“But I’m telling you, I did not go to the drug vault.”
Lark continued by rote, willing herself not to look up, not to make this personal in any way. “Though the IT logs indicates Dr. Martin’s badge was used at the drug vault, surveillance video indicates that someone else was using it. That video shows Dr. Niya Batra entering the drug vault, and in fact…tampering with treatment packets.”
Niya sat stone-faced as hostility rose around the table. She glanced only briefly at Lark, her eyes flashing defiance. “I request an attorney.”
* * *
Channing applied a touch of lip gloss and confirmed she was presentable to guests. Toby Singleton, the young man who’d helped pack Poppa’s books, was on his way over with a couple of university representatives and one of their major donors.
“No,” she said into the mirror, several times for practice. Poppa had left her nothing to donate but his work.
The group arrived in two cars, one a chauffeur-driven Bentley belonging to an elderly gentleman fastidiously dressed in a brown plaid three-piece suit. His thick white hair was bright against his tanned face. Channing recognized him at once as Sir Nigel Grimshaw, one of Britain’s most celebrated billionaires. Fresh from a yacht off the Riviera, she guessed.
She recognized one of the women as Emma Cross, administrator of the economics library named for Poppa. “Miss Cross, Toby, nice to see you both again.”
“Miss Hughes.” Toby pumped her hand and gestured toward the second woman. “Allow me to introduce Miss Donaldson.”
“Phoebe Donaldson. Like Miss Cross, I’m a library director too. Art and Humanities.” She was slender and petite, with lifeless sandy hair that fell to the top of her shoulders. “And this is Sir Nigel Grimshaw. Sir Nigel is an avid supporter of the literary arts and one of our most generous contributors.”
“Lovely place, your Penderworth,” he said. “How fortunate you are to have an historic home directly on the River Cam. You can catch your own dinner.”
“Thank you. Our caretaker fishes on occasion, but I like it for the occasional passing of swans.” She was sorry to have him see Penderworth in its state of disrepair. On the other hand, if this was about making a monetary donation to the university, they could see for themselves that she lacked the means. “Please come in.”
In the great hall by the stone fireplace, she’d readied a service of tea with biscuits purloined from the Brownings’ cupboard.
Miss Cross opened the conversation with a statement of gratitude for the gift of Poppa’s books and papers. “Professor Lord Hughes’s economics collection will long be the focus of scholars and historians. I appreciate his generosity and the amount of time you’ve dedicated to the task.”
Working diligently for a few hours each day, Channing had separated the personal from the professional papers. “I have the rest of his work boxed up and ready for you. Perhaps Toby can collect them today.”
Sir Nigel edged forward on the sofa and cleared his throat. “Miss Hughes, allow me to get to the point of our visit. As Miss Donaldson explained, I’m a proponent of the literary arts, and I feel strongly that Cambridge, as one of England’s flagship universities, ought to maintain a splendid collection of English literature. Would you agree?”
“Of course.” This was about the Romantic poetry collection, she realized. Toby had scooped it up with the rest as they’d hastily emptied the shelves. She was glad they’d taken photos to document the contents.
“I’m something of a bibliophile, if you will, a collector of rare books. I understand that Mr. Singleton here discovered among your grandfather’s collection a number of works by the Romantic poets. Keats, Byron, Coleridge and others. According to Miss Cross, these books were removed from Penderworth in error. She confirmed that Professor Lord Hughes had not included them in the lot he intended to will to the university upon his death.”
“That’s correct, Sir Nigel. He meant only to gift his economics books and papers. In fact, the Romantic works had belonged to my father.” She rose and walked to the wall of portraits. “Here he is, Henry Hughes, a wing commander at RAF Honington.” Turning back with a smile, she added, “I’m told I have his eyes.”
“Professor Lord Hughes had them too,” Toby offered.
“That’s right, a family trait. My father was killed in Kuwait shortly after I was born, a refueling accident. It happens he was a bibliophile too. Obsessed with all the Romantics. He and Poppa—that’s my grandfather—they journeyed together all over the country to find them. Bookstores, estate sales, collectors. Poppa gifted me the entire collection for my tenth birthday.”
Sir Nigel broke into a roguish smile. “That’s fortuitous, Miss Hughes.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“A property transfer that took place more than seven years ago carries no tax liability,” Miss Cross explained.
“Ah, excellent.” She’d been so focused on the house that she hadn’t begun to sort its contents. Had there been tax implications, Lord Alanford would have told her. And speaking of the Romantics, she’d promised the earl a poetry memento.
Miss Donaldson, who’d been quiet so far, spoke with an air of authority. “When Miss Cross informed me of the collection, I took the liberty of inspecting them. They’re in remarkable condition. Several are first editions, quite valuable.”
“One in particular,” Sir Nigel said, his voice rising with zeal. “An exquisite hand-printed copy of William Blake’s The First Book of Urizen. It must be authenticated of course, but I’m quite certain it’s an original.”
“Blake’s work is rich with illustrations,” Donaldson added. Her efforts at professional detachment were no match for her obvious excitement. “Extraordinary. He etched his works on a copper plate and washed them with acid to lend relief. He’d print a single page at a time, then go back and add watercolor to the illustrations.”
“A truly sensational work of art,” Sir Nigel said. “One of a kind.”
Toby cleared his throat. “Eight of a kind actually. That’s how many copies are believed to exist, all of them with small differences. The last one put up for auction was 1999, Sotheby’s of New York. It went for two and a half million dollars.”
Channing shuddered. It was a staggering find for a dusty shelf in a rundown manor home. Surely there was a catch.
“Which is why I’m here, Miss Hughes.” Sir Nigel gestured to the others. “Why we’re all here, actually. A prize like Urizen would bring an incredible price at auction. Far, far more than what the previous edition commanded, because the number of potential bidders has increased rather dramatically. But collectors these days—let’s be honest—few of them appreciate the magnificence of a literary giant like William Blake. Many of today’s auction players are notorious tax dodgers who collect such offerings as trinkets, only to lose them for pennies on the dollar in a bankruptcy sale or criminal forfeiture.”
Channing knew plenty of such lavish spenders from her work. Most were newly prosperous, having figured out how to leverage other people’s money so they could live in opulence well beyond their personal wealth.
“I’d like to purchase your entire collection, Miss Hughes. Miss Cross here tells me that you’ve made a career out of determining what things are worth, so I’m confident we’ll be able to agree on a fair market price. But as I said earlier, I myself am a bibliophile, a true collector. I believe there’s more to a book’s value than what it fetches in a sale. I’d be happy to show you what I mean if you’re interested. I’ve an extensive private collection that’s illustrative of my esteem for such works.”
All four of them were tittering with anticipation, apparently waiting for Channing to breathe her approval.
Two and a half million dollars, twenty years ago. Figure inflation and rising demand—such a unique offering would bring at least three times that today. This would solve all of her financial woes, including Penderworth.
“I realize I’ll need to overcome your sentimental attachment t
o the works, Miss Hughes. Perhaps if you knew more of my support for Cambridge…”
“Sir Nigel has donated hundreds of books and documents to the Arts and Humanities collections, and he makes his private collection available for scholarly study as well. At any given time a dozen of our graduate students are—”
“Further explanation isn’t necessary, Miss Donaldson. I’m certain Sir Nigel and I will agree to terms. I’d be quite glad to know the collection was in such good hands.”
“Delightful.” His smile was bright against his tanned face. He’d probably return to the Mediterranean aboard his yacht the moment their deal was struck.
She’d retain a couple of pieces, of course, given the sentimental attachment she’d only just realized. Something for her, something for Lord Alanford.
“Very well, Sir Nigel. Let’s adjourn to my grandfather’s study upstairs so we can discuss the terms.”
* * *
With Channing leaning back against her chest in the tub, Lark swirled the shampoo into the shape of an enormous pompadour. “This is a good look for you, a Spartan helmet. Hey, we need to do a breastplate too.”
“Have you spoken to a therapist about your soap fetish, Dr. Latimer? Not that I don’t enjoy a good surgical scrub now and then.”
“Mock me all you want. I’ll have you know I was top of my class in hand washing. A real gift for it, they said.”
The bath attached to Channing’s bedroom had a tiled tub and shower and well-lit vanity with abundant storage. The modern design, though both stylish and practical, stood out in the period home. Channing had explained that the room was added to her suite the year after she’d returned to England, when her grandfather discovered the peculiarities of girls and their ablutions.
Lark dug her fingertips into the taut muscles of Channing’s neck and shoulders, eliciting a moan of pleasure. “How come you’re so tight here? I thought regular sex was supposed to be the ultimate stress relief.”
“But you don’t have sex with my neck.” Channing rubbed her soapy head against Lark’s chin and purred like a cat.
“You’re awfully sassy tonight, Lady Hughes.”
“I picked up eight million quid today, tax-free. That sort of money makes anyone sassy.” She stretched for the shower hose and passed it to Lark. “Do me.”
“With pleasure.” She rinsed Channing from head to toe with warm water, paying special attention to the intimate spots they referred to as nooks and crannies. “Your plan worked to perfection, by the way. I’m definitely much happier than when I got here.”
“For the record, I was only kidding.” Her solution to Lark’s dismal mood had been for Lark to shower her with attention—making love to her, washing her hair, massaging her neck—whatever it took to get her mind off the mess at PharmaStat. “I figured if it didn’t work, at least my needs would be met.”
“Okay, you’re done. Let me wash my hair and I’ll be right out.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“I’m fine as long as I don’t think about it.” Lark had no words for how she felt about Niya. It was bad enough that Niya had destroyed their friendship. Her betrayal could have done irreparable damage to Lark’s standing at Gipson. “Can you imagine if I’d trusted her all this time and defended her…and then somebody else came along and figured out what she’d done? They’d have me cleaning out my desk.”
“You’re torturing yourself with the worst-case scenario, even though it didn’t happen. It sounds flippant to say let it go, but that’s all you can do. Especially since you don’t even know yet why she did it.”
“I wonder how Jermaine’s feeling tonight. It’s amazing how close she came to hanging him out to dry. She almost managed to pin the whole conspiracy on him. Stole his ID, stood over his shoulder while he logged on for the medical data, even had him ask Wendi for the reports so it would look like he was the one behind it. She probably would have pulled it off if she’d known about the cameras. They added them last year after the burglary. But you’re right, I need to let it go. I could make myself crazy over what might have happened.”
“It’s crushing to have someone you love, someone you trust completely, blindside you that way.”
“You mean like Payton did when she broke up with you after promising she’d leave her husband?” Getting no response as she rinsed her hair, Lark turned off the water and peeked around the curtain to see if Channing had heard.
She was leaning against the sink, already dried and wearing a nightshirt. Her pensive gaze was a contrast to their earlier playfulness. “Payton never blindsided me, not really. Even in our best moments, a part of me always knew she’d go back to Ben. But Poppa’s accounts were a different matter. I never saw that coming. What kills me is that he bloody knew I’d find out eventually. Not telling me was cowardly.”
It was fascinating how the sudden windfall from the poetry books had triggered Channing’s disappointment in her grandfather…or given her permission to express it. “Maybe it was like you telling him you were gay. He was waiting for the right time to say it.”
“Hmm…I’d not considered my own duplicity. Am I supposed to feel shitty now, Dr. Gloom?”
Lark was blessed with enough dry wit to recognize the mockery in Channing’s inflection. “I should hope so. I’ve had it up to here with your unicorns and rainbows. And your millions. You’re choosing joy instead of misery. What kind of person does that?”
“Up to where? Show me the exact mark.”
“Up to here.” Suppressing a giggle from tickling herself, she drew an imaginary line from one nipple to the other.
“Are you sure the line goes that high?” Channing knelt in front of her and traced a finger around the triangle of her pubic hair. “Those randy unicorns, I’ve caught them wandering below but never higher than here.”
“You might be right.” Lark covered her hand and held it against her. “They’re sneaky.”
“You’re shivering.” Channing wrapped her in a huge white towel, silky and worn from years of use, and began to pat her dry. Here and there she’d pause to drop a kiss on the bare flesh, then quell the rising goose bumps with her warm breath. “These towels are older than I am. So soft…it’s like drying yourself with a rabbit.”
“A live rabbit?”
“Of course. You wouldn’t dry yourself with a dead one.”
Lark laughed. More of a snort actually, a sardonic chuckle. From the night they met, she’d fallen for that deadpan delivery and acerbic wit. No one had ever entertained her the way Channing did. What surprised her was how important it was, how their droll connection had become something she cherished. “I love how you make me laugh. Now I’ve already forgotten whatever it is you’re trying to distract me from.”
“Excellent. Then I shall commence stealing your wallet.”
“Why would you do that? You’re a multimillionaire.”
“Odd, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell everyone I’m eccentric.”
Chapter Twenty
The willowy curtains of the canopy bed were tied off, letting the gray light of the imminent sunrise bathe their tangled bodies. Making love had been Channing’s first conscious thought on this, their last morning together. In a few hours, she and her driver Ruth would be dropping Lark at Heathrow.
Over the last eleven days, Lark had surrendered her body’s secrets one after another. This tightening in her thighs signaled she was ready. Not for teasing, not for titillating. She needed pressure on her clit right now—the rhythmic stroke of lips sucking the swollen knot in and out, with the predictable swipe of a rigid tongue. These would make her come in a matter of seconds.
“Oh, God…” She clutched a handful of Channing’s hair, twisting it as her hips bucked sideways and the climax shook her. A deep gulp of air whooshed out from between her teeth in short bursts.
They both lay breathless for a couple of minutes, Channing resting her head on a thigh. “You taste womanly.”
“I’d like to think that’s a go
od thing.”
“It’s a glorious thing. It means you don’t douse yourself with those bloody chemicals, the ones they say will make us feel ‘fresh,’ whatever that is. They treat our coochies like fruit we forgot to put in the refrigerator. There’s even one that smells like strawberries.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say coochie?”
“What do you call it?”
“I’m a medical doctor, Channing. We don’t use such silly euphemisms. We say hoo-hoo.”
Channing held her laughter for all of five seconds. “I’m going to miss you. Who’s going to make me laugh?”
“The Viscount Teasely.”
“All right, who’s going to wash my back?”
“You got me there. But don’t think I won’t be inspecting it when you get to Boston. It better not be clean.”
Channing climbed up and delivered a kiss before enveloping Lark in a possessive embrace. “That, by the way, is what I mean by a womanly taste. Everything about you is the way it’s supposed to be. I like that you have this.” She gripped a handful of pubic curls. “The woman I dated before Payton waxed it all away. Her breasts were so small, I started to worry she might not be of age. Can you imagine?”
“I’d show you some ID but a shady lady stole my wallet while I was in the shower.” Lark nibbled on Channing’s neck. “Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and miss this. You can fly to Boston to surprise me in bed.”
“I’ll definitely wake up and miss you, but I’m afraid flying to Boston isn’t going to happen right away. I’ve a lot more to do repair-wise now that I can afford it. Kenny’s meeting me here this weekend with his friend Leon so we can discuss priorities.” She’d been gobsmacked by his insistence on keeping their house deal even when he learned she no longer needed his money. The Brownings had cheered the arrangement since it meant Penderworth wouldn’t be handed over to strangers. “He’s got a contractor in mind already, someone Oliver knows. I’m actually thrilled I won’t have to manage it, but I can’t leave until it’s all underway. Maybe you can pop back over for a few days.”
A Proper Cuppa Tea Page 21
