The Templar's Curse Sarwat Chadda (top books of all time TXT) 📖

kept them to his sides as he watched Faustus stroll off into the night, whistling as tunelessly as he sang.

Now it was her turn to be pissed off. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I spoke to Mordred. He told me you’d gone off on some job. I was worried. Why didn’t you tell me? Is it because you wanted to spend the night gallivanting with him?”

She almost laughed. “Ivan, no one gallivants anymore. Much as they’d like to.”

“My English is a hell of lot better than your Russian!” He snapped. “Three years and you still can’t count to ten!” Then he frowned. “What happened to your eyebrows?”

“My what?” She darted back into the hall to have a look in the mirror. What did he mean by…“Bloody hell. They’re gone.”

“What happened tonight, Billi?” He hadn’t come in yet. Ivan was still old-fashioned like that.

Any other night and she would have welcomed him. But there had been too much drama. She stank of smoke, she’d burnt off her eyebrows wrestling a flaming ghost, and just wanted to collapse on her bed and sleep all the way through the weekend. “Ghost of a guy called FitzRoy. Lionel did some research into Lawrence and his name came up. He turned out to be trickier than expected. Faustus was there to help. You know that was what he was good at.”

“FitzRoy? Is that what you said?”

She turned around. “That name mean something to you?”

“I know Erin FitzRoy. She comes down to the Firebird every now and then,” he said. “She’s part of the London scene. You know, the bright pretty things that fill up the society pages in Tatler. She’d got connections in some very high places.”

Billi shook herself awake. “Erin is, was, his daughter. How well do you know her?”

She should have guessed. Ivan mixed in circles that she could never enter. Despite being Russian he was, remotely, connected to the Royal family through his Romanov blood. That opened some very special doors, even nowadays. Despite this being the 21st century some things never changed, like England’s obsession with class and rank.

Ivan smiled and those grey eyes of his sparkled. That was the Ivan she knew and, yes, loved. “Well enough to be invited to her house party tomorrow night. Want to come?”

CHAPTER 12

Erin lived in Dulwich Village, a small enclave of multi-million-pound houses and mansions and exclusive public schools in South London. It was almost shocking to see the vast gardens, lawns and driveways after the elbow-to-elbow existence in the old city where the only private greenery was your window box.

“Nice,” said Billi as they reached Erin’s address.

Ivan locked the Maserati. “Now be on your best behaviour, Bilqis SanGreal. No fighting the other kids.”

Billi fluttered her eyelashes. Thankfully they hadn’t been burnt away last night. “My very best behaviour.”

They faced a four-storey Georgian house, the evening throbbed with bass beating from the party within. Top of the range sports’ cars — three Porsches, a couple of Jaguars and a McLaren — crowded the cobbled courtyard along with a gleaming black Mercedes S-Class. A small group sat upon the steps leading to the doorway, sharing a spliff.

Ivan paused and straightened his cuffs. “You really should have tried to dress up a little.”

“I’m wearing make-up,” said Billi. “And I am in an actual dress.” True, it had been out of the local Oxfam, sleeveless with a big calf-length skirt and very blood red. She held up her wrist, displaying her bracelet. “And actual jewellery.”

“That would have looked better as a pair,” said Ivan, not quite sniffing. “Heels, Billi, you should have worn heels.”

“My boots have heels,” said Billi.

“But they’re biker… nevermind.”

Billi may have come dressed from the charity shop but Ivan was pure Savile Row. A tailored three piece, black with a deep scarlet waistcoat and a pair of shiny black Oxfords. His white cuffs peeked from under his sleeves and the cufflinks were a pair of minute golden firebirds. He even wore a tie. While everyone else was trying so hard to be like everyone else, in jeans, tee-shirts and bedheads here stood Ivan, every hair perfectly in place, clean-shaven and extremely suited and booted. He couldn’t be anything else.

They climbed over the four teens on the steps and stepped into the crowded hallway. A jockstrap hung from the chandelier. People filled the staircase all the way up. Furniture had been cleared away to the bare minimum needed to hold wine bottles, beer cans, sleeping drunks. The cacophony of music and people shouting made Billi tense up. She hated crowds. Everyone was elbow to elbow, carelessly knocking glasses, spilling drinks, tapping ash onto the highly-polished oak floor. Family photos mixed with paintings and Billi found her attention caught by a series of desert shots of smiling soldiers, dressed in their desert cameo MTPs.      Billi tapped the central figure. “Simon FitzRoy. During better days.”

Ivan waved at some people he knew. This was his scene, he always knew someone, everywhere. “What’s the plan?”

“Let’s Scooby Doo this. We’ll cover more ground doing our own separate thing.”

Ivan laughed. “Think you might cramp my style?”

“Like a leper at an ‘all you can eat’ buffet.” House parties weren’t Billi’s natural battlefield, but she knew where the most action would be, so headed towards the kitchen and left Ivan to continue his ‘meet and greet’.

And there she was, Lady Erin FitzRoy.

When they talked about the classic ‘English Rose’ they were talking about the likes of Erin. Her auburn locks were pixie cut, making the most of her exquisite cheekbones and huge blue eyes. Her skin was porcelain white, her limbs long and lithe and she wore a short silver dress and was tall enough to do without heels. Her feet were bare. Her only jewellery was a golden snake around her neck, tail clasped in its jaws and eyes of rubies. The ouroboros.

She stood by the big French doors that led out to the sweeping garden beyond, squeezed up against the doorframe, arms tightly folded across her chest as a