What are you on?” I asked as gently as I could.

He stared at me blankly. “What drugs are you on?”

“I’m not,” he said and I would swear on a stack

of bibles his puzzlement was genuine. But then the
bitterness swept back and he was laughing it, an
unpleasant sound, cruel and mocking. His teeth
were very white, very sharp. In truth a fox. Or a red
wolf. “I’m going out,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be back
tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. “I want answers.”
“There are none.” Arrogant toe-rag.
He scooped up his helmet and started for the

door. But I can move fast as well when I have to and
I was there before him, leaning against it. “House
rules,” I said coldly. “I don’t give board and lodging
to homicidal maniacs. Give me answers.”

“Get out of my way.” His whisper was like frosted

silk, the kind of sound a sword might make when
it’s drawn from its scabbard. The switch had been
triggered the other way again and now all that
deadly intent was focused on me.

He dropped the helmet and moved forward, a

smooth hunter’s glide. I looked into his green Fenris-
eyes and for a moment couldn’t even breathe. His
hands fastened like metal bands on my upper arms,
icy-cold and with more strength than I’d thought
possible. He smiled, a feral baring of his teeth, and
I was put to one side as if I was no more than an
importunate child.

I dragged air into my lungs and braced my hands

on his shoulders, digging my fingers into the locked
muscles beneath the leather jacket. The tension in
him was tight wound and poised on the edge of
violence. It howled a warning to every instinct I
possessed. I should have been scared out of what
few wits remained to me. But I wasn’t.Maybe it was
the memory of the affection I’d seen in him not so
very long ago, but I knew I had no real cause to be
afraid of him. I also knew that if I let him out of the
door, there would be more wormwood and gall for
him to add to the load he already carried.

“No,” I said. “Adam, listen to me.” It was the first

time I’d used his real name, and it startled him. The
clamp of his fingers eased a little and I watched
sanity filter back into his eyes, watched the self-
loathing crowding in on its heels. He started to pull
away but it was my turn to hold on. “I don’t know
what devil is driving you, and if you say it’s not drugs

then I believe you, but you’re not going anywhere
tonight. We are going to sit down and talk about it
and if I can help I will.”

He was back in control now. His hands dropped

to his sides and those striking features were a
blank mask. “I have no answers for you,” he said
quietly.“Let me go, Robert.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.” The muscles under my hands

quivered and twitched with the effort to remain
inactive, shouting the lie. His eyes, though, were
ocean-deep, limpid and calm. The haze came back
and there was nothing wrong, bar my over-active
imagination. Nothing wrong at all ... “I’m going
home,” he explained, “to collect the bait for the trap.”

Trap. And I was the one who had almost walked

into believing what he wanted me to believe: that all
was well with him. It wasn’t. At some point in the near
future, I was going to demand some answers on the
weird distraction that hazed my thoughts whenever
I asked questions he didn’t want to answer, but for
now all my concentration was on him. A faint sheen
of perspiration highlighted the line of the proud
bones of his features. His breathing was fast and
shallow, nostrils flaring slightly at each in-drawn
breath, and close as we were I could see the ghosts of
freckles on the pallor of his cheekbones. Something
that was almost pain twisted in my stomach and of
their own volition my hands moved to cup his face,
fingers tangling in the fine silk of his hair. I traced
my thumb along the line of the scar. His skin felt
chill, smooth as ice, even the untidy ridge of tissue.

His eyes widened with shock and his cold fingers

closed round my wrists, the band of his ring cutting
into me. Shit! I’d just made a pass at a straight man!
How could I make such a stupid mistake? But he
didn’t use that athlete’s strength of his to break free.
My breathing was erratic, getting mixed up with my
heartbeat. The whole room moved with the rhythm of
it, everything except Fox, and my vision of him was
sharp and clear. He was as unyielding as marble,
as pure as a new-forged blade and as innocent as a
carnivore, and more alive than anyone I have met
before. What the fuck was going on?

“Robert Rees,” he said shakily, “you’re a fool,”

and leaned through the few inches that separated
us and kissed me. His lips were cool and soft and
sent a bolt of lightning through me clear to the pit
of my stomach and my genitals. My blood rushed
south and I became hard so quickly I was giddy.
Which was daft - worse, moronic, because he was
virtually a stranger, and I have never, ever, let a date
with a man I barely know get out of control and this
was no date - what in God’s name was happening
to me?This was absolutely insane and I should be
shoving him off. But did I really want to? The kiss
deepened, and I suddenly recognised the tension in
him for what it was. An overriding hunger, and it
triggered off a hunger of my own.

Confusion, I decided, could wait. Life’s for living,

pleasure’s for sharing and I wanted him. It was as
simple as that, and just because I had never given
in to that basic need on such a short acquaintance
before, there was no reason not to then and there. I

opened my mouth for the satin glide of his probing
tongue, welcomed the wildfire surge flooding
through me.

It’s a cliché to say time stood still, but in a strange

way it did. My consciousness narrowed down to the
taste of him, the scent of him, the texture of his hair
and the shape of his head in my hands. A distant part
of my mind recognised that this had been building
between us ever since he turned up on the doorstep
only a day or so ago.Days? I think I’d known him
all my life - I couldn’t begin to understand all the
whys and wherefores, it was just there, complete in
itself. He broke the kiss first, pushing back against
the death-grip I had on him. “You taste better than
the finest wine,” he whispered. “I could get drunk
on you.”

“Be my guest,” I said crazily and he began to

chuckle. It felt very good to be so close. The strength
of his lean body was added fuel for the fire spreading
out from deep within in me.

“Rob, you’re impossible,” he sighed, voice husky-

rich with caring and desire. “Are you sure? You
haven’t a clue what you’re doing - “

“Of course I’m sure!” I said, stung. “I haven’t

been a virgin since I was fift - “

“Robert,” he cut in. “Shut up.” And kissed me

again, giving a small growl of pleasure against my
mouth, body arching lithe and supple as a great
feline. I could feel the power of him, the hard potency
of his erection pressing against mine, the silken heat
of his mouth and the incandescence pulsing beat for
beat with my heart. His lips moved across the line

of my jaw, leaving a lava trail of kisses. I buried my
face in his hair, he smelt of sandalwood and myrrh. I
found an ear and kissed it, nuzzling in to nibble the
lobe. He shivered and pressed closer, his erection
swelling even more in the confining leather of his
trousers. His hips moved in rhythm with mine,
spiralling sensation to a higher sphere. “I’m sorry,”
he whispered against my throat. At least, I think
that’s what he said. I couldn’t hear much above the
thunder of my pulse.Then everything was drifting
away from me, except that incredible fire and I
was falling slowly into a black velvet void wrapped
around like Lucifer in wings of flame.

What the fu ... ?

Chapter Eight

I woke up in stages, the way I usually do, and

lay for a while curled around my pillow wondering
what had awakened me. The luminous dial of my old
alarm clock told me it was ten past one. I was heavy-
limbed and lethargic, still more than half asleep,
and the echo of a weird and incredibly erotic dream
floated around in my head. I smirked to myself in the
darkness. So why was I wasting time? I should be
sound asleep and going through the action replays.
Which were - what? I frowned. The dream skittered
away from me as they usually do when you try to pin
them down. John and I -no, not John. Fox. I’d been
having an erotic dream about the lodger again. Oh,
well, hormones will be hormones and God knows he
was certainly decorative.

I burrowed a little deeper into my pillow and

closed my eyes. Sandalwood and myrrh. My body
throbbed, a warm, delicious feeling, and my cock
thickened with more than morning wood. It’s funny
how evocative scents are. In my dream Fox had
smelt of - wait a minute. I sat bolt upright, the night
air cold on my bare skin. In my dream Fox had gone
a little crazy and I had stopped him from leaving
because I was afraid he was going to do something
stupid - we were at the door, I had hold of him, and
he’d kissed me. My body pulsed again and my cock
nudged against the sheet. Then what? Nothing. No
more dream. Only the impression of sensuality, of
eroticism, almost abstract but blindingly intense.

Try as I might, I couldn’t remember any more. But
then, I couldn’t recall coming to bed, either. I rubbed
my hands over my face, yawning, and froze in mid-
yawn. Sandalwood and myrrh. From his hair. On my
hands. And I was naked.

What the hell was going on? My mind stopped

playing tricks on me and I inspected the memory
with what I tried to keep as a clinical detachment,
but failed.It ended with his whispered ‘I’m sorry’.
I’d blacked out for some reason - not because I didn’t
want to remember, blast it - I don’t need a Freudian
brain-descrambler! I could remember that slow,
pleasurable fall into the dark but nothing else. Fox
must have somehow carried me up to my bed. No
mean feat given I probably weighed the same as he
did, and undressed me.

By this time the liquid warmth of arousal had

disappeared, leaving me feeling chilled. Was my
heart playing tricks on me? Then there were those
odd hazy moments I’d been experiencing - incipient
blackouts?What causes blackouts? Blood pressure,
brain tumour, epilepsy - no, I am not a hypochondriac,
but can you blame me for worrying? I was also very
thirsty, and there was fruit juice in the fridge.

Feeling a bit weak at the knees, I pulled on my

bath robe, tied it securely and tottered carefully
down the stairs, and opened the door to the living
room.

The fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth and

provided the only light in the room. It glowed on
Fox’s hair and skin, and threw strange highlights
on the black leather trousers which were all he was

wearing.He lay in a lazy sprawl on the hearthrug,
belly down, chin propped on his hands, reading an
old book. A brandy snifter stood on the rug nearby,
about an inch of alcohol left in it.

I coughed loudly and had the pleasure of startling

him. He got to his feet with his characteristic
grace and stared at me without speaking. For a
brief moment he looked shocked, bemused, as if
he couldn’t believe I was standing there. Then his
chin jutted arrogantly and it sparked my anger until
I recognised the guilt beneath. And I realised the
hungry tension that had made him so dangerous last
night was no longer there.He was wary, yes, but that
was all. Interesting. Fox hadn’t struck me as being
the type to suffer from sexual repression on that
scale, but what did I know about him? Bugger all,
other than the few snippets he’d thrown casually at
my feet. So to speak.

“You put a little too much whisky in your coffee,”

he said, the smile switching on a little late. Like hell I
had.The last coffee I’d drunk had been unadulterated.
What was he playing at?

“Oh. I see.” And I did. He thought I didn’t

remember last night, or if I did, might want to forget
it happened so he offered me an excuse. I perched
on the arm of the wing-chair, as much for support as
an air of nonchalance. “Care to fill me in on what I
missed, Reynard?”

He eyed me with increased wariness. “Missed?”

he echoed.

“The last thing I can remember is lust on the

doormat, and as I have never yet passed out after

drinking caffeine, I’d like to know what happened.
Or at least carry on where we left off,” I added
without thinking. To my dying day I will swear that
he blushed.I couldn’t be absolutely sure, of course,
and it might have been the firelight on his skin, but-
Abruptly he was angry. “God-cursed fool!” he yelled
and pounced on me, grabbing a double handful
of bath robe and shaking me. “Always pushing,
breaking through when you should be - why couldn’t
you stay where you were? You should be asleep!”

“Sleeping the sleep of the innocent and just?” I

raised an eyebrow at him.

“The?” Then anger went as quickly as it had come

and his voice was quivering slightly. With laughter, I
realised, irritated. Talk about mood swings. “Are you
thirsty?” he asked. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
It was the most natural thing in the world to slide my
arms around his waist.

“In a minute,” I said. “Is there anything wrong?

I meant it when I said I want to help.” Initially he
hesitated, then sighed and leaned against me, his
arms about my shoulders. He was on the edge of
laughter again, damn him. Where was the joke, for
God’s sake?

“You don’t give up, do you?” he sighed. “Don’t

worry about me, Rob. I’m a predator, I can survive
anything.How about you?” Now that was a challenge
if ever I heard one.

“I’ve got Romani and Irish tinker in my family

tree -we’re natural-born survivors. I’d say we’re a
good pair.”

“That’s settled then,” he said. “I’ll get you that

drink.”But he didn’t seem in any hurry to go, and
I was in no hurry to release him. It was a strange
and rather intoxicating feeling, all the dangerous
swift power of him quiescent in my arms, and it was
something I’ve never experienced before.

I moved my hands slowly up and down his back,

relishing the contour of muscle-over-bone, the sheer
maleness of him. I have a weakness for a healthily
muscled, attractive man, but I had never before felt
this playing-with-fire high. Who is he? Why is he
really here? “Stop thinking,” he whispered, mouth on
my throat just below my ear. “You’ll get a headache.”

And why me, I wondered suddenly. Is he using

me as a means to an end? “No,” he said. “My word
on it. I didn’t expect this to happen - “ What the hell?
He is reading my— Fox leaned back against my
arms, studying my face with an unnerving intensity,
and I forgot what I was going to say and why. “A
bonus?” he asked with the wry smile that had caught
me right from the start.

“I’d say so,” I agreed.
“There is an old proverb,” he went on as if I hadn’t

spoken. “Perhaps you know it? ‘Take what you want,
says God, take it and pay.’”

“I’ve heard it.”
“I live it,” he said, “and I have done for a very

long time. I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t pay
as well.Do you still think we’re a good pair?” He
wasn’t talking about a one night stand, I was certain.
Hope brought its own delirium.

“Tailor-made,” I assured him. My pulse was

picking up its beat and spreading warmth through

my body.

“Good. This is as serious as I intend to get on the

matter. I’ll fetch that drink and you can make yourself
comfortable in front of the fire. I’m not making love
with you on an old table.”

“It’s eighteenth century,” I told him sternly.
“Well, I’m not, and I’m old-fashioned about some

things.” That struck me as funny. There he was,
seducing me out of any sanity I had left, and primly
declaring he was old-fashioned. I started snickering.
Couldn’t help it.

I was still snorting quietly to myself when Fox

came back with the nearly full carton of orange-juice
and a half-pint glass. I’d settled myself on the sofa
and he sat beside me. He poured out a glassful and
handed it over, I drained that and he poured another
without speaking. His features were pensive,
almost sad.“Penny for them,” I prompted, my thirst
temporarily assuaged. He gave a shrug and a slight
smile.

“You’re an unusual man, Rob Rees,” he said

quietly.“I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like
you.”

“They broke the mould,” I said with an expansive

gesture that was half invitation. He leaned against
me and I held him close. He was relaxed and warm
from the fire, apparently happy to be where he was.
Curiosity as well as desire was alive and well and
gnawing at my vitals, and I couldn’t resist it. So, at
the risk of destroying the mood, “What was wrong
with you last night?” I asked quietly, tightening my
hold on him a little. Tension rippled through him,

then ebbed away.He didn’t answer. Didn’t intend
to answer, I guessed. I switched to another track.
“Forget that, then. Tell me about yourself, hmm?”

He turned in my embrace, half-lying across my

lap.Rather sharp elbows dug into my ribs as he
propped his chin on his hands and stared at me from
a distance of about two inches. There was a laughing
devil lurking behind the sunny green of his eyes.
“You’re relentless,”he observed. “I’ve already told
you about myself.”

“No,” I said. “You told me about the scar and

which county you come from along with some family
history, and that’s it.”

“Oh. I thought there was more.”
“I’m sure there is, but you haven’t said anything

about it.”

“All right, what do you want to know?” His gaze

drifted slowly over my face, as if charting every
millimetre of it, as tangible as a caress. There was
a powerful sensuality about him, I could breathe it
in like the sandalwood and myrrh of his hair. He
removed his elbows and shifted so that he was lying
along my side and slid his hand inside my bath robe,
teasing my nipples with his nails. I forgot most of
what I was going to say, while at the same time
knowing I was being deliberately distracted.

“Everything,” I murmured.
“That could take quite a time.” Fox chuckled

quietly.He sounded a little breathless. “But you’re
the boss. I was born at the Grange.” He dropped his
head to my shoulder. “My father’s name was John,
my mother’s Elizabeth … “ His breath was warm

and moist on my throat, I could feel the movement
of his lips as he spoke and his fingers were drifting
over my abdomen, tracing patterns of sensation that
added to the distraction. “My brother James was
born a year later and Mary two years after that.” He
fumbled down to the belt of my bath robe and untied
it, pushed the fabric aside and exposed me. “Rob ...
“ he whispered reverently, and leaned down to trail
kisses along the route his fingers had drawn, from
my nipples to my navel.

By this time I didn’t give a toss about his family

tree.A jolt went through me at every touch of his lips,
my cock was hot and leaking on my belly, and all I
wanted was him, any way I could have him. He was
a fever in my blood, burning away the last vestiges
of common sense. But more than a healthy lust, I
liked him, liked simply being with him... But he was
overdressed. I tried to get to the waistband of his
trousers, but our positions didn’t allow it.

“Fox, shed the leather,” I pleaded. “I need you

naked.”

“Yes,” he said, tugging at my bath robe, “and you

need to lose this.”

The bath robe was easily disposed of, and I

watched him peel out of the close-fitting trousers.
How he managed it with speed and grace I have no
idea.Natural talent, I supposed. For a moment he
stood there, gloriously erect, and if it wasn’t for the
wonder and affection glowing in his eyes, I might
have been intimidated by his perfection. Why me,
for God’s sake?My body was good, my face wouldn’t
crack mirrors, but I simply wasn’t in his class. Was I

just a convenient fuck?

“You’re thinking again,” Fox accused, and

pushed me gently sideways to lie along the couch.
He knelt astride me and with a fast wriggle and slide
he lay down, covering me. His weight pinned us
together, our cocks side by side between our bellies.
Precome flowed from both of us, slick and smooth.
“You don’t see yourself as I see you. You’re strong,
Rob. You ground me, and I need that. You remind
me I’ve been alone far too long.” He rolled his hips
and we were pressed so closely together I might as
well be inside him by the way pleasure struck its bolt
through me. “I need you ... “

“You’ve got me.” I wrapped one hand in his hair

and angled his head so I could kiss him, my tongue
licking deep into his mouth, tasting brandy and
something spicy-sweet. My other hand was clamped
on his buttock, holding him as close as I could while
we rocked as one. Sweat and precome lubricated
our bellies, the slide of sensitive flesh over body hair
enhancing the enjoyment. We kept the pace slow,
our bodies moving with perfect synchronicity in
that most ancient of dances, and I lost track of time.
There was simply Fox and me, caught up in our own
world of joyous sensuality. But it couldn’t last.

The ecstasy soared, sharp as blades and soul-

deep, sweeping me on to a place I have rarely
attained. I revelled in it, didn’t want it to end. There
was only this incredible incubus and the scorching
gift he was giving. It peaked like an earthquake and
it was as if the very essence of my life was being
tapped. Those wings of fire came beating out of

pulsing darkness to fold around me, but this time I
didn’t pass out. Instead I floated safe and warm as
my heart gradually slowed down to its normal beat,
aware of Fox sprawled across me, heavy and sated in
my arms, his head on my shoulder. Then he kissed
my throat and slid down my body to lick through
the semen spilled on my belly. It took him a while to
clean me up, and he used my towelling bath robe to
wipe his own skin clean. Then he came back to my
arms and stretched out with a contented murmur.

“I love the taste of you,” he whispered. “I could

drink you dry ... “ That sounded like a wonderful
plan, when we’d recovered.

A long time later, I stirred, remembering I had

condoms and Astroglide upstairs in my bedside
cabinet. “I’ve got an idea,” I said into his hair. “Why
don’t we go to bed?” So we did.

* * *

For a while we just curled together under the

duvet, kissing and exploring, until our cocks rose
again, hard and ready for more. Then Fox prepared
me with lube and clever fingers, and he slid into me
with moans of intense pleasure from both of us. I
locked my legs high around his ribs and rode him
from beneath, trying to slow the pace, not wanting
the ecstasy to end.

“Don’t come,” he panted. “Don’t - I want to suck

you, drink all of you - “

I whimpered. “Are you insane?” I demanded

breathlessly. “After saying - that - you expect - me
to be able to - “ Then he was shuddering, rhythm

broken, control broken. He drove deep into me,
gasping my name and pulsing his release into the
condom. How I held back my own orgasm I’ll never
know, but I managed it somehow, though I was
sweating and shaking by the time Fox withdrew and
collapsed on me. I wrapped my arms around him,
stroking his back, half-expecting him to roll away
with only a sleepy acknowledgement. But he didn’t.
He kissed me as if his life depended on it, then
wriggled carefully down the bed until he was lying
between my legs. And proceeded to suck my brains
out via my cock.

Fox had the most talented mouth I’ve ever

experienced, and it took every bit of my crumbling
self-control not to choke him or pull his hair out in
handfuls.Instead I kept my hips still, caressed his
hair with shaking hands and whispered sentimental
nothings, while he did things with his tongue I
didn’t think possible. But I made mental notes as
best I could. After all, every good turn deserves to
be returned, right? My climax hit like a train, and
I know it’s a cliché, but that was truly what it was
like. One of those very long goods trains that jolted
over the points in a steady, unrelenting tempo. I was
boneless and incoherent by the time he let my cock
slip out of his mouth with a gentle pop. Then he
crawled up my body, hooked one leg over my thighs,
rested on hand over my heart and his head on my
shoulder.

“Rob ... “ he breathed on a long sigh, and relaxed

into sleep. I followed him moments later.

* * *

I was awakened at some ungodly hour as he slid

carefully out from under the duvet and kissed my
forehead.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m off to

collect the bait.” Bait? Oh, yes. Bait.

* * *

I dozed for a while, feeling very good about life

in general and myself in particular in spite of, or
more likely because of, the various tender parts of
my anatomy. I’d come twice more in the night; once
buried deep in Fox, and later with him filling me.
I revelled in the memories, my overworked cock
somehow managing to struggle valiantly to half-
mast. But gradually darker thoughts began to creep
in. Like Henry Wendlow, George Baverstock to a
lesser extent, and what we were going to do about
the portraits.

Plan A was largely cobbled together in my head,

and while it had a cast of thousands - well, four or
five -bits of it were still nebulous. The important
bits, like how Jerry and/or Fox were going to get
the portraits away from Wendlow once they had
actually got inside his damned house, and without
any repercussions.Especially without repercussions.
We should have a conference. Sit round the kitchen
table and bounce ideas off each other.

The best way to resolve it would be an accident.

Or rather for Wendlow to believe an accident had
happened and the pictures had been destroyed. Yes,
that would do it, and if it could be swung so that it

looked as if either or both of the Tweedles were to
blame then all the better.

In fact, there was a way that I, personally and on

my own, could get my paws on Adam without Fox or
anyone else being involved. Rees vs. Tweedledum &
Tweedledee. I thanked God Fox was safely out of the
way heading for Somerset. All I had to do was wait.

And think of a way to slant the blame.

* * *

It was gone ten o’clock by the time I finally

crawled out of the wreck of the bed and lurched into
the bathroom. I felt about a hundred years old and
as if the marrow had been drawn out of my bones.
I’ve had the occasional orgy, but last night was
something else entirely. From the mirror, my face
smirked back at me, heavy-eyed and complacent.
There were marks on my throat and the line of my
collarbone - love-bites. I could vaguely remember
giving him one or two similar ones.

But Fox was still an enigma I was no nearer

solving.Then again, did I really want to solve it? All
this trying to find out what makes a person tick, isn’t
that a bit like making a commitment of some kind?
Not only had I known him for just a few days, but
he was entirely the wrong personality for a long-
term relationship. I wasn’t exactly sure what the
role model was in that department, but somehow I
couldn’t see Fox being very domesticated and I am
very fond of my creature comforts. On the other hand,
he was one of those people I’ve known for ever. You
must know how it is -you meet a total stranger and

it’s like meeting an old friend you haven’t seen for
a while. You ground me, he’d said ... Furthermore,
making love with him had been fantastic. I could
feel a headache coming on so I gave up trying to
puzzle it out.

It took a large pot of tea and a plate of eggs

and bacon to begin to restore me to something
approaching my usual vitality, and I was singing
cheerfully to myself as I strolled across the yard to
the workshop to put the finishing touches to Beau’s
screen. The work went well, but most of the time
I kept all ears cocked for the phone or the door-
knocker. Uncle Joe should be reporting back pretty
soon.

Chapter Nine

He reported back all right. Lisa delivered him

mid-morning and we retreated to the kitchen for a
tea break. She’d come across Uncle Joe in Salisbury
and he’d promptly cadged a lift out to the cottage.He
was fairly well-oiled into the bargain, but that was,
after all, his natural state, so he retained enough
discretion not to babble on about Wendlow in front
of her, just in case she wasn’t in on it already.

Lisa, though, had no such compunction.

“I’ve been making a few discreet enquiries,” she
announced cheerfully as I made a fresh pot of tea
for all of us. “About Henry Wendlow. By the way,
where’s Fox today?”

“Out,” I told her. “Don’t know where.” There was

the unmistakable sound of a motorbike turning into
the yard, but it wasn’t the Beast’s distinctive engine
note.

“What a pity,” she cooed. “I was looking forward

to meeting him again. An interesting young man.”

“I don’t know about that,” I shrugged. “Bikers are

ten a penny these days and they don’t often have too
many brain-cells to rub together. Did I ever tell you
about when Mike brought Mad Dog home?”

“Frequently, dear. But from what you’ve said

about him he is not at all decorative. Fox, on the
other hand, is remarkably good-looking.”

“Who’s good-looking?” Mike asked, entering the

kitchen with his usual bouncing swagger. “Me?” He
left his helmet on top of the fridge and joined us at

the table, helping himself to a mug of tea. I ignored
him.

“Handsome is,” I said sternly, “as handsome

does.”

“Absolutely,” Lisa agreed, nodding vigorously. “I

couldn’t agree more. Could you, Uncle? Mike?” And
all the time she was staring at me, those gimlet eyes
fastened on a point just below the angle of my jaw.
I could feel my colour rising. “I trust the carnivore
of your acquaintance is also handsome?” she added
sweetly, Robert Rees, who are you trying to kid?unsaid
but clearly understandable.

Mike followed the line of her gaze and he started

to chuckle.

“Did Fox change your mind about the bodyguard

thing?” he asked innocently. “Thought perhaps he
might.”

“Good idea, that,” Uncle Joe put in. “The cottage

needs a watchdog with all the valuables Alan’s got
laying around in here. And maybe, Robbie-lad,” he
added after a pause, “Alan’s fall wasn’t an accident.”

“That’s what I said!” Mike said smugly.

Then his expression changed. “What else has
happened?Where is Fox, anyhow?”

I hesitated for what felt like a long time. How

nasty was this likely to get? But then, I’d already
brought them in so far with the stuff I’d asked them
to find out.

“Out checking on someone,” I answered. “A

man called Henry Wendlow started to show a lot
of interest in the Courtney-Darcy panels - one of
Dad’s projects,” I added for the benefit of Lisa and

Uncle Joe. “And now it’s turning rather difficult.” I
hesitated again, then shrugged. “Mike, you were
right about the panels being stolen.” I owed him that
much, after all, and told them about Fox Courtney,
Jerry the Burglar, and that I’d handed over Adam’s
portrait as part of a bid to draw Wendlow in with
more Elizabethan goodies. “I’m trying to learn more
about him,” I finished.

Lisa and Uncle Joe were gaping at me with their

jaws dropping. Mike was fuming.

“There is no way that bastard is getting his paws

on Ann!” he blazed.

That seemed to jolt Lisa to attention. She

straightened her spine and glared at me, Fox
effectively banished from her mind if her scowl was
anything to go by. “That isn’t what you told me!” she
snapped.

“I wasn’t sure then,” I answered. “Now I am. Did

you find anything?”

“Not a lot,” she replied grimly. “But he certainly

isn’t interested in antiques, according to Simon.

He’s a widower, hasn’t got much of a social life,

does a fair bit of yachting, belongs to the local Hunt.
As far as work is concerned, he’s got a reputation
in the City for closing deals even when the odds
are against him. He’s ruthless, unscrupulous and
successful. Simon doesn’t like him,” she added.
Those last four words told me everything I needed
to know.

“What about you?” I asked Uncle Joe.
There are times when his voice resembles

traditional Christmas pudding: rich, fruity and

soaked in alcohol. “They don’t think much of him in
Lockeridge, either,” he announced. “Wendlow’s not
liked but he is respected. Marston House was in his
wife’s family, but they took it on when they married.

He’s on his own, no live-in servants apart from a

chauffeur and a security guard.” They would be the
Tweedles, I assumed. “The cook comes in five days
a week, the housekeeper two. No entertaining, no
guests.”

“What about his horses?” Lisa said, frowning.
“Cook’s daughter looks after them. She and

her parents live in the lodge, about half a mile
from the house and stables. Cook’s husband does
the gardens,” he added as an afterthought. “It’s a
nice little place - part of the east wing is sixteenth
century, and the rest of it is early-nineteenth,” Uncle
Joe went on. “But that’s all I could see from the
lodge. He’s got CCTV and some bloody great dogs
to discourage the casual caller.” Okay, that knocked
Plan A out of the water. Burglary was no longer an
option. The Wells, Stockwell and Hughes relations
might well be poachers par excellence - Ocean’s
Eleven they were not.

“You were careful, I hope?” I said sternly.
“Very, Robbie-lad.” He pushed at the thick tangle

of greying hair falling over one bloodshot eye and
studied me with a surprisingly acute gaze. “Spoke
to the Stockwell cousins - they work that area pretty
regular. Wendlow’s a bad man to cross. He’s had the
dogs set on trespassers a few times.”

“About the dogs,” I said.
“Four of ‘em, according to Mrs Johnson. Bloody

big brutes. Teeth like a shark’s. Rot-things.”

“Oh.”
“Robert,” Lisa cut in, bristling curiosity as

a cat bristles whiskers, “what exactly are you
planning?Helping Fox steal the portrait back?”

“Of course not. Just collecting what information

we can so we can decide what would be the best way
to approach him.”

“Rob,” Mike snapped. “I wasn’t born yesterday.

You’re getting involved with something a lot heavier
than that, aren’t you?” The next thing would be Can
I help? “I want to lend a hand.” Almost right.

“Me, too!” Lisa said.
“Crossing him and Alan,” Uncle Joe volunteered

unnecessarily. “Wendlow is, I mean. Not bloody
having that. Count me in, Robbie-lad.”

“I could always invite him to dinner,” Lisa

suggested. “That would give you and Fox a chance
at the house.”

“Not with CCTV and Rot-things roaming the front

lawn,” I said. Splendid dogs, Rottweilers. I have a lot
of respect for their jaws. “Don’t bother for now. Give
us a chance to think some more about it and work
things out.” I already had - sit tight and wait.

* * *

For the first time I was glad to see my family leave.

I had a lot to think about, one way or another, and
they were distractions I couldn’t afford. Apart from
Fox, there were Tweedledum and Tweedledee.I had
worked out it would take a couple of days for further
developments to arise in the Wendlow quarter. Which

meant waiting, and waiting gave my imagination
time to trot out all kinds of unpleasant possibilities.
Lurking in the background was a wild-eyed wonder
that I was actually coping with the whole bizarre
scenario. So far. Incipient panic wasn’t far away.

* * *

I made a fresh pot of tea and dug out an unopened

packet of biscuits. While the other major distraction
in my life was elsewhere, I could put together a few
contingency plans.

But life is never that easy.
“Mr Rees,” said the voice and I jumped like a

startled deer. Shit! A Tweedle stood just inside the
kitchen door, the other behind him like a shadow.
Men that size have no business moving so quietly.
I hadn’t heard a thing. “Our employer has a
commission for you.”

“Sorry,” I said as calmly and offhand as I

could.“I’m up to my eyes at the moment. Call back
next week.”

“Another ten thousand,” he went on as if I hadn’t

said a word, “for you to complete the cleaning work
you’ve already begun.”

The movement my heart made in my chest

mimicked the frantic flopping of a trout stranded on
a riverbank. I’d been counting on this, but, God! not
so soon. “Oh, well, I’ll try to fit it in. Leave it on the
table, boys, and pop in next Tuesday.”

“Our employer,” said Tweedle Two, “requests

you accept his offer of hospitality until the work is
completed. You may bring with you any specialist

equipment you need. Everything else that is required
will be provided.”

That had not been part of my calculations and the

panic transmuted to nausea. “Come on,” I protested,
swallowing hard. “Be reasonable. I have an aged
father in hospital and a brain-dead brother- I simply
can’t just disappear for however long it takes - “

“Our employer,” One intoned, “offers five hundred

pounds a day over and above the agreed fee.”

They’d almost certainly expect me to attempt to

bargain, so - “Six hundred,” I countered promptly.

“It is not negotiable,” he said, inscrutable as

Stonehenge.

In the meantime my brain had kicked into top

gear. There was added risk of course, being on the
inside, but there were no more options. From now on
in, I would be playing it by ear. I just hoped I was up
to the challenge.

“Okay,” I said. “There’s stuff I’ll need in the

workshop, I’ll have to pack some clothes and give
the lodger some dos and don’ts.” They nodded.

“We are instructed to tell you that your discretion

must be absolute,” Two warned.

“And,” One continued, “that there is the strong

possibility of other such commissions in the future
should your work be of the required standard. If it is
not or if your discretion is not watertight, there will,
of course, be serious repercussions.”

“He can rely on me,” I replied with a casualness

I was far from feeling. Two’s words had been the
closest so far to an outright threat, and held the
chilling certainty of Holy Writ.

* * *

I packed all I’d need for the portrait into a holdall

and dumped it in Tweedledum’s arms, then repeated
the process for my own basic necessities.

Back in the kitchen, I wrote a quick note. A job

calls and I’m off for a few days. Tell Mike to tell the
old curmudgeon he’s to behave himself and I’ll visit
him as soon as I get back. Don’t give Beau his fire
screen until the day after tomorrow when the glue’s
hardened off and not until you’ve seen the colour of
his money. Don’t let Uncle Joe get his paws on Dad’s
alcohol or I’ll break your neck. Tell Lisa I can’t make
her dinner party, but I’m looking forward to meeting
her man very soon. Stay put and guard the stock.
Cryptic, but I daren’t be any more specific. I just
hoped Fox would read between the lines and my
mind.

Tweedles One and Two gave my note the seal of

their approval and I signed it with a flourish, the
elaborate scrawl masking the shaking of my hand.

I left the note propped up against the Bovril jar

and grabbed my jacket. “Ready when you are,” I
said with a jauntiness I did not feel. The two men
said nothing, just escorted me out to the large black
Mercedes. My tatty luggage was placed in the boot,
I was placed in the back seat like royalty, and we
drove off.

* * *

Just outside Marlborough they pulled into a

convenient lay-by and Two joined me in the back.

“Just a couple of minor precautions, Mr Rees,” he

said. “Our employer requests you humour his whim
and put this on until we arrive.” ‘This’ was a black
hood.

“A little melodramatic,” I muttered, but pulled it

over my head. I wasn’t going to argue, especially as
I knew where we were going - or hoped I did. But
he’d said ‘a couple’… He started to pat over me and
I jerked away from him.

“No need to panic,” Tweedle Two said

imperturbably, taking my iPhone from my
pocket.“Your mobile will be returned to you when
you leave.”

* * *

The hood stayed on for some time. We must

have been driving round in circles for the most part.
I could appreciate that a person’s sense of time is
likely to be up the creek when in potentially hostile
company while wearing a blindfold, but it doesn’t
take that long to get from Wilsford to Lockeridge.

When we did stop, I was kept hooded as they

guided me out of the car. They steered me across
gravel that crunched under my feet, and up some
stone steps into what felt like a large hallway. Some
forty paces later, I was taken down a flight of narrow
stairs and along a passage.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said a cool, suave

voice.“You may remove the hood, Mr Rees, and
thank you for co-operating.”

Wendlow was at least a couple of inches over

six foot, ramrod of spine and with the shoulders of
a bullock. He had dark hair sleeked back and one

of those raw-boned faces with weather-beaten skin,
and narrowed granite eyes as if he squinted into
a strong wind all the time. The old school tie and
Yachting Club type. And yes, I could see that he
would be a bad man to cross, and dangerous.

The room was pretty interesting as well. Used to

be a wine cellar by the look of it. Now it was all set
up to be an art restorer’s dream. My holdalls sat on
the workbench, shapeless and out of place. Beside
them lay the portrait.

“Any difficulties, gentlemen?” Wendlow queried.
“None, sir,” One answered. “He left a note for his

lodger. All above board, sir, no hints.”

“Excellent. That’ll be all for now. Sit down, Mr

Rees.” They left and I sat at the bench. “My staff will
see that your stay here is comfortable. Do you have
all you need to continue with the portrait?”

“Yes,” I said. “For now.”
“Good. Perhaps you’d care to make yourself at

home before you start. Lunch will be in half an hour.
By the way, this door will be locked and you will not
leave this area unescorted. All facilities you will need
are here, from the kitchenette to the toilet.Ring that
bell and my staff will come. Good day, Mr Rees.”

“Good day,” I echoed with a calmness I was far

from feeling, and didn’t move until I was on my own.

Chapter Ten

As workshops go it was almost perfect. All it

needed was natural light instead of those fancy
tubes that are supposed to be the same as daylight
but aren’t quite. The fridge and the cupboards in the
little kitchen were stocked up as if against a siege,
all of it from Fortnum & Mason. The small bedroom
with its cabin bunk was immaculately fitted out.

When I’d finished poking around I sat in the

filtered glow, did what I could to calm the terrified
churning of my stomach, and thought about Wendlow.
I was going to have to deal with this situation very,
very carefully.

Shortly afterwards Tweedledum came for me

and I was blindfolded again, escorted up the stairs
and along corridors until I was led into a room
and the hood removed. The walls were covered in
oak panelling carved in simple linenfold design,
beautifully done and clean-cut as if it had been
fashioned yesterday. It was sixteenth century. So
was the table, set for two and with Wendlow sitting in
solitary state at the head. A beautiful court cupboard
stood along the wall behind my chair.Carved stone
framed the fireplace where logs burned merrily. A
couple of exquisite Holbeins hung on the walls.
Even the lighting was by candles in silver sticks and
beautiful pewter wall-sconces.The chairs were later,
and they were the only things that were.

“Sit down, Mr Rees,” Wendlow said, geniality

personified. “Are you satisfied with the workshop?”

“It’ll do,” I answered casually as I took my seat.
Tweedledee served as the designated butler,

dishing out game soup from a silver tureen. He
might as well have been invisible for all the notice
Wendlow took of him. I did my best to do the same.

“Good,” he said. “How long will it take you to

complete the work?”

“Eight, nine days. Some of the initial stages have

already been done. I’ve got to the delicate stuff now,
actually lifting off the dirt and layers of varnish
without disturbing the paint. Then it’s a question
of repairing any damage, and stabilising the whole
thing.” He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t really
interested in the technicalities, just the finished
result.

“Do you anticipate any problems?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t have any with Ann.” I

wanted to kick myself.

Wendlow didn’t waste time, he snatched the

opening I’d given him. “Ah, yes. Ann Darcy. I really
must add her to my collection, Mr Rees.”

“I don’t think the owner is selling,” I said.
Tweedle Two removed the soup bowl and put

a plate of Steak Diane in front of me, afterwards
topping up my glass with the claret. So the meal
wasn’t going to be authentic Elizabethan cuisine.

“Oh, I think he would if he thought she was a

fake,” Wendlow said, smiling like a shark. “I am
acquainted with George Baverstock.”

“No, he wouldn’t. He’d have her tested, and

dendrochronology will confirm the age of the panel.”

“True, but your father has something of a

reputation, I believe, and Baverstock trusts you both
or you wouldn’t be continuing his excellent work.I’m
sure that if you or he were to tell Baverstock she
was a very clever forgery, he’d take your word for
it.”There was not a cat in hell’s chance Dad would
tell him any such thing. I probably would, if he used
the right kind of pressure. “I’ll make it worth your
while,” he was saying. “My supplier brought me
other items from the same source, things that do not
interest me. I’m certain they’d appeal to you. Some
perfect Fabergé and a pair of really lovely Limoges
candlesticks, worth quite a lot at auction, I’d say.”

Actually, I’d be more interested in the medieval

book of hours and the duelling pistols. “I expect
so,”I said steadily. “As long as the original owner
didn’t turn up for the bidding.”

Wendlow didn’t pretend any innocence. “Oh, he

won’t. I have it on the best authority he’s a frail old
man in his eighties who never goes further than the
village.”

Fox’s grandfather? Yet somehow I’d got the

impression he lived alone. “And if he’s reported his
-um - loss to the police?”

“He hasn’t. I have friends in high places, to coin

a well-worn phrase. Mr Courtney hasn’t reported a
thing.”

No. He just set his godless grandson on the

trail.“Poor old sod,” I muttered. “I bet he didn’t even
have any security alarms.”

“Correct. Though I have to confess I find your

sympathy for him a little out of place. After all, your
father has been working for Baverstock - among

others - for some time now. Most of those paintings
have come from ‘poor old sods’.” I couldn’t find
an answer to that. Except that Dad would never
knowingly work on anything stolen. I didn’t say it,
though. If Wendlow suspected I would be heading
for the nearest police station as soon as I got out of
there and to hell with the consequences, I had an
uncomfortable feeling I wouldn’t be getting out. So I
smiled and shrugged instead.

He took an envelope from his pocket, handed it

to the hovering Two to pass on to me. I opened it up
and found photographs.

A jewel of a house, mid-seventeenth century

stone alongside Tudor brick and timber, partially
surrounded by trees. Interior shots of rooms and their
contents, a haphazard of treasures, most of which
seemed to be in daily use rather than on display.
There were several of the portraits, hanging in their
alcoves, just as Fox had said, on either side of an
elegantly simple Adam fireplace. There were more
exterior shots, showing rain-swept outbuildings
forming another range, making the floor plan a
U-shape around a cobbled courtyard.

One photo also showed the figure of an old man

in a soaking wet raincoat. He was thin, slightly bent
of spine, and a gnarled, fine-boned hand clutched
the carved handle of a walking stick. The gaunt face
under the dripping hat-brim had Fox’s profile.

“He’s a widower. There’s a grandson somewhere,

but he’s rarely there. My supplier will be paying a
return visit before long.”

I sorted through the photos and found the close-

ups of some silver bowls and goblets, the shield
with its chevron and fleur-de-lys engraved on their
surfaces. “For these?” I asked, showing them to him.

“Yes, among others.” He eyed me narrowly. “Why

did you choose those, Mr Rees?”

“They’d fit in here,” I said casually, “on the court

cupboard.” Somehow I had to warn Fox his grand-
dad was for it again. It looked as if his burglar wasn’t
as cowed as he’d thought he was. It would be ironic
if the items Fox brought back had those goblets
among them.

“That’s very acute of you,” Wendlow smiled. “I

specialise, Mr Rees - or may I call you Robert? - and
I don’t like it when others encroach on my preserves.
I’m sure you can convince Baverstock to get rid of
Ann’s portrait. I have every faith in you.”

I took a deep breath. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I

can’t.”

“I beg your pardon?” As if I’d committed a social

solecism.

“We’ve already told him she’s a genuine

Elizabethan.” Which was the truth, after all.

“Then tell him you were mistaken.”
I stared at him. “Why don’t you simply make him

an offer and buy the bloody thing? Through a third
party, if necessary.”

His mouth thinned to a cold angry line, and

I could feel Two looming behind me. So much for
playing it carefully. “I don’t operate that way, Robert,”
Wendlow said softly. “Only my staff, my supplier
and now you know that I collect. I can’t have every
Tom, Dick and Harry knowing my business. But I’m

a reasonable man. Everyone has their price. When
I’ve found yours, I’ll ask you again.”

“I’ll do what I can to co-operate,” I said grimly,“as

long as it doesn’t compromise my Dad’s reputation
or mine. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“No, Robert. Finish your meal. We’ll talk again

later.” He dabbed a napkin to his mouth and walked
out.

Somehow I did carry on eating, though it was

ashes in my mouth. I was scared spitless of course,
but they didn’t have to know it, did they? They
couldn’t ever know how scared I was.

* * *

Back in the cellar-workshop, I was left to stew in

my own juices. No one came to check my progress
on Adam, or even that I’d started work on him at all.
Which was as well. I hadn’t touched him. I sat there
and drank a lot of coffee in the hope the caffeine
would stimulate my brain into producing some
master strategy. But all it did was send me hurrying
back and forth to the toilet. In between trips I sorted
through the tools and kitchen equipment, pocketing
anything that looked like it might be useful. Like the
Stanley knife.

At seven-thirty One came in and placed

something on the workbench and walked out again
without saying a word. It was a motorcycle helmet.
Black. The visor was splintered and deep scores
marred one side. I stared at it numbly for a long time
before I picked it up and examined it. There was no
sign of blood, thank God, but Fox must have come

off the Big Beast at a hell of a speed to damage the
thing like that.

A few minutes later Wendlow strolled in, smoking

a Havana. “Good evening, Robert,” he said genially.
“Are you going to co-operate?” Clutching the helmet
to me, I shook my head. He wasn’t close enough
for me to use my karate skills. And in any case, I’d
never used them in earnest before.Wendlow smiled.
“That is unfortunate. And by the look of it, you
aren’t keeping to your side of the contract as far as
this portrait is concerned. That is not clever of you,
young man.”

“Where’s Fox?” I demanded.
“Here, relatively undamaged, though I believe

his motorcycle is a write-off. He’ll be with you
shortly. I suggest that when he regains consciousness
you talk things over between the two of you. The
consequences could be quite serious, you know.”

I didn’t answer, and after a brief pause he left.

Within five minutes the door opened again and
Tweedle Two walked in, Fox’s body slung over
his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. All I could see
immediately was a large bruised lump on Fox’s
forehead and scuffing on the right shoulder, hip
and thigh of his leathers. With impersonal care, Two
laid him out on the floor three quarters prone in
the recovery position, then stood back. “As far as I
can ascertain, Mr Rees, he is merely concussed and
should be coming round before long with a severe
headache. If you are concerned about his condition,
ring the bell and we will come to your assistance.”

I gawped at him, unable to believe what I was

hearing. “In a pig’s ear,” I sneered and turned my
back on him, kneeling by Fox’s side. I didn’t hear the
door close as he left. Merely concussed - I racked my
brains, trying to recall the symptoms.

Fox was already beginning to stir. His head rolled

a couple of times and his breath hissed through
clenched teeth. Then his eyes opened, glittering
with anger and with no sign of fuzziness that I could
see. He pushed himself up to sit leaning against
the bench leg. I expected a curse or two but he said
nothing. His face was a blank mask, only his eyes
gave the game away. Fenris was back in business.

“What happened?” I asked. His gaze flicked over

me, checking me for damage, I think.

“I got back within about five minutes of you

leaving - saw your note and guessed what had
happened, where you were going.” He paused, took
a careful breath. “He put me off the road,” he said
evenly. “On the straight he wouldn’t have got close,
but - “ he broke off with a one-sided shrug. He didn’t
need to say any more. Nippy as the Big Beast was,
on unfamiliar, twisting back roads the odds were
with the opposition. For someone who had been
knocked off a motorcycle while travelling fast, he
was remarkably compos mentis. “The bike went into
the river,” he added abruptly. “I bounced off a tree.”

“After scraping a furrow in the asphalt, by the

look of it. Are you hurt?”

“No. Just bruised. I was lucky.”
Lucky! “You were coming to rescue me?” I asked

gently, all misty-eyed.

“Well, no, not exactly. I was going to pay

Baverstock a visit. See if he could be useful against
Wendlow. Tweedledum must have been watching
him. He obviously knew my bike and headed me off
not far from his gates.”

“I said stay put in my note,” I said. “Don’t you

ever do as you’re told?”

“Why break the habit of a lifetime?” he answered

with far too much sang-froid given the situation. “I
left the note for Mike, so your family won’t worry.
What does Wendlow want you to do?”

I explained briefly and a frown settled on his face.

He got to his feet with less than his usual grace and
leaned on the bench, not giving the damned portrait
a glance. “Are you going to do it?”he asked.

A fair question. “No!” I barked. “At least, I don’t

think so.”

“The heart spoke first,” he said, the laughing

affection in his gaze completely banishing the wolf.
In spite of everything, my toes curled again. “I’ll go
along with that.”

But things were no longer quite so clear-

cut.“Wendlow could have the edge on me,” I said
quietly. I would have said more, but he suddenly
glanced at the door. Seconds later it opened on the
Tweedles, both of them holding revolvers - the snub-
nosed variety with what looked like the bore of a
cannon.

“Our employer,” said One, “wishes to know if you

have changed your mind, Mr Rees.”

“No,” Fox said. “He hasn’t.”
“Unfortunate,” Two observed. “Empty your

pockets, Mr Rees.” The only move I made was to

widen my stance slightly, lower my centre of gravity.
I thought I’d been inconspicuous but Tweedledum
must have recognised what I was doing. His eyes
narrowed and he stuck the barrel of his gun against
the back of Fox’s skull. “Not advisable, Mr Rees.”

They let me keep my handkerchief, but that was

all. Fox was given the same instruction with me
on the business end of the gun, and then we were
marched out of the workshop.

No blindfolds this time, which was a bad sign

in all the books and TV cop shows I’ve read and
watched.

Chapter Eleven

We were taken up several floors by the back-

stairs, along corridors and up more stairs until we
were on the top floor. This was servants’ quarters in
the good old days, cramped boxes for those lucky
enough to live in.

The room was small and bare of everything

except the unshaded light bulb and the cobwebs.The
narrow window sported two vertical iron bars.With
the Tweedles crowding on our heels, it was almost
claustrophobic.

“Shoes and socks,” Two said crisply. I wasn’t

inclined to argue with the gun in his hand, so I did as
I was told. Fox shrugged and took off his boots and
socks. Two scooped the footwear out of the door with
the side of his Doc Martens as if we’d been wading
in cowpats. “Jackets, sweaters and shirts,”he said.

“We’ll freeze!” I protested.
“I doubt it,” One said ironically. “However, the

cold might aid your decision, Mr Rees. I suggest you
obey. If we have to do it for you, you’ll be stripped to
the skin.” Put like that, I didn’t have much choice. I
took them off and dropped them on the floor, which
left me wearing only my jeans.

Fox’s jacket and tee-shirt landed on top of mine

and they all went the same way as our other things.
One ran expert hands over my jeans, not that there
was anything left to find. Fox got the same treatment
and though he stood like a statue for it, there was
a look in his eyes that promised due retribution as

soon as he could arrange it.

“Thank you,” One said. “Our employer will see

you some time tomorrow, Mr Rees. I suggest you
spend the time thinking very carefully about your
future actions. And you,” fixing that bleak stare on
Fox, “would be advised to do your best to convince
him to co-operate. Mr Rees’s skills make him
indispensable. You are not. Therefore you will be
the one who’ll lose your hands, a finger at a time,
until Mr Rees sees reason. Unless, of course, he’s
made the correct decision by the time our employer
interviews him again.”

The door was old-fashioned and therefore solid.

It shut with a heavy finality that made me shiver
more than the cold, and the key turned in the lock.
Two pairs of footsteps walked away. At least they had
left the light on. The handle had been removed on
our side of the door and a metal plate fastened over
the lock. There was simply no way we could get the
thing open from inside the room.

Fox hadn’t wasted his time with the door. He was

examining the bars.

“That’s no use,” I said. “Our best bet is to jump

them when they come for us next. Or bring us
something to eat,” I added hopefully.

Fox took no notice of that. “The cement is old,”he

said. “Look, I can turn this one in its socket. If I can
get it out - “

“Don’t be daft! We’re on the fourth floor, for God’s

sake!”

“The ivy’s grown up to the floor below and it

looks strong enough to take - “

“Will you listen to me!” I shouted. “I don’t care

if it’s tapping on the window, we can’t get to it. The
casement’s too narrow!”

“No, it isn’t. I can climb down and get back up

here to let you out.”

I hesitated, looking from his muscle-and-

whipcord body to the window and back again. He
was leaner than me, but not by much. He might
make it, but - “No,” I said. “It must be nearly twenty
feet from here to the ivy. You can’t do it. If you fall
you aren’t going to bounce.”

“I won’t fall. If the cement in the wall out there

is anything like this, there’ll be plenty of weathering
and gaps.” All the time he was working at the
damned bar, and there was a drift of fine dust on the
boards at his feet. Cracks were beginning to appear
in the sill.

“Here,” I said, “let me have a go.” He moved aside

and I took hold of the bar. It was old iron, but solid.
I managed to rotate it in its setting, rock it slightly.
It was enough to start a few hairline fractures in the
cement. More powdery dust floated to the floor.

“My turn,” he said, elbowing me out of the way.

The muscles moved under his smooth hide, the
cracks widened, and with a strangely soft sound
a chunk broke away. Fox gave a quiet whoop of
triumph. A twist and a wrench and the bar was out of
the embrasure and in his hands. I reached past him
and forced up the window catch, pushed against the
rusted hinges until the window opened.Colder air
gusted in, starting me shivering again.Cautiously I
craned my head out and looked down.

Ivy clung black against the wall, about a hundred

miles away.

“You can’t,” I said. “It’s impossible.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Of course it is! We haven’t even got anything to

use as ropes, unless you intend to use our jeans!”

“Don’t need to.”
He was maddeningly calm and matter-of-fact. I

wanted to strangle him. “And it’s too narrow. You’re
not so skinny you can squeeze through that gap - “

“With the other bar out of the way I can.”
There was no convincing him. Numb with more

than cold I watched him work on the second bar
until that, too, was wrenched out from its place. If
he went out of the window with a sideways twist and
his lungs empty, he would just about make it.Then
all he had to do was imitate a spider and crawl down
to the ivy.

“What about the dogs?” I was snatching at straws

now. “If they’re loose - “

“Jerry said Wendlow lets them out when he goes

to bed, and he hasn’t gone yet.”

“You hope. All right,” I muttered. “Just - be

careful.”

“I will,” he smiled. The bloody idiot showed no

sign of nerves at all. If anything he was enjoying it, I
think. “Give me a hand.”

I got hold of him and took his weight while

he swung his legs up and out of the window. He
wriggled forward until his hips were balanced on the
sill, one arm hooked around my neck.

“You are insane,” I told him with quiet sincerity.

“Yes,” he agreed, laughing. Laughing!
“Don’t bother about trying to get me out,” I said.
“Go to Lisa and Simon and tell them, tell Uncle

Joe and Baverstock as well while you’re at it. But
not Mike. He’ll go off half-cocked and do something
incredibly stupid.” He nodded, then tightened his
arm and kissed me, tongue probing possessively
deep - God, what a time and place to pick for it! I
held him in a convulsive embrace, but somehow
he was sliding free, body twisting, lithe and strong,
and almost before I knew it he was outside, hanging
from the window frame by his hands. He grinned up
at me and started down.

The night was cut-glass clear and frost was already

glinting in the moonlight. Shuddering, I leaned out
as far as I could and watched the pale form move
steadily down the wall. God knows how and where
he found handholds. I could see no unevenness in
the stones, but then, I wasn’t nose on to them.

Fifteen feet down he reached the comparative

security of the ivy and looked up. The lunatic smiled
at me, waved a casual hand and carried on towards
the ground. I felt slightly sick. His fingers had shown
black in the colour-leaching light, torn and bloodied
from the descent. Another one for the tally against
Wendlow.

* * *

It seemed to take several lifetimes for him to

reach the bottom, and I didn’t breathe properly until
I saw him step away from the wall. He was standing
in a flower bed. Ahead of him was a wide stretch

of lawn and then a white fence that glimmered in
the moonlight. Beyond that was an orchard, the trees
skeletal in the night. Frost limned everything. Fox’s
breath was a brief pale cloud as he glanced around
him, then started across the lawn.

In the room behind him, the lights switched

on.The effect was like stage lighting, and he was
caught in the middle of its swathe. He leaped aside
for the darkness, but a shout went up and French
windows were thrown open. The lights went out
again almost immediately, but I could see the shapes
of two men running in his wake. The moonlight
gleamed off the metal in their hands, but it positively
glowed on Fox’s bare skin. He might as well have
been luminous. Helpless and with agony growing
under my ribs I watched him jinking like a hunted
hare, but I knew it was only a matter of time. He
could outrun them, but he couldn’t outrun a bullet.

A gun fired, the sound sharp in the night, and

the dogs were roused to a frenzied barking not so
far away. I could hear them crashing and scrabbling
against heavy mesh. Fox ran on, untouched. If he
could reach the orchard, he’d have some kind of
cover - but he was half-naked and barefoot - twice
more they shot at him and missed, and he was almost
at the fence. They fired again, in unison this time,
and he stumbled. Another shot and Fox suddenly
fell forward to slam against the barrier. He bounced
back from it, leaving a dark smear on the paintwork,
and two more shots rang out. He staggered, turning
to face the gunman, and I saw what looked like black
tarry splashes on back and breast as he did so. He

took one step towards them and collapsed.

Even then I half-expected him to get up, start

running again. He didn’t, of course. The Tweedles
jogged across the grass and stood over him. Two
nudged him in the ribs with his toe, One crouched
down and put his hand on Fox’s throat.

Two came back to the French windows, putting his

gun into its shoulder holster. Wendlow was there, the
smoke of his cigar drifting in the cold air.“He’s dead,
sir,” Two reported over the hysterical yammering of
the dogs.

“The price of foolhardiness,” Wendlow

observed.“Take the body into the orchard and bury it
deep.Clean off the fence and do what you can about
the blood on the grass. Oh, yes, and bring me the
ring he was wearing.” He raised his voice a little.
“I trust you are watching and listening up there,
Robert?” I couldn’t answer. My voice wouldn’t work
at all. He laughed and went back inside. After a
while the dogs shut up.

Bury it deep, he’d said. I leaned against the

window frame, not feeling the cold, and watched the
two black shapes moving in the orchard, the scene
lit by a moon like a spotlight. They dug deep.

They dropped Fox into the hole with no more

ceremony than if he had been the four-footed raider
he was nicknamed for. Six regulation feet from the
sun and the air. Burying him. Fox. Then they started
filling it back in, stamping down the earth every
now and then. By the time they were replacing the
carefully cut turf the moon had been curtained by
clouds and I could no longer see them.

All that life, all that crackling energy snuffed out

and broken. My mind began to unravel.

“Fox,” I said into the night, “you idiot.” I wanted

to howl like a wounded wolf, I wanted to tear down
the sky and shatter the moon, I wanted to rip out
Wendlow’s guts and make him eat them -

I wanted Fox to be alive again.

* * *

By dawn the temperature had risen enough to

clear the frost and bring the rain. I hadn’t moved,
couldn’t move. He’d been here, at the window,
laughing at the danger. From my window I could see
almost every tree in the orchard, but I couldn’t find
a sign of his grave. Nor was there any mark on the
fence. That was all I could make out unless I closed
my eyes. And then all I could see was him.

Four large Rottweilers patrolled the course of

Fox’s last run, stiff-legged and rough-hackled with
suspicion, but they did not go into the orchard,
though the fence would be no obstacle.

I didn’t turn round when the door opened. A

blanket was put around my shoulders and a steaming
mug was placed on the window ledge in front of me.
The scent of fresh-ground coffee laced with brandy
rose to my nostrils, making my stomach churn with
incipient nausea.

“Our employer,” said Tweedledum, “has every

confidence that in the light of recent events you will
have reconsidered your position, bearing in mind
that there are others available for your persuasion.A
Michael Rees, a Joseph Wells, not to mention Lisa

and Simon Rees-Lockyer and their daughter. Drink
the coffee, Mr Rees.”

I drank it. After the first couple of sips it actually

settled my stomach and brought me some inner
warmth. I wrapped both hands around the mug
and stared at the Tweedles, memorising every line
of their features. If the weight of my regard made
them uncomfortable, they didn’t show it. I was no
threat to them, or so they thought. They were wrong.
I was Nemesis. Sooner or later I would work out how
justice would be done on all three of them.

I was taken down a couple of floors and into a

warm bedroom. My holdall was on the bed, along
with my shirt, my jacket and sweater. Fox’s clothes
were there, too. I dressed, then carefully folded his
things into the holdall and zipped it shut.Sandalwood
and myrrh drifted faint as a distant dream and was
gone.

“Breakfast is ready for you in the workshop, Mr

Rees,” Two said. I nodded and went with them.

Left alone, I sat down at the bench, ate bacon and

eggs without throwing up, drank a vast amount of
tea.

The portrait lay there, waiting for me.
I took the dirty crockery into the kitchenette,

washed them up and dried them.

The portrait was still there. Adam’s blank blob of

a face seemed to be watching me. So I wandered
back to the bench and sat there, staring back at him.
But I wasn’t seeing him at all. Fox, lying in the cold
earth, body stiffened with rigor mortis and soon to
be invaded by maggots and decay, the body that had

been so incredibly alive in my arms - grief began to
twist in me again, and a hunger for revenge brought
a snarl to my throat.

I glared at the bland oval face and hated it. If it

hadn’t been for that portrait Fox would still be alive- I
stopped the Stanley knife millimetres away from the
painted surface. I couldn’t do it. Wendlow’s living
face, perhaps, but not this centuries old piece of art.

Sickened and shaking, I dropped my head into

my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. There was
another consideration as well. My own life. Once I’d
finished this commission, I doubted there would be
others. I’d seen murder done - I literally knew where
the body was buried. Could Wendlow afford to let
me live? Hardly. Unless I used Ann as a bargaining
piece. Fox’s Ann. God help me, I couldn’t even think
coherently.

I was on automatic pilot. Some time later I

discovered I was working on the portrait. I couldn’t
even remember making the decision, let alone
starting. Before it could clearly register, the door
opened and Wendlow came in.

“Good evening, Robert,” he said smoothly,

keeping the width of the bench between us.

Evening? I’d lost a whole day? “I’m glad you

have decided to be sensible. You’ll explain this, if
you please,” holding up his hand. Fox’s ring was on
his little finger. “This is the same coat of arms as in
the painting.”

“Yes.” I was shocked at the sound of my voice. It

was thin and croaky, like an old man’s. I coughed to
clear my throat.

“How did the boy come by it? Did Jerry Hancock

sell it to him?”

“By right of birth,” I growled. “He’s a descendant.”

Was a descendant. I glanced at the portrait - and ice
grew like a knotted fist in my gut.

Chapter Twelve

I hadn’t realised how much of the panel I had

cleaned up. The painted face was no longer an
almost featureless blob. His hair was now bright
copper, waving back from his forehead and looking
as if hands had just been raked through it. From his
left earlobe hung an emerald. Green eyes laughed
out at me from a handsome proud-boned face, the
smile charmingly awry. And from the edge of his
left eye-socket ran a ragged scar angling across his
temple to disappear into his hair.

I think Wendlow was saying something, but I

couldn’t hear him properly.

Likenesses I could accept, even an identical twin

image despite the four hundred odd years between
them, but the same scar? That was an impossible
coincidence - I couldn’t understand it.

No, it wasn’t really there. I was imagining it.Shock.

That was it. I was in shock and hallucinating…

Wendlow barked my name and I looked up at

him. He was glaring at me, on the edge of losing
his temper, but then I started hallucinating again.
I thought I saw the door open and Fox step silently
into the room. Mud and fresh blood smeared his
upper body and leather trousers, but not enough to
hide the raw wounds in his chest and belly, though
they weren’t bleeding. There were fresh grazes on
his arms, as if he had been clawed. Blood smudged
bright about his mouth and nose. His lambent Fenris
eyes were locked on Wendlow’s back, his bloodied

lips drawn back from sharp white teeth -and I forgot
to breathe. No ice, now, in this Loki’s child, he was
all fire and fury and hunger. How in God’s name
could Wendlow not be aware of the danger stalking
him?

Probably it was my fixed stare that alerted him.He

spun round and froze in his tracks, jaw slackening.
Then he snatched for the gun inside his jacket but
Fox was moving with inhuman speed.One instant he
was poised on the room’s threshold, then he was on
Wendlow and the man was falling, brought down by
the flying weight.

I was glad my view was blocked by the bench.

Wendlow screamed once, a horrible gurgling sound
that bubbled into silence.

After a while Fox stood up. He wiped the back

of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. He
didn’t look at me. Would not. His breathing was
ragged, shallow, the burning anger gone now and
taking with it his vitality. He pushed his fingers
through his tangled, dirty hair. His hands shook a
little. He looked - defeated.

That ice was still in my belly, crawling trails of

terror up and down my spine, but I stumbled round
the end of the bench, refusing to look down at
Wendlow, and I got my arms around Fox. Briefly he
tensed against me, but then he gave a shuddering
sigh and sagged in my embrace, hands clutching
my lapels while spasmodic shudders racked through
him.

“I don’t like being buried,” he whispered. I

couldn’t stop myself, I began to laugh. At least I

think it was laughter.

And all the time my brain was bellowing questions

I wasn’t sure I wanted answered, because none of it
made any kind of sense. There had to be a rational
explanation for this unholy craziness, but I retained
enough sanity to know this was neither the time nor
the place to start trying to find it.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said into his

hair.It smelt of earth and blood, making me feel
slightly sick. He nodded and pushed away from
me, staggering a little as he did so. “Have you got
a bullet in you?” I demanded. Those raw, seemingly
half-healed wounds looked awful.

“No,” he said. He crouched beside Wendlow,

touched fingertips to the man’s temple. I forced
myself to look and to my surprise saw very little
blood. There was a bruised-looking bite mark on his
throat, already scabbing over, stains on his collar,
and that was all.

“He’s not dead?” I gasped.
“No,” Fox said coldly. “Not yet. I drink living

blood, Rob.” The momentary lapse of control was
obviously over.

“I don’t want to know that,” I snapped, fighting

the uneasy churning in my stomach. “What’s the
body count?”

“One, out by the lawn.”
“Oh. Where’s the other one?”
“Unconscious, in the hallway. There’s no one else

in the house.”

“I’m thankful for small mercies - No! The

dogs!”Down here I wouldn’t have been able to hear

them barking.

He gave a painful shrug. “Outside,” he said

shortly. “By the lawn.”

“ - Guarding the corpse. Damn! We’ve got to hide

it!”

“Why?”
“Because, you brainless pillock, if you did to him

what you did to Wendlow, it’ll be only too obvious,
won’t it?”

“No,” he said. “Not by now.”
It took me a few seconds to register what he

meant, and when I did my guts heaved. All those
Rottweiler teeth - “Then let’s get out of here!”

“There’s no hurry.” He stood up and wavered to

the bench, leaning on it as if his legs were about to
let him down. “We’ve got some hours yet.”

“How do you work that out?”
“No one’s likely to find the body before dawn,

and we’ll be gone by then.”

“Why the delay, damn it, and what about

him?”nodding towards the unconscious man. “He’ll
have a pretty weird story to tell.”

“No, he won’t. I’ve got to clean up, and if you

give me time enough to get some strength back, I
can take care of them.” My face must have shown
my thoughts, because he gave a croak of laughter
that became a coughing fit. It sounded as if his lungs
were doing a good job of tearing themselves apart,
and he was left gasping for breath, fresh blood on his
mouth. “Time,” he wheezed, “that’s all.They won’t
remember us. Just the dogs killing - “He began to
cough again.

“All right,” I said grimly. I’d have to take his word

on that. “I know where to find a bedroom, and a
bathroom shouldn’t be too far away from it. Come
on.”

Even with me supporting him, it was no easy

journey for Fox. I could not see how he’d found
the strength to fight his way out of that hole in the
orchard, and dispose of the paid muscle into the
bargain.

Unless it was pure blind fury. Whatever it was

that had fuelled him, he ran out of it at the top of the
stairs. I carried him the rest of the way.

Leaving him flat out on the bed I hurried back

downstairs. I found Two in the hall and at first I
thought he was dead. His throat bore a messier scab
than Wendlow’s, but closer inspection showed the
barrel chest was rising and falling steadily enough.
He weighed a lot more than Fox and at the risk of
giving myself a damaged back, I rolled and dragged
him down to the cellar workshop. There I tethered
him to the radiator, Wendlow to the heavy bench. I
used the brass picture-hanging wire from my holdall,
thin strong stuff that would hold an elephant, if its
struggles didn’t cut off its foot first.Like a cheesewire
through the best Cheddar. I hoped they’d try it.

Then I gathered all my kit together, including the

portrait, and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

Fox lay still dead to the world, and I took a

close look at his injuries. The claw-marks had the
pinkness of new skin under the flaking scabs, but
the others were a different matter. Three entry holes,
three exit holes, the latter torn and ragged as might

be expected. Any one of those bullets should have
killed him. Had killed him.

All right. Questions and answers later. The en

suite bathroom was completely kitted out with
towels, soaps and all the rest. I helped myself to
what I needed and began the job of cleaning him up.

It was slow and unpleasant, because fine slivers

of shattered bone were protruding from the mangled
flesh and had to be picked out, and I had very little
stomach for that kind of thing. He, on the other
hand, couldn’t have had much stomach - or guts -
left whole if the probable trajectories were anything
to go by. Even so, heavy scabs were forming as I
worked, and the injuries looked a lot less raw. When
I finished I tore a sheet into wide strips and swathed
them tightly around him from waist to armpits.
Couldn’t think of what else to do.

But something else did occur to me. This was

an ideal opportunity to examine his teeth without
losing my hand, and I took it. I don’t know what I
was expecting, but since I wasn’t a dentist I couldn’t
see anything unusual about them. No fangs, for
instance. His canines were perhaps a little more
pointed that was usual, but not that much longer
than anyone else’s. The incisors looked absolutely
normal, until I gave them a prod with my fingertip.
They were sharp as broken porcelain, and it wouldn’t
take too much pressure for them to cut through skin.
I swallowed hard, remembering just how close those
unnaturally sharp teeth had been to certain vital
parts of my anatomy. And left me unmarked. More
or less. Automatically my hand went to my throat,

but all I had seen there before were love bites. Nary
a scab. So had he or hadn’t he … ?

‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said, and then that incandescent

pleasure had swamped everything. Including pain.
No wonder I’d felt so rubber-kneed when I woke
up, he must have had a couple of pints from me, the
bastard!

But, said my memory, only because I’d pushed

it.I’d made the first move, I’d started the - what? -
call it seduction for want of a better word. And he
hadn’t expected me to remember.

I had a lot to think about, and as it turned out,

some time in which to do it.

* * *

Two hours later his eyes opened, focusing on me

with surprise and a wary gratitude in their depths.

“Did you think I’d make a run for it?” I asked

quietly. “Or be poised with stake and silver bullet?”

“Not until you got some answers,” he said. His

voice was a lot stronger, and I grinned at him, not
bothering to hide my relief.

“Bull’s-eye,” I said. “What are you going to do

about Wendlow and Two?”

“Rearrange their memories.” He sat up,

moving without too much effort or obvious
discomfort.“There’s still a couple of hours. Ask your
questions, Robert.”

“I’ll get the truth?”
“Yes, my word on it. The truth - or silence,” he

added with that smile of his.

“Okay. The portrait by Penton. It’s you.” He

nodded. “I don’t believe it,” I said, but he carried
on smiling because he knew I did. “Why? How?
When did it happen? You becoming a - whatever it
is.” It was stupid, but I didn’t want to say the word.
It belonged to horror novels and meaningless films,
not the reality sitting on the bed, watching me with
eyes that reflected the light like living jewels.

“Night-hunter,” he said softly. “Blood-drinker.

Immortal, after a fashion. Why? Initially it wasn’t
entirely my choice. I was meant to die.”

“Right,” I said, “you can start at the beginning.

But first I’m going to track down and raid Wendlow’s
supply. I think we both need a stiff drink.”

When I returned with the whisky decanter and a

pair of glasses he was lying back on the pillows, eyes
closed. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” I asked.

“I’m sure.” He hitched himself up on the bed

until he was wedged against the padded headboard.
“Do you want the full story or the bones of it?”

“Whichever you’ve got time for. If necessary,

details can be filled in later.” I poured a tumbler of
whisky and gave it to him, poured out my own. then
I sat beside him on the bed. “Go on,” I said. “I’m all
ears.”

The story didn’t take that long to tell. It was all

very simple on the surface. He was twenty-six years
old, been married to Ann for nearly four years, there
were two kids and one on the way. It was early in
1589, England was still celebrating the victory over
the Spanish fleet the previous year, and he’d gone
with others to Bruges for some reason. There he met
a woman called Alisande de Something Or Other

and her brother André. He became, he said with a
wry self-mocking shrug, completely besotted with
her, to the exclusion of common sense. One night
even André had tried to warn him, but Alisande told
him her brother was jealous and he wasn’t to take
any notice of him. Then she had kissed him.

He glanced away from me at that point, and I

could guess why if that incredible sexuality is part of
the stock-in-trade.

But his awakening, if it could be called that,

had been a lot different to mine. The next thing he
remembered was lying on her bed knowing he was
dying. He could feel her mouth on his throat, could
feel the life being drawn from him, and for all that
he raged against it he couldn’t even twitch a muscle.
Then André was suddenly in the room, pulling
Alisande from him. There’d been a brief struggle
and then André had bent over him.

“Do you want to die?” he’d said. “No? How much

do you want to live? At any price? You can die, mon
cher, or drink and live as we do.” And André had
bared his arm, cut the flesh with a knife and let the
bright blood flow.

Fox made his choice, not in the fear of dying, but

in the fury of a young man who’d known his life had
been stolen before it had been fully lived. He drank
André’s blood, and slept as if drugged. When he
awoke it was noon and the house was empty. André
had left him a letter. It started with, ‘In time to come
you will not thank me for the gift of life, but I could
not stand by and know that you would die. There
have been too many deaths already and there will,

of necessity, be more to come. One, at least, I can
prevent, if only for selfish reasons.’ He’d then gone
on to give a rough idea of what would be happening
to him and what to do about it. The do’s and don’ts
of the trade, so to speak.

I wasn’t surprised Fox could recall every word,

comma and full stop of that letter. I would, too, in his
circumstances.

The changes, and he didn’t go into details, were

slow, myths and legends notwithstanding. They took
months, years, and some André either hadn’t known
about or hadn’t revealed to him. For instance, Fox
found out for himself that he could exist on animal
blood, could eat and drink small quantities of animal
products - like that damned Bovril! - and gain a little
nourishment from them.Alcohol, too, as well as tea
and coffee in moderation, though they were about
the only vegetable stuff his system could tolerate.
Silver aversion was a myth -

“Sunlight as well?” I said. “You were up and

about the other day.”

“I didn’t have any option,” he pointed out.“Thanks

to you. Besides, it was foggy, and I don’t sleep nearly
as deeply when the sun is hidden.Bright sunlight
burns me. Too long in it and I’ll die.

On sunless days I need the leather clothes for

added protection, but it weakens me. Summers are
difficult,” he added wryly, “even English ones.”

“I thought you were on drugs, you looked so

washed out.” Then I thought of something else. “The
whisky isn’t doing you much good, then.”

He chuckled and took a quick swallow as if he

thought I’d try to take it from him. “It’s not doing me
any harm.”

I studied his pale face, every plane and curve,

admiring the artistry of flesh over bone. Belatedly
the penny dropped. “Wait a minute, if you can
rewrite their memories, why didn’t you do it right at
the start when they picked you up?”

“Because,” he said, irritated, “I’d come off the bike

at high speed, and I promise you that concussion and
a splitting headache make it impossible to influence
anybody! That’s also why I didn’t do anything when
they took us up to the attic!”

“Oh.” The other penny dropped. All those hazy

moments where I’d lost track of what I was saying,
the memory slips, the lack of concern over possible
premature senile decay when I should have been
tearing my hair out - it was Fox, messing about with
my mind! There would be a reckoning, but not yet.
I thought of something else. “You gave Mike those
memories, didn’t you? Of being mates years ago.
None of it was real.”

“Yes.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea

at the time.”

I gave him that. It had been a bloody good idea,

and worked a treat. Until the Tweedles showed
up.Which brought my thoughts full circle. “Wendlow
showed me photos of your house. One had an old
man in it. He looked a bit like you, in profile.” We’d
need to find those photos and take them with us.

“It was me. Human blood maintains and sustains.

Animal blood only maintains and not so well. In a
matter of weeks I become slow, my joints ache and

swell, and I look - and feel - about ninety years old.”

“How long does restoration take?”
“You make me sound like Beau’s fire screen,” he

snorted. “A day or so.”

“I see.” I didn’t hesitate. “Well, if you need

something a little stronger than whisky at the
moment,” I offered, and saw his astonishment - and
the flare of hunger. He looked away.

“No,” he said. “Thanks. I’m okay.”
“The truth,” I repeated his earlier words. “My

word on it.” He flushed and set his mouth in an
angry line.

“Robert,” he snapped, “you’re a - “
“Be polite, Fox,” I grinned. “I’m by way of being

your landlord.”

“But not lunch,” he cut back.
“Breakfast,” I corrected. “Why not? I seem to

remember being supper on one occasion.” He
flushed again, and I could have crowed with victory.
Twice in as many minutes! “Well, if you’re being
finicky, there’s Wendlow and Two downstairs.”

Slowly that one-sided smile grew on his face.“You

taste better,” he admitted.

“Glad to hear it.” I leaned forward and kissed

his mouth, my tongue gently teasing, exploring the
smooth sharpness of those white teeth. We didn’t
have time for anything more ambitious, I was sure,
and besides, I didn’t know what state his innards
were in. But something weird was happening -things
were getting decidedly fuzzy about the edges, sort
of drifting away from me and there was a distinct
impression I was feeling very tired … The bastard

… I tried to fight it, and I was succeeding -until I
wasn’t.

Chapter Thirteen

I awoke with a start and found myself staring up

at the ceiling. I was on the bed and shower sounds
were coming from the bathroom.

I sat up. Felt fine, no dizziness, no lethargy. I

stood up. No ill effects. So I peered at myself in the
dressing-table mirror. There were no marks on my
throat, either. We frowned at each other, my reflection
and I. In fact, the only area of discomfort that I could
pin down was an ache in my left hand, as if the ball
of my thumb was bruised. Must have done it while
I was tying up Wendlow and the Tweedle. I glanced
at it. There was no bruise, just a new and pink scar
about an inch long.

“Just as effective as far as I’m concerned,” Fox

said quietly from the bathroom doorway, “if less
intimate, and causes no comment. It’ll be gone
completely in less than an hour.”

I stared at it, fascinated. “Why does it heal so

fast?” I asked.

He shrugged and went back to towelling his hair

dry. “Something to do with my saliva. It stops the
blood clotting while I’m drinking. As soon as air gets
to it there’s some kind of chemical change and it
causes fast scabbing and accelerated healing.”

“You heal pretty damn fast as well.”
“Part of the survival factor. As I said, immortal

after a fashion.” His smile was bleak.“Unfortunately,
regeneration does nothing at all about the pain.”

“Can’t have it all ways, Reynard.”

“That has to be one of your more fatuous

comments,” he muttered. “Did you say you had my
tee-shirt and jacket?”

“Coming up.” His recent wounds looked like old

scars, smooth and white on white. “How long before
yours disappear?”

“A couple of days or so,” he said, pulling the tee-

shirt over his head. “It’ll take that long for the bone
splinters to work their way out.”

“Ouch.” I winced, wishing I hadn’t asked. There

were, however, still one or two other questions
buzzing in my head. Such as, how many of his ilk were
there running around the countryside? The main
blockbuster regarding my possible - um -alteration?
- had already been answered, if indirectly.

I wasn’t going to be joining the ranks of night-

hunters, thank God, since nothing like what had
happened between him and André had occurred
between us. It made a kind of sense, after all. If it
was passed on like a disease, given the number of
mealtimes and victims in only one hunter’s lifetime,
there would be an awful lot of ‘em about.

And then there was his wife. “Did you ever tell

Ann?” I asked quietly.

There was a longish silence and I was beginning

to think he wasn’t going to answer. Then, “Yes,” he
said. “I told her eventually. When I could no longer
hide the changes - the need to avoid sunlight - “ He
fell silent again, eyes distant, reliving a past that
was centuries out of his reach. How do you tell your
wife something like that? I tried to imagine Simon
telling Lisa and it deteriorated into black farce. But

Ann Darcy came from a different age, one of deeply
held religion, ditto superstition and blind faith. How
would she have taken it?

None of my business, of course, and I couldn’t

ask. But I could make an intuitive guess. She’d have
given him hell, then stuck by him, covered for him
and loved him to her last breath, just as she had
before. I didn’t have to ask if he’d changed her. I
knew he hadn’t. Loved her too much to do that to
her.

“When did Adam Courtney first die?” I asked

instead.

“1663. Lost overboard in a storm off the Brittany

coast. Ann had died the previous year.” He met
my gaze with a shrug and a sardonic smile. “That
was when I started hating André in earnest. And
Alisande.”

“I’ll bet.” I did the maths and blinked. She’d lived

a hell of a long time. “Did you track them down?”

“No, and I looked for them long enough.”
“How about others?” I asked cautiously.
He shrugged again, but didn’t answer. I had

the uncomfortable impression I was trespassing on
the edges of some weird quasi-Masonic enclave,
watched his smile grow and knew he was either
reading my expression or my thoughts. As a
distraction I glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten
past four. How long before the girl from the lodge
turned up to see to the horses? That, I recalled, was
an early morning job with most stables. “I’ve got a
lot more questions,” I confessed, “but we’re running
out of time. We have to find the photos of your house

and do something about the CCTV. It’ll have us on
tape, arriving and leaving.”

“What do you want Wendlow to do about the

painting?”

“Huh? Oh. Right.” Think fast, Rob Rees. “Um,

someone in London phoned and told him test results
had come through and they were inconclusive. The
painting could possibly be a forgery, but done on a
piece of authentically old oak panelling. Since he
won’t settle for anything less than a dead cert he
gave it to me and told me to get rid of it. I keep the
commission already paid, but don’t get any more
payments. How does that sound?” It sounded pretty
feeble to me, but probably Wendell’s own memories
would fuse actual recollection with the fabrication.
Fox seemed happy enough with the idea, anyhow.

“Fine,” he said. “You left the day you arrived, after

dinner. Me, they never saw at all.” He leaned forward
and kissed me, slow and deliberate. “Later,”he
smiled. Then pulled on his boots, zipped them up
and straightened. “Ready?” he asked crisply.

“Yup,” I said. “Let’s go get ‘em, Reynard.”

* * *

We walked into something of an anti-climax. Two

and Wendlow were still out of it when we went down
to the workshop. Fox released Two, wedged him up
against the radiator and cupped his face in his hands.
The Tweedle’s eyelids flickered and lifted. Terror
flared across his face, then his expression blanked
out as if he’d gone back to sleep again. They stayed
like that for a few minutes, both of them unmoving.

Then Fox leaned closer.

“Where is the CCTV control point?” he asked

quietly.

“Door under the main stairs,” the Tweedle

mumbled.

I didn’t need to be told what to do. I dashed up

to the entrance hall and dived into the small room
beneath the sweeping staircase. There was a bank
of half a dozen screens, all of them blank, little red
lights glowing steadily. My iPhone was there as well,
sitting in a filing tray. I reclaimed it with a silent
whoop and pushed it into my pocket.

Dizzy with relief, I returned to the workshop.
“Nothing’s working,” I said. “It looks as if

everything’s turned off.”

“Why?” Fox demanded of our prisoner.
“No evidence. No record of either of you. Mr

Wendlow only has the cameras running when he’s
not here.”

“Ask him about Dad,” I prompted. Fox did so and

the answer came back without hesitation.

“He was already in the hospital when we learned

who had the paintings.” Dad’s fall had been an
accident, then. It was a relief.

After another intense moment Fox shifted aside

and Tweedledee clambered to his feet, walked
past me as if I was invisible and went out of the
door.“Where’s he going?” I bleated.

“To bed. His friend had the night shift. He’ll get

up at his usual time, go through his usual routine,
during which he’ll find the body.”

“As simple as that?”

Fox nodded. “As simple as that.” He stripped his

ring from the oblivious man’s finger and did his mind-
rewrite trick. A quick question and answer session
confirmed Dad’s accident, and Fox programmed
Wendlow to bring us the photos.Wendlow stood up
and also departed stage left without so much as a
glance around.

We followed on his heels, me lugging the portrait,

Fox the holdalls. After Wendlow had given us the
envelope from his safe, he went his oblivious way up
the stairs to his bedroom while I phoned Uncle Joe’s
home number.

It didn’t take him long to answer. Nor did it need

a lot of special pleading on my part to get him to
drive to Lockeridge and pick us up. He wasn’t at all
surprised and had been expecting me to pull some
kind of fast one on Wendlow. He was, however,
a bit taken aback when I insisted that he use his
van, complete with trailer. That, he said, would
cost me extra, family or not. I muttered something
uncomplimentary and ended the call.

There was something else that might cost me

as well. “What about the Rottweilers?” I demanded
queasily as we reached the front door. “I don’t fancy
being the second course on their menu.”

“You’ll be okay,” he said, supremely

confident.“Dogs don’t give me any trouble.”

Nor did they. The four big shapes were lurking

around the lawn and came running as he opened
the door, but they didn’t bark and they didn’t come
closer than a couple of feet. They slunk on their
bellies and whined a bit, showing teeth like band

saws, but that was all. Fox ignored them as if they
were so many garden gnomes.

And that, as they say, was that. We walked out

of the Manor unchallenged by man or beast, and
headed for the bus shelter in the middle of the village
to await the Wells Taxi Service.

Uncle Joe, bless him, didn’t let us down. He

arrived in record time and on the way home we made
a wide detour to see if we could rescue the Fazer -
hopefully supposing she hadn’t already been found
and reported, which might throw up some leading
questions by the local bobby. But I had this feeling
under my ribs she was still there, waiting for us. And
she was.

With considerable difficulty and an amazing

display of profanity on Uncle Joe’s part, we got her
out of the river and up the bank, and inspected her
in the light from the van’s headlamps. There was
damage, of course, but I couldn’t begin to guess
how serious it might be. All I could tell was that she
looked as if she needed a period of intensive care in
a garage. I hoped Fox had her insured.

He, however, was more interested in the

panniers. Bait, I remembered. Oh, God, don’t let
it be of perishable or fragile stuff - but he dropped
them into the back of the van without checking their
contents, so I suppose the whatever-it-was couldn’t
be that delicate.

We manhandled the bike into the trailer and

headed homeward with, on my part, a sense of
overwhelming relief. I’d been expecting a lot of
questions from Uncle, but they weren’t as leading

or as persistent I’d have thought they might
be.Intuition suggested Fox had something to do with
it. That memory-editing talent of his would be useful
to have around, but I knew he wouldn’t be staying
much longer.

The knowledge was painful. I’d become used

to him hanging about, and it wouldn’t be quite
the same sitting in front of the fire without him on
the floor leaning back against my knees. Still, he
wouldn’t be going anywhere until the Big Beast was
repaired, and I intended to make the most of it, one
way and another. Fox had become important to me
very quickly, and I had to admit to an incongruous
feeling of protectiveness towards him.

* * *

We reached the cottage just as dawn was

lightening the sky, and I sent Fox inside to clean off
the river mud and get his head down while Uncle Joe
and I heaved the bike to her place by the workshop.
He then squelched off in the direction of Dad’s
alcohol with the unerring instinct of a lemming for
a cliff, leaving me to my own devices. I collected the
soggy panniers, disentangled the slimy garlands
of half-dead river weed from the bike and thought
about things.

As soon as possible, we’d pay Baverstock a social

call, Fox and I. Knowing what I did now, I almost
felt sorry for the poor devil. George wouldn’t stand a
chance. He’d give Ann away and never feel a thing.

I wondered if Baverstock would demand his part-

payment back?

Chapter Fourteen

The best laid plans gang aft agley, as someone

once said. Nobody went anywhere that day, let alone
the evening. I took one look at myself in the mirror
and knew that I daren’t go and see Dad until I’d
got some sleep. He’d know something major had
happened as soon as he set eyes on me, and the last
thing I wanted was for him to worry. I phoned the
hospital and spoke to the Ward Sister just to make
sure he was progressing well, which set my mind at
ease a little.

Then there was the rest of my family. While Uncle

Joe was sober enough to take it all in, I gave him a
heavily edited version of what had happened, with
the rider that if he so much as breathed a shadow of
a word of it to Dad, I would make the rest of his life
an absolute hell. But repeated phone calls failed to
raise a response from Mike, while Lisa’s voicemail
informed me she was in London with Simon and
Beth, catching a matinee of The Lion King.

Fox slept. Like the dead.
At three o’clock in the afternoon I gave up trying

to track Mike down and crawled off to bed, trying not
to worry about him. Needless to say, though I was
exhausted, I could not get to sleep. Wendlow might
have already grabbed him for insurance before Fox
and I broke out of there - but no, if he had, he would
have used him as well as Fox to pressure me.

Fox.
My brain just would not switch off. Without people

around me, things to do, there were no distractions.
So the thoughts were able to scurry round inside my
skull like demented mice trapped in a wheel, trying
to make some kind of sense out of the impossible.

For instance, creatures like Adam Courtney did

not exist. They were figments of a writer’s overheated
imagination.

But Fox was real, even if he hadn’t so much as

twitched a muscle since he’d dropped onto my bed.
The only thing that told me he was more or less alive
was that rigor mortis hadn’t set in.

Yet I had seen him shot to death and buried.Seen

him lunge for Wendlow’s throat with the speed and
ferocity of a hunting leopard. That wasn’t nightmare
or dark fantasy. It was as real as the smell of earth in
his hair, real as the shuddering tension in his body
as I’d held him. As real as the splinters of bloodied
bone I’d picked from his wounds. That thought was
the last straw. I got up, pulled on my bath robe and
went downstairs.

The clocks struck four. In the living room, Uncle

Joe’s snores supplied bizarre grace-notes to the
chimes, while I slumped at the kitchen table with a
mug of tea in my hands and wondered what I was
going to do about Fox.

In the space of seven days my world had been

turned upside down and inside out, and most of the
chaos had been caused by a redhead with too much
charm and a very strange diet.

How did I really feel about him? That was easily

answered. I knew I’d still be drawn to him even if he
was in truth just another of Mike’s pals. That smile,

the way his eyes lit up, his personality and sense of
humour - the way he moved, for God’s sake- and
underneath it all was an odd kind of vulnerability
that twisted my heart a little. He must have lost so
much over the years. Was that why he clung to bits of
the past with such single-minded stubbornness? He,
more than most, must surely feel the need for roots,
for at least one constant in his long life. A home base.

The house he’d been born in, had somehow kept

his own against all the odds, only to have it invaded
and raided to feed a Hoarder’s greed.

That would be enough to turn a meek and mild

Mr Average into a homicidal maniac. Fox’s moral
code, let’s face it, had been bred into him in the
sixteenth century. Modern though he seemed on the
outside, I knew the invasion of his home would have
triggered reactions dating back to his early years. In
spite of all that, I had fallen for him. Me, ordinary
Lose-Me-in-a-Crowd Rob Rees. God, I was a fool.

But what about Wendlow’s code? The man was

obsessed with Fox’s era. Would that obsession
counteract the mental blocks and suggestions Fox
had fed him? Once the fuss had died down about the
body and the dogs, he’d turn his attention back to
collecting. If the cover story Fox had planted in his
mind fell under the pressure of Wendlow’s lifelong
habits and behaviours, the game would be right back
at square one, with added complications.Everyone
in my family, and others like Baverstock and Ann,
would be in the firing line.

Again, my first instinct was to phone the police.
Then I remembered all the reasons why that

would be a monumentally bad idea, and I swore.
Uncle Joe would have been proud of my vocabulary.

I swore again a few minutes later when a

motorcycle roared up the lane and turned into the
back yard. Mike didn’t come in immediately. He’d
probably discovered the wreck of the Beast and
would be examining her -

“Rob!” The back door crashed open and my

brother made an entrance an avenging angel would
have envied. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve
been scouring half Wiltshire for you! What happened
to Fox’s bike? Was he hurt? Did you know the panel’s
disappeared? Are you all right?”

“Busy.” I answered the questions in order. “A tree

and a river. Yes, but not much. I know, we brought it
back. I’m fine. Pour yourself some tea.”

“What was that note all about?” he demanded,

ignoring the teapot and helping himself to biscuits
instead. “It didn’t make any sense. What job?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “All of it.” Well, most of

it, anyhow, and only when Fox was around to control
the inevitable reaction. There was no way he would
believe me if I told him what Fox was, and as far
as the Wendlow situation was concerned, the wrath
of God has nothing on a Rees or a Wells declaring
a vendetta. “How’s Dad? You haven’t said anything
that’ll start him off, have you?”

“It was Wendlow, wasn’t it?” Mike exploded.“What

the hell did he do? Where were you? What - “

“I’m not telling you anything until you’ve calmed

down and stopped shouting,” I interrupted.

“The panels,” Fox said from the doorway, making

us both jump like startled rabbits. “They were stolen
from me.”

“I know, Rob said,” Mike began, and I remembered

I hadn’t got round to letting Fox know I’d brought
most of my family into the tangle.

“Well, his grandfather, actually,” I put in, “but

it’s the same thing.” Fox’s eyes met mine and his
smile was warm with appreciation and thanks. And
something more than just affection? Or was I kidding
myself?

“Exactly,” he agreed solemnly. Casually he

strolled into the kitchen, looking sort of rumpled,
half-asleep and completely harmless. He stopped
beside Mike and equally casually he dropped his arm
across my brother’s shoulders, hooking a chair out
from under the table with his foot as he did so.“Why
don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?”
he suggested. Mike nodded and slumped into the
chair. Then he shook his head.

“Can’t,” he mumbled. “Rob’s in danger…”
“He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of that.” I bristled. I

didn’t need a bloody knight in shining armour!

Mike struggled half-heartedly against the

compulsion, then he folded his arms on the table,
rested his head on them and closed his eyes. In
seconds his breathing was slow and even.

“Very impressive,” I said warily and shot out of

my chair as Fox started towards me. “But keep your
distance, Fox. You’re not putting me under!”

“Don’t be difficult, Rob. It’s for your own good.”
A fuzzy kind of sleepiness began to fold over me

and I fought it off with grim determination. “No,” I

said and he frowned quizzically. “You can’t get to
Baverstock without me.”

“Wrong,” he smiled. “I know where he lives,

that’s all I need. The Rees clan is best out of this now.
Stop fighting me, Rob. You won’t win.”

“Ah, but you can’t influence his security cameras,

can you?” I pointed out. “Talking of which, this
mental manipulation of yours isn’t exactly a hundred
per cent guaranteed, is it?” He didn’t like that much.
I edged further away, keeping the table and my
sleeping brother between us.

“What do you mean?”
“The other night. I wasn’t supposed to remember

anything out of the ordinary, was I? But I did. If
the scent of your cologne can kick-start some of
my memory, maybe Wendlow’s obsession will do
the same for him. So don’t you try to keep me out
because it won’t work!”

“It’s for me to settle,” he interrupted. “No one

else.”

“Bullshit. I’m involved right up to my neck! So

is everyone else, if Wendlow remembers anything!”

“Robert, you’re getting paranoid.”
“I’m getting - ! Listen, a-a myth of all things turns

up on my doorstep and takes over my life. I’m mixed
up with burglars and paid muscle and Hoarders
and man-eating dogs - I’m damn well entitled to be
paranoid! Stark, staring, rug-chewing, foaming at
the mouth, completely off the wall paranoid! Now
you tell me how you’re going to fool a collection of
security cameras to get to George!”He started to
speak, but paused. “Exactly. The two of us, however,

can get in and out legitimately, with nothing recorded
that’ll trigger George’s mind into remembering
things you don’t want him to.”

“How?” challenging me.
“I’m cleaning a painting, remember?” I never

knew before that I could think so fast on my feet. It
must have been fear. Or anger. Or both. “I finish it
and we deliver it. Then walk out with both because
you’ve convinced him they’re fakes. And if that
works, we try the same thing with Wendlow, using
the bait to get him and you in the same room so
you can take him over and convince him to forget
about us. Can you and your mental rewriting make
it stick?”

“Yes.” He smiled wryly. “With you, I was a little

-distracted. And you do seem to have the knack
of deflecting the effects. With Wendlow, I wasn’t
functioning at my best. Transition brings its own
problems,” he said with a shrug. “I won’t make
mistakes again, with Baverstock or Wendlow.”

“Distracted?” I ventured, and forgot to keep

moving. He closed in on me and I back-pedalled
myself right into the corner between the fridge and
the dresser.

“There’s something about you…” Which had to

be a cliché as old as he was. But even so, it didn’t
stop my knees from weakening. He cupped my face
in his hands and his smile was rueful, gentle. “Rob
Rees, what are you doing to me?” It was reassuring
to know the confusion seemed to be mutual. “I don’t
want you involved in this. I need to know you’re
safe. If any harm comes to you through me - “

“My choice, Adam,” I said quietly. “No one has

the right to make it for me.”

He sighed and nodded, then drew me closer for

a kiss that was tender and cherishing and balanced
on the edge of passion. “I won’t take away your
memories,” he said. “My word on it. But you do need
to sleep. Let me give you that, at least. When you’re
rested, we can make more coherent plans.”

“What about Mike?”
“I’ll get him to bed later.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said with some

caution. “I think he needs to know about you. He’d
like the chance to make his choice as well.”

“No! That is my choice, Rob!”
“It could be useful, having another pair of eyes

and ears. Especially when the sun is bright.”

“No.”
“All right,” I agreed, smoothing that wing of bright

hair back from his forehead. “It was just a thought.”

“Huh. Go to bed, Rob, before you have any more

clever ideas.”

“But you have to admit it makes sense for someone

else…” But I’d let down my guard and tiredness
flowed into me. Maybe he was right. I didn’t try to
combat it, just let everything fade gently to warm
black velvet.

Chapter Fifteen

I awoke to grey daylight and the sound of a

familiar voice calling my name.

“Rob! The tea’s getting stewed! Are you getting up

today or not?” Mike, bright and cheerful and energy
revving at full throttle. I groaned and squinted at the
clock. It was nearly ten and rain spattered on the
window-panes. This was the kind of day that should
be spent in bed, if there was nothing worthwhile to
do. Like visiting an injured father in hospital and
spending time with a v – no, I still couldn’t say it.
Not to mention investigating the smell of frying eggs
and bacon wafting up the stairwell. All of a sudden
I was starving.

I grabbed my towelling robe and headed for the

bathroom, feeling very nearly as bright as Mike had
sounded. Furthermore, as far as I could tell, Fox had
kept his word and all my memories were intact. Of
course he’d kept his word. It was unthinkable he’d
violate that, once it was given.

They were both at the table when I reached the

kitchen. I was dressed but still dragging a comb
through my damp hair. Fox had his paws wrapped
round a steaming mug of Bovril, while Mike was at
the stove, turning bacon under the grill. He looked
rather pale, almost as alabaster-white as Fox. Or
maybe it was just against the contrast of black hair
and black sweatshirt. On the other hand, our house
guest had unusual dietary requirements … I shot
Fox a glare and received a maliciously sweet smile

in reply.

“Bacon, eggs and mushrooms?” Mike was asking.
“Yes, please,” I said. “I’m hungry too. Can’t think

why,” firing off another glare.

“Yeah,” Mike said, oblivious to the by-play. “You

can pour me another mug of tea while you’re waiting.
Fox has brought me up to date on this Wendlow
business - that man must be crazy!”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered. “Where’s Uncle

Joe? Still asleep?”

“Nope,” Mike grinned. “He emerged like

something from a zombie film about an hour ago and
lurched off to find the hair of the dog. Or at least,
I think that’s what he said. But Wendlow - it was
lucky you two were able to convince him the panels
are fakes. Not that I’d give a damn. Ann is still a
sweetheart, no matter when she was painted.”

“How true,” I drawled, pinning Fox with a rapier-

stare. His eyes remained as limpid and innocent as
forest pools.

“Reproductions,” he said, and smiled at me again.

“Not fakes. I told Mike about the fire and Granddad
having them replaced by copies done from the
insurance photos,” he went on. “I’ve got the letters
and invoice from home and with any luck Baverstock
will be convinced a lot quicker than Wendlow.”

I remembered the Wendlow-bait in the panniers,

but - fire? Invoices? I wished he’d briefed me on
this new cover story before Mike had sprung it on
me.Still, it made a lot more sense than the version
we’d cobbled together that nightmare night.

“Well,” Mike said, “perhaps you’d better head

for home again and stick all your Elizabethan stuff
in the family vault in case another burglar comes
along.”

“And fit security alarms,” I added.
“That’s a good idea,” Fox said smoothly, his gaze

focussed on me. “Rob and I will see to it, won’t we,
Rob?” His teeth were very white and he showed
most of them in a patently false grin.

“God, spare me the gayness!” Mike chuckled. “If

I’d’ve known you’d fall for my studious and boring
as hell stick in the mud big brother, I’d never have
called you in on this.”

Fox ignored him. “What do you say, Rob?”
What the hell could I say? Fox wanted me with

him, if only for however long it took to make his
home burglar-proof.

“All right,” I agreed. “After I’ve seen Dad. Shit,

how am I going to tell him I’m off for a few days
gallivanting around the countryside with one of
Mike’s disreputable biker pals?”

“Easy,” my brother said with his usual blithe

confidence. “Tell him it’s the affair of the century.”

“Oh, sure,” I snapped, flushing. “The key phrase

was ‘one of Mike’s disreputable biker pals’!”

“So tell him Fox is one of Simon’s friends.”
“He always knows when I’m outright lying.
Besides, Lisa’s met him. She’ll tell Dad all about

him given half a chance.”

“Not if we ask her to be discreet.”
“Besides,” I went on loudly, “how do I tell him

I’m so concerned about his health, that I’m leaving
him languishing in a hospital bed to go away with

my supposed boyfriend?”

“Supposed?” Fox said softly. “You and I, Rob,

have a lot to talk about.”

“And,” I continued, scarlet faced and slightly

breathless, over Mike’s cackle, “we have to tell Dad
about the panels. He’s likely to have a relapse.”

“So we go along with as much of the truth as we

can,” Fox said. “That the panels were stolen from me,
I got one of them back with a lot of help from Rob,
your uncle and you, mainly by convincing Wendlow
they’re reproductions, and we’re going to make an
appointment to see Baverstock. In the meantime, I
have to go back home for a few days to make sure
everything is okay with the house. There isn’t much
to worry him about in that, is there?”

Mike and I looked at each other, then we

shrugged. “Probably not,” I agreed, frowning, “but–“

“Besides,” Fox went on, “with the bike off the road,

I’m going to need transport and Rob volunteered to
ferry me.”

“Makes sense to me,” Mike said, nodding.

“That’s the kind of thing he’d do.” I tried to kick him
under the table, but missed. “Yeah, I’ll stick around
here, visit the old man every day and finish Beau’s
spinning wheel. Honest,” he added, giving me his
best scapegrace grin. “Word of a Rees.”

“Good,” Fox smiled. “That’s settled. The sooner

you finish your breakfast, Rob, the sooner we can get
started.”

This time I put knives in my glare. “And what about

you?” I said, concern heavy in my voice.“Surely a
mug of Bovril’s not enough of a meal for a growing

lad like you?”

“Don’t worry,” he drawled, “I had something

earlier.”

“I bet you did,” I muttered into my plate. A pint

from my brother, probably. Or me? Thinking about it,
I was aware of a vague tenderness at the base of my
left thumb. I slid a quick glance at Mike and he was
absently rubbing at his left hand. I met Fox’s gaze.
His green eyes were glittering with amusement,
but beneath the surface the bitterness lay deep and
still as silt in a lake. I made a resolve to try to do
something about that.

“Okay,” I sighed, swallowed the last of my tea

and stood up. “Ready when you are, Reynard.”

Shrugging into my raincoat, I walked out of the

front door and winced as the weather hit me. There
wasn’t much wind, so the rain came down in vertical
sheets and struck with bruising force. I bolted for
the car and since my coat was water-resistant rather
than -proof, I was soaked to the skin within seconds.
Fox, looking not unlike a drowned red setter, dived
for the passenger seat as I triggered off the central
locking, and we slammed the doors on the rain with
some relief.

* * *

It was a painfully slow journey to the hospital.

Visibility was less than thirty yards and the
windscreen wipers simply could not cope with the
volume of water. I was concentrating on the road
and my driving too much to think coherently about
what I was going to say to Dad.

In the event, I needn’t have worried. Fox

hovered in the background with that awkward
selfconsciousness that most fit and healthy men
seem to develop beside a hospital bed. Dad fixed him
with his patented schoolmaster’s steely glare, which
increased Fox’s apparent discomfiture, and bought
every word. He didn’t like it much, especially the bit
about the portraits being reproductions. He prided
himself on knowing the genuine article when he saw
it.

“Must be damned good work,” was the only

grumble he made and I thanked the stars for Fox’s
telepathy. Otherwise we would have had a full-scale
argument on our hands, one that would have made
Prime Minister’s Question Time sound like a mutual
admiration society. “He’ll be pretty sick about it.Was
very taken with those portraits, was Baverstock.”

“So was I,” I sighed. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s

not our fault Grandfather Courtney hired the best
reproduction artist around. I’m sure Baverstock
won’t hold it against us.” I slanted a quick look at
Fox and he gave me an infinitesimal nod.

“Yes, but ... “ The old idiot was going to be

stubborn about it. Then his expression lightened
into a rather sleepy smile. “Don’t let him bully you
into any kind of refund,” he said, yawning.

“We have to go now,” I said and patted his arm in

lieu of the hug I wanted to give him. “Please behave
and do what they say. That way you’ll be out of here
all the sooner.”

“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “Just

remember that there are such things as phones

and I’d like to be kept up to date on the Baverstock
situation.”

“I will. I promise.”
He was yawning again, eyes heavy. “Hah,” he

muttered, determined as ever to have the last word.

The rain had stopped by the time we got back to

the car. I dug out my iPhone and keyed Baverstock’s
number. This time the secretary put me straight
through to him.

“Something has happened,” I told him. “We need

to talk.”

He immediately leaped to the conclusion that

the Adam-panel had fallen to bits, developed death-
watch beetle, Dutch Elm disease, dry rot and wet rot,
and he started to get shrill with panic. I soothed him
as best I could without telling him anything, and he
was so anxious he insisted I come to his home that
evening. Which was exactly what I’d prayed for and
hadn’t expected. Neither had Fox, judging by his
almost silent sigh of relief.

Now all we needed was a sensible plan of

campaign to deal with the major threat: Wendlow
himself. It was all very well storing away all the
sixteenth century collectables, but I wouldn’t feel
safe until Fox had made sure Wendlow’s mind was
wiped clear of anything to do with the Courtneys,
the Reeses, our houses and their contents. A very
uneasy conviction lurked at the back of my mind,
that if Wendlow’s memory did start to fill in some
of the pieces before Fox could get to him, my family
would not be safe.

“Don’t worry so much,” Fox said quietly.

“Are you reading my mind again?” I grumbled.
“Don’t have to,” he smiled. “You’re scowling,

chewing your lip and you’ve got a white-knuckled
grip on the steering wheel.”

I muttered something uncomplimentary and tried

to relax. It wasn’t easy.

* * *

Mike didn’t help, either. The first thing he said as

we walked into the cottage was, “He’s on the local
news.”

“What? Who?” I demanded. “Wendlow?”
“Yes. One of his staff got killed by his pet

guard dogs. Very nasty, by all accounts. Police are
investigating as a matter of course, but according to
the report, it’s being treated as a tragic accident.The
dogs have been put down.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling sick and guilty. “That’s - not

good.”

“Yeah,” said my brother. “Poor bloody animals.

You know, I think I’m going to have to get a few of
the guys and ride over to Marston House to have a
friendly chat with Wendlow.”

“No!” Fox and I exploded together. “Don’t even

think about it!” I continued. “Why would you do
something that stupid?”

“Stands to reason,” Mike said stubbornly. “He’s

obsessed. He’s targeted you once, he’ll do it again.
So he has to be convinced to leave you and us alone
in future. It seems like he’s pretty secretive about
his kink, not to mention aiding and abetting the
burglaries, so he needs to be told to stay away or

the newspapers and the police will get all the sordid
details. So me, Mad Dog and a few others will pay
him a friendly visit.”

“You will not,” Fox said, ice-cold.
“Okay.” Mike shrugged, colour a little high, but

he gave way with uncharacteristic ease. “It’s just
a thought.” And I thanked God for that ‘fluencing
trick. “I better go or Donna will kill me if I stand her
up again.”

Fox’s smile didn’t falter. For a moment I caught a

glimpse of the same affection he’d shown me before
our relationship escalated to something else, and it
pleased me he thought of Mike as a friend. I hated
the way he’d used my brother so callously to get
closer to the paintings, even while I understood why
he’d done it.

The two of them gave each other manly slaps

on the shoulders and Mike disappeared at a lope,
scooping up his bike gear as he went.

“I think he’s enjoying this,” I grumbled. “I haven’t

seen him this animated for years.”

“Of course he is.”
But there was something I needed to say to Fox

and now was as good a time as any. “Adam,” I said,
holding up my left hand and massaging the base
of my thumb. “You don’t have to feel bad about
this. I mean, the offer’s always there.” He froze,
his expression unreadable. Damn it, I’d lost any
pretence at coherency. “You need to drink, then you
don’t have to ask or beat yourself up about taking
it.Just go for it.”

“Robert, you’re not making sense.”

“Yes, I am. I saw your face earlier on. You were

smiling, but you were sick as a parrot inside. All
I’m saying is, you don’t have to be. Not as far as I’m
concerned.” He started to speak, but I shook my
head, touched my fingertips briefly to his lips.“Don’t
say anything. Just think about it, okay? Right now
we have to come up with a plan for Wendlow.”

“I know, and I have one.”
“You do?” I frowned.
“I’ll contact him, offer to sell him some

Elizabethan silver, anything. Grand-dad is in a rough
way and not expected to live much longer.But I need
the money now. It’ll all be mine sooner or later, so
I’ll be claiming an advance on the inheritance. It
won’t matter whether or not Wendlow remembers
anything about me and what happened.As far as
he’s concerned, I’m as crooked as he is. All I need is
to be close to him.”

“Okay,” I said confidently. “So now we put

Operation Baverstock into action.”

“Yes.” He smiled warmly at me. “Do you have

some invoices and letters I could borrow?”

“Yes, but I don’t think there’s anything from

George. He dealt with Dad verbally.”

“It doesn’t matter who they’re from or what

they’re about. If he has something to look at, it will
underline the conviction he’s reading documents
proving the paintings are reproductions. I’m not
taking any chances with this one.”

“Good point. I’ll dig some useful bits out of Dad’s

filing system, then I’ll do some more work on Adam.
Hey, perhaps you could persuade George there’re

some tiny initials and a date hidden in one of
Ann’s corners? And how about some old newspaper
clippings that as far as he’s concerned are about the
disastrous fire at Whosit House.”

“The Grange,” he supplied. “Somerbourne. That

is the touch of genius. Do you have any?”

“Dad has this album of local events. Goes

back over fifty years. I can remember seeing a
whole series of photos and articles from when the
Coopers’farmhouse went up in a thatch fire.”

“Rob,” he said solemnly. “Has anyone ever told

you that you’re a pearl above price?”

“Not recently,” I said, my face scarlet. I stood up

to dig the old scrapbook out of the sideboard and Fox
rose with me, then stepped in close.

“You are,” he said quietly, cupping my face in his

hands. “You’re all anyone could want.” His kiss was
achingly tender, full of need and barely restrained
passion, and I immersed myself in the kiss, in the
taste of him and the way his mouth moved over mine.
Our tongues teased and slid together, we breathed
each other’s air, welded so close from knees to
lips nothing could come between us.Despite the
growing urgency in my blood and my swelling cock,
I could have stood there all day, lost in the moment,
doing nothing but kiss. It was a long time before we
dragged ourselves back into the real world and its
problems.

* * *

Six-thirty on the dot saw us pulling up in front

of the massive wrought-iron gates to Baverstock’s

house. Smugly I glanced up at the security cameras
and gave Fox a full voltage I-told-you-so smile. He
gave me a slant-eyed glare in return so I leered
smugly and got out of the car.

I pushed the button on the control panel on the

gate pillar.

“Yes?” said a familiar voice.
“Robert Rees,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
“Come in.”
On cue the gates swung silently open.Technology

is a wonderful thing.

I parked the Volvo by the front door and we

climbed out. More cameras. Our George must
border on the paranoid. But then, he was a Hoarder.I
suppose the two go together.

I rang the bell and the door opened almost at once.

He looked at both of us and his frown deepened.

“When you said ‘we’,” he said, “I thought you

meant your father.”

“He’s still in hospital,” I explained. “Can we come

in?” hoping and praying that Fox was doing his stuff.

“Yes, of course.” His face cleared and produced a

welcoming smile. “Come through to my study.”

We followed on his heels to a beautiful spacious

room overlooking manicured lawns and winter-neat
borders. The walls were lined with books, French
Impressionists’ landscapes and a couple of Stubbs.
The furniture was late-eighteenth and nineteenth
century, comfortable and lived-in. He gestured us to
armchairs and sat down himself. “You mentioned a
problem,” he said anxiously.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath. “Mr Baverstock, I’d

like to introduce you to Adam Courtney. The portraits
you have are of his ancestors.”

Baverstock’s face drained of colour. He opened

his mouth to speak but no sounds came out. It was
painfully obvious he knew the name, knew that his
precious portraits had been burgled.

“I’m sure,” Fox said quietly, oh-so-earnestly,

“you bought them in good faith, and I hope you
didn’t pay over the odds for them. What your dealer
probably didn’t know and couldn’t tell, is that they
are reproductions.”

“What? Impossible! They have been authenticated

- “

“The originals were destroyed in a fire, forty-odd

years ago,” he said. “I’ve brought the documents,
invoices, newspaper articles, photos, to prove it.”

“That’s - impossible!” It was a bleat of protest,

and for a moment I felt sorry for poor George. He
had been so very taken with Ann.

“I’m sorry, Mr Baverstock,” I said with my most

sympathetic smile. I did mean it, honestly. Okay,
he was a Hoarder, but she had hit him right where
he lived and I could understand that. “I’m pretty
devastated as well. I haven’t dared tell Dad yet, it
will knock him back too much in his present state.
But Mr Courtney’s papers are overwhelmingly
conclusive.”

On cue, Fox opened up my briefcase and handed

over the evidence. Baverstock took it with hands
that shook, read it through with a painstaking
thoroughness that had me sweating.Oh please God
let Fox’s mind tricks be working. If there is a god that

takes care of blood-drinking carnivores, that is.

There obviously is because Baverstock dropped

the paperwork on his lap and sat back, gazing at us
with shocked and guilty eyes.

“I don’t believe it,” he whispered, in tones that

said he did.

“Mr Baverstock,” Fox leaned forward a

little,“even as reproductions, the portraits are very
important to my grandfather. Will you please let me
take Ann back to him, and the Adam when Mr Rees
has finished him?”

“I - yes. Yes, of course. I specialise in originals

only, no matter how charming the copy may be… I’ll
go and get her. It.”

We sat and waited in a nervous silence for what

seemed hours. Finally he returned, Ann held gently
in both hands.

“She really is lovely,” he said wistfully. “I collect

faces, you know. I’ve never seen one before that
catches the eye the way she does.”

“Yes,” Fox agreed solemnly. “I know what you

mean. The copyist did a fantastic job. He painted
them on panels taken from another part of the house,
used pigments the original artist would have used,
kept as close as he could to the sixteenth century
way.”

Baverstock nodded. Then thrust the painting into

Fox’s hands. “I bought them in good faith,” he said
abruptly, his face now as red as it had been pale. I
wondered if he had a history of heart problems.

“I don’t doubt it,” Fox said. We stood up to

go and he held out his hand. Baverstock took it

automatically. “Thank you for restoring them to the
family.”

We got out of there as fast as we diplomatically

could, and I managed not to cheer until the gates
closed behind us. Fox leaned over and gave me a
swift hug.

“If you weren’t driving,” he said huskily, “I’d kiss

you.”

“What makes you think I’d let you?” I demanded.
He laughed. “Is the back seat big enough for

sex?”

“Probably, but we’re not going to stop to find out.”
“Another time, then.”
I smiled, but didn’t answer. Time was not on my

side.

* * *

Back at the cottage, the fire in the living room

had burned down to a collection of glowing charcoal.
Fox piled a few more logs onto the smoulder while
I dropped onto the sofa. Almost at once the flames
grew, and when Fox turned out the light the room
was filled with their warm, flickering glow. He sat
at my feet, leaning against my legs the way he had
a million years ago, and we gazed into the fire in
silence for a while, enjoying the basic luxury of just
being together. At least, I did. It felt good. More than
that, it felt right. What Fox felt I didn’t know, but the
lack of tension in the muscled back pressed against
my knees hinted he was relaxed and happy to be
there with me.

The future remained a closed book - I had no

idea what would happen when everything was
sorted out and back to what passed as normal for
a blood-drinking immortal and a librarian from
London. I supposed we’d go our separate ways, but
I didn’t want that. The terrible rending sense of loss
that had ripped through me as I watched him die
was something I’ll never forget. To watch him walk
away wouldn’t be nearly as bad, but even so, I’d
sooner avoid it if I could. Gently I carded though
his hair, finding a bittersweet pleasure in the way
the silky strands slipped through my fingers. A wave
of emotion swept over me, so intense it came close
to painful. I didn’t know what to say to him, how to
ask what his plans were. How to explain everything
I felt for him.

Fox moved, turning to look up at me, concern in

his eyes.

“Rob?” he began. Damn it, he always seemed

to pick up on my emotions, if not actually read my
bloody mind word for word! I didn’t want to face
his questions any more than I wanted to hear his
answers to my own questions, so I did the only thing
I could - distract him. I leaned down and planted an
awkwardly angled kiss on the side of his mouth. He
smiled and turned a little more, sliding our mouths
and tongues together in a proper kiss.For an instant
I contemplated making love on the rug in front of the
fire. Very romantic, but there was no guarantee my
relatives wouldn’t choose to waltz in at the wrong
moment.

“Come to bed,” I said instead.
I led him up the narrow stairs to my bedroom,

every nerve in my body aware of how close he was
behind me. If I was going to lose him, then I was
determined to have as many good memories as I
could gather.

* * *

The room was darker than the night outside, the

heavy curtains saw to that. I switched on the bedside
lamp and we undressed in silence. The radiance
gilded Fox’s hair and skin, highlighted the lines of
muscle and bone and transmuting him to a living,
breathing statue. He took my breath away.Then he
stretched out on the bed and opened his arms to me,
his smile an invitation and a caress.

There were words burning in my heart, but I

couldn’t speak them, so I lay beside him and used
my hands and mouth to draw their patterns on his
body. I worshipped the contours of him with my
fingertips, anointed them with kisses. I sucked and
teased his nipples to hard nubs, gently nipped and
licked my way down his abdomen. Fox writhed and
arched under each caress, sinuous and sensual,
whispering my name in a voice torn ragged with
desire. For him to give himself so entirely into my
care was intoxicating, yet I couldn’t entirely forget
the basic facts of life that lay between us. Resolutely
I shoved it all to one side. Here and now were all
that mattered, and I was in love with him.

Fox’s belly muscles rippled under my mouth,

and when I dipped my tongue into his navel, his
hips jerked. The head of his cock painted a smear
of precome across my cheek and I tilted my head

to capture his erection between my lips. Nothing
more, not yet. Flicking my tongue tip over the slit,
I savoured the flavour of him, his musk-rich scent
filling my nostrils. I took him deeper, the heat and
weight of him perfect on my tongue. Fox groaned
and shook, his hands moving spasmodically through
my hair, but he managed not to drive up into my
mouth. I took him as far as I could to the back of my
throat and a shudder ripped through him.

He wasn’t going to last long now, and I was

hungry for the taste of him, wanted - needed - to
have as much of him as I could, in whatever way
I could. Gently I kneaded his ball-sac, ran my
fingertips along his perineum and started a rhythmic
suction on his cock.

Fox held out longer than I thought he would,

but the pleasure proved to be too much. He yelled
my name and convulsed, flooding my mouth with
spurting semen. I took all he had to give, swallowing
it down and relishing every drop.

I held him while he caught his breath, whispered

nonsense into his hair as I caressed him through the
aftershocks, then reached for a condom and the lube.
He took the small foil packet from me and tossed it
away.

“We don’t need that,” Fox murmured. “I don’t

catch diseases or pass them on, and if you do, they
can’t affect me. All I need right now is you, in me,
with nothing between us.”

Years of conditioning on safe sex and condoms

meant that I have never fucked anyone without
wearing one. I didn’t expect the lack of latex to make

that much difference, but it did. Everything was
heightened, his heat, the pulsing throb of his internal
muscles, the silken sweet drag of his lubricated skin
on mine. I made it last as long as I could, but with
every kiss, every touch, every slow thrust, I was both
asking him to stay and saying goodbye. By tomorrow
afternoon the whole Courtney panel saga would be
over.

If Fox was feeling anything other than sexual

ecstasy, he didn’t show it.

Chapter Sixteen

At seven minutes past nine the next morning, the

shit hit the fan and the potential fallout was the stuff
of nightmares.

The house phone rang as I was feeding the living

room fire, and I picked up the handset, expecting to
hear Lisa or Mike. “Orchard Cottage,” I said.

“I think you’re a player, Robert.” The voice was

deep and cold, and shockingly familiar. “How did
you do it? An hallucinogen? Very inventive, but not
good enough. My memories may be impaired but I
can remember enough. I want those panels, Robert.I
want them now. I’ll exchange them for your brother.”
My heart and lungs seized up momentarily and
I sat down hard on the sofa. I knew it! That bloody
reprogramming hadn’t taken! Fox and Uncle Joe
were talking in the kitchen - their voices sounded
as if they were coming from miles away down an
echoing cavern.

“Hallucinogens? You’re not making any sense,”

I said as calmly as I could while trying not to
hyperventilate. My knuckles showed white as I
gripped the handset.

“Really?” Wendlow’s drawl sent more chills down

my spine. “Perhaps this will sharpen your wits.
Fenton, if you please.”

Sounds of something heavy being dragged came

over the phone. I could hear harsh breathing, then
a gasp.

“Rob,” mumbled another too-familiar voice and

I thought I was going to throw up. “I-I think he’s
serious about th - “ Mike howled in agony. I heard a
scuffle followed by a solid thud.

“Thank you, Fenton. Need I say more,

Robert?Bring me the panels, then you and I will sit
down and talk about Adam Courtney. The current,
supposedly dead, Adam Courtney.”

“About that,” I said, thinking on my feet. I had to

shake Wendlow’s confidence somehow, but I would
be gambling with Mike’s life. I’d heard that attack
was the best form of defence, but Mike was at stake
here. Oh, God ... Time. I needed time! “Have you
thought about how that happened? Deals within
deals, Henry. Adam made them.”

“Who with?” he snapped.
“Haven’t a clue. He didn’t name names, just

called them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Probably
you can make a better guess than I can.” I took a
deeper breath and hardened my voice, putting as
much steel into it as I could. “Harm my brother
again, Henry, or anyone in my family, and you’ll end
up like some of those Elizabethans you’re so fond
of. Now, shall we stop the chest thumping and talk,
or are you going to declare a war you will not win.
Believe me, you have no idea what you’re dealing
with.” And wasn’t that the truth.

Wendlow was silent for a long while and I forced

myself to keep my breathing even. Fox and Uncle
Joe were standing close by now, listening quietly.
Fox was behind my shoulder, I couldn’t see his
expression, but Uncle Joe’s face was nearly purple
with fury.

“Very interesting, Robert. It seems I may have

misjudged you. So we have an impasse.”

“No. We don’t,” I cut in. “Let my brother go and

I’ll give you the Adam panel. Then we draw a line
under this. Make one more move against me and
mine, and you’ll find that lovely old manor house of
yours burned down in front of you. Then we’ll start
on you.”

“You expect me to believe you?” He sounded

scornful, incredulous.

I laughed. “Are you willing to take the risk?Think

about it, Henry. How did we get away so smoothly?
How did your Tweedle die? Call me back and we’ll
arrange the exchange.” I put the phone down and
dived for the kitchen, making it to the sink just in
time before I lost my breakfast.

Uncle Joe followed me, patted my back as I

heaved my guts up. “Robbie, what the fuck is going
on?” he whispered. “What are you playing at?”

“Trying to keep Mike in one piece,” I croaked,“and

buy us some time.”

“By threatening the bastard?”
“Had to knock him off balance.” I filled the

nearest glass with water and gulped it down. “If
he thinks I’m a soft touch, he’ll bleed me dry, take
everything.”

“Yes,” Fox said quietly. “Rob, I’m sorry. This is my

fault. I’ll put it right.”

I shook my head. “We will,” I answered. It

seemed I’d inherited more from the Wells side of
my ancestry than I’d ever thought; revenge is a dish
best served cold, according to that old saying. An icy

determination took root in me and I no longer felt
sick. “Not your fault. Wendlow made the first move
so everything following on from that is down to him.
When he calls back, I’ll arrange the meet.”He had to
call back, and soon. “Uncle, I need you to organise
the clan. They can make sure Lisa is safe and that
Wendlow hasn’t got a small army as backup.”

“Trust me, Robbie-lad,” Uncle Joe said grimly,

eyeing me with deepening respect. “You name the
time and place, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Neutral ground,” Fox said. “And not out in the

open or miles from anywhere.”

I nodded. “A public place, where he can’t hit out

and you can get close enough to deal with him.”

“Yes,” he said again.
“Okay.” I thought rapidly, running various

places through my mind. A pub would be best ...
Or a restaurant. There was a Holiday Inn outside
Amesbury, a new, ultramodern construction, more
glass than wall. It had a large restaurant and bar
area, open enough to give Wendlow confidence he
could control the situation. At the same time those
wide, people-filled spaces would keep Mike and I
safe from any reprisals. I hoped. I’d called Wendlow’s
bluff, but what if he wasn’t bluffing? On the other
hand, I wasn’t.

Not for one moment did I consider contacting

the police, nor did Uncle Joe suggest it. All those
generations of Irish tinkers and Romani I’d inherited
along with my Wells genes, rose up and told me this
was too personal to involve outsiders.

* * *

Waiting for Wendlow to phone back was a very

special corner of Hell. All kinds of worst case
scenarios seethed in my mind, but I built a wall of
ice and shoved them behind it. Maybe Fox helped
out with his influencing thing, maybe he didn’t, but
somehow I managed to hold it all together. While
Uncle Joe made a series of calls on his mobile, I
sat by the house phone with Fox a solid supporting
presence beside me. And waited.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
“My house,” Wendlow said as soon as I picked

up the handset. “Both panels and we’ll call it quits.”

“No,” I said. “The Holiday Inn, just outside

Amesbury. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”
“In the restaurant. You, Mike, and Tweedle

Fenton, eleven-thirty. I’ll be there with Adam and
the panel.”

He paused briefly. “Very well. But both panels,

Robert, and we’ll draw a line under this.”

“No repercussions on my family. And that

includes Simon and his business.”

“No repercussions. My word on it.” Those last

four words had the same archaic ring to them that
Fox used. I wondered if Wendlow would be as bound
by them.

“Fine. We have a deal. Eleven-thirty, Henry.”
I put the phone down on him, and shook. Fox put

his arms around me and I leaned against him, not
caring how Uncle Joe’s eyebrows were climbing.
But he made no comment.

“Everyone’s still on alert as far as he’s concerned,”

he reported. “I’ll take a few Wells nephews and follow
him from the manor, make sure it is just the two of
them with Mike. The Hughes cousins are putting a
cordon around the Inn, and the Stockwell boys are
watching out for Lisa. Your dad’s safe enough in
hospital.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” I said. “I need to clean my teeth

... “

“Go,” Fox ordered. “I’ll have a hot drink ready

for you when you come back.” I felt him press a kiss
on my head, and he tightened his embrace before
releasing me.

“Fox, my lad,” I heard Uncle Joe say as I started

up the stairs. “Can I have a word with you on the
quiet-like?” I paused, frowning. “This could well turn
pear shaped,” he continued, sounding unnaturally
serious - and sober. “Rob can look after himself, more
or less, but this Wendlow’s an unpredictable sod and
he fights dirty. Watch the boy’s back, all right?”

“I will,” Fox answered, equally solemnly. “My

word on it.”

“Good enough for me, Fox-lad.”

* * *

At eleven o’clock on the dot Fox and I left the

cottage and climbed into my Volvo. Uncle Joe had
already left to co-ordinate the various protection
operations, for which I was grateful. Fox was
radiating quiet amusement, and the weight of his
gaze was a tangible caress.

“What?” I asked as I fastened my seatbelt.

“Nothing,” he said, mealy-mouthed and

virtuous.“When this is over, we should sit down with
a bottle of wine and talk.”

“That sounds ominous,” I muttered, not meeting

his eyes. “Put on your seatbelt.”

“It’s not meant to be,” he said as he obeyed. “Rob,

you’re a pretty special person and you’ve become
very important to me. I’d like it if we could stay
friends. More than friends.”

“What does that mean?” I whispered, pulling

away down the lane towards the road.

“It means I have feelings for you. Deep feelings.

And I think you might have the same for me.”

“I do,” I started to say. Then a large black

Mercedes whipped off the road into the lane.“Fuck!”
There was no time to swerve out of the way.I was
only travelling at walking pace as it was. I stood on
the brakes and we’d barely stopped moving before
the car crashed into the front of my Volvo. “Fuck!”

We were slammed forward and then back, saved

by seatbelts and airbags. Dazed and confused, I
struggled to get my breath back, distantly aware that
two men were getting out of the Merc. Images of
insurance claims, repair bills floated before me -but
it wasn’t my fault so my No Claims Bonus was safe.
Then recognition hit me. Wendlow. It was sodding
Wendlow and his surviving Tweedle.

I didn’t think about whiplash or neck injuries,

just unclipped my seatbelt and forced the door open,
aware that Fox was doing the same. We piled out,
and I couldn’t speak for him, but I was fighting mad.
I lunged for Wendlow, while Fox pounced on Fenton

like a large panther. But Wendlow was ready for me.

Outweighed, outreached and outclassed, his first

punch took me in the ribs, sending me lurching back
against my car. Judging by his stance, Wendlow was
a boxer, and his fiercely exultant grin said it all; he
was going to batter the living daylights out of me. I
dodged his next blow, but walked into its follow-up.
His fists smacked into my face, splitting my lip, and
hammering my cheekbone. I staggered, my head
ringing. But the taste of my own blood acted like
a bucket of cold water thrown at me. It was helped
by his laughter, and his sneering, “What’s the
matter, you arse-licking faggot? Can’t take a little
punishment from a real man?”

My uselessly blind rage disappeared and I knew

what I had to do.

For the first time I used my martial arts

knowledge outside of the dojo. Or rather, I let the
ingrained muscle-memory take over and the moves
flowed as if they were second nature. Wendlow
knew conventional boxing, but I was younger, faster,
and functioning on pure adrenaline now. I blocked
his first punch with a hard knife-hand chop to his
forearm and heard his bone snap. He yelled in pain.
I ducked under his left-hand swing and kicked high
to the side of his head. He dropped like a stone. I
stared down at him for a moment, baffled by the
abrupt ending to our conflict and wondering if I had
killed him. I hadn’t. He was breathing, and when I
pushed my fingers into his thick neck, his pulse was
strong.

Off on the other side of the lane, Fox wasn’t

bothering with any kind of mind-trickery. He was
systematically beating the shit out of Tweedle
Fenton. He clearly bore a grudge for the shots that
had put him down, and the grave they’d planted him
in. I, for one, didn’t blame him, but didn’t spare him
any more thought. Mike was the only thing on my
mind.

There’d been no sign of him in the car, but when

I wrenched open the back passenger door, he was
lying jammed in the footwell behind the front seats.
His hands and ankles were tied, and silver gaffer
tape sealed his mouth. Blood masked his face as
well, and I sought frantically for a pulse in his throat.
I found it and gasped with relief.

Fox abandoned the now unconscious Tweedle,

and joined me at the car. “Is he all right?” he asked
urgently.

“I think so, but he’s bleeding a lot.” Most of

the blood was coming from his hands, and when I
looked more closely, I saw one of them was wrapped
in now-dripping bandages.

“Get him in the house,” Fox said. “I’ll do what

I can for him after I’ve dealt with these two. This
time there’ll be no mistakes.” He took out his Swiss
Army knife and cut the thin cords, and between us
we eased Mike out of Wendlow’s car. Carefully I
gathered him into my arms and carried him into the
cottage. He was no light weight but I hardly noticed,
adrenaline giving me the necessary extra strength. I
lowered him onto the couch and collected cloths and
a bowl of warm water.

When I unwrapped Mike’s bandaged hand,

blood flooded afresh. I did all I could to slow it, and
saw enough to realise a blade had been driven clear
through his palm.

“Oh, God,” I whispered. “That fucking bastard!”

I fought down the impulse to go back outside and
plant a series of hefty kicks to Wendlow’s ribs and
stick a carving knife through his fucking palm.
I bound Mike’s hand as tightly as I could, and
cleaned up his face. Bruises and contusions marred
his features, and his nose was probably broken. His
wrists and ankles were welted by the cords, and in
short he needed to be in hospital.

“Let me check him over,” Fox said, startling me

into dropping the bloodied cloth. “I know a fair bit
about injuries.”

“We have to take him to hospital,” I said, moving

enough to give him access to Mike. “He could have
a cracked skull, brain trauma, blood clots - “

“I don’t think so.”
“How the hell can you be so sure?” I shouted.“Do

vampires come with x-ray vision?” I froze, staring
at him. It was the first time I’d said the V-word
aloud, and it jarred between us like nails down a
chalkboard. Fox looked up and briefly met my gaze.
His eyes were shuttered, blank, and if I’d been less
worried about my brother I would have apologised.

Fox turned back to Mike. “His pulse is slow, but

strong and steady.” He pushed Mike’s sleeves up and
inspected each arm in turn. In the crook of Mike’s
left arm was a blot of red under the skin, the kind
of subcutaneous bleeding you get from a clumsily-
given injection. “I’d say he’s been drugged.It’s more

efficient than violence.” He elbowed me further
away, but I pushed back. “Rob, don’t be stubborn.
How are you going to explain to the doctors that
he’s obviously been attacked, tied up and drugged?
They’ll involve the police, and that’ll mean all your
family will be under scrutiny, and they’ll find out
about your father’s non-declared income. Then
there’s Wendlow and his part in this -and me. I can’t
let you break my cover.”

“Then fuck you!” I blazed. “My brother’s life - “
“Will you let me do what I can for Mike?”
“Such as?” I demanded. “Sod it, Adam, I’m in

love with you but don’t you dare make me choose
between you and my family!”

He smiled wryly and smoothed my hair back from

my forehead. “Not the way I would have chosen to
hear you say you love me.” He sighed, shook his
head. “I love you, too. Let me examine him. I’m
willing to bet the worst injury he has is his hand.
That, I can heal.”

“You can?” I asked uncertainly, hardly able to

believe my ears. “You do?”

“Yes. My saliva clots and accelerates healing,

remember?”

“Oh.” I flushed and looked away. “Yes. I forgot.”
Fox chuckled, leaned forward and kissed

me.“Trust me on this,” he said. “If I think he needs a
doctor, I swear I’ll see he gets one.”

Mike saved me from having to answer that.

He moaned, stirred, blinked open bleary eyes and
squinted up at us. “Wendlow,” he slurred. “The
fucking arsehole stuck a knife in me! Rob? Tell me

you didn’t cave and give him the bloody panels?”

“I didn’t,” I told him.
“Rob broke his arm and knocked him out,” Fox

added, pride in his voice.

“You did?” Mike gazed at me wide-eyed. “Hey,

Ninja-Robbo! You’re the best big brother I ever
had.”It would have been more touching if he hadn’t
sounded as if he’d been on a week-long binge. Then
he gave me a silly grin and sort of zoned out.

At least that made it easier for Fox to run his

version of a triage. During the process, I could see
for myself the bruising on Mike’s ribs. It was no
more than he’d collected playing rugby, and he
didn’t react to gentle probing on his abdomen. He
did yelp a bit when Fox realigned his nose, but Fox
didn’t find any other wounds or lumps on his skull.

Finally Fox turned his attention to Mike’s hand.

He removed the blood-soaked bandaging with
gentle care. As he did so, he used his influence.
Mike’s eyelids drooped closed, he relaxed with
a sigh and to all intents and purposes, fell asleep.
Blood still welled and dripped from the open wound
and my anger seethed again.

Not glancing at me, Fox lifted Mike’s hand and

pressed the palm to his mouth. He held it there for
what seemed a long time, then turned it over and
did the same with the back. Blood no longer dripped
from Mike’s palm. When Fox placed Mike’s hand
back on the cushions and stood up, both wounds
had closed. Fox wiped his hand over his mouth,
smearing gore.

“He won’t remember the knifing,” he told me.

“So he won’t question the disappearing wounds.”

“That’s stopped the bleeding, but what about

damaged bones, tendons? His hand looks as if
Wendlow had him nailed to a table!”

“As far as I can tell, the blade was very carefully

placed between the bones. There’s no major damage,
and what there is will heal faster. Trust me on this,
Rob. His hand will give him pain for a while, but
more like a deep bruise he could have got trying to
fight them off.”

I drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Thank you,” I

said quietly. “What about Wendlow and Tweedle?”

“They’ll keep. You’re hurt.” He cupped my face

and kissed me again, his tongue lapping gently at
the split on my lip. The small wound stung even
more for a moment, then the sharp pain faded as
his saliva did its work. He drew back, slowly licking
my blood from his mouth. Added to the light in his
eyes, it was nothing short of lascivious. “Better?” he
whispered.

“Yes. But what about - “
“They’re sitting in their car, dreaming their new

reality. They were coming here to discuss a portrait-
cleaning contract with your father, turned into the
lane too quickly and met your car head-on. I’ve
removed all knowledge of me, my home, the panels,
photographs, and you from their minds, smoothed
it all over. He’s going to go away and decide to get
his portraits cleaned by someone else. There’s no
way now the memories could be recreated, let alone
recalled.”

“But we tore into them pretty effectively. Their

injuries won’t match a car crash.”

“I know. They had a run in with a couple of

poachers before coming here. I’ve covered all the
bases, I think.”

“Thank you,” I said again. “Now we need to get

ourselves cleaned up - and work out what the hell
we’re going to tell Uncle Joe.”

Fox chuckled. “Easy,” he said. “Wendlow came

here to force a confrontation, and we won. He
agreed to forget the whole affair - “ My mobile phone
sounded, interrupting him.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, glancing at the

screen. “Hi, Uncle.”

“Robbie, we missed him!” Uncle Joe yelled in my

ear. “They’d already left the house when our lads
got here!”

“Calm down, Uncle,” I said. “It’s all sorted.

They’re here, we’ve got Mike back - a bit battered
but otherwise okay - and Wendlow has seen the
light. He’s going to go away and forget all about us.”
Literally. As long as his car was driveable.

“Huh.” The old fool sounded disappointed. “How

the hell did you manage that?” he demanded.

“Jodan mawashi geri,” I answered

crisply.“Roundhouse kick to the head. Karate pays
off. And Fox is a mean fighter. It’s over, Uncle.” My
voice suddenly shook on the last three words, and
Fox wrapped his arms around me. “Stand the troops
down, it’s all over and we won.”

* * *

We had won. I knew it with gut-deep certainty,

but on the surface of my mind disbelief roiled.
Nausea settled in my belly, a low-level threat rather
than incipient attack, so I was able to ignore it.

Wendlow had taken himself and his battered

henchman off back to where they’d come from, their
shiny black Mercedes making strange groanings
under its bonnet. Uncle Joe turned up just as they
pulled out of the lane and he opted to follow them,
just to make sure they got back to Lockeridge.Mike,
looking like he’d gone three rounds with the current
World Heavyweight Champion, was sleeping up in
his room, his wounded hand already scabbed over
and less swollen. Fox had cleaned himself up, I’d
changed into clothes that didn’t have splashes of
my brother’s blood over them, and the two panels
lay on the dining table, the Adam still only partially
cleaned. Success all round.

Gingerly I touched my cheekbone. My split

lip had closed up, all swelling gone, but I had the
beginnings of a black eye by the feel of it, and my
ribs ached. It would be obvious to anyone seeing
us that we’d been in a fight, so how much did we
tell Dad? One thing was clear; I’d need to have Fox
close at hand for the telling so he could keep Dad
calm with his influencing trick. Probably he should
go into the ward first, before Dad got a look at Mike
and me.

Fox. Abruptly our victory tasted sour, and I felt as

if I was on the brink of losing something - someone-
very important. All right, Fox had said he loved me-
and God knows I felt the same about him. But he was
more than four hundred years old and I was twenty-

six. He wasn’t going to age unless he changed to a
diet of animal blood, while I would go through the
normal progression for the next sixty or so years - if
I was lucky - and die, decrepit and possibly senile.
And no way would I want to go through the same
mutation, even if it meant I’d be as close to immortal
as my lover. So where the hell did that leave me?

“You’re thinking too much,” Fox whispered in my

ear. “Again.” He slipped his arms around me and
clasped his hands over my stomach. I leaned back in
his embrace, resting my hands over his.

“Maybe,” I said. “So, where do we go from here?”
“Somerbourne. My home. I’d like you to see it.We

could spend a few days there, then come back here.”

I shook my head. “Not while Dad’s in hospital.

And I’m not going anywhere while he’s convalescing.
Besides, your bike’s off the road and I haven’t taken
a look at my car yet. “

“Not a problem. We’ll go when you’re satisfied

he’s going to be all right.” He kissed my neck and
I shivered with pleasure, rocking back against him
a little harder. His erection pressed against my
arse.“Your car isn’t too badly damaged, certainly
good enough to drive to the nearest garage for repair,
and I can buy another bike easily enough. Now tell
me what’s really bothering you.”

I didn’t answer for a few minutes, trying to

marshal my thoughts. “More than friends, you said.
For how long?”

Fox held me tighter. “I would like to share your

life for as long as you’ll give me,” he said quietly.

“And my blood,” I said.

“Only if you’re willing.” He smiled ruefully. “We

both know you’re not so easily influenced, so don’t
be concerned I’ll coerce you.”

“I don’t want to be changed.”
“I know, nor would I suggest it.” He hesitated.“Ann

was well over ninety years old when she died, and
she looked closer to fifty than a hundred.”

The apparent non sequitur took me by

surprise.“Um, really? That’s a good age.” Then I
remembered the average life expectancy back in
those days was a lot shorter than now. “You mean
... “

“She gave me a little of her blood several times

a week. Often enough for me to appear close to her
age, but not enough to drain her in any way. In fact,
her metabolism quickly compensated and she was
much healthier than many of our contemporaries.
She was never ill and any injuries healed very
quickly. Not as quickly as mine do but much faster
than normal. I’ve heard of it happening with other
long-term couples - it’s something to do with my
saliva and semen, I think, though it’s never been
scientifically investigated, of course.”

“Oh,” I said inadequately.
“I’d like us to be together, Rob.”
“Why me?” I whispered. “You’re way out of my

league.”

“No, I’m not. It’s more like the other way

around.I’ve done a lot in my life I’m not proud of, to
put it mildly. But you ground me, Rob. You’re clever,
loyal, funny, sensible, compassionate, and strong.
You’re all I’ve ever wanted in a lover since Ann died.

So what do you say?”

I didn’t really have to think long and hard about

it. Being with him might well bring me a few extra
decades, but the bottom line was, could I see myself
settling down with Fox, living happy ever after -apart
from the odd domestic dispute that would certainly
arise between two stubborn people? Yes.I’d be able
to help maintain his cover, though I wasn’t sure how
Grandfather Adam would fit into the new setup. But
I’d been silent for too long.

Fox released me and stepped back a few paces.
“My apologies,” he said, rigidly formal. I turned

to face him.

“You, Adam, are an idiot.” I said, putting into

the words everything I felt for him, all the complex
emotions and needs I’d experienced since he’d
walked into my life, not to mention the roller-coaster
ride of drama and danger. That, apart from scaring
me shitless and forcing me to find depths within
myself I hadn’t thought possible, had brought us
closer together more quickly than would otherwise
have happened. “I am not going to rush into this,
“ I told him. “In fact, I think we should have a trial
period. Say, the first twenty, thirty years? And take it
from there.” His features lit up and his smile became
incandescent. “But,” I continued, placing my hand
on his chest to hold him back as he stepped towards
me. “I set the house rules.”

“Yes, Robert,” he said, meek and mealy-mouthed

and utterly false, and pounced on me.

* * *

About Chris Quinton

I live in the southwest of England, in a small city

with ancient roots.

I share my house with my extended family, two

large dogs, sundry fancy goldfish and assorted pet
mice. And a vast collection of books.

Writing has been an important part of my life

for more years than I care to remember, and I daily
thank The Powers That Be for the invention of the
computer and the world wide web.

* * *