She was disappointed when he settled the briefcase at his feet and scanned his surroundings. “This is a splendid office,” he said.
Probably expected a dingy hole in a Bayswater basement.
She was smugly aware of the room’s ability to inspire confidence in potential clients. Large windows, tastefully draped and swagged, quality leather furniture, the mahogany desk tucked discreetly in one corner, two oversized computer screens, the ergonomic chair, and the pièce de résistance—walls lined with bookshelves laden with tome after tome of leather-bound genealogical reference books.
They were impressive, but she rarely cracked them open. The main reason for the diffuser, apart from the fact she loved lavender, was to mask the distinctive odor of old book-bindings.
Most of her research was done online or in libraries, public records offices and sometimes in the dwindling number of stately mansions. She even took the occasional trip if necessary to delve into the enormous repository of Mormon records in Salt Lake City.
“Tell me what you need, Mr. de Wolfe,” she said, pulling the hem of her skirt closer to her knees in an effort to draw his eye.
It worked. He stared at her legs as, with one capable hand, he heaved a nine-inch-thick wad of yellowed papers from the bag and thrust them at her. “It’s simply a question of signing off on these in support of my membership application for the Sons of the Conquest. They recommended you.”
Otherwise you’d have run a mile in the opposite direction!
Most people would wrinkle their noses at the musty odor, but to Anne the documents represented a mine of information where she might strike gold. She accepted the weighty pile with both hands, almost salivating at the prospect of untying the faded and frayed red ribbon that held the sheaf together. How long had it been since anyone delved into the treasures within the pages?
However, she was obliged to offer the usual professional word of caution. “We must bear in mind that this research was done three generations ago. Records then weren’t as verifiable as they are now, with the Internet, and so on.”
She lost her train of thought when she realized she was gazing into the most unusual turquoise colored eyes she had ever seen.
“But my great grandfather was apparently a very meticulous man,” he protested with a frown.
As she might have expected, he’d shot down her first piece of cautionary advice. “Well, we’ll see what we can find. How far back did he manage to get?”
“To the Vikings,” he replied without hesitation.
She had a suspicion then she might as well toss the pile into the waste bin. “I see.”
Blaise closed the front door of Digging Up Your Roots hoping he’d done the right thing in leaving his family’s research in Anne Smith’s hands.
The interview had left him confused. On the one hand she seemed anxious to make a start on the project, but then she’d voiced all kinds of reservations. She’d been particularly skeptical about any verifiable link with Vikings.
Surely she wasn’t the bike rider?
He supposed he’d been thrown off balance by her unexpected sophisticated confidence—and those legs!
Of all the inconvenient times to have an attack of vertigo. The lavender had helped though.
A final glance back at the impressive house confirmed his suspicion she must have access to private money. It was puzzling.
The briefcase felt a lot lighter so he decided to walk to his offices near the Supreme Court. He’d let himself go and it was time to get back in shape. Once the problem of De Wolfe Hall was solved, he’d look into renewing his gym membership. Or perhaps purchase a bike.
As he waited to cross at the traffic signals on Vauxhall Bridge Road, it occurred to him his worry over the Viking connection was unfounded. The important thing was confirmation of the purity of Gaetan de Wolfe’s bloodline. He had to trust Anne Smith was astute enough to find the proof of it.
INHERITANCE
Anne spent the remainder of the day printing off pedigree reports and tying up loose ends on a number of commissions already underway. The thick stack of yellowed paper sitting on the corner of her desk beckoned enticingly. She couldn’t wait to untie the ribbon and get started on it.
Research nowadays certainly wasn’t always easy, and she disliked the tedious data entry part of her profession. However, technology had brought enormous advances. The software database was an invaluable tool, one of many that de Wolfe’s ancestor didn’t have at his disposal. His work held the promise of interesting reading and a journey into the past—family trees drawn painstakingly by hand; personal anecdotes lamentably missing from many modern ancestral histories.
Every time she glanced at the dog-eared pile, she tried to conjure an image of the man who had compiled it, but the only face that floated into her mind’s eye was Blaise de Wolfe’s.
She wondered if her client had inherited his intriguing turquoise eyes and dark hair from his great grandfather. On first learning of his commission she’d been ready to treat him with disdain, and yet there was something attractive about him. He didn’t seem the type to be anxious to join an organisation like the Sons of the Conquest.
She decided to take his material downstairs to read in the parlor after dinner. Once again seated at the counter to eat her slow-baked chicken, she glanced at the red gingham cloth covering the kitchen table, shrugging away a bizarre notion to invite Blaise de Wolfe to sit there when he came to discuss her findings.
Resolved not to dwell on the past—at least not her own past—she drank the rest of her wine, poured another glass, and decided to leave the dishes for the morning.
Tongue clamped firmly between her teeth, she held her breath and pulled the frayed ribbon loose. The treasure chest had been unlocked for the first time in who knew how long.
But she hesitated. It might turn out to be Pandora’s Box.
Laughing away the notion as foolish, she took the top first dozen or so pages into the parlor, filled with a sense of anticipation she hadn’t felt in along while.
Blaise de Wolfe the Second had always insisted every meal be served in the formal dining room, which at one time had been the Great Hall of the house built in the reign of Elizabeth the First. In his view, only servants ate at kitchen tables.
Even after his mother died and there was just the two of them, Blaise and his father dined at the solid oak table which sat in splendid isolation in the centre of the cavernous room.
Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to break the habit though it was ludicrous that he sat alone at the head of a table that accommodated twelve, without the extension added.
The stone floor kept the high-ceilinged room cold even now at the height of summer. Yet he couldn’t recall the last time a fire had blazed in the huge fireplace. Something to do with the flue or the damper, he’d forgotten which. Perhaps a fire would get rid of the smell of damp.
Or a diffuser like the one in Anne Smith’s office.
It wasn’t surprising the place smelled old. Thomas de Wolfe had built the house after purchasing and demolishing an old manor that had belonged to Westminster Abbey since before the Norman Conquest. The Elizabethan carpenters employed to work on the interior had carved an enormous oak screen which took up one whole wall of the dining room, its Corinthian pilasters and archway done in the style of the Italian Renaissance. It was a masterpiece.
A later, evidently less enlightened de Wolfe, had smothered the wood with dark brown paint, most of which was now peeling off. Restored and refurbished, the screen would resurrect the room, but again there was no money for such grand projects.
How expensive could a diffuser be?
He picked at the chicken cacciatore Michael had served, bothered by the constantly recurring notion of how ridiculous it was that servants still cooked and served his food. It was a lifestyle his family had clung to, though they should have abandoned it in his grandfather’s day.
The crumbling country mansion, as well as his father’s gambling addiction a
nd fondness for alcohol, had already drained the family fortune, and Blaise spent nearly all his earnings as a successful barrister on exorbitant electricity and other monthly bills.
Deer roamed the parkland, swans nested and herons waded in the lake, but the ancient tenant cottages had fallen into disrepair and maintaining the two hundred unproductive acres drained cash. And the land taxes! Riding through the estate had been one of Blaise’s greatest pleasures growing up. But the Arabians were long gone.
If things got much worse, he’d be forced to buy a bike and cycle to the train station. It might help get some of the weight off. He wouldn’t have the first idea about what kind of bike to get, but supposed he could ask Anne Smith. Maybe that’s how she kept in such good shape.
He shoved aside the half-eaten meal, mildly irritated that he seemed preoccupied with the woman.
His faithful butler’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Michael offered the bottle of Malbec. “More wine, sir?”
He didn’t have the heart to let the few remaining servants go but couldn’t afford to offer them a pension. He’d often invited the old man to call him by his given name—to no avail. “Thank you,” he replied, though he’d already consumed two glasses. “Then I’ll be fine. You can have the rest of the night to yourself.”
Michael poured the wine, wiped off the neck of the bottle with a napkin and set it back on its silver-plated tray. “Any luck with Ms. Smith this morning?”
Blaise eyed a tiny fruit fly drowning in his wine, but didn’t point it out to Michael, who obviously hadn’t noticed, a sure sign the man’s legendary attention to detail was failing. “She accepted the commission.”
“Best of luck with it then, sir. Goodnight.”
As soon as the butler had left he fished the corpse out of his wine and flicked it away. His thoughts drifted once more to the surprising blonde he’d met at the interview. “Wonder what Ms. Smith is doing for fun?” he said aloud. “I doubt she’s playing with drowned flies.”
Fists clenched, he looked around the dining room. Dated wallpaper had faded and was peeling in places. Family portraits badly needed restoration, the oils cracked so badly on some it was impossible to make out the sitter’s face. The Victorian sideboard, huge table and rickety chairs could pass for what was popularly called distressed these days.
Cobwebs festooned the wrought-iron light fixtures that hung on long, black chains from the ceiling. Most of the bulbs were missing. During the day, light flooded in from the floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows. At night the place was reminiscent of a dungeon.
If he shouted out his frustrations, the walls would just echo them back.
Based on the quality of furnishings in her office he’d guess Anne Smith’s home would put his to shame.
What kind of world was it where a Smith prospered and a de Wolfe was being sucked under by a mountain of debt?
He gulped his wine, regretting the selfish thought. His predicament was hardly Anne Smith’s fault. She was an attractive, successful woman whose forbears had obviously done a better job of managing their assets.
The barely concealed excitement in her green eyes when he handed her his great grandfather’s research had driven away his doubts about her—and sparked the interest of his cock, something no woman had achieved since Tessa’s betrayal.
Why would a single woman live in such a big house? She was probably happily married. That was strangely depressing.
He drained the wine and contemplated simply polishing off the bottle.
IT’S A DATE
An insistent ringing jolted Anne awake. Disoriented, she tried unsuccessfully to prevent the de Wolfe papers from sliding off her lap as she struggled to sit up in the deep leather armchair.
Reaching for the cordless phone on the occasional table, she blinked twice at the mantle clock. “Who calls at close to midnight?” she muttered aloud.
Her throat tightened. The last time she’d received a call late at night…
“Hello?” she croaked, rubbing one eye.
“Er…Blaise de Wolfe here. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
His deep voice soothed her frazzled nerves, despite her surprise. “No,” she lied. “But it is late.”
“Yes, sorry about that. Have you had a chance to look at my pedigree?”
He thinks I have nothing else to do.
However, she had quoted him a steep fee for her services, so perhaps he was entitled. She stared guiltily at the papers scattered at her feet, reluctant to admit she’d intended to glance at them but ended up reading almost half. “A few pages, the preamble,” she lied again.
“Good, good. Can we meet for coffee tomorrow to discuss it? Or lunch perhaps, if that’s more convenient.”
Whoa!
“I haven’t read enough to formulate a professional opinion yet.”
The lies had to stop!
There was a long pause. “It would be a chance to get to know each other better.”
She took off her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t deny she’d found him attractive, in a pompous sort of way, but then there was Geoff. Or rather the ghost of Geoff. “You mean a date?”
“We got along well yesterday.”
His take on the meeting was interesting. Her instinct was to refuse. Mixing business with pleasure was never a good idea.
That was just plain ridiculous. Since Geoff’s death her life had been nothing but business. Pleasure with another man was a daunting prospect, even if it was only a lunch.
An unexpected urge to stretch like a cat took hold. His suggestion of a date had thrown her off balance, but it was exciting to think she’d drawn the eye of a rich, attractive man. Dredging up her courage, she asked, “What did you have in mind?”
She rolled her eyes. Dozing off after too much wine had made her throat dry and the flippant question probably sounded like she was the queen of the dating scene.
“You know your area best. What do you suggest?”
She had no idea, since she hadn’t ventured out to eat alone in a restaurant in three years, but her gaze fell on a glossy local magazine she’d left on the table after perusing it the day before. “Tazzi’s on Gillinghall Street is good. Tapas. Venetian.”
She could picture him frowning.
“Hmm. I’ve had Spanish tapas but not Venetian. Sounds good. I’ll look forward to it. Shall I meet you there? 12:15? Do I need to make a reservation?”
She hurriedly scanned the article but could find no mention of reservations. “Er…perhaps. It’s a date,” she replied.
She clutched the phone to her breast, then hurriedly checked to make sure she’d pressed the END button. If he hadn’t rung off he’d surely be able to hear the loud beating of her heart.
Having hemmed and hawed for hours about calling Anne Smith, Blaise hadn’t realized how late it was. Not surprising she sounded half asleep, although he’d noticed the same sultry edge to her voice during the interview.
She probably thought he was annoyingly weird, phoning in the middle of the night. It was unreasonable to expect she’d read all the research. She likely had several other contracts, although he was paying an exorbitant fee which she’d quoted without batting an eye.
Focussed on her long, silky legs, he’d agreed without hesitation.
He could confidently and effectively argue a point of law in front of the Supreme Court, but the fickle Tessa had knocked his instincts about women for six. He’d trusted that she loved him, but…
Determined not to descend into the bottomless pit of second-guessing the past, he put his feet up on the worn sofa and tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable.
Anne Smith might also turn out to be a gold digger, although her lifestyle didn’t suggest a lack of funds, and in her line of work she must have come across eligible wealthy men.
Maybe she was divorced. He should have paid attention. Was she wearing a wedding ring?
He was attracted to her, he couldn’t deny it, but what did he have to off
er a woman? A decrepit, old, not-so-stately mansion, a mountain of debt and an empty bank account—the principal reasons that proving the purity of his Norman lineage was vital.
His apprehension about dating was pathetic. He folded his arms and eyed the empty wine bottle with disgust. It had taken a skinful of Malbec to bolster his courage, but that wasn’t surprising considering he hadn’t trusted his heart to anyone since his fiancée’s betrayal.
Anne pressed REDIAL twice then hit the END button each time before the dial-tone began. A date with Blaise de Wolfe was really out of the question. Very unprofessional. If she hadn’t been so tired, she’d never have agreed. He’d caught her off guard and the wine had muddled her thinking.
The phone bounced off the couch when she threw it down in frustration.
What was wrong with accepting a harmless lunch date with an attractive, well-educated man? A successful barrister.
Geoff was dead. She wasn’t. Why did he still have such a strong hold on her?
TAPAS FOR TWO
Blaise spent the morning in his office going over several important case files, but couldn’t concentrate, his thoughts on lunch with Anne Smith. He had a vague idea where Gillinghall Street was, but searched Google maps to make sure. It turned out to be only about a mile from his offices near the Supreme Court in Parliament Square, so he decided to walk instead of taking a cab. It was time to get some weight off and Pimlico was a pleasant district, not far from Buckingham Palace.
His plan was to arrive early so he’d have a chance to peruse the menu, but Anne was already seated. The place was crowded, but she stood out like a welcoming beacon. The white top with a crisp-looking pale green overblouse suited her. He was mildly disappointed he couldn’t see her shapely legs.
He felt strangely dizzy when she greeted him with a nervous smile. Perhaps he’d overdone the walking exercise.
Hungry Like de Wolfe Page 2
