Thomas grimaced, but said, “I knew she knew. Who do you think taught me to read and write music? I’m just surprised she told you. Bastien and Lucern don’t know, do they?”
Etienne shook his head. “Your reputation as a useless loafer is safe from them, cousin. As far as I know she hasn’t told them a thing about it. In fact, she made me promise not to tell them either. She said you’d tell them when you were ready.”
“Hmm.” Thomas nodded with relief at this news, but then said, “It makes one wonder why she told you.”
“It was an accident actually. She caught me humming ‘Highland Mary’ back when it was popular and said it was her favorite of your musical compositions to date. Of course, I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about and made her explain it, but then she swore me to secrecy.”
“And you’re breaking that promise now?” Thomas asked with amusement. “Why?”
“I didn’t realize how long I’d have to keep the secret. It was almost two hundred years ago, cousin, and you’re showing no signs of revealing that you’re a musical composer any time soon.” He shrugged and then asked curiously, “Why are you keeping it a secret?”
Thomas continued up the hall, muttering, “It isn’t secret to everyone. Besides, Bastien and Lucern would just think it was a ‘cute little hobby’ and tell me to put away such childish efforts and go to work at the family business.”
“That sounds like something Father would have said,” Etienne commented quietly.
Thomas merely shrugged. It was something Jean Claude Argeneau had said, and it had hurt enough at the time that he wasn’t interested in hearing it again from Bastien and Lucern.
“There you are.” Rachel smiled at the pair as they joined her in the apartment’s large living room. “Thomas, is this your mother?”
His gaze slid past her to the portrait over the fireplace and he nodded slowly. Althea Argeneau had been a beautiful woman, but he had no memory of her. Marguerite had presented the painted portrait to him on the day he’d moved out of her home and into his own. The painting was the only connection he had to the woman who had given him life. His gaze now slid to the portrait on the opposite wall. It was of his Aunt Marguerite and he hoped to God it wasn’t now his only connection to the woman who had raised him. He had to find her alive and well.
“So…is she any closer to being able to have that next baby yet?” Rachel asked with amusement, drawing his attention back to the portrait of his long-dead mother.
When he peered at it and then turned a blank gaze to Rachel, Etienne reminded him, “The first time you met Rachel was at the Night Club. She thought you were younger than Jeanne Louise. You told her she was wrong, and then said your mom had wanted more children but had to wait another ten years or so because of the hundred-year rule.”
“Oh.” Thomas smiled wryly as he recalled the conversation in question. The comment had been a throwaway line one would give to a stranger. He’d hardly wanted to explain about his family tragedies to her then, that there was no “mom” and Jeanne Louise was only his half sister by his father’s third marriage.
The fact was Thomas’s father seemed to be cursed when it came to wives. They just kept dying on him, a difficult occurrence since they had all been immortals. In response, the man had grown bitter and angry over the centuries, shunning any real contact with his son or daughter. It was a sore subject for Thomas, and one he preferred to avoid, which was why he’d made that comment at the time rather than explain that Jeanne Louise was only his half sister and that Marguerite Argeneau was the only mother either of them had known.
However, it looked like he’d now have to explain himself. “I—”
“It’s all right, Etienne told me the story after we were married,” Rachel interrupted quietly and then crossed the room to run a hand soothingly over his arm. “I was just teasing. I’m sorry if I brought up bad memories.”
Thomas shrugged the matter away as if it weren’t important and then turned to lead the way to the door. “We should get moving. The sooner you drop me at the airport, the sooner I’ll get to London, find Aunt Marguerite, and set everyone’s minds to rest.”
One
“This is as close as I can get, love,” the taxi driver announced apologetically. “That’ll be fourteen pounds.”
Inez Urso frowned as she noted they were at least three sets of doors from the gate she wanted. Unfortunately, there was a long line of cars waiting to collect arrivals and the driver couldn’t get any closer. Knowing she had a jog ahead of her, Inez handed him the money, managing not to grimace at the expense.