Outbid by the Boss

by Stephanie Browning

  "Now that's a scary thought," laughed Sam. "Better put me down as an employee who, by rights, should have been halfway across the Atlantic by now. Our boss shanghaied me this morning to help catalogue the collections."

  Mrs. Weekes stopped at the next doorway. "In that case, I suspect you've had a long day…You do seem a bit pale. Are you all right?"

  Sam frowned. What should she say? That the day had been one long series of disasters and that she and Chas had sparred like children? Or should she mention that she had used company funds to buy herself a silver candlestick?

  "I’m fine, thank you. Just in need of a good cup of tea."

  "Then why don’t you settle in while I nip downstairs and fetch you a pot of tea and something to tide you over." Mrs. Weekes reached for the door handle. The door swung inwards. Sam followed the housekeeper inside. "Will this suit you, then, Miss Redfern?" she asked placing Sam's bag at the foot of the bed.

  "Oh, lovely," Sam breathed as her gaze swept over the elegant four-poster bed, the Edwardian dressing table and chair, and on to the armoire glowing richly in the soft light from the nightstand. There was even a window seat with a bevy of soft pillows all done up in dusty rose and sage to match the window's voluminous curtains.

  "Compared to my flat in London, Mrs. Weekes, this is the height of luxury."

  Pleased by the compliment, the housekeeper crossed over to the window and drew back the curtains. "I'll just let in a bit of air, shall I?" With a practised hand, she released the catch on the casement and nudged open the window. Give it a minute or two," she advised, "and you'll think the room was done up fresh."

  Sam slipped her heavy purse off her shoulder and set her suitcase on the floor. "Um...the bathroom is?"

  "Over there, dear." The housekeeper pointed to a white panelled door on the far wall next to which sat an inviting chintz-covered wing chair in the same peony and rose pattern as the drapes.

  She paused to worry a wrinkle out of the bed covers. "I often set out a plate of sandwiches in the dining room when we have late arrivals," she said massaging the small of her back as she straightened. "Down the stairs, turn right, second door on the left."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Weekes. I'll be fine." said Sam.

  As soon as the housekeeper was out the door, Sam headed for the sanctuary of the window seat. She tugged off her boots and dropped them to the floor. At least, her toes were happy. What a day. She was tempted to flop back against the cushions and just lie there but first...she had to call Mia. How had she been so stupid as to tell her friend anything at all in their earlier conversation? Discretion not being Mia's strong suit, the last thing Sam wanted was to have everyone in the office scratching their heads over an estate sale that didn't exist. Sooner or later, someone would link Mrs. Weekes to Porter Hall and the whole sordid story would be revealed.

  But when Sam switched on her mobile, she had no reception. She held it up to the window and watched the little icon search the heavens in vain.

  Porter Hall was in a dead zone.

  No service. No contact. And nowhere to go.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Chas swirled the aged single malt in his glass and uttered a soft string of curses. Life wasn't fair and, quite frankly, it was often ill-timed. Before today, his relationship with Samantha Redfern had been cool and professional and, he liked to think, based on mutual respect.

  Not anymore.

  During the course of a single day, he'd admired her moxie, lost his temper and been utterly intrigued by her. And now he couldn't decide whether he was totally enamoured with her or just plain furious.

  Probably a bit of both.

  In an effort to banish the picture of her flashing eyes and defiant chin, Chas began to mentally catalogue her crimes of the day.

  She had stolen the candlestick using money from the firm he owned, created a potentially embarrassing furor at his company, and most heinous of all, caused the wreck of his car. Chas tried to whip himself into a satisfying rage at Ms. Redfern, but the image of her standing there, clutching the silver candlestick and fighting to the last ditch even though they both knew she was in the wrong, kept intruding into his mind. Giving up, he tried to focus on the damaged done to the side of his car, but there she was again with sunlight shimmering over her auburn hair as she insisted that being sideswiped by the Land Rover was his fault, not hers.

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or go strangle her, which she so obviously deserved. Unfortunately, no matter what his initial intent, he knew that if his fingers touched the soft skin of her neck, the anger would turn into a caress. That would certainly put the cat among the pigeons.

  A knock sounded at the study door. Chas’ heart leaped at the thought it might be Sam seeking him out to either apologize or maybe argue a little more. He would welcome either, he realized.

  “Come.”

  But instead of Sam, his estate manager, John Weekes, let himself into the room. Chas’ lips tightened a little at the smell of beer emanating from the man.

  “John,” Chas forced heartiness into his voice that he didn’t feel, and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Maybe his day hadn’t been so good either.

  “Evening,” John said. “We didn’t expect to see you here this week.” He launched into a somewhat rambling explanation of why certain matters hadn’t been seen to yet, and made a couple of suggestions for Chas’ approval.

  Chas nodded, and said what was appropriate. John had been a good estate manager once, and his instincts were still strong. Unfortunately, the carryings on of Chas’ father, and to be honest, Chas’ own neglect of his inheritance had probably caused the man to become disheartened. With a twinge of guilt, Chas realized it was one thing to delegate; quite another to leave one’s employees to their own devices.

  Of course with someone like Sam, oversight didn’t seem to matter. Even now, he would trust her to do her job.

  Which brought him back to the man before him. Chas sighed. Whatever plans he had for the estate, he was honour-bound to ensure that the house and the land were properly managed, and the employees, particularly the Weekes, were looked after.

  Chas brought the conversation back to the beginning.

  Once he’d determined that there was no body shop nearby capable of handling the repairs to an automobile like his, Chas said good night to John, and made a note to call London in the morning.

  Alone again, Chas watched the play of light across his desk; the same desk used by his father, and his father before him. As a child, Chas had avoided this room; it held nothing for him but fear. A raging, demented grandfather who, in today’s world, would likely have been in a nursing home. And a father whose mocking ways only made him appear less of a man, not more. Giving up, his society mother had absconded for a new life in America twenty-five years ago, leaving her eleven-year-old son to cope on his own. School holidays had been spent with Lionel, as his father now wished to be called by his only child, and his endless string of unsuitable women.

  What a legacy.

  Determined to never act with such cruel arrogance and irresponsibility, Chas had moved to London, rebuilt Burton-Porter, and learned to keep a tight rein on his emotions. But the only real way to distance himself from the pain of his family’s past was to sell up, leaving Porter Hall and its history behind.

  How naive to think that having Samantha Redfern at his side even if it was for only a few days would make his decision any easier.

  So far, her presence seemed to have had the opposite effect. Her reaction to Burton Park, and then the hall, had given him a pride of place, something he had never experienced before.

  That didn’t excuse his behaviour. He should have been upfront with Sam, told her at the outset where they were headed and why. Too many years spent keeping his personal and professional lives separate had obviously taken their toll.

  He reached for his whiskey and took a long slow sip.

  He had a sudden flash of Sam stamping her feet
at the auction hall. Full of fire when she was roused; cool and competent on the job.

  He had never met a woman like her.

  At lunch, when he told her he wanted to spend more time with her, he was speaking the truth. She did not have the elegant beauty and perfect demeanor of the women he had had relationships with in the past, but not one of them had ever affected him the way this stubborn, warm, talented woman had. It occurred to him that perhaps the reason she could spot the genuine article was because she was the genuine article.

  Maybe that was why she had made that disastrous detour to the auction. It was incredibly rare to see a piece by such a fine silversmith. In the past, of course, if one had come on the open market, the family would swoop in and buy it back often using a third party. But this one had appeared so unexpectedly, he’d been caught off-guard. Funny that Sam should be the one bidding against him. Was it professional interest, he wondered, or something closer to home?

  Chas frowned.

  Sam knew as well as he did that provenance was an important part of their business. Knowing who owned a piece and when, could ratchet up the price tremendously. But the auction house had been unable to trace the candlestick’s history.

  Make that recent history, Chas reminded himself.

  So where did Samantha Redfern fit in?

  Stifling a yawn, Chas got to his feet. There was nothing more he could do tonight. Burton Park had stood unscathed for centuries; it was a glorious swath of land and wood and it would still be there when he woke up in the morning.

  Pity it had to go.

  His mother would rail against him selling his birthright. But that was no longer any of her concern. When he'd come of age, Chas had added to the divorce settlement Sylvia Porter, now Harker, had received from his father. He totally understood her decision to put as much distance as possible between herself and her first husband. Since then he had refused her continued financial requests.

  But enough of that for now. In the morning, he would make amends for being less than forthright with Sam; he would show her around the estate, and maybe even take her for a ride.

  And then they would have a chat.

  About candlesticks.

  And all things Samantha Redfern.

  It was no use, thought Sam, she couldn't sleep. The cup of tea and two shortbread cookies Mrs. Weekes had brought up to her, had taken the edge off her hunger, but that was not enough to keep her going through the night. Plucking her cashmere shawl from the foot of the bed, Sam wrapped it around her shoulders. The thin nightgown she wore would be no match for the cool night air.

  A soft breeze was ruffling the curtains. Sam padded over to the window and snugged the lock down on the casement.

  The sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon but in its place, the moon cast its own particular brightness across the fields. So different from the hustle and bustle of the city, thought Sam. An owl hooted in the distance. For a girl who had grown up in a two-bedroom clapboard house, Porter Hall was the stuff of dreams.

  Or was it nightmares?

  As she turned, she caught sight of her own reflection in the dressing table mirror, soft and wide-eyed with the candlestick in the foreground. It looked at home on the dressing table, thought Sam, probably because when Porter Hall was first built, there would have been no electricity or gas.

  She had originally set the candlestick atop the ornate fireplace on the far side of the room but that had made her feel sad. If her grandmother had remained in service instead of abruptly emigrating to Canada, it would have been someone like her who cleaned the hearth before the sun was up and tended the fire at night.

  Sam frowned.

  Romance for one meant hard work for someone else.

  Like Mrs. Weekes.

  Remembering the promise of a plate of sandwiches downstairs, Sam was suddenly quite ravenous.

  She went to the door and gingerly turned its handle. Grateful, it didn’t squeal, Sam looked up and down the dark hallway. The moon shining in the window at the end of the corridor cast long, distorted shadows. Telling herself not to be such a ninny, Sam stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

  And felt the familiar tingle of childhood, sneaking about in the dark, tiptoeing past her grandmother's door barely able to suppress the giggles as she and her best friend went on a midnight raid. Knowing that her grandmother likely knew exactly what was going on, never lessened the adventure.

  As she glided down the half-lit corridor, Sam felt such a frisson of excitement that when her stomach gurgled, she froze and then laughed at her own folly.

  Thirty-one-years-old and as giddy as a schoolgirl.

  She skipped down the main staircase. The flagstone floor was as cold as ice. She sprinted to the thick carpet a few steps away and followed its path.

  Had Mrs. Weekes said the second door on the right?

  Or the left.

  Left. A strip of light showed ahead; the door was ajar. Sam pushed it open with the tips of her fingers and peered around the corner. Definitely the dining room.

  And, on the sideboard, a platter full of sandwiches under a glass dome. And...Sam's nose twitched...there was coffee. And a carafe of tea, of course.

  She started with a cup of coffee and then quickly scoffed two ham and cheese sandwiches. The bread was fresh and well-buttered, the ham thickly sliced and the cheddar was old and sharp and left a trail of crumbs.

  She studied the plate while she ate. The display of sandwiches was uneven; someone had been here before her. Chas most likely. She topped up her coffee. He was probably brooding somewhere about the castle or maybe walking the parapets, whatever they were. Not that she had any interest in seeing him.

  She set her cup down and reached for an egg and cress, nibbling carefully as she strolled about the room. Three enormous windows, or maybe they were French doors, dominated the far wall, draped from floor-to-ceiling in a pale yellow silk with repeating peacock designs. All fourteen dining chairs were covered in the same material and placed at precisely the same distance from the perfectly polished mahogany table. The centre of the table was dominated by a huge silver epergne showing a scene with elephants carrying rajas while servants waved fans. It had probably been acquired during the India trade. Smiling wryly, Sam wondered if it had been acquired as a symbol of the family’s growing social status. During her years in the fine art business, Sam had seen many beautiful pieces and visited all the museums and estate houses she could, but never had she been in a private home like this.

  She was slightly awed. Make that incredibly awed.

  The carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight as Sam swallowed the last of her coffee, belatedly wondering if it was decaf.

  Regardless, it was time for bed.

  But not before she had one last look around.

  A rosewood cabinet with brass fittings drew her eye. It was not unlike a piece which had come up for auction in London last spring stood in the far corner of the dining room, its delicate lines almost lost in the shadows.

  Furniture wasn't Sam's forte but she recognized the cabinet as either Regency or Georgian. Up close, it was even more exquisite.

  The key was in the lock.

  It was solid brass. As was the escutcheon plate behind it. Which, on closer inspection, proved to be badly scratched. If a servant had been responsible for such carelessness, they would have been dismissed on the spot.

  Curious, Sam reached for the key. It felt warm in her hand. She turned it to the right and heard the snick of the lock a split second before she heard the voice behind her.

  "Looking for something?" drawled Chas.

  Sam's head fell forward and she dropped her hand.

  A perfect end to a perfect day.

  She drew in a breath and turned round to see Chas leaning against the door jam. "This is becoming a bad habit," she said.

  "Of mine?" Chas quirked a black brow. "Or yours?" He took a few steps into the room and pa
used, his face almost expressionless, only his eyes gleaming in the half-light.

  A rush of heat suffused Sam’s face as she became suddenly conscious of the silky blue nightgown she wore beneath her shawl. That was all she wore beneath the shawl. Which immediately slipped off her right shoulder. Chas' eyes fell along with it coming to rest on her right breast.

  Hidden by the thinnest of material.

  Which was held up by the thinnest of straps. Why hadn’t she packed her pyjama pants and a t-shirt? Maybe because she’d expected to be alone in the climate controlled room of a five star hotel in New York, not confronting the mysterious lord of the manor in an ancient country house – at midnight. Sam fought a sudden hysterical urge to giggle. Instead, she tugged her wrap back where it belonged and held it tightly against her chest.

  "I see you’ve finished your business," she charged.

  Chas cleared his throat. "For the moment." The corner of his mouth twitched as he raised his gaze to meet her scowl. He advanced further into the room. "Do you know that before today I'd never seen you in anything other than a charcoal suit or a demure little black dress with pearls. And now this...not conventional of course, but I must say I approve."

  The light from the sideboard threw his shadow across the room so that it lay at her feet. Her bare feet. Sam curled her toes in embarrassment. "Actually, I was about to leave."

  "Finished poking about have we?" His eyes were almost black in the half-light.

  Sam fought the flush of guilt but it was, as always, written all over her face. The set of his jaw showed her that he had seen, and correctly interpreted her reaction.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I just put the key back in. It had dropped out.”

  You'll never be a good liar, her grandmother had told her, clucking her tongue when Sam tried to get away with an extra cookie or when she was older, an illicit cigarette. Her complexion was a telltale she had inherited from her mother, a slight flush that would start at the base of her neck and rise to the roots of her hair.