“Yes,” Sam answered.
“Good.” Douglas almost wished her enjoyment of her Valentine’s Day but stopped himself. She might have a coronary and he had a wedding to plan and less than a month to do it and he needed her not to be recovering in a hospital bed.
He disconnected the call as usual, without a good-bye.
His anticipation for the night was palpable. He could nearly feel Julia’s limbs around him, the smell of her in his nostrils, the taste of her in his mouth. He’d bought her rubies for tonight, a necklace and earrings to match the dress that Gregory had confided to him (or, more accurately, to Sam) was red. It was an extravagant present, a necklace set with seven oval rubies surrounded by diamonds and diamond-ensconced rubies suspended from diamonds starting at the stud of each earring. Considering her reaction to his other presents, he was most definitely looking forward to giving her the jewels.
Douglas may have been avoiding feeling anything for most of his life but he wasn’t unaware that the last several months, and especially the last several weeks, he was unable to continue in this vein. He knew his emotions were no longer under his fierce control but he had little cause for alarm regarding this development considering that he recognised the dazed feeling he was having (albeit unfamiliarly) was happiness.
He was not surprised, Julia was a good woman. She was a beautiful and stylish woman. She was a gratifyingly responsive, adventurous and demonstrative lover. She was kind and thoughtful and had worked miracles with three grieving children, a household of once distant, now familial staff and the tightening of his own meagre band of friends.
Sommersgate, cold, formal, even monstrous throughout his childhood, rang with laughter, shared confidences, constant hilarity (most of which was instigated by one or all three of the kittens or children or both) and happiness.
Lost in these thoughts, he turned through the gates of his ancestral home.
So lost in his thoughts, when he turned into the long drive of Sommersgate, he nearly didn’t notice the Gate House, normally lit warningly against intruders, now was completely dark and frighteningly quiet.
But he did notice.
And he put his foot down on the brake, stopping the car and turned his head to stare.
Nick was not going anywhere tonight. Nick had left “the job” with Douglas and had taken up his position (now officially) as Douglas’s (but more importantly Julia’s and the children’s) bodyguard.
The rules were, if Douglas was not at the house and Julia or the children were, so was Nick.
And as Douglas was arriving to pick up his fiancée, Nick should have been at the Gate House.
Even if he was at the main house, his lights should be blazing.
That was the deal; those were the rules, that was how Douglas knew everything was okay when he came home.
Therefore, Douglas had to assume that things were not okay.
His stomach clenched and his chest tightened, he snapped the word “Sam” into the dark void around him and the car phone started dialling.
“Yes boss?” Her voice was perky.
“Call the police,” he had started the Jag crawling forward through the mile of parkland that fronted the estate and he turned off his lights. “Tell them to get to Sommersgate but to proceed with caution. I don’t know the situation yet and I’m going in, I won’t report back. Then call the SIS, you know who to speak to, tell him the same thing.”
She was all business, although her voice betrayed worry. “Check.”
Then Sam hung up on him.
He forced himself slowly (and thus quietly) to glide the Jag toward his home, toward Julia.
He had no weapon. He had no idea of the time that had elapsed from when the trouble (he was certain there was trouble) started to now. He had no idea if the children, Ronnie and the Kilpatricks had already left the house. He had no idea if Nick had managed to get her to safety. He had not noticed Nick’s car at the Gate House so maybe he’d succeeded in reaching her but didn’t have time yet to phone and report in.
This thought was made moot when Douglas saw Nick’s car careened off the road a quarter of a mile away from the house, slammed into another car, Nick’s interior light blazing and its driver’s side door hanging open.
“Fucking hell,” Douglas bit out.
It took every bit of willpower not to gun the motor but he knew he couldn’t go charging in, he couldn’t warn them of his approach. He needed surprise on his side.
He slid forward, his teeth clenched, his hands biting into the steering wheel, his eyes vigilantly scanning the landscape and was assaulted by visions of Julia’s dead body lying in a pool of blood, a pool of his making because he wanted a bigger challenge. He had been bored with his life. He needed a more interesting way to pass the damned time.
He rolled passed the silent and dark Groundskeeper’s Cottage, hoping that meant the Kilpatricks had already taken the children to the curry house. Then he slid slowly down the slope and around the chapel. He stopped before he got to the gravelled drive, pulling the emergency brake and turning off the car, the Jag on the gravel would make too much noise. He exited the car, fleet of foot and silent as a cat. He crouched low, keeping to the edges of the wide arc of light illuminating the outside of the house coming from both the lights from Julia’s rooms (the drapes, disturbingly, not drawn) and the outside light.
He stayed close to the side of the house, inching forward and, chancing a glance around the corner of the portico, finally seeing the front door slightly ajar.
Ready for him.
Waiting for him.
He knew a trap lay inside.
He didn’t hesitate because inside, hopefully still alive, was Julia. And he’d rather get his brains blown out than allow her to experience another minute of the terror she was undoubtedly experiencing.
The moment he quietly slipped into his lifelong home, he knew something was wrong. Not just the danger that lurked there but the house.
Something was very wrong with the whole, damned house.
He’d taken three strides forward, ignoring the alien feeling of Sommersgate, when a voice speaking in Russian told him to stop.
The cold steel of a gun was pointed to his temple.
Without hesitation, and quick as lightning, Douglas’s head jerked back. His left hand shot up, grabbing the gunman’s wrist in a powerful grip. The man fired a reactionary shot but it went wide.
Swinging around with all his bodyweight and using instinct and years of practice to guide him, he slammed the palm of his hand into the man’s septum, forcing it into the back of his brain, causing him to die instantly.
Douglas felt no remorse. He knew who these men were and what they did. That swift a death was an act of mercy. He deserved far worse for the devastation he caused to hundreds of lives.
The Russian fell to the ground; Douglas took his gun, strangely a six shooter revolver rather than a semi-automatic, and swiftly checked its load. Three shots had already been fired which made Douglas’s chest clutch painfully. Forcing himself to remain focused, he felt the dead man’s body for any further weapons and discovered a knife strapped to his ankle. He removed it and tucked it in the back of his belt.
Julia would not be pleased about the knife but he’d deal with that later.
If, pray God, he had the chance.
He quickly divested himself of his suit jacket, throwing it aside and did the same with his tie. He moved forward, unbuttoning the buttons at his throat and saw that a light was shining into the stairwell from the drawing room. It barely illuminated a prone human form that was lying at the side of the hall.
With a vague sense of concern he wouldn’t allow to form fully, Douglas moved silently forward then crouched beside who he recognised as Nick. Noticing the blood on his back, Douglas put out his fingers to check and found his friend had a strong pulse.