Page 13 of Welcome to Gothic
Wendy dropped her shoes on the floor, groped for the seat belt, couldn’t find it, groped again.
“What do you need?”
“The—” The truth struck her. In 1940, therewerenoseat belts. She collapsed back into the seat. “That bastard. Betty had Hazel. She was taking her home. How did Bill get her?”
“When I came out of my dressing room, Betty was lingering nearby. When she saw me, she put Hazel down. She wanted to congratulate me on my performance. I was in a hurry to get to you, but I don’t like to brush off a young working woman. Hazel wanders backstage all the time. I didn’t think anything about it—”
“Other than the fact Betty was drooling on your good suit?” Wendy snapped.
“I’m sorry, Wendy.” He sounded guilty. She’d made him feel guilty when all he’d been doing was being polite to a fan. “I would have handled it differently if I’d suspected—”
“I know. I’m sorry, too.” She put her hand on his arm, then hastily took it away. “I’m taking it out on you when it’s Bill’s fault.”
He grasped her hand and put it back on his arm. “It’s money, I suppose. He gambles.”
Her fingers flexed, then relaxed. “I heard that. He doesn’t win?”
“I don’t know or care. I do know he’s tried to borrow money.”
“From you? For what reason?”
“Assumed friendship. It happens.”
She supposed it did. Hugh Capel was a movie star, a man who made unimaginable amounts during the depths of the Depression. Of course people would try and tap him like an ATM.
“I occasionally lend a hand, but usually through official charities and never to a gambler.Come on. When twenty-five percent of the United States is unemployed, why would I bother with a man who can’t control his impulses?”
“He’s going to demand a ransom.” She rubbed her forehead, thinking her way through this situation. “Probably already left a note somewhere for Maeve to find.”
“Is it possible he’s taking Hazel to The Tower?” Hugh asked.
She turned on him. “Have youmetBill?”
“Question withdrawn.” He shifted gears. “Hold on tight. This car will hunt him down.”
No seat belt,Wendy remembered. As Hugh whipped around the seven hairpin turns that made up Gothic, she did have to hold on. Thank heavens Beatrice had pulled her hair back tightly.
“Nice car,” she shouted.
“It’s a Delahaye 135. When I race it, I always win.”
The road before them, Wendy knew, was one of the foremost motoring and motorcycling routes in the world, famed for its curves, its scenery, its views, its groves of olive trees and old stand oaks. As the last of the twilight faded to starlight, they could see only the road before them in the headlights and, flashing in and out of the trees, Bill’s car as he raced ahead, taking Hazel to... where?
“When I took Hazel outside for a few minutes, I saw Bill watching her, and not in a good way. He met me at the stage door and when I questioned him, he claimed he had gone out to smoke a cigarette. I knew that was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He didn’t smell like a cigarette, because hewasn’t smoking.” Wendy’s confession only made her more wretched to know she’d been distracted and her inattention had contributed to Hazel’s abduction. “He was hoping to get his hands on Hazel then. We have to get him before he hurts her. She can’t defend herself against a grown man. He’s bitter and he’s angry and I think... I’ll bet he’s in gambling debt up to his eyeballs and he needs money to save his own worthless life. The bastard. The fucking bastard! Stealing a baby.” Wendy was furious: fists clenched, jaw clenched, ready to fight.
The night air flowed over her hot cheeks, dark and cool, and the silence made its way into her mind. Hugh was, perhaps, shocked.
Wendy cleared her throat. “I guess women don’t say things like that here and now, huh?”
“Not often. Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“Probably not men, either?”
“No. Not often.” He sounded as if he was sifting through the words and thoughts and clues. “I guess my question is—why areyouso angry? I’m not criticizing you at all, I’m angry, too, but I have my reasons. For you, this is personal. What are your reasons?”
Wendy knew she had to say something that would make sense to a man of the early twentieth century. To Hugh Capel. She had never told anyone about her past, but she was here on a brain-injury pass. He was her dream phantom guy. Why not tell him the truth?
Still, she had to tell it fast.Don’t dawdle, Wendy. Because the long, slow version hurts too much.“It’s not hard to understand. My mother died when I was three. My father was a good man but not good with money. We had enough to live and he cared for me. But when he died, I was thirteen and lost and destitute.”
