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Living modestly—at least compared to how he could live if he chose to—was a way of hiding the truth about his nontraditional family. If he’d boasted about his wealth, someone might start asking questions, the kind of questions that might risk their secrets.
As much as he loved his flat, there was no elegant chaise or tiny balcony bistro chair that could compare to the unique comfort and contentment of this porch swing.
He and Lancelot had spent the better part of last night at some British-inspired pub Lancelot had found online, discussing how to approach Sylvia. Lancelot had had a craving for a “chippie”—fish and chips—but given the amount of grumbling he’d done about the quality of his meal, it was safe to say that desire was going to go unfulfilled until they returned to England.
They’d decided to simply approach her. Hugo felt they’d known each other well enough—though admittedly years ago—that he could stop by for a visit. Hugo would introduce Lancelot as an investigator from London, who was helping him interview people and do civic research for a book. Lancelot didn’t exactly look like the sort who liked to dig into old records in the back rooms of municipal buildings, but they’d come up with a way to explain that.
Lancelot blew out a low whistle. “I just fell in love.”
Hugo started to roll his eyes—then he saw her, and realized who’d captured Lancelot’s attention…and heart. “Ah. Sylvia. She’s…beautiful.”
She had been cute as a young girl, fresh-faced, wholesome.
This svelte woman seemed to walk without touching the ground. Graceful, peaceful. A slight breeze blew through russet waves of hair that curled over her delicate shoulders and fell down her back. Every time she crossed between the patches of shade provided by the large oaks, the sun revealed strands of burnished copper hidden amongst the brown. Her skin was tawny, warm, and reflected her mixed heritage—they’d learned from the file Lorelei had sent that Sylvia’s grandmother had been black.
She was halfway up the walk that led to the porch before she glanced up and noticed them.
Hugo realized they’d probably miscalculated by making themselves at home. Two large males sitting on her porch wasn’t the best way to approach her after so many years apart.
However, there was no fear, no trepidation. A smile exploded. “Dr. Marchand!” She started toward him, clearly intent on hugging him. Before she could climb the stairs, the breeze picked up and she dropped her notebook, several pages blowing across the yard. “Oh!”
She started to chase them, and he and Lancelot hopped up and raced over the grass to help her. They managed to recapture most of the papers, but one got away.
She shuffled through them as they handed them back. “Damn.”
Hugo tried to hide his grin as she—like most others in the south—added an extra syllable to the word, so it sounded like she’d said dayum.
“You lost something important?” Lancelot asked.
“A poem I’ve been working on. I prefer to write longhand, outside.” She glanced the direction the paper had blown. “Well, looks like I’ve cast my words to the wind. Set them loose to wreak havoc on the world. Hmmm.” She pulled a pencil from a small purse she carried, opening the notebook to jot something down. “Someone will find that, and it will inspire them. To love or violence. The same, both dangerous, both deadly.”
Lancelot looked at him, but Hugo merely smiled. She hadn’t changed much. Maybe some of that innocence was lost, tempered by a clarity of understanding about the reality of human nature, but not jaded.
Once she was finished writing, she tucked the pencil away, then reached for him. He accepted her friendly embrace, and kissed the air above each cheek. “Sylvia. It’s been too long.”
“It has. It really has.” Then she looked beyond him to Lancelot. “Oh wow. Up close, you’re very beautiful,” she mused, her eyes traveling the length of Lancelot. “And quite tall.”
Lancelot gave her a smile that only made him look even more attractive. Hugo was once more surprised by the flash of attraction to his companion. It had started on the plane and grown with each passing day.
“Thank you,” Lancelot said. “I’m sorry about the poem.”
“And you’re British? Wow. You’re the trifecta, aren’t you?”
“Sylvia Hayden, may I introduce you to Lance Knight?” They’d decided to shorten the knight’s name to something more common.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
“Same,” Lancelot replied, nodding his head.
“How have you been, Sylvia?” Hugo asked.
“I’m just fine. I can’t tell you what a nice surprise this is. What on earth are you doing in Charleston? How did y’all know how to find me?”
“I’m in Charleston for a few days doing research on a new book, about the influence, and counter-influence, of French culture and law abroad. After this, we’re going to New Orleans.” The idea for this book had started as a cover story, but it wasn’t a half-bad book idea. Inspiration always struck at the oddest times. “Lance is helping me with the research.”
Sylvia blinked in surprise. “He’s a…grad student?”
Hugo smiled. “No, no, no. He works for a security company. He does some personal security, but also is a trained investigator, and his English is better than mine. He helps me with interviews,” Hugo lied. Not that he would say this to Lancelot, but Hugo was fairly certain his spoken English was more grammatically correct than the other man’s.
