was about to answer when a hand closed over her shoulder. She glanced up sharply at Guy Delancey, who’d just returned and now stood behind her.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said cheerily. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.” Though the color had drained from her face, she still managed to smile, to flash Delancey a look of coquettish promise. “Is the car ready?”
“Waiting at the gate, my lady.” Guy helped her from her chair. Then he gave Jordan a careless nod of farewell. “See you around, Jordan.”
Jordan caught a last glimpse of the woman’s face, looking back at him in smothered anger. Then, with shoulders squared, she followed Delancey into the crowd.
You’ve been warned, Diana Lamb, thought Jordan. Now he’d see if she heeded that warning. And just in case she didn’t…
Jordan pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. Gingerly he picked up the woman’s champagne glass by the lower stem and peered at the smudge of ruby red lipstick. He smiled. There, crystal clear on the surface of the glass, was what he’d been looking for.
Fingerprints.
OGILVIE FINISHED SHOOTING his third roll of film and clipped the lens cap back on his telephoto. He had more than enough shots of the blond man. By tonight he’d have the images transmitted to London and, with any luck, an ID would be forthcoming. The fact Clea Rice had apparently picked up an unknown associate disturbed him, if only because he’d had no inkling of it. As far as he knew, the woman traveled alone, and always had.
He’d have to find out more about the blond chap.
The woman rose from her chair and departed with Guy Delancey. Ogilvie tucked his camera in his bag and left the tent to follow them. He kept a discreet distance, far enough back so that he would blend in with the crowd. She was an easy subject to tail, with all that red hair shimmering in the sunlight. The worst possible choice for anyone trying to avoid detection. But that was Clea Rice, always doing the unexpected.
The couple headed for the gate.
Ogilvie picked up his pace. He slipped through the gates just in time to see that head of red hair duck into a waiting Bentley.
Frantically Ogilvie glanced around the parking lot and spotted his black MG socked in three rows deep. By the time he could extricate it from that sea of Jaguars and Mercedes, Delancey and the woman could be miles away.
In frustration he watched Delancey’s Bentley drive off. So much for following them; he’d have to catch up with her later. No problem. He knew which hotel she was staying at, knew that she’d paid for the next three nights in advance.
He decided to shift his efforts to the blond man.
Fifteen minutes later he spotted the man leaving through the gates. By that time Ogilvie had his car ready and waiting near the parking-lot exit. He saw the man step into a champagne gold Jaguar, and he took note of the license number. The Jaguar pulled out of the parking lot.
So did Ogilvie’s MG.
His quarry led him on a long and winding route through rolling fields and trees, leaves already tinted with the fiery glow of autumn. Blueblood country, thought Ogilvie, noting the sleek horses in the pasture. Whoever was this fellow, anyway?
The gold Jaguar finally turned off the main road, onto a private roadway flanked by towering elms. From the main road Ogilvie could just glimpse the house that lay beyond those elms. It was magnificent, a stone-and-turret manor surrounded by acres of gardens.
He glanced at the manor name. It was mounted in bronze on the stone pillars marking the roadway entrance.
Chetwynd.
“You’ve come up in the world, Clea Rice,” murmured Ogilvie.
Then he turned the car around. It was four o’clock. He’d have just enough time to call in his report to London.
VICTOR VAN WELDON HAD HAD a bad day. The congestion in his lungs was worse, his doctors said, and it was time for the oxygen again. He thought he’d weaned himself from that green tank. But now the tank was back, hooked onto his wheelchair, and the tubes were back in his nostrils. And once again he was feeling his mortality.
What a time for Simon Trott to insist on a meeting.
Van Weldon hated to be seen in such a weak and vulnerable condition. Through the years he had prided himself on his strength. His ruthlessness. Now, to be revealed for what he was—an old and dying man—would grant Simon Trott too much of an advantage. Although Van Weldon had already named Trott his successor, he was not yet ready to hand over the company reins. Until I draw my last breath, he thought, the company is mine to control.
There was a knock on the door. Van Weldon turned his wheelchair around to face his younger associate as he walked into the room. It was apparent, by the look on Trott’s face, that the news he brought was not good.
Trott, as usual, was dressed in a handsomely tailored suit that showed his athletic frame to excellent advantage. He had it all—youth, blond good looks, all the women he could possibly hope to bed. But he does not yet have the company, thought Van Weldon. He is still afraid of me. Afraid of telling me this latest news.
“What have you learned?” asked Van Weldon.
“I think I know why Clea Rice headed for England,” said Trott. “There have been rumors…on the black market…” He paused and cleared his throat.
“What rumors?”
“They say an Englishman has been boasting about a secret purchase he made. He claims he recently acquired…” Trott looked down. Reluctantly he finished. “The Eye of Kashmir.”
“Our Eye of Kashmir? That is impossible.”
“That is the rumor.”
“The Eye has not been placed on the market! There is no way anyone could acquire it.”
“We have not inventoried the collection since it was moved. There is a possibility…”
The two men exchanged looks. And Van Weldon understood. They both understood. We have a thief among our ranks. A traitor who has dared to go against us.
“If Clea Rice has also heard rumors of this sale, it could be disastrous for us,” said Van Weldon.
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“Who is this Englishman?”
“His name is Guy Delancey. We’re trying to locate his residence now.”
Van Weldon nodded. He sank back in his wheelchair and for a moment let the oxygen wash through his lungs. “Find Delancey,” he said softly. “I have a feeling that when you do, you will also find Clea Rice.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“TO NEW FRIENDS,” said Guy as he handed Clea a glass brimming with
