“Someone gave it to me.” When he looked less than convinced, she nodded. “I know, I thought it was weird, too. But he insisted. Do you know that nineteenth-century house museum on Norfolk Street? I’m a sucker for anything about the Regency.”
He shook his head as though the words had no meaning. She tried again.
“Near Hyde Park. It has a bright blue door. I spent a few hours there today. The docent on duty gave me the coin.”
“Gave it to you?” He put his mug on the table and leaned toward her, which raised the intimidation factor considerably. “He just handed you a coin like that?”
Amy pushed her chair back and stood up. “I don’t know if arrogance comes with the Prince William accent or the fact that you own this place.” She picked up the coin and kept her gaze steady.
His amazing dark blue eyes softened as she watched.
“Sorry.” He backed off. “It’s been a long day.”
As apologies went it was bare bones. So if this wasn’t an imaginative pick-up line, then what was it? Was he really that interested in the coin? “I’ve been coming here for the better part of a year,” Amy said. “I don’t ever recall seeing you before.”
“I’m a temp. My regular job is teaching.”
“So you’re not the owner?”
“No, this bit’s my brother’s investment.” He made a gesture that included everything around them: the chairs they were sitting in, the pub, maybe even the building. “Now, sit down and tell me about the coin.” He nodded toward her chair as he sat down opposite it.
She stayed right where she was. So, he was not Prince Charming. And he didn’t give a flying fig what her name was, much less what she was doing for the rest of her life.
He just wanted to know about the coin. Oh well. For all of two seconds she considered telling him the story the tour guide had told her, about its magic, but knew he would scoff at her. Instead she went with ignorance.
“I don’t know much about it. Do you?”
“It has some moghul writing on one side,” he said slowly, as though the words were being tugged out of him. “Underneath that there’s an X and the word ‘cash’ next to the X. The other side has a crest.”
He was a teacher now. Very reserved, a little superior.
“Yes,” she said, finally taking her seat, curious and excited in spite of his detachment. “You saw all that when you picked it up off the floor?”
His gesture could have meant either yes or no.
“So what kind of language is moghul?” she asked, folding her other hand over the fist that held the coin. She would pull the information out of him even if it was one question at a time.
“The moghuls conquered India in the sixteenth century and were the power there until the British took over.”
“You make that sound a lot easier than it was. They hardly went knock, knock on the palace door and announced ‘We’re here now.’ I may not be British but I know better than that.”
“Aha, you’ve read history,” he said. “I’ll quiz you on that later. It’s the coin I’m interested in right now.” He was relaxing a little. The tension was still there, though, in the way he held his body, the way he watched her so intently. Too bad that look wasn’t for her. He reached across the table and tapped one finger gently on the back of her hand.
“Please? May I see the coin?” He looked down at her hand even as he asked.
She heard what he said, but what her mind (and body) focused on was the point of contact, finger to wrist, and the flood of awareness that slammed through her, a purely physical flash from his fingertip to every pulse point. In an instant she was restless and wanting. Wow, she thought, straightening in her chair. And I don’t even like him. Does he feel this?
Apparently not, as his gaze was still fixed on her hand. It’s about the coin, stupid. She put it down and pushed it in front of her, far enough so that he had a clear view of it. He shook his head. His smile was the kind you would see on a boy with his newest, finest toy.
“I know a lot about this coin,” he said, not looking up. “It was minted in 1808.”
“You’re right!” she said after she had turned the coin over so she could check the date.
“It was commissioned by the East India Company.” He leaned closer to it. “That’s their crest above the date. All the coins were packed in wax and then in barrels and put on a ship bound for India. It sank in a squall that pushed the ship onto the Goodwin Sands beyond the Straits of Dover. The whole lot of them were lost until 1985, when the ship was found and some of the coins were recovered. This is one of them. And this particular one has a dent in it.”
“Does the dent diminish its value?” She reached over and fit her nail into the little indentation.
“No, it’s what makes it important. To me at least.”
“It’s important?” Amy picked up the coin, examining it with new respect. “How do you know this? I never heard of it before.”
“I’ve been studying it for a long time,” he said, “and trying to find one for almost as long.”
“Wow. And I walk in with one. Isn’t that odd?” Magic? She pushed that thought aside. “If it’s so rare and valuable, why would the docent give it to me?”
“It does seem odd,” he said after a long minute.
“Yes, it does.” She was speaking aloud, mostly to herself. Then that mistrust in his voice registered. She realized, with some surprise, what he was implying. “Do you think I stole it?”
Two
The bartender held up his hands as if that would protect him from her verbal assault.
“You don’t even know my name or anything else about me and you believe I’m a thief?” She sat back in her chair. “That’s insulting. My name is Amy Stevens. I’m from Topeka, Kansas. I’ve been studying here for a year and I’m scheduled to head home next week. Until about a minute ago I was really, really sorry to be leaving. As a matter of fact, until a minute ago I didn’t have a bad thing to say about my experience here.” Folding her arms, she gave him as haughty a look as she could muster. “And you are?”
“Simon West,” he said, lowering his hands. He started tapping a rhythm on the table’s edge.
“I told you that the docent gave me the coin,” she repeated. “I did not steal it.”
“All right, but this has to be more than a coincidence.” He stopped tapping.
“What is?”
“That you’re here with a coin I’ve wanted for years.”
“Do you think I came here to sell it to you? You really are too much.” Amy reached out to pick up her coin and leave.
He leaned over and took her hand. “I do not think you took it or came here to sell it to me. That would be much too simple.”
“Now you’re talking in riddles.” Her words came out in a whisper, her response to his touch once again overriding her annoyance with him.
Oh hell’s bells, how could this be one-sided?
You are a fool, Simon West. Yes, she was adorable with her wayward auburn hair and lively eyes. Were they green or brown? No matter. She was up to something. “Sorry, Amy. I am talking in riddles.”
The coin, here and now, was too big a coincidence to be anything but a con. Or magic—which was absurd. He’d play along with her game because he wanted that coin, not because he was taken in by her. She’d probably spent the year studying acting.
“So you believe me? That I didn’t steal the coin?”
Her accent was delightful. The Queen’s English as a second language. He loved the way Yanks tried to speak the mother tongue. It charmed him the way a French accent charmed others. Pop a top on it, you idiot. Think with your head.
“I want you to tell me that you believe me,” she insisted.
“She is telling the truth, sir. She did not steal it nor come here to sell it to you. I can promise you that.”
With a start Simon turned to find a man dressed in an old-fashioned naval uniform standing beside the table.
“May I ask
who you are?” Simon asked, then, seeing Amy’s pleased surprise, he raised his hand for silence. “You’re the docent from the museum.”
“Yes.” Amy and the newcomer spoke in unison.
Of course he is. Simon waited, wondering what was next.
“You doubt me, sir?” The older man drew himself up to his full height. “Indeed I am a docent. Wentworth Arbuckle is my name. I work at the house with the blue door three blocks north.”
“Right, maybe you are.” Simon tried to figure out this new spin. No one knew of his studies. There was no money in the coin or his research. He’d kept it a tight secret largely because he disliked being called a fool. “Tell me why you would give away a coin like that. I’m sure your employer would not approve.”
“What do you know of that coin?” the docent asked, apparently unconcerned about the suggestion of theft.
Simon looked from the docent to Amy, who was watching for his answer with an expression that all but shouted, “Don’t make us wait!” What the hell. They must know the answer already. Why else would they be here?
“I’ve seen the coin in a portrait,” he said, addressing the docent directly.
That one sentence brought a complete shift of energy.
“A portrait? Where is this painting?” Arbuckle asked, his bearing changing from calm to excited in an instant.
“In my office.” Simon spoke slowly, feeling the plot deepen.
“And you have the actual coin, miss!” the docent exclaimed, slapping his hands together as though they were on the verge of discovering something incredible. “Please, I beg of you, sir. May I see the painting?”
Simon took a minute to think it through. “Why not?” It would be easy enough to pretend to be won over by the man’s enthusiasm. “I’ll trade one look at the painting for another look at that coin.”
“Sure,” Amy said without a moment’s hesitation, as though she was as innocent as she was pretty.
He looked away from the vivid face. “Let me tell the staff.” Without waiting for an answer he went over to the man at the door.
Amy would have called the guy Simon was talking to a bouncer, even though she had never seen him do anything but call a cab for someone too drunk to make it home on his own. West talked to him for all of a minute. Whatever he said had the man looking at them with suspicion and nodding his understanding.
He’s backup, Amy decided as she pocketed the coin. In case we’re bad guys. She looked at the tour guide to see if he was offended. Not at all. He was smiling, ready to burst with anticipation.
Simon West then had a quick word with the other bartender and gestured to them. He then opened the door to the back office and led the way.
She was not impressed with the space, a cramped office filled with business junk. And no sign of a portrait. Confused, Amy decided she would let Mr. Arbuckle go ahead of her.
West turned as he put his hand on a doorknob at the other end of the room. “It’s not here. The portrait with the coin in it is in my study upstairs.”
“Is there anyone else home? Your wife, maybe?” Amy asked. Being from Topeka did not mean she was naïve—a little slow at self-protection maybe, but not naïve.
“No wife,” West said. “Just a sec. I’ll see if any of the staff is about.” He disappeared through the door and she heard him shout, “Tandy? Roger? Is anyone home?”
“I’m polishing the brass in the front hall,” a female voice bellowed back. “Roger’s in the upstairs loo fixing the leak. You need something you come up here.”
With a nod, Simon held the door again for Amy and the docent. He directed them down a wide hall that ended in what reminded Amy of servants’ stairs, the kind that typically ended with a green baize door. The door opened onto a stunning foyer.
Amy took in the black-and-white tiled floor, the great clock, and a woman—Tandy she assumed—cleaning a doorknob. The air was filled with the odd, combined scent of polish and the sweetness of Asiatic lilies, coming from the flowers near the door. Wow, Amy thought, it was so elegant. Not your usual bachelor flat.
“I’m taking Miss Stevens and this gentleman to see the portrait.”
“All right,” Tandy said. “Call me if you want some tea.”
With a nod to Tandy, Simon led them up the stairs.
Amy waved at the maid, who nodded back with a friendly smile, even as she followed Simon and the docent up the rise of gleaming wood steps. The staircase formed a U at end of the hall opposite the front door. A long landing connected the two stairways and Amy walked very slowly, examining the paintings that lined the wall.
She stopped in front of one. “Is this a Rembrandt?” she asked, raising her head to find Simon watching her.
“A Rembrandt? We dearly wish, but no, my fine art observer, it’s a fake. Of Rembrandt’s school, of his time and not by him.”
“I’m no expert, but surely it’s a very good fake,” Amy said, standing back and considering it carefully.
“Yes, it fooled a lot of people until the thirties, when Berenson and his cronies doubted its attribution. Now there are dozens of almost Old Masters around.”
Even a fake Rembrandt from the 1600s must be worth money, she thought, or at least more than she would ever spend on a painting. Too bad it wasn’t the real thing.
With a nod of sympathy she followed Simon the rest of the way up the stairs, wondering who he was. “So this place is half magnificent townhouse and half football pub?”
“Yes.” Simon’s single word was abrupt. “My brother was sure it was the solution to all financial ills.”
By his tone Amy assumed it was not. She could hear her mother’s voice in that part of her memory reserved for life lessons—“It’s impolite to ask about money”—and quelled the overwhelming urge to quiz him for details.
The U-shape of the staircase had her all turned around and when they reached the final landing she looked out the huge arched window to get her bearings. The building was placed crosswise at the end of a cul-de-sac. The twilight edging to dark made it impossible to see more than that it was a quiet neighborhood, very quiet. How could she have come to Earl’s Place for a year and not known that Earl’s was half of a house with a split personality? Amazing.
No less amazing than the room Simon ushered them into. It had more arched windows on two walls and she could imagine it in the daytime, filled with light.
It was more like a library than a study, lined with shelves that were filled with books. There was a desk and a table, the wood surfaces barely visible under endless stacks of books, papers, and files. A state-of-the-art computer showed the room for the anachronism it was.
Even with all that to look at, it was the painting that dominated the space. “That portrait’s from the Regency,” Amy said with real pleasure.
“Right,” Simon agreed. “George III gone crazy and his son named Regent. That and Napoleon’s ego made the early 1800s pretty interesting.”
Amy moved closer to the portrait. “The Regency is my favorite period in English history. I’ve read Jane Austen, seen exhibits, visited museums, and read at least a hundred historical novels.” She loved it, and not because the men were as compelling as the one in this painting. He resembled Simon West so much that she wondered if he had posed for it and this was his idea of a practical joke.
Not possible. Why would he do that? Besides, he said he had never seen the actual coin before today. This painting had to be the real thing.
The man in the painting posed with casual elegance, seated at the side of a desk, not behind it. On the desktop were a toy train, a miniature of a woman, and the coin. It was the smallest item, but somehow it caught and held one’s attention. Was it because it was so carefully rendered, right down to the dent?
“It has a dent,” Amy said. “Like mine. That is seriously weird.”
“Now you see why I was so amazed when you showed up with it?” Simon turned to find the docent and include him in the conversation. He was standing in the shadows near the fi
replace, seeming more ghostlike than real, but he nodded at Simon.
“Who is this, Simon? Some relative, for sure,” Amy asked.
“A many times great-grandfather, the third Earl of Weston.”
She could feel the flush of embarrassment creep up her cheeks. And she had teased him about his “Prince William accent.” “And when did you inherit the title?” She tried to sound casual and not completely out of place.
“My brother’s the earl, not me.”
So much for her fantasy. Bartender or not, Simon West was related to an earl, not to mention his six feet of blond good looks with an accent that was as seductive as a glass of champagne. He was probably dating a supermodel.
“So you’re the second son? Like Prince Harry? You have a title, too, don’t you? Not prince, ummm…” She paused a second, trying to recall. “Lord Simon, isn’t it?”
“No, my brother has the use of that title as well. I’m simply Mr. West.” A little bow accompanied Simon’s exaggerated accent.
Simon watched as she made a conscious effort not to be impressed with his rank. Good for her. American through and through. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a grifter of some kind. He still could not see how they were going to make money from him, short of picking up a bit of silver and walking out with it.
Not that there was any silver to pinch.
“The earl in the portrait looks so much like you, Simon. Doesn’t it feel odd to know he’s been dead for two hundred years?”
“My brother and I are twins,” he began. So far they hadn’t asked a single question that wasn’t easily available. Except for the request to see the portrait. He looked around for Wentworth Arbuckle again and did not see him. Damn, was that it? She would chat him up and the old man would see what he could steal. He was just about to be shot of both of them when the docent stood up from the wing chair facing the fireplace and nodded to him.
“You’re a twin?” she asked.
“Right,” he said. “Having someone look like me is the norm. Besides, I bet you’ve seen pictures of your great-grandmother or some distant relative and everyone comments on how much you look like her. Not that much difference.”
Dead of Night Page 11
