by Sara Forbes
“Midnight snack sound good?”
There's a small smile. “Does it ever!”
14
HAYLEY
I HAVE NOT SEEN INSIDE the Belgrave kitchen before. It's functional, industrial, and very much a mix of styles and generations. A cat slinks away when we ease the door open.
“That's Sauron,” he says. “Not very sociable, like his namesake.”
I snort. “Are all creatures here named after Lord of the Rings?”
He gets a kind of faraway look in his eyes. “Yeah. Not my idea, though.” Then he turns and gets busy pulling out bread and a board and knife.
I venture to the massive, cream–colored 1950s fridge and pull out butter and mineral water. He directs me to the ham, cheese, and tomatoes.
Turning around, my shoulder hits him in the chest. “Sorry.” I step back. “I appear to be sleep walking. Jet lag, you know.”
“No harm done.” Alex reaches out and slides his hand down my arms, sending a delicious shiver throughout my body. I warm up, all over. How I missed his touch.
“You okay?” He takes the butter and water from my limp hands.
I nod.
He turns and chops tomatoes and butters bread with an efficiency that tells me he doesn't leave all his food preparation up to their hired cook. I sit on a stool and focus on his strong forearms, his nimble fingers, the intent look on his face. Soon he has two neatly cut sandwiches and he gestures that I grab one. I jump down and stand beside him at the kitchen island. As we munch, facing each other with our hips pressed against the island, I study the terracotta tiles, unable to hold his gaze. I've no clue what to say to him anymore. The grandfather clock in the next room chimes out eleven.
Licking crumbs off his thumb after finishing the sandwich, he finally breaks the silence. “Letty's having her violin recital tomorrow night—a small gathering in the drawing room. Would you like to come?” A glimpse of his former ease returns when he smiles broadly.
“Sure.” I smile back. “If you think it's safe enough?”
“It will be. You'll find they're an extremely discreet lot.”
“I can well believe it. So, what's the dress code?”
His gaze roves over me. Not quite an eye–fuck, but not far off. “Come as you are. It's not formal.”
“Yeah.” I glance down my stripy cotton top and jeans with the series of artful rips mid–thigh. Something tells me he doesn't mean that literally.
He's looking at the ripped jeans now, grinning. He fingers the marble tabletop. “Look. I— I'm sorry it's been frightful for you here. We're all at work most of the time, and—”
“What?” I laugh, mainly to cover up the awkwardness because now it feels like he's apologizing for something else, and if he is, then I don't know what that means—that he's finally taking me seriously? Or he's lost interest? Have I just been friend–zoned?
“It's been fun,” I lie. “I helped Mrs. B with her beeswax polishing this morning—I can see why she calls it a never–ending chore—and I had a lot of fun perusing the almanacs in the library.” I don't tell him I only did that to avoid the dowager duchess, who Letty told me never enters any rooms that were the special haunts of her late husband.
Alex laughs and moves in closer, as close as he can get without touching. “Hm, if that's what you call fun …”
My heart stops dead when he leans in and grazes his lips over my cheek. “You need to raise your expectations,” he mutters close to my ear. Then he backs off.
Tease. But this time I don't mind it.
A loud scraping of furniture from upstairs breaks the spell. “I probably need to get to bed now,” I say.
“Yes, you're jetlagged, and I've an early start,” he says, his expression unreadable. “Need help finding your bedroom?”
Are you offering? I almost ask, but don't. “No, no, I think I know my way around by now.”
♦♦♦
The next morning, I wake with a feeling of unease when I think about the trouble Uncle Stig has caused, but I banish it to the back of my mind. I reckon he's able to take care of himself. It's only ten–thirty, but the house is buzzing with preparations for the recital and dinner tonight. I watch out the window as a series of delivery trucks drive up as far as they can go—a florist, a fruit and vegetables man, and a butcher.
I amuse myself by staying out of everyone's way and cataloguing all the seventeenth– and eighteenth–century art in the house, or at least in all the rooms that have open access. They're large, ostentatious, but not highly valuable, as most are lesser known artists, protégés of the famous ones. The Belgrave family portraits were all done by one family of painters, the tradition passed on from son to son, in parallel to the dukedom itself. It's all fascinating, but my hopes of chancing across a genuine Renoir or Rembrandt worth millions are dashed.
By five p.m. I go up to my room to prepare for the evening's entertainment. It's not like I need much time to prepare. My makeup is capsule–sized, and all I have to work with are a light foundation and eyeliner. I put on the most formal outfit in my suitcase—a knee–length black dress with elbow–length sleeves and a white shawl intended for a West End show with Uncle Stig. We had tickets for Les Miserables.
I loiter in my room until seconds before six in the hope that Alex will drop by to “show me the way,” but he doesn't. As the mantelpiece clock bongs out six times, I swallow my disappointment. I guess he's busy helping with preparations.
When I enter the huge, arched doorway of the drawing room, it's like I've stepped into a Kate Middleton impersonation competition. Loitering gracefully around are women ranging from around my age to well into their thirties or forties. Maybe even fifties, but nobody here looks a day over thirty–nine with their subtle, rosé makeup and sparking eyes. They're all polished, with coordinated jewelry, belts, nude pumps and teensy clutch purses. And Alex said it wasn't formal?
It's a fashion blogger's paradise. I can imagine an off–stage commentator with a heavy English accent chirping, “And now here comes Clarissa Banville–Fowler, wearing an exquisite Victoria Beckham ensemble in darkest fuchsia, topped off to perfection with a crème bolero, yadda, yadda, yadda.”
A staff of six or so waiters has magically appeared, along with white tablecloths, red–upholstered chairs, and fresh–cut flowers. The splendor would put many a wedding or ambassadorial function to shame. I'm scanning the room for Alex. But I don't see him. Champagne is flowing and it's frightfully good stuff, as Letty would say. I don't mind if I take a glass.
Halfway through my second glass, I feel a male presence gliding up from behind. I know just by the way the air weirdly tingles when he's close that it's him.
“You startled me,” I complain, but my face breaks into a grin.
“Glad you could make it.” His eyes do a rapid scan of my body, over my prim dress. Not much skin is visible but from the wolfish gleam in those eyes, I sense he's judging what's underneath all the same. “I was beginning to worry you'd got lost.”
“Your castle's not that big.”
He gives me his adorable half grin. “No one's complained about the size before.”
I rest my back against the wall, trying to look nonchalant. “Oh, I'm not complaining.”
It's not helping my poise that several pairs of perfectly made–up eyes are darting in my direction. I'm being assessed from all sides and there are no doubts as to which path the conversations are taking.
“What the devil did you do with yourself all day?” he asks.
“Oh, a bit of reading, bit of sketching.” A lot of snooping.
“Busy girl.”
“I need to do something with my hands.”
“I could suggest something.”
“Yeah, I'm sure you could.”
He moves closer so I feel the warmth of his arm up against mine. “For example, you could explore my castle. Seen many castles, have you?”
My breath hitches as his fingers slide up and down the curve of my waist. “A few.�
�
“But any as impressive as mine?”
I smile into my champagne glass. “I've seen more ruins than erect ones.” I nestle my butt very deliberately into his hip. Hey, he asked for it.
“And say you … got access to one of these erect castles.” His voice is hoarse. “What would you do with it?
“I'd never leave it.”
“Never?” His gaze hops between my eyes and my mouth. My heart is thumping. I so want to kiss him, but not with everyone watching, and they are watching, damn them.
“Your Grace, so good to see you,” a loud, plummy voice intrudes like a cold shower. A mid–fifties man has sauntered up, looking faintly bucolic in a baggy, tweed jacket. He has that same air of detached superiority as they all do, and just assumes he's not intruding on us, or doesn't care if he is. “I'm terribly sorry, but Lord Cavendish would like your input on the briefing for Suffolk Country Club next week.”
Alex's hand falls away from me and he straightens up. “Of course.” He gives me one last look that could mean anything from “have fun by yourself now” to “wait for me.” And then he's gone.
Deflated, I search around the assembly for diversion. I'm not a total novice in such company, having attended a few society events with Uncle Stig. I nab another flute of champagne and do the rounds, exchanging pleasantries with any clusters of people who seem receptive. It helps that nobody mentions, or even appears to be aware of, the existence of YouTube. The “I'm a student over here to study the fine arts” story goes down as smoothly as the champagne. Nobody finds it difficult to believe that I'm taking off for a few months to visit galleries on my uncle's expense. After that, the conversations usually revert to the particulars of the duke's responsibilities, Letty's recital, or some completely boring gossip about other members of the peerage whose pretentious names sound totally made–up, except they're not.
Exhausted after an hour of it, I nab a nice spot to stand by the fireplace, where enough people are coming and going not to appear like a wallflower, and yet, I don't actually have to talk to any of them. I get to poke the fire now and again with a huge brass poker. At times, Alex looks like he's trying to make his way over to me, but then, like a swimmer getting thrown back by the waves, he keeps getting pulled over by folks interested in talking to him.
It gives me time to practice coy smiles to project at him across the room. He intercepts some of them, and when he does, he looks hungry, like a man unwilling to play games any longer. Which is good, because I'm going to launch myself at him the first moment I get a chance.
Ken saunters up and offers what appears to be a genuine smile. I return it as graciously as I can, but it puts an abrupt end to my flirting. We stand with our backs to the fire, surveying the room. He's as tall as Alex and looks strong as a horse but in a more deliberate, body–building way. I've been watching him navigate the room, and people don't gravitate toward him the way they do to Alex. With me, he seems awkward, as if he wants to say something, but can't find the words. Adorkable, if you go for that.
“Well, he's duke now.” Ken finally finds his tongue.
I find his statement puzzling, so I answer as noncommittally as I can. “He certainly is.”
“He's not used to it,” he says.
“All the attention, you mean?”
“The everything.” He turns to me sharply. “Are you enjoying your stay here?”
“Of course.”
A bell chimes, relieving me of the obligation of further conversation. The usher guides people to the fifty chairs in a horseshoe shape around Letty's stage. Ken is to my left and some old gent to my right. I search for Alex, but he's up front, talking to his mother.
I listen along, rapt, to the classical piece that Letty's fingers are conjuring from the piano. I smile to myself, remembering Alex asking her not to murder the Polonaise. She's actually amazing. Not a single person has taken out a phone. You'd swear they didn't even own them. Nothing speaks for their elevated level of manners so much as this. It's like we're transported in a time machine back two centuries. I expect Jane Austen to walk in at any moment and start pithily observing people.
After the performance, I approach Letty on the stage, once her initial fan group disperses.
“So what did you think?” Her sparkling eyes are targeted at me.
“Oh my God, you were amazing.”
“She's so sweet, Alex.” Letty clutches onto his arm in a way that suggests she's not entirely sober, which makes her performance all the more remarkable. “Hold on to this one.”
“Shut up, Letty. Hayley's—”
“An ambassador's niece.” Letty flicks her hand. “That's every bit as accomplished as the sister of a royal duke, the archbishop's second cousin, or the Countess Wilcox. And so much more dignified than your Tom Ford models. I don't see why—”
“I was going to say she's leaving soon,” he cuts in.
Oh God, Letty really is drunk. How mortifying.
“Protect your piano before one of these brats scratches it,” Alex says sharply.
I turn to see some kids messing with her piano stool.
Her eyes widen. “Crap, yes.”
“And Letty.” Alex indicates a suave, early thirties man in a tight, cream blazer, surrounded by three ladies. “For Christ's sake, go talk to Peter before he showers his gallantry on more deserving females.”
“But—” she protests.
“Now.”
“Well!” She tosses her hair and marches off.
Alex turns to me as if to say something, but I hold up my hand to stop him.
“What was that?” I demand.
“What?”
“The way you talked to Letty just there. I know she's tipsy, but you can't tell her who she should talk to.”
“I can tell her whom she can't afford to ignore,” comes his reply.
I turn back to look at her. This must be Lord Peter Whatever, the wealthy earl from Gloucester. Letty's lavishing her attention on him as if she's never been happier to see anyone in her whole life, but all I'm thinking about is that bale of straw. She should have put up more of a fight. The guy's wiry chest puffs up under the blazer when she laughs uproariously at what he's saying and I know there is no way she actually likes that guy. But then I remember the rest of her talk in the stable. She really does want to marry for money. This I find totally depressing.
“There's fun and there's serious,” Alex says solemnly, as if reading my thoughts. “If she wants fun, this is neither the time nor the place for it.”
But you're allowed to have your fun—the sister of a royal duke, the archbishop's second cousin …
“Your Grace?” The annoying tweed jacket guy from before has wandered over, now with a younger woman on his arm. I say younger, but she's probably his age. I gave up trying to guess the women's ages here about two hours ago. “Terribly remiss of me not to have inquired before, but how is it going with your fine collection?”
“It's … fine, thank you.” Alex's tone is few degrees cooler even than the tone he just used with Letty.
There's a super keen glint in Tweed Jacket's beady eyes. “Did you manage to root out anything in the dust?”
“Nothing of import.”
“Perhaps Your Grace requires assistance in this matter? I'd be much obliged—”
“Thank you,” Alex says. “Not necessary.”
“I did hear a rumor about—”
A man with hipster glasses and purple bowtie emerges out of nowhere and chimes in, “Ah yes, Sir John, but The Times claims the Old Masters are losing relevance.”
Tweed Guy nods. “Collectors aren't interested anymore. Not even the major auction houses. Maybe it's time to dust off and sell up before it's too late, Your Grace?”
As Tweedledum and Tweedledee stare him down, Alex rubs the back of his neck. I'm getting the vibe he's not used to handling this side of the family business. I don't know what he's got stashed away in those closed–off rooms and in their basement, but I'm sure that if
Alex inherited it from his father, it's not just about the money. Besides, these goons are talking through their baggy, corduroyed asses.
Hipster Guy is not letting up. “The very term is a horrible piece of pretension. What does Old Master even mean?”
Sir John taps Alex's arm. “You custodians only have yourselves to blame, you know.”
“I consider myself admonished,” Alex says through barely parted lips. I scuttle in closer to him for moral support.
Hipster snorts. “It's not too late to take matters into your own hands, Your Grace.”
Alex's fingers curl into a fist behind his back.
I can't take this shit a second longer. I step forward, a smile plastered on my face and I don't mind laying on my thickest West Coast accent either. “From what I heard, the best Old Masters are selling for unheard of prices. Last year Rubens's Scene of Lot Being Seduced broke, what, 45 million pounds?” I turn to the hipster and glare at his horrible horn–rimmed glasses. “Of course, the media ignores this, because bashing old art is just too easy, isn't it?”
Hipster gapes at me for a full five seconds before opening his bearded lips again. “My dear girl, we hardly need the media for that. The custodians have reveled so long in intellectualism, putting on obscure exhibitions to scare off the public.”
This gains a polite round of laughter from the folks gathering beside us.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Look at the Bosch show selling out in the Prado, the Goya and the Rembrandt that sold out in London, and of course the Leonardo show a few weeks back? There are better ways of encouraging folks to see the Old Masters than ranting against the curators.”
A firm grip encircles my arm. Is it Alex's signal for “shut up?” He knows me well enough by now to know that I say what I mean. But I catch his eyes and they're glowing warm.
“This is Hayley. She's my art advisor.”
Ooh, art advisor. I have to press my lips together hard to avoid laughing.
“She has firm opinions on the matter, of course,” Alex continues. “I hope you appreciate our position. If not, I'd be happy to discuss. But for now, Lord Blakely, Sir John, can I interest you in some brandy from my collection?”
