CHAPTER 30

SHE HADN’T CHECKED IN WITH HIM YET THIS MORNING AND HIS OWN text had not gone through; there may be a problem with the cell tower in the area. He did not want to think about it.

 

Doyle entered the elegant offices and approached the receptionist, a very attractive woman in a Chanel suit who wore expensive eyeglasses that Doyle suspected were not prescription but were simply for effect. The woman smiled at Doyle with perfect, even teeth. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” said Doyle, feeling as though she were a pilgrim visiting a shrine. “I would like to speak to Mr. Layton, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?” The woman continued polite even though she must be fully aware that Doyle was a gatecrashing peasant.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But if he could spare a moment of his time, I would appreciate it. It concerns Lord Acton.”

The receptionist was too refined to show any surprise. “And whom may I say is visiting?”

Doyle swallowed. “Lady Acton.”

The receptionist didn’t miss a beat. “If you would please be seated, I will see if Mr. Layton is available.” She walked away, her stiletto heels tapping on the wooden floor, and closed the hallway door behind her with a soft click. Doyle sat on the tasteful leather settee, eyed some very tasteful artwork, and waited, trying to tamp down the anxiety that threatened to rise up.

After only a few minutes, a neat young man in a three-piece suit came through the door and approached her with a smile, the receptionist in tow. Doyle stood to shake his hand. “Mr. Layton?”

“No, I am his assistant; he is tied up at the moment and I thought I would see if I could help you.” Doyle noted the receptionist returned to her desk but didn’t take her eyes off them. She is probably supposed to call security at his signal, thought Doyle; can’t say I blame them.

“You are related to Lord Acton, I understand.”

“Yes.” She tried to conceal her nervousness with only moderate success; she was working very hard to control her accent. “I am Lady Acton.”

The assistant regarded her for a moment with a small smile. He doesn’t think I’m dangerous—just nicked, thought Doyle.

“I believe Lady Acton is an elderly woman who is currently residing in . . . elsewhere.”

Good one, thought Doyle with approval—shouldn’t give out state secrets. “That would be the dowager Lady Acton, Lord Acton’s mother. I am Lord Acton’s wife.” Her voice sounded high to her own ears.

It was clear the young man didn’t believe her and the receptionist just stared, fascinated. Doyle continued a bit desperately. “We were married a few days ago, here in London.” Best not to mention it was the same day her father was murdered—too much information and it would only confuse him. “You probably haven’t heard as yet because it was quite spur o’ the moment, although not on his part, apparently . . .” You are talking too much, my girl, she thought, and firmly closed her lips. They were both watching her as though she were a madwoman.

Remembering her wedding ring, she bent to pull it out from the zipper compartment in her rucksack and noted the movement made her companion start in alarm. She slowed her hands and carefully pulled it out—a small and ancient rose-cut diamond, flanked by even smaller emeralds. Holding it up before him, she explained, “This is my weddin’ ring—Acton said it belonged to his many-times-great-grandmother.” She had a momentary vision of Acton digging through the family vault to find something that suited her so perfectly, and smiled at it. Truly, it was a pretty ring; she had not looked at it since her wedding day because to do so made her feel a little sick.

It may have been the authentic-looking ring—or it may have been the lip gloss—but in any event the assistant agreed to fetch Mr. Layton. Wise of him to pass on this wicket, she thought, sitting herself down again; doesn’t want to kick me out on the chance this fantastic story is true.

While she waited, Doyle thought about her wedding—not your normal nuptials by any measure. While in the car after the Somers Town murders, Acton had wanted her answer with no further discussion and she had simply agreed—she wasn’t even certain why she did; it was as though she went along the path that offered the least resistance. He had assured her that she could become accustomed to the idea at her leisure and that no immediate announcement need be made. He was so calm and matter-of-fact that, strange as it sounded, she felt it would be impolite to refuse.

Acton had put in a call to a priest at St. Cecilia’s Chapel who was apparently already on scramble drill in the event of just such a contingency—Acton didn’t want to give her any time for sober reflection. Upon arrival, Acton took her arm and escorted her from the car to the chapel; she was aware that he was hoping for a fait accompli before she came to her senses, which was a very good French phrase, and apt. Much better, for example, than the English phrase, Marry in haste and repent at leisure.

There, in the dimly lit chapel, she and Acton had met the priest who had enlisted his secretary as a witness, and the both of them had behaved as though having an Anglican peer demand a Roman Catholic wedding ceremony on a moment’s notice was something quite routine.

She remembered that as they assembled at the altar, the sunlight shafting through the diamond-paned windows, Acton had leaned down and whispered, “Michael” into her ear. Because, you see, she was marrying a man who was not at all certain she knew his first name.

Keeping her gaze locked upon Acton’s, she had remained calm as they recited their vows. He was euphoric; she could feel it, his voice steady and sincere. She had tried to match him in demeanor and was largely successful—the only time she faltered was when he placed the ring on her finger. It was sized perfectly of course—the man probably knew her shoe size, too—but she had to take her eyes off it and draw a deep breath as her knees suddenly went a bit wobbly.

After the ceremony, they had signed the license and thanked the priest and his secretary, Acton handing him an envelope that undoubtedly contained another enormous check; the Catholic Church was making an unholy profit as a result of the chief inspector’s romantic inclinations. Acton had escorted Doyle back to the unmarked—the entire wedding had taken less than thirty minutes—and they sat together in the car for a few silent moments. He had asked gently, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she had replied. “I only have to become accustomed, is all.”

“Take as long as you wish; I rushed you.”

Understatement of the century. She didn’t like to think about how she would break the news to Father John that she had married the famed Lord Acton before another priest in another parish without even posting the banns. The whole thing had been surreal; she couldn’t blame Layton’s assistant for thinking it a preposterous tale and for a wild moment, she considered fleeing the scene. Unbidden, she had another memory; that of Acton telling her in no uncertain terms that she was never to imply their marriage was a mésalliance. Lifting her chin, she thought, I will insist on speaking to Layton and I will not take no for an answer. And I will wait until he can get Acton himself on the phone, if necessary. It is that important.

Her resolution was rewarded when an elderly and dignified man preceded the assistant through the door and approached her with his wrinkled features fashioned into a dry smile. “Lady Acton.” He bowed.

Doyle was not certain what she was supposed to do and so she nodded her head but couldn’t contain an irrepressible smile. “You believe me—thank all the saints and holy angels.”

Eyes twinkling, he smiled in return. “You are the former Miss Kathleen Doyle?”

“Yes.” She was that relieved. “So Acton told you.”

“No.” His manner expressed dignified regret. “Lord Acton visited a few weeks ago to name you as the beneficiary of his unentailed assets, but he neglected to mention you were to marry.”

“That is very like him,” she said fondly, but thought to herself, silly, besotted knocker.