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“Seb,” the woman said. “Do you mind repeating what my conditions were for Hugo and Lancelot?”
“Stay in the safe house. Contact no one associated with the Trinity Masters. Update us daily on who you have talked to.”
“Trinity Masters?” Sylvia and Walt said in unison.
“I thought you said it was called Masters’—” Sylvia stopped at the sight of Hugo’s grimace. “Who are these people?”
“Sylvie…” Lancelot started.
Sylvia made her left hand into a fist and pressed it to her mouth, her eyes closed.
She heard Walt suck in an alarmed breath.
She’d learned this expression from her mama. It was her mama’s “I’m trying to get right with Jesus so I don’t kill this fool” posture.
“Oh, you done fucked up good,” Langston said.
That comment broke through the rage, startling a laugh out of her. She opened her eyes and pointed at Lancelot. “Every time you call me that, with that tone of voice, you pull the rug out from under my feet. You told me there were no more secrets. That means these three better not have something to do with a secret you’ve been keeping from me.”
Hugo closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands to his sockets, then started muttering in French. She kept her attention on the Brit.
“I didn’t think…” Lancelot ran his hand through his dark auburn hair and blew out a long sigh. “Fookin’ ’ell. I couldn’t…we couldn’t tell you about th—”
“Let’s take this conversation to the parlor.” The blonde looked at each person in turn, finishing with Sylvia. “It seems we have a lot to talk about.”
“Are we in danger?” Oscar asked tightly. The question was directed at Lancelot.
“You’re not.”
Oscar’s brow rose. “She’s pissed at you?” He sounded cheerful as he looked at Lancelot.
“Oscar,” Sylvia scolded. She was pissed, too, but damn it, she got first dibs on being angry at them.
The blonde woman smiled. “Very. And I’m prepared to answer all your questions. I will answer questions you didn’t even know you had.” With that, she turned and walked into the foyer. Her companions followed her.
Oscar wasted no time following the woman, delighted to suddenly have a comrade in arms in his campaign against her men. Langston looked at Walt, and they did that silent triplet communication thing she’d seen them do before. Walt put his arm around her waist. “Come on, Sis.”
The blonde woman was offering answers. Answers were something Hugo and Lancelot hadn’t been willing to give her, not until their hand was forced. And even then, it appeared they hadn’t shown all their cards.
She hesitated, not sure she wanted to hear the rest.
She knew them—knew their bodies, but more importantly, she knew their hearts. If they couldn’t tell her about whoever the hell these people were, then there had to have been a good reason.
She trusted them because she was in love with them.
Hugo, who knew her so well, touched her shoulder. “We will all go.”
Walt pulled Sylvia against his side, breaking the contact between her and Hugo.
She walked with her brother out of the kitchen into the foyer, and then into the large front room where last night’s confrontation had occurred. Objectively, it was a lovely room, with large windows that looked out onto the front lawn, though the view was mostly obstructed by red maples. The blonde and her companions were standing with their backs to the window, facing the couch. Langston and Oscar had already taken seats there, and Walt led her to the open center spot. Once she was seated, he perched on the arm of the couch. Hugo dropped heavily into an armchair near the couch, but Lancelot stood behind them, facing the blonde.
Sylvia may be the poet of the family, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t think logically. She looked at the trinity of people standing before her. Whatever doubts she’d been having about what Lancelot and Hugo had told her were fading. Given what they’d told her yesterday about secret societies and trinity marriages, it seemed like these people were most likely members of the Masters’ Admiralty.
But at least two of them were Americans. They’d said there weren’t any Americans. Or had that been a lie? Had they been trying to spare her feelings, pretend she was good enough, smart enough to be one of them, and the only problem was her nationality, when in reality she hadn’t made the cut?
Oh God. This was the cruelest lie of all.
“I’m Juliette Adams. And this is my associate, Sebastian Stewart, and my husband, Franco.”
