VOLUME 1, CHAPTER XIII.IN THE PAPERS
Dinner at the Hotel Metropole was a swirling kaleidoscope of Brighton's weekend elite—a mix of high-court judges, famous jockeys, and the glitterati of the stage. Marcus, ever the "cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans," had secured the prime window table. He had a way with hotel staff that bordered on the supernatural; he tipped early and often, ensuring that from the concierge to the busboy, he was treated like royalty.
"I'm so glad you're here, Edris," he murmured, raising a glass of vintage wine. She looked radiant in a black semi-evening gown, her alabaster skin set off by a necklace of glittering rock-crystal and jet beads.
"Are you?" she teased. "Then prove it. Promise me Wengen."
Marcus laughed, his dark eyes lingering on hers. Now that he knew Lionel was out of the picture, his heart had already said yes, even if his lips remained non-committal. "We'll see. Let's have coffee in the palm-court."
They spent an hour listening to the orchestra before strolling back to Hove. The Channel was restless, the waves thundering against the shingle in a rhythmic roar that Marcus loved. Back at the flat, under the warm glow of the lamps, the conversation turned back to the ghosts of their pasts.
"Why did you really leave Elaine, Seton?" Edris asked, leaning back into the settee. "I'm convinced she loves you."
Marcus sighed, staring into the fire. "We were friends, Edris. Nothing more. I've never known jealousy, and I've never known that kind of passion. It's a young man's game."
"Jealousy is a living hell," Edris said, her voice turning hard. "I felt it with Lionel, and it nearly drove me mad. I trust no one now. My heart is dead."
Marcus turned to the sideboard, pretending to look for matches to hide the sudden flash of pain in his eyes. "You'll love again," he said, forcing a cheerful tone.
"Never," she insisted.
Marcus watched her—this headstrong, "tomboy" girl who had grown into a fearless woman. She was defying every social convention just by being here with him, yet she had no idea that the man standing before her was hopelessly, desperately in love with her. He looked at his reflection in the mirror—the gray hair, the lines of experience—and felt a wave of bittersweet agony. If only they had met ten years ago.
By midnight, Edris retired to her room, locking the door with a playful "Good-night, Seton." Marcus sat by the dying embers for a long time before moving to his study. He put on an old cardigan and picked up his pen, losing himself in the draft of the novel he'd started in Corfu. Outside, the wind rose to a gale, the sea-spray hitting the windows.
He worked until 2:30 AM, his mind a battlefield. Should he tell her? Would she laugh at the "old man" professing his love? He stood in the dark, watching the white surf boil under the promenade lamps, a few low sobs escaping him before he finally sought the restless sleep of his narrow bed.
Sunday morning brought a change in the weather and a shock in the news. When Marcus entered the sitting room, Edris was already there, clutching the morning paper.
"Seton, look at this!" she cried. "A catastrophe near Edinburgh. Right under the Forth Bridge!"
Marcus felt his heart skip a beat. He took the paper, his eyes devouring the headlines: TERRIBLE EXPLOSION ON THE FORTH BRIDGE—ENEMY PLOT FOILED.
The report was frantic. Just after midnight, a "mysterious" motorboat had been spotted near the central piers of the bridge. A second boat—Macdonald's boat, though the paper didn't name it—had given chase. Shots were exchanged. Then, a machine-gun burst from the pursuers hit the escaping craft. The lead boat, loaded with high explosives, had detonated in a blinding red flash, shattering windows for miles and vaporizing everyone on board—four men and a woman.
The clincher came at the end of the column: "...several rubber hot-water bottles, filled with a powerful liquid explosive, were found attached to the piers... through the vigilance of the authorities, the bridge has been saved."
Marcus handed the paper back, his face a mask of cool indifference. His "paper discs" on the terminals had held. The Caborns had tried to trigger the bridge, failed, and in their desperate flight, had been intercepted by his team.
"Extraordinary," Edris whispered. "German agents, surely? Preparing for another war?"
"Perhaps," Marcus replied, his voice steady as he sat down to his eggs. "At any rate, they received exactly what they deserved."
Inside, the Architect felt a grim satisfaction. The threat was neutralized. The bridge stood. And for the first time in his life, the man who saved the Empire was sitting at breakfast with the only woman he had ever truly wanted.