Almost immediately a black-clad figure appeared with a tea service balanced on a lacquer tray.
“Ah, Marston, come and meet our new artist. Ms. Kincade has just arrived from the States.”
The butler bowed slightly. “I found your inlay work to be most extraordinary, Ms. Kincade. Do you use flux or solder for your joinings?”
Maggie blinked. “Both. It’s more whim than technique, I suppose. If I went by the book, there would be no room for inspiration.”
“Perfectly understandable.” As the butler arranged the tray, Maggie saw that in addition to his very correct dark suit he was wearing neon orange running shoes. “And inspiration is all, is it not?”
“For me, it is. You’ve done metalwork before?” Somehow it seemed hard to imagine that proper English butler handling a blowtorch.
“A bit here and there. I’m nowhere near your league, I’m afraid.” Marston arranged the linen napkins expertly, then straightened. “There is a caller for you, my lord.” He hesitated for a moment. “The gentleman is in the study. I believe he was hoping for your swift return.”
Nicholas looked at Kacey, who made a brushing gesture with her hand. “Go away, love. This will give me a chance to corner Ms. Kincade about that necklace she’s wearing. I’m under strict orders to buy something of Ms. Kincade’s for Kara MacKinnon. Otherwise she’ll never speak to me again.”
“Not the Kara Fitzgerald MacKinnon of Dunraven Castle?” Maggie frowned. “The editor of New Bride magazine?”
“One and the same,” Nicholas chuckled as he headed to the door. “She and my wife have become thick as thieves. But Kacey can tell you about that better than I.” He appeared slightly distracted.
Kacey Draycott poured a cup of tea as the door closed behind her husband. When she handed the cup to Maggie, a carved pendant slid from beneath her shirt.
Maggie drew a sharp breath. “That’s lovely work.”
Kacey stroked the intricately carved oval of rare lavender jadeite. “It was a gift from Nicholas on our first wedding anniversary, and I seldom take it off. He told me it was very old.”
Maggie studied the design of entwined dragons. “From the carving style, I’d say it’s about sixteenth century. And the stone is genuine jadeite, Burmese, no doubt. The best always is. You don’t see that shade of lavender very often today.”
Kacey caressed the smooth stone. “Sometimes I could almost swear I feel the other women who’ve worn this piece, along with their joy and pain. It actually feels warm against my skin.”
“Good jade always does. The ancient Chinese believed that jade protects better than any medicine. Poisoned food was even supposed to crack a jade dish, which made it a handy stone for suspicious emperors worried about a possible assassination. In fact, my father always said…” Maggie stopped, then drew a level breath. “My father was an expert in jades as well as faceted gems. He could have told you what hill village your piece was mined in and probably the name of the court carver who sculpted it. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about fine period stones, from Han jade to old mine diamonds.”
“Daniel Kincade, your father,” Kacey said matter-of-factly.
Maggie nodded, already steeling herself for the questions to come.
“My mother had a pair of his earrings, pink diamonds on tiny silver chains. She never had more compliments than when she wore them.” Kacey hesitated. “I’m … sorry about what happened.”
Maggie tried to forget the incessant ringing of the doorbell in the house above the Hudson. Day after day the restless reporters had gathered for a glimpse of her, like wolves to the kill. What better sport than to stalk the daughter of the jeweler who had tried to cheat two governments out of a fortune in uncut gems?
“Just for the record, my father didn’t steal anything. They said he’d been given those stones to cut and polish, and instead he’d stolen them, but it just isn’t true. He couldn’t have done a thing like that.”
Kacey met her gaze directly. “Just for the record, we don’t believe the story either, so you can put that concern out of your head.”
“You don’t understand.” Maggie’s palms were damp, her heart racing. “My presence at the abbey will be a problem for you, considering the scandal. It isn’t over.” She shoved back her hair. “You may soon regret choosing me.”
Kacey’s smile was gentle, but chiding. “A little scandal is the last thing Nicholas and I are worried about, Ms. Kincade. We’ve had our share of pushy reporters here and at the abbey. In fact, you might say that a scandal first brought us together. We don’t budge.” She sat down gracefully and filled her own cup. “Did you ever find out what happened to your father?”
“I tried, but all I got was the official government report that his plane went down after he had fled to avoid arrest. But my father would never have done something like that. I even sent an investigator to Sumatra, and his report was unequivocal. There was no sign that my father had lived through the crash. There was also no sign of any stolen gems.”
Maggie’s voice trailed away. Her father had left chaos in his wake. Even now she hated to think of those nightmare months.
“His death must have been a terrible shock.”
“I’m finally beginning to get over it. But I can’t help wondering why you’re willing to give me a chance. Most people wouldn’t be so generous.”
“Your talent is genuine and very rare, Ms. Kincade, and you’ve never been accused of anything. It would be criminal if we didn’t give you a chance. My husband and I both agree about that. Your artistic skills are extraordinary, but rarer still is your gift as a passionate, enthusiastic teacher. We’ll need all of those skills if our program here is to succeed the way we hope. There will also be some restoration work involved as part of the show. Not many people could carry out all three things.”
Maggie sat very still, stunned by the calm generosity in Kacey Draycott’s face. “The media won’t forget. They’ll have a field day once they know why I’m here. ‘Swindler’s daughter at historic English abbey—another robbery in store.’ That sort of thing.”
“Just you let me deal with the press,” Nicholas said calmly from the doorway. “I have more than a little experience with reporters and their tricks. All you have to do is marshal your inspiration. I’d like to include a display of an old necklace we dug up recently in the wine cellar Judging by the cloth wrapping it has to be at least several hundred years old. I think it would be fascinating to show how you determine the date of the piece and how you will go about restoring it.”
Maggie nodded slowly. “I saw the sketches emailed. Replacing the silver should be no problem, but if the stones are nicked, they’ll require refaceting, and you may lose some of the original material.”
“You’re the expert. I’m sure you’ll retain as much as possible. When can you have a look? I’d like to see how you present the stages of repair work.”
Maggie thought of the crowded two days she had planned. First the British Museum, then a stop at the Tower Jewel House. After that she wanted to visit one of her father’s old friends, provided she could track him down. “Perhaps this weekend?”
Nicholas hesitated. “Frankly, I was hoping to have your input on the display cases as soon as possible. The builders are backed up right now, but the sooner they have designs in hand, the better.”
He was right of course. Even settled at the abbey, Maggie could still get back to London on the weekends for her museum visits. “I’ll be happy to take a look. Is it far to the abbey?”
“Only a few hours by car.”
“I don’t have a rental car.” Maggie frowned. “Is there a train available?”
“I have a much better idea. Our friend is headed there today to finish some work on our new security system. I’m sure he’d be happy to drive you down and show you around. I’ll be following tomorrow with the final sketches from the display company, and we can go over them together while we look at some sample cases already set up at the abbey.” A figur
e moved across the front corridor suitcase in hand. “It appears that our friend is ready to leave right now. A bit of a restless nature, I’m afraid.”
Maggie stared at the tall man who put down his suitcase by the door. There were lines at his eyes that hadn’t been visible in New York. She wondered if he’d been sleeping well.
Not that it was any of her business.
“Jared MacNeill. I’m afraid we never met properly before.”
Maggie held out her hand. “Maggie Kincade. You do security work?”
“Among other things.” He stared at her outstretched hand, unmoving, then finally offered his own. Maggie could have sworn that his jaw tightened as they touched.
When he released her hand, there was something distracted, almost grim, in his expression. “You’ve accepted Nicholas’s offer, I take it?”
Maggie nodded, wondering why the room suddenly seemed too small, too short of air, almost as if this cool Scotsman had claimed every bit of space with the power of his presence. She couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from the small cut on his jaw. “Did a reporter do that?”
He fingered the fading pink welt. “This? Just a scratch, I promise you.”
A scratch that must have hurt like blazes when it was fresh, Maggie thought. “Did you tell Lord Draycott what happened? I want to be sure he knows what to expect.”
“He knows.” Jared flashed a glance at his host. “He’s had his own share of squabbles with Fleet Street. I think he actually enjoys a good brawl now and again.”
“Don’t demolish my reputation so soon, Jared. I meant to convince Ms. Kincade that I was a proper British lord before I ruined her good opinion with the truth.”
“Perish the thought.” Kacey Draycott rose and straightened her husband’s tie. “There’s nothing proper about you, and thank heaven for it.” Their lips met, lingered.
Jared hid a smile. “If you two can manage to tear yourself away for a few more minutes, we’ll say good-bye. I’ll take Ms. Kincade by her hotel and collect her bags on the way. We’ll stop for dinner at the Mermaid in Rye, and we should be at the abbey before eight.” He looked at Maggie. “Assuming that’s acceptable to you?”
“I did have some appointments in London, but I suppose there’s nothing that can’t wait.” Maggie had the sensation that she was politely but firmly being taken into charge, and she wasn’t entirely certain she liked it. Still, she had accepted Nicholas’s offer. There was no reason she shouldn’t get right to work.
“Perfect.” The viscount rubbed his jaw. “The abbey will suit you, Ms. Kincade. It’s very quiet there, and Jared will show you where everything is, since he’ll be staying over tonight as well.”
“At the abbey?” Maggie stiffened. “But …”
Jared’s brow rose. “Is that a problem? If so, I can put up at the hotel in Alfriston.”
His calm answer made Maggie feel foolish for her momentary discomfort. Clearly this was not the sort of man to take advantage of the situation. The awkwardness was all in her own mind. “No, of course not.”
“Then it’s settled. I wish I could travel down with you two, but I’ve business to finish tomorrow morning. Marston is traveling down later tonight, and he’ll see that you’re comfortable.”
A butler waiting on her? “There’s really no need for that.”
“Marston wouldn’t hear of anything else. Full protocol for our first resident artist, you understand. As for myself, let’s just say that I’m selfish,” Nicholas added, a hard glint in his eyes. “I’m quite looking forward to a bit of scandal.”
~ ~ ~
The uniformed officer made a crisp figure as he stood rigid, staring out at the gleaming dome of St. Paul’s. He did not care for uncertainty, and he deplored errors of any sort. Unfortunately, the world was full of both.
“Ms. Kincade has arrived in London?”
“Yesterday, sir.”
He frowned, nudging a row of books on the side table into a perfectly straight line. “Any sign of contact with her father since her arrival?”
“None.”
The officer’s frown grew deeper. “What about those pictures from Asia?”
“Details are expected tomorrow.”
“Of course.” He steepled his fingers, watching sunlight strike the bright golden dome before his window. “Just the same, stay on top of it. I don’t need to remind you how important this is. And keep your men well back in their surveillance. I want no indication that she’s being watched, understand?”
When the door closed softly, he was still standing at the window, his shoulders rigid bars of black against the streaming afternoon sunlight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Less than half an hour later, Maggie’s bags were stowed in Jared’s trunk and they were weaving through late afternoon traffic on the M25 headed southeast. A light layer of clouds touched the small villages, occasionally veiling the road, making Maggie glad that someone else was handling the wheel.
“Nice car.” Maggie brushed the gleaming console of burled wood. “Old, isn’t it?”
“A Triumph. My father’s car once. An eternal annoyance, but I can’t imagine driving anything else.”
Maggie watched his strong hands ease the car into a turn, then whip past a truck laden with freshly cut fir trees.
“It doesn’t bother you, I hope?”
She blinked, realizing she had been staring at his powerful fingers and remembering how he had tackled the two reporters in the Chinese restaurant. “Does what bother me?”
“My driving.” He gave her a quick, measuring glance. For some reason it left her pulse thready.
Forget his hands, Maggie thought irritably. Forget all. about him. “Not at all. I’ve been known to push the pedal myself sometimes. There’s nothing like a quiet lane in autumn with leaves skittering up as you feather the motor right to the edge.”
“Now that’s something I’d enjoy seeing.”
“Really? Most men I know go pale at the thought of a woman at the wheel. For some strange reason they seem to consider driving well a sex-linked trait, one that is purely male.” Maggie settled back against the soft leather. “What about you, Mr. MacNeill?”
“Call me Jared. And no—I enjoy watching a good driver at the wheel, whether male or female.” He turned, his eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’d like to try your hand right now.”
“Drive on the wrong side of the road?” Maggie gave a short laugh. “Not a chance. I may be reckless where speed is concerned, but I’m not entirely without sanity.”
“You’ve got good reflexes. You’d do.”
His low, murmured words sent blood skimming to Maggie’s face. “Why do you say that? You know nothing at all about me.”
“You might be surprised.” He smiled at some private image. “Nicholas makes his decisions carefully, you see.”
“You talked about me?” The idea disturbed her. Her hands tightened as she considered what might have been said.
“Nothing personal. Mostly we discussed the plans for this project. It’s intensely important to both him and Kacey. They feel it’s a responsibility to pass on the legacy that they have been lucky enough to enjoy.”
“Not many people in their position would be so passionate—or so generous.”
He downshifted smoothly, passing a dairy truck, then shot her a quick glance. “For what it’s worth, I think he made the right choice.”
The words stirred an odd wave of pleasure. Not that his opinion mattered, Maggie thought hastily. “I hope he doesn’t have reason to regret his choice.” Her hands tensed on the smooth leather seat. “Reporters on both sides of the Atlantic seem to have long memories.”
“Let Nicholas deal with that.”
“I suppose I’ll have to.” She studied him curiously. “Have you known him long?”
Jared’s eyes were unreadable as he peered through the drifting fingers of mist above the trees. “A few decades. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. At other times, it seems like a few lifetimes.”
> He seemed reluctant to say more, and Maggie didn’t push him. Instead she settled back and watched stone fences race past in a blur, hiding estates that probably dated back to the age of Cromwell.
History was different here, she thought. A few decades meant nothing in the grand parade of British events, measured out against wars and revolts and famines. Even the youngest village in this part of the country had to be six or seven hundred years old.
“Something amusing out there?”
“The fences. The houses. The age of everything.” She ran a hand through her hair and shrugged. “I’m beginning to feel very, very young.”
“I suspect you’re old enough.”
“For what?”
His lips curved slightly. “For anything you want. Age is largely a state of mind, after all.”
“My father always said that.” She glimpsed a quiet town square where a decorated fir tree held place of honor before a church with half-timbered walls. “He almost made me believe it.”
“Almost?”
Maggie shivered, suddenly aware that the temperature had dropped sharply since they’d left London. She didn’t want to talk about her father. “I try. Sometimes I slip.” She tugged her sweater closed, frowning.
Jared nudged on the heater. “Why don’t you get some rest? There’s a blanket behind you if you need it, and we have another hour before we reach Rye.”
Maggie snuggled beneath the heavy tartan throw pulled from the narrow seat behind her. With the motor purring softly, she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of speed, of flying through a corridor of trees toward some shadowy mystery she couldn’t yet fathom.
And for some reason the journey felt intensely … familiar.
~ ~ ~
Midnight.
Snow on a cold road. Wind that snapped the holly and jerked the twisted boughs of hazel.
’Twas a night for mischief and harm, had she but noticed. Yet the slender woman in gray worsted saw nothing save the rutted road before her as she tugged at her cloak, willing the miles before her to close.
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