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‘Certainly will, dear,’ she confirms, looking at me like a proud grandmother. It’s all I can do not to skip my way to the kitchen. I need a cup of tea and some time to reflect. Thirty-five million! I can’t wait to share the news with Becker.
I’ll tell him that I’ve trashed his Audi later.
Chapter 27
Winston is circling around his dog bowl like a nutter when I walk into the kitchen, and Mr H is trying to calm him down so he can get some food into it. ‘Sit,’ the old man shouts, shooing the burly beast away. ‘For the love of Apollo, will you sit down.’
Woof!
Winston’s nose is twitching crazily, his tail spinning like a propeller. ‘All right, all right.’ Mr H gives up trying to force an excitable Winston into obedience and empties a healthy helping of dog biscuits into his bowl. He dives in, the sounds of grunts and gulps drowning out Mr H’s mumbled moans as he struggles back to vertical, using the worktop and his walking stick for help. ‘Greedy guts.’
Winston, oblivious to the disapproval of his table manners, hoovers up the contents of his bowl in a few gluttonous gobbles, before proceeding to cough all over the place.
‘See, indigestion.’
I laugh, attracting old Mr H’s attention, as I wander over to the fridge. ‘Sold for a cool thirty-five million,’ I say casually, pulling the door open. I spot an apple and help myself, smiling as I sink my teeth in and turn to face Becker’s granddad. He’s grinning like I’ve never seen him grin before.
‘Quite a handful, the countess, isn’t she?’ He hobbles over to the kitchen table and takes a seat.
A bark of sardonic laughter erupts from my mouth, forcing me to slap my hand over it to stop some apple shooting out. I nod in agreement as I chew and swallow. ‘If by that you mean rude, disrespectful, and plain awful, then I’m inclined to agree.’
‘And you had the pleasure of her niece, too.’ He rests his walking stick against the side of the table, looking at me over his glasses, his chin nearly meeting the collar of his shirt. ‘Bet that made your day.’
My face twists in disdain as I make my way over to him, taking a seat opposite. Winston is at my feet immediately, sitting and searching for some attention. I reach down and give his ear a scratch. ‘She wants Becker. She hates me.’
He chuckles. ‘Get used to it, Eleanor. She won’t be the only one who’ll hate you.’
I shrug off his comment. He’s not telling me anything that I don’t already know.
‘How’s your mother?’ he asks.
‘She’s . . .’ I pause, wondering what word to use. Happy? Thriving? Reborn? ‘Amazing,’ I answer, because she is.
‘And what did she have to say about the news of your engagement?’
‘I’ve not told her yet,’ I tell him, making the old man’s grey eyebrows jump up in surprise. ‘I want to tell her face-to-face. I’m going home to see her soon.’
‘You should have her come to London. We can celebrate.’
‘I’ve already purchased my ticket home. Maybe another time. She’s never been to London before.’
‘Never been to the capital?’ He looks sympathetic, and I appreciate why. Everyone should experience the grandeur of London at least once. And if they’re anything like me, they’ll never want to leave.
‘Never,’ I confirm. ‘Dad wasn’t much of an adventurer.’
He smiles fondly. ‘You were rather attached to your dad, weren’t you?’
‘Literally.’ I smile. ‘He liked having me nearby. I used to watch him working on old junk while I dreamed of selling a Rembrandt to a snooty countess for a cool thirty-five mill.’ My smile stretches when he grabs his tummy and throws his head back on a laugh.
‘Bet he would be very proud of you, my girl.’
My smile falters a little. I think shocked might be more apt. Forged sculptures, a con-artist boss, a secret map, the police. ‘Maybe,’ I murmur. ‘He always told me that the high-end world of antiques wasn’t worth the bother. Obviously, I don’t agree. I love it here, as you know.’ I smile and the old man returns it. ‘But it’s not much fun being interrogated by the pol—’ I catch my tongue.
Mr H’s old face frowns, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘The police? Did they find out who broke into your apartment?’
‘Um . . .’ I stall, my brain engaging. Becker told me his gramps was the one to get Lady Winchester’s file out so it could be destroyed, so he must know the police are investigating her. Right? ‘A policeman approached me when I was meeting my friend outside her office. He asked a few questions about Lady Winchester.’
He sits back, surprised. ‘Price? Stan Price?’
‘That’s the one,’ I confirm, ‘I didn’t like him.’
‘Then you have a good sense of character,’ he says on a sardonic laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that, my darling. You shouldn’t have to deal with such nonsense.’
‘It’s fine,’ I assure him, brushing off his concern. ‘I honestly didn’t know what I should say.’
‘Don’t tell them anything, whether you know or not. He was far from helpful when we needed him after Lou’s car accident.’
‘It was Price who dealt with Becker’s mum’s death?’ This is news to me. When Becker said the police were less than helpful, I didn’t think he meant Price in particular.
‘He hardly dealt with it, rather he dismissed it. All the nonsense that’s happened since Lou was killed might not have happened had he done his job.’ His words resonate deeply, and he shakes his head, as if trying to shake away all of the memories that plague him.
‘Do you really think the Wilsons are responsible?’ I ask. We’re talking murder here. Not stealing or conning, but killing.
‘We have the proof, Eleanor.’
‘So why didn’t the police do something?’
‘Because Stan Price is in Wilson’s pocket.’
‘What?’
‘Wilson has dirt on Price, that much I’ve figured out. I just don’t know what.’ His eyes drop a little to the table and he smiles a small smile. ‘I’d love to know where Becker’s hiding that map so I could destroy it and put my mind at rest.’
I wince, feeling all kinds of guilty. I know where that map is, not that it will make much difference. ‘But it’s plastered all over his back,’ I remind him.
‘True.’ He sighs. ‘It’s quite something, don’t you think?’
‘Beautiful,’ I agree. ‘The detail is just incredible, the equator, the compass.’ I still find my head shaking in wonder every time I think about it or see it. And I know I can’t stop my mind racing with thoughts of where the heck the missing piece could be. And as I look at Mr H, I wonder . . . does he still battle his curiosity? I’d love to ask, but he looks a bit vacant. The air needs clearing of the sadness it’s suddenly laced with after the mention of Becker’s parents. ‘I’m so looking forward to the Andelesea Gala.’
That soon grabs his attention. ‘Becker’s taking you?’
‘Yes, and they’re showcasing the Heart of Hell.’ My eyes must be glimmering as spectacularly as that ruby. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am to see that precious stone, Mr H. Did you know the discovery of that gem was rumoured to be a myth? Just a publicity stunt?’ I don’t know why I’m saying this. Of course he knows.
‘I did, dear.’ He smiles fondly at me. ‘I hope you enjoy it.
He reaches for his paper, knocking his stick where it’s resting against the table. ‘Damn it.’ It hits the floor, and I’m quick to dip and collect it up for him. ‘I’ll get it,’ he assures me, leaning down.
‘Mr H, leave it,’ I scold him, sure I can hear his bones cracking as he tries to bend.
‘I’ve got it, Eleanor.’ His feeling fingers brush the stick.
‘Really, Mr H, let someone help you.’ I swipe the stick up, astounded by his stubbornness, before setting my half-eaten app
le on the table and quickly getting to my feet to help him sit up. ‘You shouldn’t be straining like that.’ I get him comfy and go to place the stick against the table, feeling the gold topper rattling in my grasp. ‘I think this is loose,’ I say, just as the knob comes off in my hand. Shit. I quickly start to screw it back on, startling when the old man’s hand shoots out fast to claim his stick.
‘I’ll sort it, dear.’ He makes quick work of tightening the gold knob, offering me a mild smile as I retract my hands.
I laugh, though I can’t deny it’s wary. ‘You hiding something in there?’ The old man moves fast. Sometimes.
Mr H belly laughs. ‘Would you mind making me a nice cup of—’ He’s interrupted when the door to the kitchen flies open, and I look to find Mrs Potts brushing off her hands, like she’s just taken care of some unpleasant business.
And I remember. She has.
‘Tea?’ I finish for the old man as I wander over to the kettle. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask Mrs Potts, visions popping into my mind of her dragging the countess and Alexa down the alleyway by their ears.
‘It is now they’ve gone. Nasty, snotty-nose riff-raff.’ She slams the door behind her and puffs out her bosom. ‘Needn’t think they’re better than any of us,’ she rants on, marching over to the stove and yanking the oven open. The delicious smell in the kitchen intensifies. ‘I nearly ripped some dahlias from my flower beds and stuffed them down her posh neck to shut her up.’
I snigger as I flip the tap and fill the pot. ‘Waste of dahlias.’
She laughs her agreement as she pokes at her pastry before setting it aside and turning, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her smile fades quickly and, wondering why, I follow her worried eyes and find old Mr H looking pale. I drop the kettle and fly across the kitchen, Mrs Potts following me.
‘Mr H?’ I say, my hand rubbing his shoulder as I assess his condition. His eyes have glazed over, his light grey hair darkening with sweat. He looks vacant. He’s also shaking terribly, worse than I’ve ever known.
‘Donald?’ Mrs Potts speaks loudly, barging me out of the way. I don’t protest, willingly letting her get to him. ‘Donald, look at me.’
He doesn’t, and though none of the symptoms are fading, Mrs Potts’s concern doesn’t increase. She seems quite calm, like she’s done this time and again. ‘Is he okay?’
‘Just a funny turn, dear.’ She pushes her arm through his and encourages him to stand, which he does with more effort than usual. ‘Come on, let’s get you lying down.’
It’s the first time since I’ve known Becker’s grandfather that he hasn’t complained about being bossed about or physically assisted. He looks washed out, drained of colour. I don’t like seeing him like this. I rush to open the kitchen door, holding it while they hobble through together. ‘I’ll call Becker.’
‘No need to worry him, dear.’
Mr H jerks and loses his grip of his stick again, and it clatters to the floor at my feet. ‘I’ve got it,’ I say, bending to retrieve it. The gold knob rolls a few feet, and I reach for it, trying to screw it back on for him again.
‘Leave it,’ the old man wheezes, and I glance up at him, confused, finding him staring at me. His eyes. They look haunted, and I slowly pass his stick over. Taking it, he shakes his head and lets Mrs Potts continue guiding him out of the kitchen.
My brow is wrinkled, my lip being nibbled harshly. He was fine. And then . . . not.
A sad whimper has me glancing down to find Winston looking as sad as he sounds. ‘He’ll be okay, boy,’ I say, aware that I’m saying this more for my reassurance than Winston’s. ‘I promise.’ He sticks to the side of my leg as I wander over to the table to collect my bag. I’m doubting Mrs Potts’s insistence not to call Becker. Or maybe she’s right. He’ll only panic, speed home, and risk getting himself into an accident.
I look down and find Winston still at my feet. ‘Fancy a walk?’ I ask him, and he looks up at me with droopy eyes. ‘Come on. We could both use some fresh air.’ I still have the unpleasant lingering aftermath of Alexa pinching at my skin.
Chapter 28
An hour roaming the park really didn’t do me any favours. Open space and a lack of company left a massive void to worry about old Mr H. I called Lucy in an attempt to take my mind off the old man who I’ve become so fond of, and it worked to a certain extent. She’s all loved up, seeming far more settled after the explosions last night. She didn’t mention the girl from floor eighteen once.
When I’ve settled Winston in his bed, I go in search of Mrs Potts to find out how Mr H is. I poke my nose around every door, not finding a soul in any of the rooms, leaving me concluding that she’s still in his suite with him. It only increases my worry, but not wanting to knock and disturb them, I reluctantly make my way back to the showing room to start packing away the Rembrandt, anything to keep me busy instead of hanging around worrying.
I’m surprised when I wander in and find Becker there, carefully wrapping the painting. His shirt-covered back holds my attention for a few moments, my mind picturing the map beneath the layer of his clothing. No matter how much old Mr H wants that map gone from their lives, it’s never going to happen.
‘You’re back,’ I say from the doorway.
‘I’m back,’ he replies softly, finishing packaging the painting and lifting it from the easel. ‘I’ve just seen Gramps.’
‘Dorothy said not to call you and cause undue worry.’ Do we need to worry? Taking the easel, I carry it to the corner of the room and put it in its rightful place. ‘How is he?’
‘He was very sleepy. I left him to rest.’
I relax, relieved. ‘I’m glad. He had me worried.’
‘Yeah, me too. He’ll be fine.’ He exhales, sounding tired. Worn down. Worried? ‘Now, let’s talk about the Audi.’
My arms turn to stone, braced against the sides of the easel. Fuck. I forgot about that. ‘I sold the painting,’ I blurt out, whirling around. He’s glaring at me, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Thirty-five million,’ I declare proudly. ‘Not thirty, but thirty-five million.’ Becker’s head cocks to the side a little, amused. ‘I told her the National wanted it. She bit my hand off.’ His face remains unimpressed, and it begins to rile me. He threw me in the deep end and forced me to tread water alone. And I did bloody well, too. ‘You could at least look pleased,’ I snap petulantly. ‘And since you seem so keen to talk about cars, let’s . . .’ I only just manage to rein myself in before I clue him in on my suspicions about the vintage Ferrari. I keep forgetting that Becker doesn’t know about my encounter with Brent. And he mustn’t. It’ll only anger him and encourage him to continue with these crazy games.
‘Let’s what?’ He takes a threatening step towards me.
‘Nothing.’ I evade his eyes.
‘Princess . . .’ he extends my pet name, sounding guarded. ‘Let’s what?’
‘Nothing.’ I laugh, aiming for nonchalance, but I only achieve guilt. I’m still not looking at him, and I dare not, either. ‘I have a pile of paperwork to get through.’ I thumb over my shoulder and back away. ‘Must get on.’ I turn and hurry away, wondering at what point he might share his recent rip-off, if he will at all. I might have it all wrong. After all, he promised me no more secrets. But Brent has told me that he’s got the car; Becker’s also told me he has a new woman in his life. So, who has the fucking car?
I hear Becker’s phone ring as I make my escape, thankful that he’s distracted from chasing me down and pressing me. For now, anyway. I don’t know how to handle this. ‘Called to gloat?’ Becker asks when he’s answered, rather than your customary hello or hey or afternoon. There’s also a ton of menace behind the question. I hear him curse, and I risk a peek over my shoulder, seeing him stabbing at the screen of his phone with his thumb. He’s cut the call. He looks mad. Why? I don’t know, and by the look on his face, I don’t want to. I turn and hurry out. ‘Stop
where you are, princess.’
I stutter to a halt and freeze, like he could have pressed a pause button on me. I don’t like the authority in his command. Neither do I like the fact that I’m apprehensive, rather than my usual lusty self when he throws orders at me. Then my brain seems to jump-start.
Called to gloat?
Oh . . . no . . .
I shrink like a blooming flower that’s had burning hot water poured over it. There’s only one person who Becker would ask that question, and in my haste to escape, I didn’t think about it quickly enough. I would have run faster had my brain engaged sooner.
‘Something to tell me?’ he asks, his voice brittle with annoyance. I close my eyes when I sense him coming closer, until he’s pushed up against my back and breathing in my ear.
I shake my head into his cheek, keeping my mouth shut. I don’t know why I’m denying it. That was Brent on the phone, and he’s kindly filled Becker in on our little meeting outside my apartment. Which means Becker’s obviously assumed – rightly – that Brent’s told me that he won the car. So why is he being so reproachful? He’s the one in the wrong, not me.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Brent Wilson was sniffing around your apartment?’ he asks, his hips pushing into my back, a calculating move that could work for him. Grind me down with his sinful expertise. Make me mindless and desperate and willing to throw myself into a fire if he will only indulge me.
I breathe in. ‘Why would I when I know you’d get angry?’
‘I’m not angry,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘You smell like apple.’
My teeth sink into my lip as I fight off the want he’s unearthing. He’s mad but playing it cool, and it occurs to me that he’s not mad that Brent Wilson has dropped him in it, but because Brent ignored Becker’s demand to stay away from me. But we need to get back to the matter at hand. ‘Have you got something to tell me?’ I counter.