"Are we expecting the Queen or something?" Noor asked as she peeked through the townhome's living room window.

In the adjacent kitchen, Reine put the last of the morning's clutter in the dishwasher. "Why? What's out there?"

"Take a look," her friend suggested, pulling the curtain open. "And are you sure I can't come? I'd love to personally meet the man who was blackmailing me for more than three years. I have a thing or two I'd like to tell him."

"Absolutely not. You know those people could ruin your life with a snap of a finger. I want to keep you as far away from them as possible. Plus, this is your last weekend before starting your new job, so go out and enjoy the free time." Reine joined her in the sunshine. Leaning against the glass, she saw the silver Rolls Royce from the Savoy parked at the curb a few doors down. A black Range Rover - unable to find another free space - was next to it, blocking the narrow street. "That must be the car Wescott sent for me." She turned away and picked up the television remote from the table.

"If they're so bad, then why are you going?" Noor asked, still leaning against the pane.

"Because I need answers. Why is the TV so loud?" Pointing the gadget toward the set, Reine had her thumb on the volume control when she froze.

The images on the screen showed mangled metal from overhead - perhaps a shot from a helicopter - with people frantically running away. As the angle shifted, they disappeared into the billowing clouds of smoke coming from the wreckage. The voice of a familiar news reporter interrupted the broadcast to explain what was happening.

Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we're bringing you breaking news of a train derailment right here in London. It's happened on the Midlands line outside of Hatch End. There's no word yet on what may have caused the crash that occurred about twenty-five minutes ago, killing at least three people and injuring dozens more. We will of course bring you the latest updates as we continue to receive-

Reine clicked the remote and shut the set off.

"Wow. How horrible," Noor whispered, her hand covering her mouth in shock.

"Uh-huh," Reine concurred while searching for her shoes.

The first words that actually popped into her mind were ironic and even suspicious, but she tried to dismiss these as over-reaching. Even so, the discussion of a rejected railways' safety contract just days before between the head of the Order of Westminster and London's mayor nagged at her during the entire trip.

It didn't help that the chauffer was being extremely prudent in his observance of traffic laws. The drive to Wescott's rural property, which should have taken half an hour, ended up being almost twice as long. The black SUV also continued to follow them from a reasonable distance, and Reine wondered how many enemies Wescott had to need such protection.

At any rate, the man not only had good taste in cars, but also in architecture, as well.

Although barely outside of London's urban metropolis, Wescott's country estate felt like it was a world away. Sprawling woodlands and rolling pastures surrounded the two-story, Georgian manor, but it wasn't until she'd walked through the open lobby that Reine saw the finest feature of the property.

The magnificent English garden was where all of the guests - who must have numbered over one hundred - sipped cocktails and politely chatted. The men wore light suits and the women were in pastel, flowing dresses matching the outdoor setting. Their wide rimmed hats smartly blocked out the summer sun as they stood on gravel paths surrounded by boxwoods masterfully trimmed in the shape of spheres, spirals, and even animals. Raised flowerbeds held a variety of colorful roses, and where grass took over, a miniature replica of a Grecian temple stood at the edge of a small pond.

Standing on the stone terrace, Reine was still contemplating what to do when a statuesque woman with short, blonde hair approached her.

"Hello my dear. You must be Reine," she said in a strong, northern European cadence, offering a champagne flute.

"Oh, no thank you," Reine declined, but the woman smiled.

"It's just sparkling water."

Accepting the glass, Reine took a sip.

"I am so glad that you could make it to my party." The woman confirmed herself as the lady of the house.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Wescott. Happy birthday." Reine handed her hostess a gift-wrapped pair of William Hogarth etchings. She had a whole collection in the townhome's attic, and they came in handy when she needed a present for people who had everything.

"Please, call me Greer," she said, and her Dutch-sounding name confirmed Reine's guess about the accent.

The woman passed the package to a nearby servant who undoubtably whisked it away to a large pile of other rare and expensive baubles. "And the party was my husband's idea. I find it quite tedious celebrating turning forty-five year after year. Or actually century after century."

Reine shifted her weight from one foot to the other while trying to sound diplomatic. "What's age, but just a number? Especially for us, right?"

"Maybe for you, my dear, but we take it quite seriously on this side of the pond. Now, come. Let me introduce you to some friends." Greer took Reine by the arm and led her down into the garden.

While the woman didn't elaborate on her comments regarding age, Reine could speculate on her meaning. She recalled Max's explanation about the difference between these two disparate groups, dedicated to keeping the secrets - and furthering the welfare - of immortals. While the Confraternity of the Resurrection selected its leaders based on their competence, the Order of Westminster strictly relied on seniority.

"So that's why your husband's in charge? He's been alive the longest?" she quietly asked as they approached a dark-haired man standing alone sipping his champagne.

Greer abruptly stopped in front of a cone-shaped topiary, her shoes kicking up a small cloud of dust from the gravel underneath. Facing Reine, she leaned down to close the gap in their heights and forced a smile. "I don't know what you've been told, but I won't have anyone questioning Emery's right to his position," she whispered.

Reine took a small step backwards. "No, no. I didn't mean--"

"No one ever means what they say nowadays, do they? Well, let me tell you something. My husband was already immortal when he helped William of Normandy to victory at Hastings. There's only been one potential challenger to the leadership of the Order since he's taken over, and that man didn't even want the job. Since he disappeared over three hundred years ago, there hasn't been any doubt about who's in charge. Now, where were we?" Greer straightened up and brushed aside a lock of her blonde hair that had fallen over her forehead. Acting as if the awkward exchange didn't even happen, she led Reine toward their prior destination.

"Giorgio, this is the lovely Reine Baldovini - no, I'm sorry, Baldwin - I was telling you about," the Dutch woman made introductions as the man extended his hand. "Dr. Kostopoulos is the head of obstetrics at King's Cross Hospital in London. Oh, excuse me for a moment, won't you?" She swiftly headed back to the house without waiting for an answer.

With a clear view over the shorter-than-average doctor's shoulder, Reine noted Greer was walking straight toward Emery Wescott. He'd just emerged onto the terrace in the company of the morose Russian she last saw in an interrogation room months earlier at Dulles International Airport.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Giorgio let go of her hand. "How far along are you, if I may ask? More than halfway there, from the looks of it."

Reine felt her cheeks flush red as she looked back at the doctor. Her pregnancy was the last thing she wanted to talk about with any member of the Order, and she'd gone out of her way to find an outfit that concealed her growing figure. Apparently, it was too late for secrets.

"No, I'm not quite there. Actually I'm almost at sixteen weeks." She fiddled with her empty glass. The embarrassed pause from the doctor gave her a chance to eavesdrop on the Wescotts. Even so, trying to shut out the other voices from the packed yard was difficult, and Reine only caught a few, clear sentences.

Change of plans. It looks like he's not coming after all, Wescott said to his wife before turning to the Russian. Call Millie and tell her to hold off.

Giorgio hastily finished off his champagne before gathering his wits enough to respond. "How silly of me. Of course. You know, this summer sun . . . it's casting a shade that had me fooled. My apologies, Miss Baldwin."

Reine gave him a reassuring smile. By the time she looked back toward the terrace, Wescott and his lackey were gone. Greer was also on her way back.

"I'm going to get another water. Excuse me, Giorgio," she said, leaving before the man had a chance to protest.

The drinks tent had been set up on the opposite side of the lawn, allowing Reine to successfully avoid her hostess. As she drank her second glass of water, she wondered what plans Wescott had to change and who had stood him up. And what part did the mysterious Millie play in everything?

Needing to find a ladies' room, she headed back inside the house.

"Past the stairs, left in the hallway, third door on the right," a waiter gave her directions.

A few minutes later, she was stalling in the hallway to keep from going back to the party when something in the open dining room caught her eye.

A fairly average fireplace stood on the far wall. Two colorful, life-sized figures flanked it on either side, and although the masterful composition could have been misleading from afar to the untrained eye, Reine knew the framed images weren't painted.

Stopping about a yard from the obviously pre-Raphaelite depictions of King Arthur and Guinevere confirmed they were made with thousands of small, enamel glass fragments.

The mosaic panel on the left depicted Camelot's young Queen with her long, wavy tresses flowing down her back. She wore a typical medieval gown fit for royalty, while a dainty, golden crown sat upon her head to dispel any doubts about her identity. On the right, stood her husband Arthur in a warrior's tunic covering his utilitarian body armor. Holding the famed Excalibur, he was also crowned with a jewel-encrusted symbol of power over his kingdom. In typical nineteenth-century Romantic fashion, they were both shown in an outdoor setting, surrounded by nature's beauty.

Reine leaned closer to examine the intricate application of the individual pieces on the king. The brilliantly colored tesserae were cut precisely to form the final design and set into the mortar base at a slight angle to subtly reflect light.

"They're by the Venice and Murano Glass and Mosaic Company from 1869," a male voice rang out from behind her.

Reine didn't want to reveal her embarrassment at being caught somewhere she probably wasn't supposed to be. She hesitated to turn around and instead, covered her embarrassment with a bit of clarification. "Actually, the firm was known until 1872 as the Societá Anonima per azioni Salviati et Comp--" The word caught in her throat when she finally glanced over her shoulder.

The man standing in front of her hadn't changed since she last saw him more than one hundred years earlier. His dark, brown hair may have been styled differently, but his coy smile still immediately made her heart flutter.

"I thought you were an expert on the Renaissance, not the Victorian age. Then again, I don't think anything about you can shock me anymore," he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "It's so good to see you again, Reine."

Feeling her head spin from the shock, she swallowed and took a deep breath to compose herself. "Cooper! I can't believe you're here. You . . . you've been with Wescott this entire time?"

He laughed bitterly before nodding. "I've been with him for probably longer than I should have been."

Reine was surprised that the admission stirred such long-buried feelings in her. "So it's true that the only reason you didn't marry me was because he told you not to?"

"Ah, darling girl. One of my biggest regrets is not having the balls to stand up to him that day." He reached out and cupped her face in his hand.

"Oh, Cooper . . . I can't--" she began, but he withdrew his hand and stuck it in his pocket.

"Well, this is a bit embarrassing." He frowned. "I'm afraid I've given the wrong impression."

Timothy? Are you in there? A voice from the hallway interrupted.

"Yes, darling. In the dining room." He turned toward the door just as a lanky redhead entered. "I've been catching up with an old friend."

Reine wanted to hide behind the heavy drapery from shame, but she couldn't avoid facing the beautiful - and oddly familiar - woman who'd just put an arm around Cooper's waist.

"Ah, yes. Is this the famous Reine Baldovini?" The redhead extended her hand with a smile. "I'm Paisley Cooper; it's a pleasure."

Reine's eyes widened at the name. "Your wife?" The question slipped off her tongue before she could compose herself.

Luckily, the woman wasn't offended at her surprise. Kissing her husband on the cheek between chuckles, she sounded genuinely amused. "I also often wonder how this blarmy bloke got me to marry him." Her flawless Oxford pronunciation momentarily slipped, revealing a distinct accent Reine knew she'd heard before. Although the likelihood was remote, there were so many things these days that didn't make sense and she had to ask.

"Forgive me, Paisley, but you don't by any chance have a--"

"Sister?" Another voice from the doorway finished her query, as all eyes shifted to Morgan. "Of course she does. A much prettier, smarter, and more modest sister, I tell ya."

"Where have you been hiding, Morgie?" Paisley kissed her sister on each cheek before Morgan stepped to Reine's side.

"Here and there. But I'm going to steal this here girl, so please excuse us." She grabbed Reine's elbow and led her out of the room.

"You're back!" Reine couldn't contain her excitement as they walked to a quiet spot in the garden. "I guess you're allowed into Britain because your sister's part of the Order?"

"Being a Pendle has its perks," Morgan said with a wink.

"Is Max here, too?" Reine asked, anxiously glancing around the crowd. "Did you find him?"

"No, I'm sorry darling, I didn't." She patted Reine's arm. "But I do have something to tell you that's even better."

Reine frowned. "Don't lie to me, Morgan."

"Okay, maybe you're right." The young woman shrugged. "It's not better, but it's almost as good."

"No, I meant don't lie to me about Max. He trusts you. You must know where he is."

Morgan squeezed Reine's arm and widened her eyes. The unmistakable look meant she was right, but they couldn't discuss it there.

Reine sighed. "Fine. What's your good news, then?"

"You're going to love this." Morgan had a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "I've figured out how we can get some information out of Sylvana. And the best part is, we don't actually have to find her."