by Cate Dean
“Knives—as in, throwing them at targets for fun and relaxation.”
A smile crossed his face. “You are a constant surprise, Maggie Mulgrew. Knife thrower,” he muttered, as he sorted through the letter openers.
She watched him start a pile, nodding to himself every once in a while. When he had at least half a dozen, he scooped them up and set them on the mahogany front counter.
“I will be adding to these, Maggie,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “You have an eclectic, but excellent selection here.” He started toward the Victorian corner, and halted next to the table holding the box. She watched him reach toward it, then pull his hand back. “Maggie.”
“Yes, Professor?”
He turned to her, his hands clasped, like he had to restrain himself physically to keep from touching. “Can we have a go at the box now?”
Spencer snorted again, and she resisted punching him. Barely.
“Let me get my tools,” she said, and headed into the back room.
She had to stop, and take a breath. She was about to uncover the beauty of her box with Professor Pembroke Martin. It was hard to wrap her head around that—she’d been watching him on TV for years, following his career, excited by every find, every story behind that find.
Now he stood in her humble shop, and had actually kept his word about her assisting him.
“Pull yourself together, act like a professional, instead of a drooling fangirl.”
With a final, deep breath, she grabbed her kit and walked out to the shop. Martin bent over the box, too absorbed in it to see Spencer glaring at him. Maggie slapped the back of his head as she passed him. That would get her message across.
“Here you go, Professor.”
“Martin, please.” He smiled as he took the tackle box she used to house all the tools she’d collected over the years. His eyes widened after he opened the hinged top. “Color me impressed. This almost rivals my own kit.”
He took out several brushes, her stash of linen handkerchiefs, and the linseed oil, lining them up on the table, in front of the box.
He had long, graceful fingers, and handled the brush with the expertise that only years would give him. Maggie found herself inching closer, not realizing she was almost on top of him until he glanced down at her, a smile on his face.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to—ˮ
“See what lay under the dirt?” He moved her to his left side, and continued brushing the box. “So do I, Maggie. But I have learned that archaeology requires patience. Sometimes more patience than I possess.” That crooked smile crossed his face again, making him look more like a mischievous college student than a respected archaeologist and teacher. “Pick up a brush. If you still want to assist me, of course.”
“Right.” She stomped down her nerves, grabbing a brush before she could psyche herself out.
You’ve done this a hundred times. Just go through the steps, like always.
She moved to the other side of the box and got to work.
Little by little, the beautiful, intricate enamel revealed itself. Maggie had seen photos of Sayer & Brown boxes; they were works of art, often worth more than what they contained. This box looked like it fell into that group.
“Gorgeous,” Martin muttered, using the handkerchief to gently rub the top corner of the box. An intricate jade flower gradually appeared, so delicate and beautiful Maggie held her breath, overwhelmed by the craftsmanship. “Please, hand me the large brush, Maggie.”
His voice jerked her out of her reveries, and she grabbed the brush, handing it to him. He accepted with a knowing smile. Instead of feeling embarrassed, Maggie grinned. Here was a kindred spirit, someone who understood the obsession. Martin had spent his life chasing that obsession.
By the time they came up for air, after being interrupted several times by customers, the top half of the box had been uncovered, and Spencer was sound asleep, stretched out on the floor behind the counter.
“He can sleep anywhere,” Maggie said. She moved over to him, and gently shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes, smiled up at her. “Time to go home, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Done for tonight, then?”
“You didn’t have to stay, but thank you for staying.”
“Anytime, Mags.” He stretched, then pushed to his feet. If she didn’t love him like a brother—and know him better—he would be eye candy. Tempting eye candy. “You going home?” He glanced at Martin when he asked.
“After I get Martin settled upstairs.”
“Right.” He leaned into kiss her cheek, and whispered against her ear. “Watch yourself. I know how much you admire him, but he happens to be a murder suspect at the moment.”
He left before she could argue.
With a sigh, she turned around, and watched Martin. He wrapped the box in the soft fabric that had been supplied by Tanner, and set it in the carrier box. When he turned around, she smiled at him.
“Ready for bed?” A blush heated her cheeks when she realized how that sounded.
Martin ran one hand through his hair, revealing his nerves, and it eased her embarrassment. “More than ready.”
She detoured over to the counter, and picked up his satchel. The weight surprised her, and Martin relieved her of it as soon as he saw that she held it.
“Sorry about leaving this in your shop.”
“I’m glad you left it in a safe place. What do you have in there? Lead bricks?”
“Worse.” He smiled down at her. “Books.”
“Ah. I’ve experienced that phenomenon. Books turning into bricks the second I put them in my backpack.”
They looked at each other, and Maggie swore he could hear her heart pounding.
“The flat?” He spoke quietly, his question yanking her back to the reason they stood in the middle of her shop.
“Sorry.” She turned away from him when she started blushing again, and headed for the staircase at the back corner of the shop. By the time she reached the locked door that hid the staircase, she had her embarrassment under control. “There’s an outside entrance, but Aunt Irene had it closed up years ago. I’ve been meaning to have it reopened, but it’s pretty far down on the to-do list.”
She unlocked the door and started climbing. The stairs curved around, ending at a small landing, and the door to the flat. She unlocked it, and pushed the door open, going to the nearest window to open it. The flat smelled musty.
“Sorry for the smell,” she said.
“This is mild, compared to some I’ve experienced in Egypt.”
“Egypt.” She sighed. “That’s been on my list for a long time.”
“It exceeds all expectations.” He gave her the crooked smile she’d seen so many times on TV, and her breath caught in her throat. This time, the smile was directed at her. “I hope your travels find you there one day.”
“Thanks.” She forced herself to take a breath, and moved toward the bedroom, pulling a set of sheets out of the small linen closet in the hallway. “I’ll make up the bed. There should be bottled water in the fridge. If not, there’s plenty in the shop, along with some snacks. Unless you wanted to go somewhere and eat.”
“I will manage with what you have here. I’m afraid I will be poor company at the moment.”
She looked over her shoulder, and found him in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe. He looked exhausted.
“We can go to the tea room for breakfast. Lilliana opens early for commuters wanting their morning caffeine. Did you need a blanket?”
“I can do this, Maggie.” He took the sheets from her, and gently pushed her out of the bedroom. “You still have to head home.”
“It’s only a few minutes from here. My shortest commute ever.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” To her surprise he moved to her and took her hand, sandwiching it between his. The callouses on his palms spoke of a man who did his own work, and didn’t rely on the labor of students or assistants. “Thank you for believing in me.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Before the shock could settle in, he let her go and started making the bed. It snapped her out of her daze.
“Let me—ˮ
“I am more than capable. Go on home. I will see you in the morning.”
“Okay.”
Exhaustion kicked her, hard, at the bottom of the stairs. She leaned against the wall, and decided to drive the short distance to the house, since no one would be on the streets this time of night—after one a.m., according to her pin watch.
“No wonder I’m wiped,” she muttered. She knew she’d feel more awake once she slipped behind the wheel of the Rover.
It was an old college habit, after a too-long night of studying. The second she got in the car, all her focus was on getting home safely. This time, she also had something to keep her mind awake and occupied.
Pembroke Martin.
She headed through the back room, and locked the door behind her, so glad she had parked back here after the auction. The short drive to her rambling Victorian felt even shorter, thinking about the Professor.
Alone in the Rover, she willingly admitted to herself that she was attracted to him. More than attracted; she flat out liked him.
He made her laugh, had a quick mind, and they shared her biggest passion—history, and everything to do with it. She wasn’t sure, but from the way he flirted—at least, she hoped it was flirting—he found her attractive.
Maggie had shied away from serious relationships most of her life. With parents as cold and methodical as hers, she never had a good role model for what constituted a normal relationship.
But Martin—he made her want to give the relationship thing a try.
“Oh, girl, you’re already in deep, if you’re thinking like that.”
She shook her head, and swung into the long driveway along the side of the house. A converted carriage house stood in the back, large enough for at least three cars. Having just the Rover parked in there gave her ample space for a workshop, and with a parking pad out front, she had the option of using the entire carriage house if she had a project that needed the space.
Right now, she was in between projects, so she pulled into the wide, central opening, not trusting herself to navigate the narrower side openings. The trek across the back seemed like it was endless, but she finally reached the back porch, and climbed the steps to the door.
The lights refused to click on. Again.
Maggie let out a sigh, flipped the main switch off, then on again. This time, the lights flickered, then finally turned on.
“I really need to have Henry look at that.”
Her mind tripped over the thought. Henry had disappeared the night of Angus’ murder, and had not been seen since.
By the time she climbed the double staircase, she barely had the energy to undress. She broke her rule of hanging everything up, just this once, pulled on an oversized, button-down shirt, and stumbled to the bathroom.
No matter how exhausted, she wouldn’t go to bed without washing her face. Her sensitive skin would retaliate in the morning if she skipped out on it.
Finally, she climbed into the huge king bed, and sighed as she lowered her head to the fluffy pillow.
She didn’t remember falling asleep.
Nine
Martin wandered around the small flat, admiring the architectural detail.
He had met Irene Mulgrew several times; she had been a staunch supporter of archaeology, and preserving the past. Keeping these details would have been her doing.
His thoughts wandered from architecture to Maggie. Just picturing her made him smile.
She was a spitfire, and much more knowledgeable than he had expected. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised—she was Irene’s niece, after all. He knew from talking to Irene that Maggie had spent quite a few summers here, under Irene’s influence.
It seemed to have stuck. Maggie’s love of history, and her eye for antiques, proved that.
“You like her, you fool. Stop thinking around it.”
She had not been awed by him. Well, perhaps a bit, when they first met. After that, she treated him like a fellow history addict. It was something he rarely found in anyone outside his sometimes too small community.
The fact that she hardly ever mentioned his family endeared her to him.
Being a Yank may have a bit to do with that oversight. Titles meant little to them, and she was obviously not one of those who worshipped the royals and nobility from afar.
He took off his glasses, and scrubbed at his face.
“Time to think about your current situation, and how you’re getting out of it.”
That was not going to be easy. He had been accused in a place without allies, and he had the feeling his family name would protect him for only so long.
Right now, he needed sleep, so he could start fresh in the morning.
He undressed, and slipped under the surprisingly soft sheets. Not until his head rested on the pillow did he realize just how much the last two days had taken out of him. He fell asleep quickly, thinking of a ginger haired woman, with smiling, crystal blue eyes.
Ten
Maggie stopped at The Tea Caddy on her way to the shop, meaning to stay long enough to buy a few scones, and two Earl Grey teas to go. But Lilliana caught her as she headed for the door.
“Good morning, Maggie.”
“Hey, Lilli. I’m in a hurry, so—”
“Headed back to Professor Sexy?”
“What?”
Lilliana laughed, and pointed over her shoulder. “My new employee saw you walking out with Professor Martin. She gave him the nickname. Shelly, come and meet Maggie.”
A woman bounded out of the kitchen, and Maggie smiled. She had Kool-Aid red hair, and wore Lilliana’s casual uniform of jeans and white t-shirt. Her energy, and her wide smile, were both contagious.
“Hi, Maggie.” She stuck out her hand. Maggie took it, not surprised to hear her American accent. “Is Professor Sexy still here? He is one tall, cool drink of water.”
Lilliana shook her head. “Do you have any idea who he is, Shelly?”
“Um, no. Is he someone important?”
“Just one of the most respected archaeologists in Britain.” She smiled at Shelly’s shocked reaction, then turned to Maggie. “You must come back and tell me exactly how he landed at The Ash Leaf, Maggie. Every detail.”
“It’s not something I can talk about right now.”
“Oh, no.” Lilliana touched her shoulder. “This doesn’t have something to do with poor Angus Fitch?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s the only reason Professor Martin’s still here. He spent the night in the shop flat, so stop getting ideas.”
Lilliana shrugged, but a smile tugged at her mouth. “You look good together. I won’t say anything more, I promise. Now, go on, before his tea gets cold.”
“It was nice to meet you, Shelly.”
“You, too! I’m glad there’s another American here. I won’t feel so out of place.”
Before Maggie could comment, Shelly sprinted back to the kitchen.
“Heavens.” Lilliana looked after her. “She wears me out.”
“How did she end up here?”
“She’s taking classes at LSE. I hired her for the summer, on the recommendation of a friend in London. Shelly has a good work ethic, and a work visa for her time here. She’ll also help as a go-between with some of the more—difficult tourists.”
“You mean Ugly Americans. I won’t be offended if you say it, Lilli. I’m embarrassed that they still exist. I get my share in the shop, demanding a discount because we come from the same country. I just smile and tell them I don’t give discounts.”
Lilliana shook her head. “You have it easier than I do. I was finally forced to create ingredient lists so I could show them to people who demanded to know what was in every item. They never leave my sight, no matter how much the customer demands.”
“I get that. You have to protect your re
cipes.” Maggie lifted the bag filled with scones. “These are worth their weight in gold.”
“Bring the Professor by, when you can. I would enjoy meeting him.”
“As soon as I can.”
Maggie walked out of the tea room, smiling at the young couple who held the door open.
Her smile faded when she saw the police car in front of her shop. Police cars and maintenance were the only vehicles allowed on the pedestrian street. The police only used that privilege for official business. Like arresting someone.
She sprinted down the sidewalk, moving faster when she saw the open door. She ran inside, halting when she saw Drew, escorting Martin across the shop. Martin was wearing handcuffs.
“Drew—what’s going on?”
“I am sorry, Maggie.” He kept moving, and she stepped in his path. “Maggie—”
“Now, Drew. You’ll tell me why you’re arresting him now.”
Drew sighed, and waved at Ian Reynolds. “Get the evidence bag.”
“Right away.”
Ian strode out, coming back with a small, clear bag, and handed it to Drew.
“I need to know about this.” He held up the bag. “It was clutched in Angus’ hand.”
The color drained out of Martin’s face. “He shouldn’t have that.”
“What—” Maggie grabbed Martin’s arm, ignoring Drew’s frown. “What is it?”
“A pocket watch. Milord Deauville’s name is inscribed on the back.” Maggie frowned at the tone Drew used when he said the unnecessary title. He turned the bag over, and Maggie could see the inscription—a beautiful, cursive inscription, with Martin’s full name, and a date. “Would you like to explain, milord, what it was doing in his hand?”
“I’ve already told you, milord is not necessary.” Martin said it like he’d said the same words thousands of times over the years—more reflex than statement. “I have no idea. I gave that watch to Giles Trelawney three years ago, as part of a wager. Angus coveted it, but I don’t know...” Martin closed his eyes for a second, then looked at Maggie. “I don’t know how it ended up here.”
Drew pulled at Martin until she let go of him. “I have to take him in, Maggie.”
