No Mark upon Her

married to Duncan Kincaid’s cousin Jack.

And Gemma was now married to Detective Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, a fact that still caused her a flutter of wonder when she reminded herself of it. Married. Really and truly. And three times, which Duncan still made a point of teasing her about. She touched her ring, liking the physical reminder.

They’d begun as professional partners, Gemma a detective sergeant assigned to Duncan’s Scotland Yard Major Crimes team. When their relationship had become personal—much against Gemma’s better judgment in those early days—Gemma had applied for detective inspector. Her promotion had been a mixed blessing. It had ended their working partnership, but it had allowed them to make their personal relationship public.

Still, Gemma had harbored deep reservations about commitment. They had both failed at first marriages; they both had sons who had been subjected to enough change and loss. And she had resisted, sometimes obstinately, what she saw as a loss of autonomy.

But Duncan had been patient, and with time Gemma had come to see that what they had was worth preserving at any risk.

So, at last, on a lovely day the past August, they’d had an informal blessing of their partnership in the garden of their home in London’s Notting Hill. A few weeks later, they’d made it legal in the Chelsea register office.

And now, in late October, with the older children on half-term break from school, Winnie and Jack had invited Duncan and Gemma and their respective families to Compton Grenville so that Winnie could give their marriage the formal celebration she felt it deserved.

The ceremony in Winnie’s church on Saturday afternoon had been everything Gemma had wanted; simple, personal, and heartfelt, it had sealed their partnership in a way that was somehow different. Third time’s the charm, as Duncan kept telling her. And perhaps he was right, because now circumstances had brought another child into their lives, little not-quite-three-year-old Charlotte Malik.

Winnie turned from the mountain of breakfast dishes, the result of the gargantuan farewell breakfast she’d made for the weekend’s guests. “A horror film? What?” Winnie, having wiped suds on the end of her nose, looked comically quizzical.

The green and tomato-red vicarage kitchen was a comfortable, and comforting, place, and Winnie was a good friend who had seen Gemma through some difficult times.

On this Tuesday morning, with the visit almost over and everyone gone except Duncan’s parents, Gemma and Winnie had finally snagged a moment alone for a gossipy postmortem of the weekend. Gemma had offered to do the washing-up, but Winnie had insisted that Gemma enjoy a last few minutes with Winnie and Jack’s baby daughter.

Gemma settled little Constance more comfortably in her lap. “Well, maybe horror film is a bit steep,” she amended, smiling. But her amusement faded as she thought about the blot on an otherwise perfect weekend. “Sometimes,” she said, “my sister is just a bitch.”

Winnie stripped off her washing-up gloves and came to sit at the table beside her, reaching for Constance. “Here, don’t throttle the baby by proxy.”

“Sorry,” Gemma said sheepishly. She kissed Constance’s fuzzy head before handing her over. “It’s just that she’s infuriating. Cyn, I mean, not Constance.”

“Well, I can understand Cyn feeling a little uncomfortable this weekend. She and your parents were the outsiders—”

“Uncomfortable?” Gemma shook her head. “You’re too diplomatic. That’s a nice way of saying she behaved like an absolute harpy.” Before Winnie could protest, she went on. “But it’s not just that. She’s been horrible since we found out Mum was ill.” Their mother, Vi, had been diagnosed with leukemia the previous spring. “I realize that’s Cyn’s way of dealing with her own worry. I can understand that, even though I want to strangle her. But now, with Charlotte, there’s no excuse.”

“What about Charlotte?” Winnie asked, her kind face suddenly creased with concern.

“I think Cyn told her kids not to play with her. Didn’t you notice?”

“Well, I did think they seemed a little . . . awkward—”

“How could she? They’re going to be cousins, for heaven’s sake.” The anger in Gemma’s voice made Constance screw up her little face in a frown. Gemma took a calming breath, then reached out to stroke the baby’s cheek with a finger. “Sorry, lovey.” Constance had Winnie’s English-rose complexion, Jack’s bright blue eyes, and the downy beginnings of Jack’s blond hair.

But Charlotte, with her caramel curls and light-brown skin, was every bit as beautiful, and a wave of fury swept over Gemma at the idea that anyone could think differently, or treat her differently, because of her color. “I heard Cyn call Charlotte something unrepeatable,” she admitted. “I could just kill her.”

“Gemma, you must have been prepared—”

“Oh, we were warned, all right. The social worker was very thorough. ‘Mixed-race children are sometimes not accepted by adoptive parents’ extended families,’ ” she quoted. “But I suppose I’d seen too many rainbow children adverts,” she added with a sigh. If her sister had been rude, her parents had remained standoffish with the child, which upset Gemma deeply. “Charlotte’s been through enough without this.”

She and Duncan had become foster parents to the little girl in August, after their investigation into the disappearance of her parents.

“How is she doing, really?” Winnie asked, jiggling Constance, who was beginning to fuss. “This weekend has been so hectic that I’ve never really had a chance to ask, or to say how lovely she is.”

“Yes,” said Gemma, her voice softening. “She is, isn’t she?” Her arms felt suddenly empty without the baby, and she watched Winnie holding her daughter with an affection tinged only very slightly with envy. “But—” She hesitated, listening to the happy childish shrieks coming from the back garden. Charlotte’s excited shouts rose unmistakably over the boys’. Perhaps, thought Gemma, she was overreacting, making too much of normal adjustment issues.

“But?” prompted Winnie, settling Constance over her shoulder.

“She doesn’t sleep well,” Gemma confessed. “She dreams, I think, and sometimes when she wakes, she’s inconsolable. She—” Gemma stopped, making an effort to steady her suddenly wobbly voice. “She calls out for her mummy and daddy. It makes me feel so—so—” She shrugged.

“Helpless. Yes, I can imagine. But she’s becoming very attached to you. I’ve seen that.”

“Sometimes a bit too attached, I’m afraid. Downright clingy.”

She and Duncan had agreed that they’d take family leave in turns until they felt Charlotte was secure enough in her new situation to attend child care during the day.

Gemma had gladly taken the first stint, but she was due to return to her post as detective inspector at Notting Hill Police Station the following week, and she felt a little guilty over how much she was looking forward to work and adult company. She worried whether she was really doing the right thing in planning to go back to work. “I just hope Duncan will be able to cope on his own.”

“Give the man credit,” Winnie said with a grin, nodding towards the garden, where Duncan and Jack were stomping in puddles with the children. “He seems to be doing pretty well. He obviously adores Charlotte. And if the two of you are going to make this commitment, she needs to be as bonded to him as she is to you.” She gave Gemma a searching glance. “You are sure about this? There must be other placements that would keep her out of her grandmother’s clutches.”

Gemma leaned forward, hugging herself to stop an involuntary shiver. “I cannot imagine being without her,” she said with complete certainty. “And I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep her safe, although I don’t think it’s likely that Charlotte’s family is going to have much leverage anytime soon.”

Charlotte’s grandmother and her uncles had been arrested in August, and it looked as though they would be playing Happy Families in prison for a good while to come.

“We’re officially fostering for the time being,” Gemma went on. Hesitating, she added, “But we intend to apply for permanent custody, and eventually adoption. I just hope my family will come round, and that nothing will happen to muck up Duncan’s leave—”

She was interrupted by a loud crash, then the clump of feet in the hall.

“Toby, boots off,” Gemma heard Duncan shout, but it was too late. Her six-year-old son cannoned through the door, his red Wellies mud-spattered, his blond hair sticking straight up in damp spikes. He looked, as usual, like an imp from hell.