by Lynn Kurland
She had managed to avoid him for most of her life because he’d been sent to boarding school at five and had, she was sure, never looked back. In that, she couldn’t blame his parents. If she’d been his mother, she would have packed his little suitcase for him herself.
She had wondered more than once over the past year if there was perhaps something wrong with her that she wasn’t left giddy by his interest. She was fairly sure that anyone else would have taken one look at Theodore Mollineux and immediately tripped daintily in front of him so he would have had to not only notice her but leap to rescue her from potential injuries. He was rich, handsome, and heavily degreed. Maybe if she’d been able to just convince him to keep his mouth shut so he didn’t speak and ruin the illusion, she might have been able to do something more with him than look around for the nearest exit. How she was going to survive an entire summer with him in the same town, she couldn’t say.
She was obviously going to have to invent a few disguises in order to elude notice.
The taxi stopped sooner rather than later, which gave her hope for a Dory-free afternoon. She scooted out the door, reached in for her suitcase, then extricated her belongings before Dory had even stopped talking about whatever it was he’d been talking about.
“Thanks,” she said with her best smile. “Sure appreciate the rescue. I’m not sure how much we’ll get to see of each other . . . here . . .”
She stopped talking partly because he wasn’t listening to her and partly because he’d gotten out of the taxi himself.
“I’ll be fine from here,” she said. “I really appreciate the ride. I’ll treat you for scones with clotted cream the very first chance I have.”
“Sooner rather than later, because the old man hasn’t put my allowance in the bank yet,” Dory said. He looked at her with a frown. “Have any cash?”
And there in a nutshell was the reason she had only gone on one date with him. Never mind that her father had handed her a cool hundred on the way out the door to that movie. She was not interested in dating a guy who wasn’t prepared to at least fork out cab fare.
She knew she should have simply turned around and walked away, but something stopped her. She wanted to say it was good breeding, but it was probably just her inability to stand up for herself. She muttered uncomplimentary things about herself and Dory both under her breath, set her suitcase on the ground, then pulled her notebook out of her pocket.
There was money there, of course, in almost precisely the right amount for the taxi. Her mother would have determined that ahead of time, of course. Samantha paid the cab driver, then started to put her notebook away. Dory stopped her with his hand on her arm.
“Got to get back to my flat, you know.”
She gritted her teeth because she knew she was going to hand him money in the end anyway so there was no point in not handing him money from the start. She dug around in her bag for her secret stash of pound coins her brother had sent her inside a box full of ratty Victorian period costumes their mother wouldn’t have touched on pain of death, counted out what she’d handed over the first time, plus a little extra, then put it all into Dory’s hand without delay.
“So appreciate the escort,” she said waving vaguely in his direction, “but I’ve got to go. There’s no time like the present to make a good impression on the employers.”
“Already done that,” he said, taking her by the elbow and pulling her toward the door. “Introductions first, then we’ll go have lunch.”
Not if she could help it. She would bide her time, then make her escape, which would hopefully include being on opposite sides of a sturdy door from him. She didn’t argue with Dory as he took her suitcase and gallantly led the way up the two steps to the stoop just outside a dark brown doorway that seemed to blend into the stone of the building it found itself in.
The door opened and a neat, elegant woman in her forties stood there. Samantha was wearing her best work clothes, but she had to admit she had a ways to go if she were ever to stand next to that stylish woman and not feel a little frumpy. Maybe she could spent a little of her carefully hoarded money on something not insisted on by her mother. Nothing said serious scholar, apparently, like dark trousers, a polyester long-sleeved shirt, and sensible walking shoes.
Before Samantha got her mouth open to introduce herself, Dory was doing the honors for her.
“Lydia Cooke, this is Samantha Drummond. Samantha, allow me to present Mrs. Lydia Cooke. Her husband is off in Stratford, making certain their situation is what was promised.”
Could the taking of a rolling suitcase and using the heavy, wheeled part to knock a New England blue blood in the face be blamed on jet lag, or would she have to come up with a more drastic malady to excuse her bad behavior? It was excruciating in the extreme to have to listen to Dory continue to tell her details about the Cookes that she was quite certain Mrs. Cooke would have preferred to reveal herself—quite possibly somewhere besides the sidewalk.
“You know, Mr. Mollineux, Miss Drummond looks suddenly quite tired,” Mrs. Cooke said, reaching for Samantha’s suitcase. “Perhaps she could use a bit of a lie-down, yes?”
“Well,” Dory began doubtfully.
Samantha found herself and her suitcase drawn inside the house and Dory forced to step back down onto the sidewalk by the apparently unintimidatable Lydia Cooke.
“It is a long journey from the States,” she said easily. “I think she would enjoy a lunch date much more tomorrow.” She looked over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you, Samantha?”
Samantha wasn’t about to spurn the rescue. “Definitely.”
“And so it’s settled,” Mrs. Cooke said brightly.
“But I have an agenda already planned out,” Dory complained. “I don’t like to get off track.”
“Then perhaps today’s schedule could be set aside as a fallback plan should something else fall through in the future. Do you need to have a taxi called—no, there’s one right there waiting for you, Mr. Mollineux. À bientôt!”
And with that, she shut the door, paused, then turned and smiled.
“You didn’t mind that, did you?”
Samantha tried not to look as pathetically grateful as she felt. “Not a bit.”
“Well, some lads working to impress a girl tend to become a little trying,” Mrs. Cooke said. “I doubt I dampened his spirits for long. I’ll show you to your room, then you can either have that promised lie-down or a tour of the house.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cooke.”
She laughed. “It’s Lydia, of course. There’s no call for formality. And I’ll call you Samantha, if you don’t mind. A lovely name. Very substantial and powerful.”
Samantha felt neither at the moment, but she wasn’t going to argue. She picked up her suitcase and followed Lydia up two flights of stairs to a room that resembled every artist’s garret she had ever seen depicted in any romantic movie. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was charming and comfortingly free of either her parents or any preppy interlopers.
“The bath is across the hall,” Lydia said. “Once you’ve freshened up, come downstairs and I’ll show you around.”
Samantha thanked her, then waited until she’d shut the door before collapsing on the bed with a happy sigh. She had made it. Against all odds, she had escaped. It was a miracle.
She allowed herself approximately five minutes to simply sit and breathe before she looked around to see what her summer was going to include. She was sitting on a bed that ran north and south in a room where the window was east and the door west. There was no closet or armoire, but she didn’t have all that many clothes so she would make do with the pegs on the wall and the very tall, thin dresser tucked into a corner. There was a useful lamp on a table next to the bed and a rug under her feet. She couldn’t ask for anything more.
She put her suitcase on the bed, dug around for her toothbrush, then considered her bag. She never went anywhere without it, ever, but that was simply because she’d grown accustomed to havi
ng her life tucked inside it. At the moment, it contained all her money, her passport, and her personal notebook. She didn’t suppose anyone would care about it, but she slid it under the bed all the same, used the bathroom, then descended the creaking sets of stairs to the ground floor.
Lydia was in the kitchen, making tea. Samantha joined her at the table and indulged with hardly a pucker. She wasn’t much for tea, but when in England . . .
“Your brother says your degrees are in textiles,” Lydia said without preamble. “Interesting choice.”
“I wasn’t given much choice,” Samantha admitted. “My mother is—”
“Louise Theodosia McKinnon,” Lydia said with a smile. “Yes, I know—and not just from your brother. She has an amazing reputation here in England. The Victorian era is her specialty, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Samantha admitted. “I came this close to being called Fanny.”
Lydia laughed, a sound that was so kind and gentle, Samantha had to smile as well. “No doubt. So, you were lured into the fascinating world of antiques but chose Renaissance England for your master’s. Any reason for it?”
“Rebellion,” Samantha said before she could stop herself.
And if her mother had any idea just how far she intended to rebel during the summer, she would have collapsed in a professional-looking swoon onto an original, perfectly restored fainting couch.
“I like you already,” Lydia said promptly. “We don’t have anything very interesting upstairs, but my husband is fond of antiques. Let me show you his treasure room and you can tell me all the appalling comments your mother would make about his poor collection. I can guarantee there is nothing there to offend your Elizabethan sensibilities.”
Samantha nodded, then left her tea behind and followed her employer up the stairs.
The treasure room was actually much more impressive than advertised. Both her mother and her brother would have been quite happy to poke through things and argue over their value. For herself, she was satisfied to limit herself to identifying the most valuable pieces immediately and heaping praise on her host for their acquisition and the lengths gone to in order to house and display them properly.
Lydia shot her a look of amusement. “It isn’t your era, is it?”
None of it’s my era was almost out of her mouth before she managed to bite her tongue. No, the Victorian era wasn’t her favorite, but that was probably because she’d spent so many hours helping her mother catalogue its remains when she could have been babysitting and making some money. She actually got chills down her spine when she contemplated how many years of indentured servitude she would have been engaging in if she’d actually had to pay for her education instead of getting scholarships and graduate assistantships.
“Gavin would be very impressed, though,” Samantha offered. “He loves nineteenth-century silver.” That in itself was a surprise given that she’d heard her brother vow as he’d left the house for college that he would never, ever have anything to do with anything that needed to be dusted while wearing gloves.
She understood completely.
“We would like to extend our reach back a bit more in history,” Lydia said, “but that would require a better security system, I think. The great houses are very careful about that sort of thing, as you might imagine. Perhaps as time and means allow. And as for you, I think you might want some proper supper before you fall asleep. I’m not sure you’ll want to wake up for it later.”
“Oh, I think the tea was plenty,” Samantha protested. “Or I could go to the grocery—”
“Of course you won’t,” Lydia said without hesitation. “Room and board is part of our agreement, along with the remuneration. And I think we’ll have the odd side job for you now and again. If you can bear to have anything to do with actors or lovers of antiques.”
“My brother has a big mouth.”
Lydia started to speak, then hesitated. “If I can say this without overstepping my bounds,” she said carefully, “I think it’s safe to say Gavin simply wants you to be happy and thought he might spare you discomfort if we had some idea of your likes and dislikes before we unintentionally upset you.”
Samantha looked at her and tried not to sound defensive. “I’m not really fragile. No matter what they say.”
“Oh, I never imagined you were,” Lydia said. “But you do look tired. I think rest might be what you need, if I could offer an opinion. Feel free to make yourself at home in the kitchen if you wake in the night.”
Samantha parted ways with her at the stairs, thanked her, then trudged up the stairs to her garret with as much spring in her step as she could manage. The thought of bed was almost too irresistible to be ignored.
She walked into her room, then sat down with her gear. She unpacked, because she didn’t want her clothes to be too wrinkled, then pulled out a backpack and hung it from a peg. She’d hoped for the occasional opportunity to do a few touristy things and liked to travel light. That would be easier to use than a suitcase.
She took her plane ticket and shoved it in the drawer of the nightstand near her bed. She didn’t intend to be using it anytime soon and didn’t suppose anyone would want to steal it, even if the Cookes’ security system wasn’t what it should have been. She pulled her bag from under the bed, unzipped the secret pocket she’d put in behind the regular pocket inside the lining she’d installed herself—there was no sense in not being a decent seamstress if she couldn’t revamp things to suit herself—and took out the entirety of her funds.
It wasn’t much, just a few hundred pounds Gavin had traded her dollars for at Thanksgiving. He hadn’t given her much of an exchange break, she was sure, but she’d been willing to pay for the convenience. She counted it out, considered, then took most of it and looked for someplace to stash it. She finally decided on the underside of the drawer of the nightstand. After securing it there with the small amount of duct tape she never left home without—it was better than a stapler for blown-out seams or unraveled hems—she put her mother’s agenda back in her bag along with other necessities and decided it was probably time to sleep while she could.
She got herself ready for bed, then lay there and looked at the ceiling for far longer than she should have. She had made it. She had escaped the confines of her former life and marched boldly into her future life.
She sighed. Perhaps it would turn out to be nothing more interesting than her old life where nothing exciting ever happened to her, but at least that boring life would be happening in a different country and without her parents scrutinizing her every move. She might actually attempt something daring, like leaving the house without checking the weather first, or attending a show with absolutely no educational or career-furthering value whatsoever. It could be very exciting.
She fell asleep smiling.
Chapter 2
There were times a man simply couldn’t take any more of the criminal class.
Derrick Cameron stood at the window of a small office overlooking Hyde Park and contemplated the truth of that. He was an ordinary man with ordinary tastes. Good food. A good book. Pleasant company. Of course he wasn’t going to argue if someone offered him tickets to Drury Lane or insisted that he shuffle off to supper in the back of a Rolls, but on the whole he preferred dealing with average blokes who worked for what they got and shunned shady dealings. He wasn’t at all fond of blighters who took what didn’t belong to them, much less tried to sell it to those who should have known better than to buy valuable items from lads with shifty eyes.
He had spent his share of time trying to understand what motivated those who preferred to steal instead of earn, for no other reason than it helped him decide where they might strike next. The unfortunate thing was, in his current business the thugs looked far too much like respectable—even very visible—citizens of the Commonwealth. That left him shaking his head more often than not.
He supposed it was nothing but his own fault. He had signed on to work for his cousin as part of Cameron Ant
iquities, Ltd., eight years ago, a year after he’d first clapped eyes on Robert Cameron. There was some history there that he mulled over when he had the leisure to, but thinking about it generally left him shaking his head in disbelief. Today, he didn’t particularly feel like making himself dizzy, so he left those contemplations for another time.
He’d spent seven years as part of a very exclusive cadre of six who had formed the nucleus of that particular business. He had always been quite fond of history, but Robert Cameron’s passion for it had inspired him to take that fondness to the level of obsession. He had never thought antiques would become his life’s work, but they had.
He could identify genuine from fake from ten paces and difficult cases with only a minor examination. His nose twitched when presented with anything pre-Tudor and he could honestly feel his ears begin to perk up when something predated 1400.
Their client list was very exclusive and requiring absolute discretion. He had hobnobbed with everyone from the filthy rich to the richly titled, including nobility from several countries. A phone call, a subtle expression of interest, or a discreet note always began the chase and the quarry was always caught and delivered with a minimum of fuss. There wasn’t a part of it that he didn’t relish, from the research to the schmoozing.
After all, what was there in the world that could possibly be more exciting than finding things that couldn’t be found and buying them from souls who didn’t want to sell them? Cameron Antiquities’s only condition of sale was that the collectors of said unattainable items be thoroughly vetted as to their plans for their acquisitions. He could think of only half a dozen men and women who had failed that test. Their fury had been memorable, but in the end quite futile. Robert Cameron apparently had nerves of steel because in each of those cases, he’d let the rejected applicant breathe out all manner of vile threats without flinching.