“‘God’s merciful plan’?” Malone asked in disbelief.
“According to Malthus. But I agree with him. He was an Anglican minister, by the way. He believed that God allowed misery to be part of His plan in order to test us, to make us try to rise to the occasion and strengthen our characters by overcoming adversity. When those who have been sufficiently challenged and bettered die, they go on to their eternal reward.”
“In the meantime, because of starvation, pestilence, and war, they’ve endured hell on earth,” Sienna said.
“Obviously, you haven’t been listening closely, my dear. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have missed the point.”
Sienna concentrated on her plate.
“So war’s a good thing,” Malone said acidly. “And so are weapons merchants.”
“It’s easy to condemn what you don’t understand. Incidentally, my great-great-great-grandfather had a friendship with Malthus.”
“What?”
“After the first edition of his essay was published, Malthus traveled from England to the Continent. My ancestor had the good fortune to meet him at a dinner party in Rome. They spent many evenings together, exchanging ideas. That pamphlet I lent to you was given to my ancestor by Malthus himself.”
“You’re telling me that because of Malthus’s ideas, your ancestor became an arms dealer?”
“He considered it a vocation.” Bellasar looked with concern toward Sienna. “My dear, you don’t seem to be enjoying the trout. Perhaps the rabbit in the next course will be more to your liking.”
10
Malone lay in his dark bedroom, staring, troubled, at the ceiling. The evening had been one of the strangest he had ever experienced, the conversation on such a surreal level that he felt disoriented, his mind swirling worse than when he’d been tranquilized.
Jet lag insisted. His eyelids fluttered shut. He dreamed of two men wearing wigs and frilly long jackets from 1798, huddled by a fire in a smoky tavern, pointedly discussing the fate of the multitudes. He dreamed of Sienna on horseback, galloping through cypresses, never seeing the trip wire that jerked up, toppled her horse, and snapped her neck. He dreamed of the roar of a helicopter coming in for a landing, barely pausing before it lifted off, the rumble of its engine receding into the distance. His eyes jerked open as he realized that the helicopter had not been a dream.
Getting out of bed, he approached the large windows opposite him. Peering out, he saw the shadows of trees across gardens and moonlight reflecting off ponds. Floodlights illuminated courtyards and lanes. A guard stepped into view, throwing away a cigarette, shifting his rifle from his left shoulder to his right. Far off, the angry voices of two men were so muffled that Malone couldn’t tell what they shouted at each other. The guard paid them no attention. The argument stopped. As silence drifted over the compound, Malone wiped a hand across his weary face and returned to bed, about to sink back into sleep when he heard a distant gunshot. He was willing to bet that the guard didn’t pay attention to that, either.
THREE
1
Startled by the sudden approach of the helicopter, Sienna’s Arabian stallion faltered at the jump, nearly throwing her into the stream. Momentarily off balance, she tightened her thighs against the horse’s flanks. As the stallion threatened to lurch down the stream’s bank, she eased the pressure from her right thigh, applied more pressure to the left, and simultaneously did the same with her hands on the reins. Turning the horse away from the stream, she pressed down on her heels while expertly easing back on the reins, then came to a stop just as the helicopter thundered past overhead. An opening in the trees allowed her to glimpse it while only someone peering directly down would have been able to spot her. Then the helicopter was gone, approaching the hills.
Patting the Arabian’s neck, whispering assurances, Sienna waited for the roar to recede completely. The time was a little before eight. The estate had two helicopters, and at dawn, as she had reached the stable, the first one had taken off. She couldn’t help wondering if Derek was aboard either of them. In fact, she hoped he was. She dreaded going back to the château, finding him there, and straining to adjust to whatever mood he was in this morning. He’d been gone for six days, and it had taken her three of those days to recover from his icy attitude before he left. During the past few months, no matter how she had tried to relate to him, she hadn’t been successful. Interpreting his thoughts had become impossible.
Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just kept riding, taking a cross-country route, avoiding roads and lanes, heading up into the hills. How far could she get? And what would she be able to do once she was far from the estate? She had no food or water. Certainly she’d arouse suspicion if she packed saddlebags with provisions before she set out for her daily ride. She had never been able to prove it, but she suspected that Derek had men watching her from a distance as she rode through the outreaches of the estate. If she did manage to prove she was being watched, Derek would no doubt shrug and say he wanted to make certain she was protected. She had no money, had no access to it. Derek kept strict control of that. She could have pocketed some of her jewels, but where was she going to find anyone in the countryside who could pay her what they were worth? Without money, she couldn’t feed herself, get a hotel room, or even buy a bus ticket if she tried to get away from Derek. However she looked at it, she was trapped. Perhaps that was why the helicopter had thundered in this direction – to remind her that she was never really alone, that she had no hope of leaving.
Riding back toward the compound, she barely noticed the sunbathed scenery around her. She was too preoccupied, knowing that in less than an hour she would have to deal with the new complication that Derek had introduced: the artist he had hired to paint her. Artist? She didn’t understand. Derek never did anything on a whim. What was he thinking? Rubbing her left arm where he had twisted it sharply before he left the previous week, she told herself that, regrettably, she would soon find out.
2
When the stables came into view, she dismounted, took off her helmet, and shook her head, letting her lush hair fall loose. As she led the Arabian along a lane bordered by cypresses, she knew she could have asked one of the stable men to walk the horse and cool it down, but she enjoyed the intimacy of taking care of her horse as much as she did the exertion of riding it. She turned to pat the horse’s neck and murmur endearments, looked ahead, and faltered at the sight of the artist coming out of the stables and leaning against a rail.
The formal dress of last night’s dinner had made it difficult for her to assess his bearing. A tuxedo always gave a man more presence than he normally had. Now the artist’s casual clothes – sneakers, jeans, and a blue chambray shirt, the cuffs of which were folded up – made it easier to assess him. He was tall – six feet or so – trim yet muscular, obviously accustomed to exercise. His tan face was attractive in a rugged fashion, his sand-colored hair slightly long, curling at the back of his neck. The way he crossed his arms made him seem comfortable with himself.
“Good morning.” His smile was engaging. “Did you have a good ride?”
“Very,” she lied. “But I must have lost track of the time. I was supposed to meet you in the sunroom at nine. Am I late?”