Tristam began to sweat. The upper floors had grown uncomfortably warm as the day ripened into its full potential, but that wasn’t the problem. The real issue was waiting patiently for an answer to his speculations while he stood fantasizing about the lacy flowers under her blouse.
Not that he could be blamed for being distracted, he assured himself. Her dark locks might be dusty and her hands nearly black with grime, but she looked immeasurably pettable in those tight jeans. It was a wonder that the woman could look so good wearing smut and cobwebs, but she did. Obviously, he had been closed up in this house for too long. Or perhaps his brain was addled by the same lightning that had affected his nymph. Whatever ailed him, he wasn’t sure if he loved or hated it.
“That’s how the old crone referred to herself,” he finally managed. “She did not care for her own name, which, according to the only genealogy I’ve found, was Agartha.”
Karo shook her head. “She has only herself to blame. There is nothing wrong with Agartha. I was named after a maternal grandmother, which seemed a good idea at the time, since the parents wanted to please her. And they did, but only for a few months—she died soon after I was born. Her pleasure in the name was short, and my suffering long. It isn’t fair, being burdened with a difficult name, but you don’t see me changing mine. Especially not to something like Valperga.”
“Karo sounds sweet and old-fashioned,” Tristam said.
“Yep. Sweet, like the syrup. Would you want to be called after food?” She frowned, changing the subject by glancing again at the painting. “Do you suppose it’s an accurate self-portrait? Or was Valperga just burdened with dozens of neuroses?”
Tristam reluctantly turned his attention back to the picture. Hungry black eyes peered out from the cracked canvas, and he frowned with distaste. If the creature in the portrait had ever possessed youth or beauty or kindness, these had fled by the time the painting was done.
Karo shuddered dramatically. “I pity any woman who has that as a self-image. Talk about a bad hair day! It reminds me a bit of Poe’s degenerative style. You know, the black cat that got more and more abstract each time he drew it?”
Tristam shrugged. “Perhaps it was a familial brain disorder. I think Hugh Vellacourt was slightly mad, though in an English sort of way. He certainly didn’t have normal taste in furnishings.”
“The library is more or less classic, and fairly tasteful.”
“Calling the library tasteful is giving it undue praise, but at least the furnishings are less belligerent than in most of the house. They are mostly eigh teenth century,” he reminded her. Noticing a streak of dust and a bit of cobweb, Tristam brushed at his sleeve. “I do wonder about that low door. Perhaps Hugh felt that people should abase themselves before the temple of knowledge. But, no—that would be giving him too much credit.”
Karo laughed. She looked over at her equally dusty companion as he tried to reorder his clothing, and considered again the things he’d told her downstairs. Far from being stuffy or standoffish, Tristam English had proven to be forthright and unflinching—and pleasant company. Though, she was rather baffled by his treatment. On the phone he had sounded distant and formal. Their project was anything but, and today he was behaving very much like an uncle indulging a favorite niece.
Kind. Unhurried. Amused. These weren’t characteristics of people she generally met on the job. Bosses tended to take one look at her no-nonsense but eager manner and pointed her at the largest messes they could find. That, or they patted her on the head and called her sweetie. Though she liked to blame her name, she also knew it had a lot to do with her diminutive stature and delicate voice; few people looked beyond packaging.
Tristam was doing neither, and it was confusing—in the nicest possible way.
“What does that mean, anyway?” she asked. “English madness? Insanity with charm?”
“Exactly.” Tristam leaned carelessly against a plaster wall. His shirt was already hopelessly begrimed. Some relief would come from bringing in a cleaning crew and exterminator, but he couldn’t do that until Karo had found and marked all of the plantation’s historical treasures. It wouldn’t do to buff the patina off some priceless candlestick.
In the meantime, living in squalor wasn’t too terrible now that he had someone to bear him company. He might even survive the beastly late summer weather. Winds could bluster and clouds could threaten; he could just ignore them.
“Instead of just the usual slaves to cater to his whims, he had a defrocked priest.” Tristam lowered his voice. “And a tender young bride of wealth and breeding, who died under very mysterious circumstances after providing an heir. Let’s see, there was a hunchbacked butler, a French concubine—”
“Really? You’re not just saying this to give me hope? I mean, a defrocked priest and a hunchbacked butler would be great in a brochure. Not quite as good as Berkeley—they have two presidents and a signatory of the Declaration of Independence—but it’s all still quite usable.” She laughed, beginning to have some fun.
“No, really,” he promised. “Mad Father Basco, removed from the priesthood before he was twenty and who lived an unnaturally long life. The beauteous Eustacie La Belle—if that was her real name. And S and M master Hugh Vellacourt. These three should be of a great deal of interest to tourists—especially those who are bored blind by the same old same old historical plantation tour they usually get,” he suggested mildly. “This place is much more exciting than two presidents and a signatory to the Declaration of Inde pendence.”
“Well, maybe,” Karo allowed. “So, you’re really and truly serious about the priest and the concubine?” This bothered her, though she knew it was silly to maintain any illusions about the character of historical personages—especially when she’d been given so much proof already to the contrary. Still, she had always felt that it took a lot of courage and even imagination to pack up one’s life and leave everyone and everything you knew behind. If it had been easy, more people would have done it. Hugh had done just that, and she wanted to give him some respect. She didn’t say this to Tristam, though, because it sounded naïve. He would probably tell her that most people didn’t leave anywhere willingly and were in fact being chased by mobs. He’d say that fleeing for one’s life didn’t take much courage or imagination.
Tristam’s voice called her back. “What sort of mad-dog Englishman could Vellacourt be without them? He was a favored personage here, you know, one of the privileged gentry. A soul brother—and later a debtor—of John Robinson’s. One would have to work hard to be more infamous in these parts.”
“John Robinson? Of the House of Burgesses?” Tristam nodded when she gasped. “America’s first big-time tax defrauder, who started this nation on the road to revolution?” He nodded again. “Well, that’s great! We can really use that. Political corruption is perennially popu lar,” she told him with real enthusiasm. “Very few people have moral prohibitions against tax fraud. In fact, they expect it. Throw in that priest and suggestions of religious persecution and we have a winner. Carter’s Grove may be the prettiest of the local plantations, but we’ll certainly have the one with the most corrupt past.”
“What about the concubine? I think she makes a good part of the story,” Tristam suggested. “She really was quite something out of the ordinary, and was definitely corrupt. Not to dress it up in too fine a language: Vellacourt bought her at auction in a bordello in Paris. She was fifteen and already an accomplished…businesswoman.”
“Well, you’re not a historian. And you are a man. I guess I’ll have to forgive you for thinking that way,” Karo said huffily. Her nose wrinkled. “But a common whore would hardly add tone to the place. At least, not the right kind. Political corruption is fine. Moral corruption is not.”
“Um, I don’t think she was common. Certainly she wasn’t inexpensive.” Karo’s hand was back in her hair, pulling her shirt tight. It was perturbing, to a degree, to find such simple gestures on his employee’s part to be completely arous
ing. Tristam cleared his throat and made a stab at gathering his wandering thoughts.
“I bow to your greater experience. The United States does seem to have some distinct regional taboos which must be considered. Had enough dust for one afternoon? I’m ready for some lunch. Damn!” Tristam looked at his watch.
“What?”
“It’s after two. Come to think of it, I never gave you breakfast. Come on. I better feed you before you have a relapse. Doctor Monroe said I was to see that you got three squares, lots of tea breaks and plenty of sleep or you would likely flake out on me.”
“Well, I like the sound of that,” Karo answered, hoping he was kidding about the doctor’s diagnosis. “I wouldn’t want to start seeing ghosts again, or end up doing anything else to embarrass myself. Last night put me over my quota of dumb acts for the week.”
“Last night wasn’t all bad,” Tristam replied cheerfully, tucking Valperga’s portrait back against the wall, facing inward. “Let’s take the main stair. I don’t feel up to another run as a lab animal. This house has given me a true understanding of how rats must feel in a maze.”
“It wasn’t all bad, huh? I suppose you liked sleeping in the library.”
“Of course not. But then, I didn’t sleep in the library.” He pulled the door shut behind them. When Karo hung back, letting him take the lead, Tristam brushed by her and started down the steps. He added over his shoulder: “And I quite enjoyed carrying a beautiful, half-naked woman to bed—even if she did bite me.”
Karo stopped in her tracks and watched her boss’s lithe form disappear from view. So much for his being an indulgent uncle! None of her relatives had ever spoken to her like that. Neither had any of her employers.
“I’ll never wear linen again,” she muttered.
“That would be a shame.” His voice floated up clearly. “And the bedroom chair was quite comfortable.”
Karo was grateful that he didn’t turn around and look at her. She knew she had blushed a shade of red to rival roses.
“You sound like something out of a bad romance novel!” she yelled.
“If I had a mustache I’d twirl it,” he called in reply.
“You’d look hideous in a mustache!”
But he wouldn’t. There wasn’t much of anything that would make Tristam English look bad.
Over towering roast beef sandwiches stuffed with artichoke hearts and peppers, Tristam set about putting his wary nymph at ease. She had plainly been disturbed by his teasing and he was very curious about what would make her poker up so completely when she joined him downstairs. Had the thought of him watching her sleep been that unnerving? Surely she understood that he couldn’t leave her alone last night after her accident.
Or, was there some exposed nerve that he’d accidentally trod upon? She had been rather anxious to vacate her last position, and he had been too happy at finding a qualified prospective employee to ask any questions.
“I know why I hired you,” he said thoughtfully, pouring the rest of his Coke into a Star Wars glass. Karo had refused one, saying she preferred to drink straight from the can. “But why did you take this job?”
“Why does any woman throw over a career and move to the black hole of Calcutta?” she tossed back casually, breaking off a bite of sandwich for ’Stein. The big cat never seemed to leave the dining room if he could help it. And why would he? The food probably ended up there eventually, and it was free of dust and grabby antlers.
“A religious calling? Temporary insanity? Boredom with the Fife and Drum Corps that had you dying for the British yearly,” Tristam suggested. “Or, the old stand-by—an affair of the heart gone disastrously awry.”
The last was a guess, and he was slightly surprised when she blinked. “Well, let’s just say that I liked the Fife and Drum Corps well enough. It was the usual reason,” she admitted. “Anyway, the job wasn’t really in my field. I just liked Williams-town and I was willing to stay in a comfortable rut until it became…”
“Uncomfortable? And your employer let you go without a struggle or two weeks’ notice?”
“It would be truthful to say that my employer was ready to move on to another…project. And notice was definitely given.”
“I see.” And he thought that he did—at least the general outline. “Well, that does explain a few things. Care to mention who the fool was? I would like to send around a thank-you note.”
She laughed. “Please do. And send it care of the Board of Trustees. I’m sure they’d like to hear that their money hired a man so very dedicated to his job that he’ll do anything to keep a good assistant, even stealing her work and passing it off as his own. I bet they would even approve. They’re sexist enough.”
“Hm…That isn’t the best of ways to ensure loyalty, is it? Not unless you’re very generous with your compensation or willing to seduce your victim first. I expect that he hasn’t had the proper training. Very few academic types do. We’re all in the private sector, where there’s usually money for bribes.”
“What!” She laughed again and then choked on a bite of sandwich. “Maybe I should be glad for that impoverished budget you mentioned. Neither of us will be tempted to misbehave.”
“I wouldn’t insult you with money. I’m sure you would never take it.”
“Money isn’t insulting. Not when you’re poor.”
“He must have been clumsy to have shattered your loyalty so thoroughly,” Tristam persisted. “I bet his idea of a proper bribe was a single red rose laid on top of a mountain of research notes that needed typing. Overnight.”
“What are you, clairvoyant?” Karo chuckled and her face relaxed. “You’re absolutely right. One rose for typing. Six white daisies for research. He was under the impression that I like daisies. To be polite, I had to keep them in the office where they smelled up everything.”
Tristam opened his eyes wide, playing to her sudden laughter. “Of course I’m clairvoyant. It’s not such a stretch, after all. My dear, you’ve gone and left him flat. What else would drive you to it?”
“What indeed?”
Tristam spoke to the air. “You know, I’ve always felt that betraying an optimist is rather like starting a butterfly collection. It can be fun at the time, I suppose, but one nearly always regrets it later.”
“You think that we have to excuse F. Christian because of his possible eventual regret? I doubt remorse has ever entered his head. He was getting desperate. It was publish or perish time. You know what that means in the world of academia.” She sighed and then found herself confiding: “It wasn’t just F. Christian stealing my work—though he is a patronizing, lecherous, thieving pain in the butt. I suppose this is dreary, but I really thought he liked me. As a woman. I—Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Tristam coughed into his napkin. “Was there another woman as well? There must have been. This idiot would seem to leave no cliché unturned.”
Karo eyed him. “Yes. As it turns out, there is a very blonde, very rich, very unknown—at least to me—fiancée. I’m afraid I wasn’t what you would call mature or dignified about the proposed pajama party he offered after admitting he stole my research.” She, with an effort, quit grinding her teeth. “What a deal, huh? I get F. Christian and his bride, a chance to write papers he can steal, and an underpaid job from eight to five. Except on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when I could have him ’til seven, though remain underpaid. And Miss Magnolia gets everything else. Including a chance to do the kind of work that that bastard was promising me for the last three years. He gave her the job I wanted!”
Tristam made a choking sound that turned into another unconvincing cough.
Karo pointed a finger at him and added direfully: “He should be darn grateful that we weren’t sleeping together, because he’d have ended up worse off than he did. I believe in Old Testament vengeance. None of this ‘Let mercy season justice’ stuff.”
“What did you do?” Tristam asked, genuinely curious.
“I shoved him into a buffet and dump
ed potato salad on his head. Had there been a carving knife, he might have ended up dead, but there were only spoons.”
“I see. And that would be in lieu of two weeks’ notice…? Well, there’s nothing like a bit of revenge to raise one’s spirits.” His tone was quite bracing and made her glower, but he raised an eyebrow at her expression. “Do I really need to point out the obvious—that you’re better off without the bounder? I’m sure it was the wonder of the week back at the office, but you’ll live. Embarrassment never actually killed anyone.”
“I know. I’m here, aren’t I?” she grumbled. “I figured it out. The job was a tontine, anyway. I mean, I wasn’t going to be promoted until someone died.”
“That’s the stuff,” he said encouragingly.
“You know what burns me most? F. Christian and Mint Julep will probably be very happy together, her writing all the papers and him getting all the credit, while I go down in history as the one responsible for ruining the Williamstown Founders’ Day Dinner.” She added, “I sure hope I get a real job before anyone hears about this little side trip of mine. No offense, but I don’t think this job is going on my resume. I’m going to have to gloss over this interlude, especially if word about Vellacourt’s activities gets out.”
“Gloss it with what? Even marine varnish won’t make these things look shiny. But you’ll manage. You are creative and efficient and capable of avenging the wrongs done you. In fact, you faced down a hurricane. In other words, you may be dusty but you remain unbowed.” He smiled.
“Please, stop complimenting me. I can’t take so much undeserved praise. Driving in that storm was idiocy. It was all idiocy.”
Tristam laughed at her glum expression. “Cheer up. The tragedy has ended and life goes on. I predict that great happiness and well-earned fame lay ahead of you—but not in the field of museum work. Talk of masochism! It’s not for you, m’dear. You’ve far too much energy and life to be working in such a fossilized field. We can do better. This is a low-class, boiler room operation, but it’s fun and will be profitable. Just give me a chance to win you over to my way of life.”
The Ghost and Miss Demure Page 9
