“Why areyouhere?” She went to the bath and, using her arm, swiped the conglomerate of bottles and makeup into its designated case, hoping nothing broke, but then again, not caring either.
“I was waiting to speak to you.”
“It’s, like, ten o’clock at night. This couldn’t wait?”
He pointed to the bag she held, smiling gently. “Obviously not. I gave your friend a ride to the station. He showed me this.” Carson held out the London Investigations Agency report, which she’d forgotten about. “You said you were adopted. I believe I know who your biological family is.”
“What?” Peyton stopped, then frowned. “He had no right to do that, Mr. Deeds.”
“I insisted.” He tipped his head in the direction of her bag. “You’re leaving.”
“How observant of you.”
“Where is Alistar?”
“You mean Jess Aldis?” She tossed her makeup bag in the open suitcase and thought she heard glass breaking. “Painting his latest vision.”
“He told you, did he?”
“He did not. Who are you to him anyway?”
“His agent. His friend.”
“Ah, well.” She stuffed the edges of her clothes in and zipped the overstuffed luggage. “How interesting. If the curse goes as predestined, you should be out of a job in—” She looked around for a clock. There wasn’t one. She’d been using her cell phone, and she’d forgotten her purse. It was in the car. “Soon.” She choked on the word. Perhaps her emotions hadn’t caught up to her brain. She still loved Alistar Spears, eleventh Earl of Griston. How, she couldn’t imagine, because she couldn’t possibly be in love with Jess Aldis. That was just too horrible to contemplate. She went to sit on the edge of the bed and missed, sliding to the floor in a whimpering mass. She covered her face, breathing heavily into her palms, more tears asphyxiating her. He would die, and she would never see him again.
“Ms. McKenzie? Peyton?” Her hands were pulled gently away from her face. Carson was crouched in front of her, holding out a stark white handkerchief. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so. I-I’m going to go to London. I-I can’t stay here. I can write my article there and then head to the Tate Modern.”
“I can drive you. You are certainly in no shape to drive. Besides, it’s late.”
She stared at him a long while, then nodded. “Thank you, Carson. I would appreciate the company.”
This painting was his last gift for her, Alistar told himself. He took a shower in the Lilac room’s adjoining bath and lay on the bed that carried the scent of their lovemaking. It was five till midnight. He was out of time. He didn’t know what the painting meant. In fact, he couldn’t bear to look at it.
But Peyton would. He was almost certain there was another diary. One written by Sabina, depicting her love for Forrest. Why else would she have taken in Lady Cecilia’s for safekeeping? True love did not stop on a whim.
He lay there in the dark, aware of the stark quiet outside the windows, breathing deeply. One thing he could be thankful for. The trees had finally stopped. Insanity was taking him. He’d left no heir. The curse stopped with him just as he’d planned all along. He closed his eyes and let the monsters converge.
The night was dark. And quiet. Except for the roaring in Peyton’s ears. And maybe the purr of a well-built vehicle. “What kind of car is this? I haven’t seen one like it before.”
She saw the gleam of Carson’s teeth in the low dashboard lights. They reflected against the windows, giving him a demonish aura that Jess Aldis could no doubt perfect and sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars. She quelled a shudder.
Peyton turned her gaze out the window, past the creepy reflections, and asked the question she wished she’d thought of a few days ago. “Did he know who I was all along?”
“I’m afraid so. He pointed you out to me at the gallery opening. Alistar can be a little dramatic.”
A bark of laughter erupted from her. Short and sardonic. “You think?” Her emotions welled up, but she swallowed them back and watched the miles roll by, the trees black, undetailed shapes against a crescent moon. The hum of the engine lulled her into not sleep, but a pensive, meditative state. “Oh.” She shot upright. “I should call Tarron,” she said, reaching for her purse. “Oh my God. We have to go back. I forgot my purse.”
“What? We can’t go back. We’re halfway there.”
“My phone. My credit cards. My identification. We—we have to go back.”
He laughed.
The sound grated across her skin.
“I can help you out until we return to Skerry House,” he said.
