London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Read Free

fussy food and pretentious conversation than his method of transportation.
    A 1966 Austin-Healey BJ8, a classic piece of British automotive history, and the one car he’d dreamed of owning since childhood. It had taken him two years and considerable expense to restore her, from the rusted-out, two-tone paint job to the ripped, black leather interior. The classic car always served as an excuse to avoid the gossip and slip away with the other auto enthusiasts, including his uncle Rodney. In fact, Rodney was solely to blame for the vehicle’s existence. He’d been the one to take Ian and his younger brother, James, to races at Silverstone and the occasional classic car meet. Jamie had never latched on to the idea, but those outings had been the highlight of Ian’s childhood.
    Now that Ian owned his dream, the trouble was finding time to enjoy it. London’s traffic and its congestion zones made it hardly worth the effort to drive, and work and rowing kept him well tied to the city. Maybe he should take another trip to Scotland and check on the progress of the Skye hotel. Completely unnecessary, of course—Jamie and his fiancée, Andrea, had matters well in hand—but it would be a useful excuse for a short escape.
    The twenty-five-minute drive to Hampstead went much too quickly, and he’d barely managed to settle the tension from Grace’s unexpected appearance before he turned off to his mother’s estate. He punched in the gate code and waited for the wrought-iron gates to swing inward. Somehow the opulence of the house struck him as even more excessive than usual as he navigated through the newly landscaped allée to the front of the spectacular Georgian-style manor, all heavy red brick and mullioned windows. He might have spent school holidays here while at Eton, but he’d never dared call it home.
    He left the car beside several other expensive vehicles, shrugging his suit jacket on as he went, and headed to the center of the parterre, where several tables had been set up. At least a dozen people milled about, glasses already in hand. Almost immediately, an elegant, dark-haired woman in a cream-colored suit and matching hat caught sight of him and made her way over.
    “Ian, darling!”
    “Mum.” Ian accepted her embrace and kissed her on the cheek. “You look lovely.”
    “And you look quite dapper yourself, Son.” Marjorie took a surreptitious look around. “You didn’t bring anyone, did you? Good. I want you to meet Rachel Corson. You remember the Corsons, don’t you? The father is in shipping, and the mother—”
    “Mum, stop.” He cut her off before she could go further in her description. Knowing her, she already had them married in her mind. She’d been fairly vocal about his inability to accomplish it himself. “The last time I met one of your friends’ daughters, it was a disaster. Let’s not repeat history, shall we?”
    Marjorie leveled a look at him that managed to fall short of motherly concern. “Five minutes.”
    “No.”
    “I knew you’d see it my way. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
    Ian sighed and tugged on his tie, which had already begun to feel too tight. Twenty-five minutes in the Healey did not in any way make up for this.
    “Run while you still have the chance.”
    Ian twisted toward the voice at his shoulder. “Rodney, you startled me.”
    “Bloody Mary?”
    Ian took a glass from his uncle and looked him over. If Marjorie was impeccably put together, her younger brother always had a studiously mussed air, as if he had been rudely summoned away from a game of snooker. His suit was expensive but rumpled, and he might have forgotten to comb his hair that morning. His eyes, however, missed nothing. Unfortunately.
    Ian sipped the cocktail and barely covered his cough. “Might you add some tomato juice to the vodka next time? It’s not yet noon.”
    “Only way I can get through these events of your mother’s. And you’ll need it if you plan to stick around