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Sylvia stepped back out of the house, peered into the tote she was holding, shook her head, and went back inside.
Hugo clicked his tongue. “Ah yes, you’re right. Perhaps you should do that. Because that wouldn’t look suspicious to Sylvia at all.”
Lancelot bared his teeth. “We need to be cautious.”
“Then go,” Hugo said amiably. The other man’s paranoia would mean Hugo would get the front seat, though he’d have a devil of a time coming up with some reason for Lancelot following in a separate vehicle.
Lancelot rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “No. You’re right. We can’t risk losing her trust. Right now, Sylvia and her brother, Oscar, are our best chance at finding Alicia. If this is a trap, springing it could be our best lead.”
Hugo was still watching the porch. “You have perhaps thirty seconds to decide.”
Lancelot glanced at Sylvia as she stepped off the porch. Even in the shade of the big tree rooted in the front lawn, her hair and skin seemed to catch the sunlight, throwing back rays of gold.
“I’ll stay,” Lancelot murmured.
Sylvia hopped back into the car, carelessly handing her tote back to Hugo. “Would you put that on the seat for me?”
“Of course.” Hugo set it down, sneaking a peek as he did. There were several journals, a small pen case, and a larger spiral-bound sketch pad inside. In addition, there was a box of medicine, a reusable container of liquid secured inside a plastic bag, and a small pack of tissues.
They had plenty of time to converse because though they only had about thirty kilometers to go, it took them nearly an hour. Not only did everyone, including Sylvia, drive oh so slowly, but they stopped quite a bit. At one point, they were stuck at a four-way stop while Sylvia and the other driver motioned at one another. Lancelot’s shoulders were so knotted, they were up around his ears. Hugo wasn’t sure if the other man’s stress was because he was still worried this was some sort of trap, or if he wanted to lean over and force Sylvia to step on the gas.
Their conversation flowed easily, with Sylvia occasionally pointing out areas of historic interest. As a political scientist, he would have loved to discuss how the Civil War battles she was casually mentioning, and other historical events, shaped the current political landscape and leanings of the area, but something about the way the sun warmed the inside of the car, and her voice flowing smooth and slow as honey, kept him silent.
“See that over there? That’s the pink house. A Charleston landmark,” she said, practically coming to a stop in the middle of the road to give them time to look.
She twisted to look back at Hugo. The impact of her gaze all but took his breath away. She was an intelligent, beautiful, sensuous woman, and he was…dammit…he was attracted to her. He was definitely going to have to tuck that away.
“This is the city’s French Quarter. I think just about every city in the South has a French Quarter.”
“It looks a bit like parts of Paris, if more colorful.” Here the buildings were two and three stories, and narrow, many of them sharing common walls. There were black iron balconies, pretty slatted shutters, and wrought-iron hanging baskets full of flowers all around. The houses were painted the colors of Easter-time sweets—pink, pale yellow, blue, green, with the occasional white or brick abode thrown in the mix.
“I think the car behind us is waiting for you to go,” Lancelot murmured.
“Oh, they’re fine. Being in a rush never helped anyone.”
Hugo smothered a snicker at the way the corner of Lancelot’s mouth twitched.
Sylvia waved at the car behind them, and then started driving again.
Once out of the city, they found themselves in a marshland of green-brown grasses and waterways. They merged onto a highway, where they picked up speed, and Lancelot seemed to relax a little, though Hugo could see him taking note of everything around them, probably checking for landmarks in case they needed to find their way back.
They crossed two bridges, and based on the signs, they were heading toward James Island. Once off the large four-lane road that connected to the bridge, they were on narrow roads in an area Hugo would categorize as rural, though he didn’t see any placid livestock. There were no footpaths or even hedges lining the roads, just a gravel shoulder. Driveways were long and unpaved. The houses were mostly single story, and the trees not much taller than that, with a tilt to their trunks giving testament to the wind that whipped in from the Atlantic Ocean.
“This is James Island,” she said. “I did some of my growing up here, back when land out this way was cheaper than anything in Charleston. My parents never sold it, even after they moved into the city to be closer to Exeter when I was in school.”
Hugo leaned forward a bit more, seizing the conversational opening. “Exeter is a residential school?”
“Yes, for high school it is. They have a middle school, too, but that’s not residential.”
“I wasn’t aware that America had boarding schools.”
“They’re fairly rare, but have gotten more popular since the Harry Potter books came out.”
“Since your family lived close by, did you see them often?”
“Every weekend, and some weeknights, but at Exeter we were really learning all the time—even after the official school day ended. We’d have dinner with our teachers. I normally ate at Mrs. Rutherford’s table. That’s how she and I got so close.”
“You had to talk about that day’s lessons during dinner?” Lancelot asked. “Didn’t you need a break from it?”
