by Cate Dean
“How long have you known Angus Fitch?”
“We attended Oxford together. I have not seen him more than a handful of times since graduation. Our careers took different paths.”
Drew consulted a file folder, standing over Martin like an inquisitor. “Can you tell me about the falling out you had,” he scanned whatever incriminating statement was on the paper in the folder. “It looks like five years ago. What happened?”
Martin was afraid that had been the reason for the summons. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Lord, he was tired, and his mouth tended to run on before his mind could warn it to stop.
“How well did you know Angus?”
Drew shrugged. “Well enough. Please, Professor, tell me the circumstances.”
“Angus and I found ourselves going after the same grant. A substantial grant, one that could fund several years of research and field work. I won the grant, and Angus called foul, claiming that I was given the grant because of my family.”
Drew raised his eyebrows. “Your family?”
With a sigh, Martin slipped his glasses on. They felt like a shield between him and a world determined to demean his accomplishments. “I am Pembroke Martin Deauville, the youngest son of the Earl of Berkshire. I use my given name professionally, to distance myself.”
Martin knew to the moment when he lost the PC’s sympathy. “Milord.” Drew bowed his head. “Forgive my ignorance.” The sarcasm in his voice hurt more than Martin expected. “I understand your need to ring your solicitor. Protecting the family reputation, and all.”
“I was protecting myself. I use my given name for a reason, PC Cooperman. My family does not approve of my chosen career, and refuse to support it. I am merely a professor now, and not the heir apparent, so there is no need to address me as milord.”
“Fine.” Drew sounded angry, and embarrassed. That did not bode well for Martin. “When was the last time you saw Angus?”
“Two days ago.” That wiped the anger off Drew’s face. Avid interest replaced it.
“Explain.”
“Angus came to the university, to see the jar. My discovery spread quickly, especially since I’ve been on the trail of this particular jar for some time. Angus wanted to buy it from me. I said no, and he accused me of holding a grudge.”
“And did you?”
Martin ran one hand through his hair. “I could hardly remember what we fought about in the first place.”
Drew’s disbelief irritated him. “Beating Angus out of an important grant was easy for you to forget?”
“Five years is a long time. Not only did I let that argument slip out of my life, I ended up giving the grant to the university. My own studies had taken a different direction, before you ask. Some of the grant was returned to me, and the rest used for the School of Archaeology.”
“The university must have been grateful.”
Hold your temper, man. He is deliberately goading you.
“They were. The grant got me nothing more than a thank you letter, PC Cooperman, and a small piece of it for my work.”
That seemed to deflate whatever theory Drew had in his mind.
“I want you to stay in Holmestead for the next few days. In case your explanation doesn’t pan out.”
“Of course.” Martin stood. “Is that all?”
“For now.”
“I will inform you of my accommodations once I have secured them.” Martin deliberately used the voice he had cultivated to intimidate overconfident students. “I will cooperate fully, PC Cooperman, unless you make an attempt to discredit me without proof. Then, I guarantee you, the full force of the Deauville name will land on you and this station.” Martin rounded the table, staring down the shorter man. “Believe me when I tell you that you do not want such an outcome.”
Before Drew could recover enough to reply, Martin walked out of the small, stuffy room. Maggie stood when she saw him, and all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her glorious hair.
The thought shocked him, enough that he stopped in his tracks, trying to discover when the small, fiery ginger had gotten under his skin.
“Martin?” Her quiet voice snapped him back. The concern in her crystal blue eyes warmed him—and warned him that he needed to take a giant step back. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course.” He flashed her the smile he used when he was exhausted. He had seen it onscreen enough to know it looked genuine. “I need to find a bed for the next few days. Can you recommend a place?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “My friend, Elisa, has a lovely B&B near the harbor. Let me call her—no, she’ll be awake.” She waved at Martin’s protest. “The last train from London isn’t for another hour, and she always waits for it.”
He watched her ring her friend, admiring her smile, and the way the wind lifted the strands of rich, red hair that had escaped from her haphazard bun. Lord help him, she was lovely, with the creamy skin of a true redhead. Light freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks; if he had not been close he never would have noticed them.
She rang off and turned back to him. “Elisa has a room ready. One of her reservations canceled, so you can head over anytime.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” A blush colored her cheeks, but she kept eye contact. “May I buy you breakfast in the morning?”
The blush deepened. “I’d like that.” She studied him, and her blush faded, replaced by a concern he had not been the recipient of for far too long. “Are you all right?”
“I will be, after a decent night’s sleep.”
“Right.” She headed down the sidewalk, stopping once the harbor came into view below them. “Keep walking until you hit the fountain and the green at the bottom of the street. La Fleur de la Sea is on your right, just past the museum.”
Martin fought a smile. “La Fleur de la Sea?”
Her smile had him losing his battle. “Ocean is océan in French. Elisa found it horribly disappointing that the words were the same, so she used Sea. She can be contrary that way. Good night, Professor.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, blushing again when she backed away. “You can—um, meet me at my shop in the morning. For breakfast.”
“Of course. Good night, Maggie.”
She waved at him, and he watched her walk back up the high street, watching until she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Whatever happened, he would always thank Providence for steering him into Maggie Mulgrew’s path.
Eight
Maggie wandered around the huge Victorian, worried about Martin, and unable to sleep after the events of the night.
She settled on the sofa in the lounge with a cup of peppermint tea, sure she’d be up for the rest of the night.
Exhaustion finally won out, and she fell asleep on the sofa, wrapped in Aunt Irene’s favorite rainbow afghan.
When she woke, stiff and disoriented, it was to the doorbell chiming. She pushed off the sofa, limping out of the lounge and through the foyer to the double doors.
Spencer grinned at her when she opened the door.
“Good morning, love. Sleep on the sofa again?”
She touched her hair—and met the wild waves, sticking out inches from her head. “What gave it away?”
His smile faded, and he studied her, his clear blue eyes intent. “Are you all right?”
“You heard about what happened.”
“It’s all over the village. Is it true that you found the body? You and Professor Sexy Martin?”
Maggie nearly choked. “What?”
“Lilliana’s new waitress coined it, according to Lilliana. Did you really have famous archaeologist and artifact hunter Pembroke Martin in our own shop? And you didn’t ring me?”
“It all happened so fast, Spence. I need to sit down.”
She headed back to the lounge, where the most comfortable sofa in the house was. Spencer draped an arm around her shoulders, the concern in his eyes every time he looked at her turning his smile into a
lie.
“Can I get you some tea, Mags? Or something to eat? You look pale.”
“I didn’t sleep much. There are some scones on the counter. I bought Lilliana’s day olds yesterday, when I went in for some tea.”
“You are an angel.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek before he ran out.
She lowered herself to the sofa, and smiled at his triumphant shout. The scones were blueberry—his favorite, and they usually sold out by the time he strolled into the tea shop. The only reason she managed to score a bag of them was because Lilliana had baked them for a tourist’s special order, and the tourist never showed.
“Blueberry.” Spencer appeared, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and the scones piled on a plate. “I love you, Mags.” He kissed her cheek before he settled the tray on the coffee table and plopped down next to her. After his first bite, he closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his face. “Now I can die happy. Oh—sorry. That was bad form.”
“Don’t apologize, Spence. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it, and I was there.”
“About that.” He scooted over, handing her a mug of tea. “Spill. I want to hear every detail, no matter how gory.”
For the first time since finding Angus, she laughed. “I do love you, Spencer.”
“Of course you do. Now, let’s hear it.”
Maggie told him everything, from the second he left the shop until she came home, wrung out from the night’s events.
“I’m supposed to meet the Professor at the shop—ˮ
“It’s almost nine, my beauty.”
“What?” She never slept in so late.
Spencer stood and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
“I—Spence, I have to change—ˮ
He bounded up the stairs, coming back with at least two outfits draped over his arm. “You can change there, Mags. Come on.”
Before Maggie could even open her mouth to object, Spencer tossed the clothes at her, and had her out the door and in his sporty two-seater. She had just enough time to try and wrangle her hair into a ponytail holder before they squealed into the small alley behind the shop, where Spencer parked neatly in a space. She admired his skills, and knew she’d never come close. Her mind just couldn’t bridge the left side/right side of the car issue.
Spencer helped her out of the car, holding her hand as they headed for the back door. She must look worse than she thought.
Once they were inside, she shooed Spencer out to the front so she could change, and try to make herself look presentable.
She shook her head when she spread out the clothes. Spencer had picked out her two skimpiest sundresses—the two she had bought so Lilliana would stop harassing her. Thank heaven she had a light sweater at the shop, in a pale blue that would work with the navy and white flowered dress.
After she dressed, she used the toiletry kit she had in the small bathroom, and flinched at the state of her hair. A braid would be the best solution at this point. It was too wild to tame into a bun.
She pulled it out of the ponytail, wet it down, and quickly braided the length, hoping it didn’t start poking out of the braid as it dried. With a final look at herself, she shrugged into the sweater, flipped the braid over her shoulder, and walked out to the shop.
Martin stood at the front counter, wearing a casual, light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She had to lean against the doorframe, because he looked just like the deadly handsome archaeologist she’d watched on her favorite history channel, over and over.
She could hardly believe he was standing in her shop, larger than life, smiling. At her.
“Good morning, Maggie.” His deep voice yanked her out of her shock.
She pushed off the doorframe and used all her control not to cross her arms in front of her v neckline.
“Did you find the B&B?”
“Your directions were spot on, and your friend was delightful.”
I’m sure she was.
Maggie shook herself mentally. Elisa flirted with every male she encountered; it was part of her personality. She adored men.
“I’m glad.”
“Are you ready for breakfast? I’m starving.” His stomach growled, loudly, and he cringed. “Obviously.”
Spencer saved her from tripping over her tongue. “I brought the scones Maggie was hiding from me.” He pushed the bag across the counter. “Even as day olds, Lilliana’s scones are drool worthy.”
“If a strong cup of coffee comes with the offer, I accept.”
Both men looked at Maggie.
“I—I can make coffee.” She turned to the coffee pot sitting on the back counter, her face hot. Would she ever stop blushing in front of the man? “Do you like it strong?”
“Strong is perfect.”
Good. She could do strong coffee. After a cup or three, and a scone, maybe her brain would kick into gear, so she’d be able to talk without making a fool of herself.
She glanced down when her foot hit something hard, and saw Martin’s leather satchel. Spencer must have moved it behind the counter. She would have to give it to him before he left.
While the coffee brewed, she busied herself getting the shop ready to open. The first tour bus would arrive just after ten, and she wanted the door open, and ready for the onslaught.
The first sip helped clear some of the mental cobwebs. Maggie was about to take her second sip when the lights blinked off.
“Not again.”
“I told you, Mags.” Spencer leaned against the counter, a satisfied grin on his face. “She going to keep trying to get your attention until you acknowledge her.”
“And I told you, Spence, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Martin straightened. “The shop is haunted?” He looked like a boy about to discover treasure.
“According to Spencer, yes.”
Spencer took that as his cue. “Irene told me, when I was five, that the ghost protected what was in the shop. A thief broke in once, and the police found him just inside the door, out cold. He came to, gibbering about a floating woman who threatened him if he so much as touched anything in the shop.” He grinned at Maggie. “Then she slid through the wall.”
“I would love to do some research on the building. With your permission, Maggie.”
He looked so eager, she couldn’t help herself. She laughed, her nerves gone. Martin made her more comfortable than she had felt with a man in a long time.
“Can it wait until after breakfast?”
He nodded, and started wolfing down the scone in front of him.
Spencer pulled out the history Maggie kept under the counter to show to curious tourists. The myth of a ghost did bring them in, so she encouraged their curiosity.
“Here you go. Irene hired a researcher, and did some herself. What she found was written up and published by a local press.”
Martin pored over the small, leather bound book while he ate, careful to keep any crumbs off the pages. The more time she spent with him, the more Maggie liked him—and the less she believed he had anything to do with Angus’ death.
“If you don’t want to stay in a B&B,” she said. “There’s a flat above the shop. Aunt Irene booted the last tenant out when items started going missing in the shop. It’s fully furnished, and I’ll be happy to make up the bed for you.”
Martin studied her, his grey blue eyes unreadable. “I will accept your kind offer, Maggie, if I am here beyond today. That is, if the offer will still be on the table.”
“You mean because you may be accused of murder? You won’t need my flat. Drew will be giving you a nice, private room, with three square meals a day.”
“That is my fear.” He shook his head, and set the book on the counter.
The easy mood disappeared, leaving Angus’ death and the question of who killed him in its wake.
Maggie wanted to believe absolutely in Martin’s innocence, but his history with Angus kept poking at her. What if she was wrong about Martin?
&nbs
p; She had always trusted her instinct, but this time, she was afraid her emotions might be interfering.
The thought that she might be vouching for a killer scared her.
***
The morning influx of tourists kept her too busy to think beyond answering their endless questions. When she did have a chance to look for Martin, she always found him talking to one of the tourists, a smile on his face, his eyes dancing with amusement.
The way he interacted with them had her second guessing herself. Again.
His presence livened up the shop—and she stopped that train of thought before it could leave the station. Pembroke Martin had a life outside this village, and when he was free to leave, he would go back to it.
At lunch time, she found enough in her back room fridge to put together a snacky meal, which Spencer and Martin devoured.
She still had no appetite after finding Angus, so she brewed some peppermint tea, and sipped it while they cleaned the large white porcelain serving dish.
With only crumbs left, Martin pushed to his feet and started to wander around the now empty shop. Maggie watched him over the rim of her cup, nerves kicking in. Pembroke Martin had an eye for the rare, and for quality. She was afraid her humble shop wouldn’t meet his standards.
To her surprise, he stopped in front of a shelf filled with glass paperweights, letting out a sigh as he slid his fingers over her personal favorite, a blue flower captured in a globe of bubbled glass.
“Where did you find these?”
“Estate sales, mostly. I found the blue flower at Camden Market, along with a box of sterling silver letter openers. Over there,” she said, pointing to a Victorian secretary, smiling at the gleam in his eyes. She recognized it all too well. “I kept a few for myself. I have a weakness for sword and knife letter openers.”
Spencer snorted, and she punched his arm. It attracted Martin’s attention, and he looked at her, one eyebrow raised.
“From Mr. Knight’s reaction, I am guessing there is a reason behind this particular weakness.”
“I throw knives.” She could feel herself blushing as she said it. Very few people knew about her odd skill.
“Pardon?”
