The Last of August (Charlotte Holmes #2)(37)

“It’s too bad that your gardener quit, and so suddenly,” Holmes said, lifting the shell to her nose to study it. “That was just this morning, wasn’t it? Milo did need someone to tend to his . . . carnations.”

“There are other orchid gardeners,” Phillipa said. “Here are my terms. I’ll ask Lucien to give you two years. Two years’ amnesty from the death sentence he’s put on you—long enough for you to grow up, come of age, finish school. And then you’ll disappear. Choose a new identity. A new name.”

“Milo chose that gardener on my recommendation,” Holmes said, turning the shell in her hands. “Oh, these just smell like the ocean, don’t they? Makes me wish I was at home. In Sussex.”

Phillipa paused. “In Sussex.”

“Yes. With my very sick mother. And my missing uncle. Tell me,” Holmes said, and reached across the table to pluck the tiny oyster fork from Phillipa’s plate, “have you seen Leander Holmes recently? The last I saw him he was concerned about my . . . very sick mother.”

“The better question would be where you’re keeping my baby brother,” Phillipa snapped. “Don’t toy with me.”

“Your brother,” Holmes said.

“My brother.”

“Which one? The child-murderer hiding out on a beach in Thailand? Or the antiquities thief with the receding hairline?”

“Did nobody teach you any respect?” Phillipa exploded. “No one! Did nobody tell you that being clever isn’t enough? You need to be willing to work with people. I’m attempting to offer you an out.”

“I will never work with you.”

“I’m willing to call in men, right now, to take you to Lucien,” she continued. “He might be done taking it slow. I’m sure he’d be willing to speed things up. Break your hands. Kill you. Let’s see if I can get you out of the country and to Thailand before your bear of a brother can stop them.”

“The waiter is texting someone,” I told Holmes, not bothering to whisper. “He pulled out his phone the second she started yelling.”

Holmes leaned forward. “August might be alive. And my uncle might be just taking a short jaunt across the Swiss Alps and forgot to tell us. Listen—there’s no time, you’ve made sure of that. These are my terms. You order your brother Lucien out of hiding. You and Hadrian go to England. You apologize to my parents. And you tell me where my uncle is. And then perhaps I dig August up and see if he still wants anything to do with you.”

“Apologize to them? For what—having the misfortune of producing you?”

“For poisoning my mother,” she said quietly. “For trying to kill me. For taking what was a mistake and blowing it up into a horrible international war.”

I’d been half-turned, watching the front window, and there they were—cars pulling up against the curb, like dark beads on a white string. “We have to go,” I said. “Now.”

“Those terms are unacceptable.” Phillipa sat back in her chair. “No, Charlotte. Remember that you fired the first shot. August will come to us in time.”

“Holmes,” I said, keeping my voice even, “they have guns.”

With a fingernail, Holmes dug the meat out of her oyster and dropped it onto her plate. She poured a draft of champagne into the empty shell. Tossed it back.

“There’ll be a time when you regret not taking my offer,” Holmes told Phillipa, and then she and I ran like hell.

Through the maze of tables, through the strangely bustling kitchen, and then instead of out the back door—“There’ll be men there, too,” she hissed—she dodged a surprised line cook and yanked me into the walk-in freezer, slamming the heavy door shut behind her.

“Your brother better be two seconds away,” I told her, coughing, “because that thing locks from the outside.”

“By key code,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Didn’t you see? This is a very fancy seafood restaurant, can’t be letting people see you freeze your Dover sole— Hello, Milo, could you please hack the walk-in freezer at Piquant? Watson’s stubble is starting to freeze. Change the code and then send someone to fetch us.”

She hung up. We looked at each other.

“Milo just told us this morning that there wasn’t any way that Hadrian or Phillipa had your uncle captive,” I told her. “So what was that all about?”

“Milo can be myopic. Thinking you know everything is dangerous,” she said. “I know the Moriartys are involved. I’m sure of it.” She said it so fiercely that I took a step back.

“Orchids?” I said, an attempt to defuse her. “That was your master plan? To poach away her orchid gardener?”

Her eyebrows were beginning to bead with snow. “She’s won several international awards for her flowers,” Holmes said. “I thought Milo could use some pointers. Grow a tree or two in his penthouse.”

“You are awful.”

“I know,” she said, and grinned.

“So all that, back there. It was just a pissing contest.”

“It was me giving her a final chance.” She sighed. “Sometimes I’m far nicer than I should be.”

“I’d hate to see you when you’re mean,” I said. “God, it’s cold. I think I can feel all my teeth. How long until your brother’s men get here?”