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Hugo smiled. “That sounds even better.”
Chapter Four
Hugo sank onto the extremely large couch in Alicia Rutherford’s sitting room. While much of the city of Charleston reminded him of parts of France, the interior of this home was classically American—large furnishings with an eye to comfort rather than aesthetic appeal, a ridiculously huge kitchen and refrigerator, and built-in closets rather than proper wardrobes.
They’d arrived in the city the night before last and stowed their things at the elegant accommodation provided by the Trinity Masters. Lancelot had wanted to ignore that “request” from the Grand Master and check into a hotel, but Hugo insisted that they couldn’t afford to anger or insult the Grand Master and have their permission to be in this country revoked. Hugo had been the one to send brief messages each evening to the email address they’d been given, stating only that they had yet to interview anyone.
Yesterday, they’d searched both bedrooms of Alicia Rutherford’s house and found nothing. Today, they’d searched the kitchen, garage, and were now working on the less formal of two living spaces. His hope that, in her haste to flee, she might have either left or been unable to come back for something informative, was dwindling.
Lancelot plucked another book from the shelf, held it by the spine, and shook it. Nothing fell from the pages. He replaced it on the shelf, with perhaps more force than was entirely necessary.
It was nearing the end of their second day of searching Alicia Rutherford’s home, and so far they had nothing to show for it. Which meant Hugo was going to have to break down and admit to Lancelot that there was another reason they’d come to Charleston.
Sylvia Hayden.
Hugo hadn’t thought about the young woman in years, but the moment the fleet admiral told him he was sending him to the States to search for Alicia, and mentioned the girl’s name, many pleasant memories came flooding back.
Hugo had traveled to Illinois seven years earlier to serve as a guest lecturer at Northwestern. Sylvia had taken his class. Younger than her fellow students, she had impressed Hugo with her maturity and intelligence. She frequently remained after class and the two of them engaged in lively debates. She was the kind of student who wasn’t afraid to be wrong, which was rare, and Hugo had found it a sign of great intellect. Only those unsure of their own intelligence or worth feared to admit they were in error.
He’d also known she had feelings for him. A crush, as the Americans would say. Hugo had made sure to offer her no encouragement on a romantic level, and instead treated her like the intellectual equal she was.
When the semester ended, they said their farewells and he returned to Paris. For several years after, he had received a Christmas card from her, and he’d kept up with her writing, delighted when she started to make a name for herself as a poet and visual artist. He’d purchased all three of her published works, but he’d never expected to see her again.
Now…he might have to.
Hugo pulled off the ski cap he wore with gloved hands. Lancelot had insisted on the gloves, hats, and stocking feet, in order to make sure they didn’t leave any trace of their search. After all, they were technically breaking and entering, though Lancelot had proven skillful with a lock pick and in disarming the home alarm.
“Put your hat back on,” Lancelot murmured.
“I doubt we need to be so careful,” Hugo said. “There is nothing here.”
“Too much nothing.” Lancelot finished that shelf of the bookcase. His shoulders sagged and he joined Hugo on the couch, groaning as he sank into the cushions. “Hat,” the other man muttered even as he closed his eyes.
Hugo tugged on his hat and then leaned back. Perhaps there was something to be said for ugly yet comfortable. He could easily fall asleep here.
“Maybe I should call Lorelei,” Lancelot murmured. “See if she can dig up another home address.”
“If there was, she would have shared it already.”
“There’s still the school to search,” Lancelot reminded him. “Even if she ‘retired.’” The quotes Lancelot put around that word were all but visible.
“I have little hope we’ll find anything at Exeter Academy except more of what we’ve found here. Nothing.”
“She’s gone to ground,” Lancelot mused, eyes closed. “And either she never had anything here, or she came back long enough to strip this house, leaving us fook-all.”
“And undoubtedly done this with her office at the academy.”
“Which means it’s time to start talking to people.” Lancelot sat up, bracing his arms on his knees. Hugo opened one eye, admiring the way the man’s biceps and shoulder muscles bunched. “I think we start with the neighbors. We’ll need a cover story.”
“Private investigators?” Hugo asked. “I’ve always wanted to pretend I was one. Like on American TV.”
“How’s your American accent?” Lancelot asked.
“It’s good, pard-ner,” Hugo replied.
“What was that?” Lancelot’s eyes were wide.
“A Texas accent,” Hugo defended.
