A Share in Death

Hannah didn’t answer. She felt too exhausted to rehash her ignorance once again. After a moment Patrick continued. “And I was beastly to you this morning. I don’t know why. Too many childhood fantasies came crashing down at once, I suppose.” At her puzzled expression he tried to explain. “Oh, you know—the usual things. First it was my mother as Camille,” he raised his hand to his brow and grinned, “dying in childbirth, blessing me with her last frail breath. Then later I imagined she’d be warm and soft and comforting—she’d find me and welcome me into the fold of another family. An only child’s fantasy, that. Never”—he leaned forward and smiled at her again—“did I see her as successful, intelligent, stimulating, and attractive. It was quite a shock, I can tell you.”

Hannah jabbed her fingers through her hair, suddenly aware of how she must look. “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing whether she meant she was sorry for springing her identity on him or for not fitting his mother image.

“You’re sorry? I should have outgrown that emotional baggage long ago. And I never even asked about my father.” Patrick’s hands moved on his knees, and Hannah sensed a sudden vulnerability beneath his casual manner.

“I refused to tell my parents who he was, but I suppose you deserve to know something,” she said reluctantly. “His name was Matthew Carnegie. A good family.” Her mouth twisted. “As my father would have put it. I don’t know what became of him, I didn’t want to know. I never wanted to see him again.” She cast her mind back through the barriers she had erected over the years, trying to remember what

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had attracted a sixteen-year-old Hannah to Matthew. “He was fair—that’s where you get your coloring—and good-looking, in a lanky, unfinished way. He made me laugh.” The memory surprised her. “And he was gentle.”

Patrick digested this, and nodded. “It must have taken a lot of courage, not to have told your parents about him.”

“Courage? No, it was pure stubbornness. That, and the knowledge that I couldn’t bear the humiliation of his knowing, of his family knowing.”

Patrick leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Hannah, do you think we could start again? Maybe not as either of us imagined it—we’ve both been pretty unrealistic—but just as … friends?”

Hannah closed her eyes, stilling her face against a sudden swell of longing. “I never thought I could replace your mother. Or be one, really. I only wanted some sense of belonging … of connection.”

Patrick reached out and touched her shoulder a little awkwardly, as if unsure what gesture to make. “I’d better let you get some rest.” He rose. “Hannah, you will be careful, won’t you? I’d hate to lose you,” his voice held a trace of irony, “now I’ve found you.”

Kincaid discovered, as had Patrick Rennie before him, that Cassie’s door stood slightly ajar. He tapped lightly. Hearing no answer, he slowly pushed open the door.

The only light in the cottage’s sitting room came from a dim bulb in the hall behind it, so that it took him a minute to orient himself. Cassie’s voice came from the direction of the armchair next to the fire, sullen and succinct. “Bugger off.”

Kincaid fumbled for the switch on the table lamp, and blinked in the sudden bloom of yellow light. Cassie sat huddled in the chair, looking pale and disheveled, wrapped in a quilted dressing gown. Only her bare legs, stretched out before her, retained their elegance.

“You should learn to lock your door,” said Kincaid, drawing his eyes, rather unwillingly, from her legs to her face.

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“Not much point now, is there?”

Kincaid perched on the arm of the opposite chair, as he had before. “Looks like you’ve made a proper mess of things, doesn’t it?” he said lightly.

Anger sparked in her flat, gold eyes. “Me? Jesus.” She turned her face away and he saw the red weal along her cheekbone. “The bastard hit me.”

“Who, Graham?”

“Of course, Graham! Patrick acted like offended bloody royalty and stalked out in a huff, but not until he’d made our situation quite clear to Graham. Who gave you the sordid details, anyway?” Cassie stared at him accusingly.

“Patrick.”

“Oh, god.” Tears filled her eyes and ran down the sides of her nose. She made no move to brush them away. “Everything’s finished.”

“No more Downing Street?”

“You—” Cassie began, then subsided, too despondent even to swear at him.

“Surely it was bound to happen,” Kincaid said more kindly. “You were playing a risky game.”

Cassie sat up a bit in her chair and tucked her legs beneath her, then wiped the backs of her hands across her cheeks. “I had no idea Graham would be so hard to put off.” She sniffed. “It started as such a casual thing, before I ever met Patrick. But the more I tried to cool things off with Graham, the more persistent he got. Then I began to be afraid to break it off—afraid of what he’d do.”

“Did he threaten you?”