‘Perhaps you should tell her that.’
Nico stood. ‘Oui,’ he said, his thoughts clear, his mind focusing for the first time in weeks. ‘But first there is someone I must see.’
* * *
The Georgian mansion nestled in the heart of the sprawling Hudson Valley estate was unchanged from the way Nico remembered it, its distinguished brick façade with its shuttered windows, columned portico and black front door as pristine and imposing as ever. The lawns were still manicured, the gardens meticulously kept, and as he walked up the white-painted steps to the door Nico’s hands felt as clammy as they had the first time Julia had brought him here.
Before he could knock, the door opened and Barbara Lewisham stood before him.
A fist clamped tight around Nico’s heart. Julia and her mother had always looked alike, both of them blonde and petite in size. Barbara’s genteel face was older now, and lined with the remnants of grief, but still she reminded him of his late wife.
He braced himself, unsure of how his former mother-in-law would receive him in person. He had called ahead and, despite her obvious shock, she had been civil, polite to him over the phone. But then Barbara had always been a woman of manners and natural reserve. Even at her daughter’s funeral she’d held her emotions in check.
She looked up at him and for a moment he thought her grey eyes glittered with anger. Then she stepped forward, took his hands in hers, and he realised it was tears making her eyes shimmer.
‘Nico...’ she said, her smile tremulous. ‘It is so good to see you.’
The genuine warmth she conveyed threw him. He’d expected coolness from her at best. Hostility at worst. They hadn’t spoken much in the days leading up to Julia’s funeral, or afterwards. He’d assumed that she shared her husband’s view of things. Had he been wrong?
‘And you, Barbara,’ he said.
She led him into the grand foyer and closed the door. ‘Jack’s in the study.’
‘You told him I was coming?’
‘He’s expecting you.’ She gestured towards the wood-panelled hallway that Nico remembered led to Jack Lewisham’s study. ‘Go ahead.’
The door was closed when he got there—which was not, he thought, a particularly welcomi
ng sign. He took a deep, even breath, knocked once and entered.
‘Hello, Jack.’
Jack Lewisham turned from the window where he stood across the room, and Nico kept his expression impassive as he registered the physical changes time had wrought in the man. He was still tall—six foot—and broad-shouldered, but the deep lines scoring his face and the grey streaking his hair made him look as if he’d aged twenty years rather than ten.
He didn’t stride forward to shake Nico’s hand. Instead he nodded a silent greeting, walked across the Persian rug to an antique sideboard and poured whisky from a crystal decanter into two cut-glass tumblers.
He took the glasses to a small table set between two deep leather chairs, and finally spoke. ‘Will you join me?’
The invitation was stiff, the words wooden, and yet more polite than Nico had expected. Wary, his palms still clammy, he crossed the room and sat down.
Jack sipped his whisky. ‘I see your company is doing well.’
Nico picked up his glass, inclined his head. ‘It is.’ He paused, then added, ‘I’m not here to talk about my company, Jack.’
The older man eyed him for a long moment. He took a larger slug of whisky. ‘I tried to talk her out of marrying you, you know.’
‘I’m aware,’ Nico said flatly.
‘As a kid, she always had a thing for strays.’
Nico slammed his glass onto the table and stood. Dieu. What insanity had brought him here? He turned and started towards the door.
‘Nico.’
Jack’s voice halted him. He turned back. The man was on his feet, his mouth set in a grim line.
‘I apologise,’ Jack said hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t what I meant to say. Please...’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Stay.’