Dead silence, all eyes staring at him. Well, he had their attention. There was more dead silence.
“I’ve been accepted to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. It’s twenty weeks of immersion training. I’ll probably be assigned to the New York Field Office with the same people I worked with to find the Koh-i-Noor.”
He looked around the table at the shocked faces. “Well, say something.”
Harry studied his son’s face. “You already changed direction once when you left the Foreign Office for New Scotland Yard. You are certain you wish to make another change?”
“I’m sure.”
Harry sat back and looked at his dark-eyed, dashing son. He took after his mother, with his handsome face, his spirit, his bullheadedness, traits that made Harry proud, and profoundly worried on occasion. Nicholas had spent his entire career avoiding any hint of favoritism, of nepotism, striking out on his own from the very beginning. His son had courage, and honor, which made him, his father thought, a fine example of Drummond blood. And sometimes he was a wild hair, doing something so unexpected it left one speechless, something Harry recognized in his own father.
His mother was biting her lip. “You’ll move to New York? When will we see you?”
“I’ll come home as often as I can, I promise.”
She shook her head. “I always knew your uncle Bo would drag you into his den of thieves.”
Nicholas said mildly, “It’s not the old Wild West, mother. It’s your country, too.”
She waved an elegant hand. “Of course it is, Nicholas, it’s simply too far away for my tastes.” She sighed. “I suppose this is a wonderful opportunity for you, but—” She didn’t finish; instead, she came to give him a hug, and he relaxed. This, telling his family, was the part he’d dreaded. Penderley hadn’t fought him at all, even wrote him a glowing recommendation. Nicholas suspected Penderley was probably happy to get him out of his hair more than anything else.
He stole a look at his grandfather, who appeared to be ignoring all of them, still studiously eating his oatmeal. He was eighty-three, his back ramrod-straight, his eyes still the rich Drummond brown, always sharp and assessing. The only real acknowledgment of his age was his thinned hair, and, well, not to belabor it, but his ears and nose seemed to grow bigger each passing year.
Nicholas was the grandson of a baron; there were no two ways around it. The heir twice removed, as Penderley had sometimes called him if he was feeling jovial. There were responsibilities to come in his future, but not now. His grandfather was hale and hearty, his father as well.
No, not now.
Finally, his grandfather put down his spoon and met his eyes. “Don’t forget where you come from, Nicholas. This is your home, and it always will be.” He said again, “Don’t forget.”
Nicholas smiled. “Never.”
EPILOGUE
Farrow-on-Grey, England
Friday morning
They walked in unison out of the thirteenth-century Norman church, a slow march in step with the beatings of their hearts, hands clasped in front of their belt buckles, the heavy coffin on their shoulders. Nicholas felt the edge of the wood digging into his neck, a last connection to Elaine York, and it was pain. At least the pain reminded him he was alive when so many others weren’t.
He’d seen Mike sitting in the middle of the church, her head covered with a ridiculous confection hat she’d told him she’d found near Harrods in London. She’d laughed, adding that the enthusiastic saleswoman had assured her it was just the thing for a stylish funeral. Elaine would have loved it, since she couldn’t wear hats and was wildly jealous of women who could. Elaine’s mother, who looked rather marvelous in hats, sat with her companion near Mike. She now had a much-needed $200,000 safe in her bank. Kitsune had seen her friend done rightly by, at least.
Nicholas thought she understood what was happening, though he wasn’t really certain. She’d been mentally clear, though, when, taking his big hand in her small ones, she’d said to him, “Please bury my daughter here, Nicholas, in Farrow-on-Grey. She loved it so.” And then she’d sort of faded away, back into the soulless prison in her mind.
Nicholas looked over the top of the coffin at Ben Houston, his head bowed, grief pouring off him, and he felt his own throat close.
Elaine was being buried as a decorated officer, with all honors, as she deserved. Her friends and fellow officers from London were here, all still in shock, not really understanding what had happened, since she was in New York to be a minder, not a police officer. And Penderley, silent, bearing the weight of Elaine’s coffin on his shoulders.
He heard a throat clearing and looked over at his uncle Bo, walking in front of Ben. Nicholas was grateful for his presence. It would make the next few days easier, having him here.
When it was done, when Nicholas had said a silent prayer over her grave, the sky opened and rain began to fall in heavy sheets, crying for him, crying for them all.
Friends from the Yard were going around to The Drunken Goose, Farrow-on-Grey’s fifteenth-century pub, with its small windows of square-cut glass, ancient oak beams, and hot, sweet air, Penderley with them! But Nicholas didn’t want to go, he wanted to go home and strip off the damn funeral suit, take a shower, and have a drink. He crossed the church graveyard to Bo, who laid a hand momentarily on his shoulder; then the two of them turned to wait for Mike and Ben. Once they were together, Bo said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The drive to Old Farrow Hall took only a few minutes. They were all silent.
Cook Crumbe had prepared a spread for them, of course, so when they arrived, all shaking umbrellas and ducking out of the way of Mike’s enormous hat, Horne shepherded them into the dining room and saw to it everyone had a drink and some food.
Nicholas nodded to the old man who’d taken such care of him and his family for so many years. He cleared his tight throat. “Thank you, Horne.”