A Tangled Web (33 page)

She laid a fire and lit it, then turned on both faucets in her tub, pouring in a stream of bath oil. She boiled water in an electric teakettle in her sitting room and stripped off her clothes while the tea was steeping, then carried the cup and teapot into the bathroom and lowered herself slowly into the fragrant, steaming water. Her tears had stopped and now, gradually, her shivering stopped. Her body soaked up the heat and the slow caress of the bath oil; she put her head back until only her face was exposed, her hair floating on the surface of the water.

Stephanie was here, too: it was as if Sabrina could see her coming in that first night, walking around the room, opening closets and drawers, discovering all that would be hers for the one week they had crazily decided to steal from their lives, standing before the mirror in a dress from the closet that made her look, suddenly and astonishingly,
exactly like Sabrina, the same tilt of the head, the same confident pose . . .

I can't do this, Sabrina thought; it's so real it's as if she's alive.

She forced herself to think of London, of Ambassadors and Brian, and of Nicholas. Dinner with Nicholas tomorrow, and she had to be prepared. She thought often of selling Ambassadors and she knew she would one day, but no one, certainly not Nicholas, was going to steal it from her.

And so when she met him at the Savoy the next evening, she was cool and watchful. At first Nicholas was not aware of it. “A small gift, Stephanie,” he said, handing her a box wrapped in silver and gold paper. “Sabrina found them amusing.” They were sitting at a small table beside a window looking out on the Thames and the long span of Waterloo Bridge. The view was framed by velvet draperies and figured wallpaper, and Nicholas, in suit and vest and starched cuffs, had settled into his upholstered chair with a sigh; it was his favorite room, as Sabrina had known. “I thought you might find it amusing, too. It's a little gift to welcome you to London. It was a surprise to hear from Brian—you never told us the exact date you'd be coming—but how pleasant, Stephanie . . . and of course you have a birthday coming up—in September, isn't it?—and you may not be here then. And I always remembered Sabrina's birthday with some little token.”

No, you did not. And this is only May; a very long time to September.
Sabrina opened the box. “Well, Nicholas,” she said after a moment. “A Fabergé egg is more than a little token.” She lifted it from its box, a golden egg decorated with jewels that swung open beneath her fingers to reveal a tiny basket of flowers carved from precious stones. “In perfect condition,” she murmured.

“Well, only the best,” said Nicholas gaily.

“Thank you. It's very generous of you.” And not bad, she thought, as an attempted bribe. She smiled at him, suddenly enjoying herself, reveling in being back in the
fray, fencing with people who always had hidden motives. “Such a clever idea, to open a conversation with such a gift.”

Nicholas's look sharpened; he never liked it when people understood him.

“Tell me about the winter season,” she said. “I've gone over our books and it seems to have been rather quiet.”

“Yes, rather. The economy, you know, people are holding back, waiting for a clue to the future. I wouldn't worry, though, dear Stephanie; we're solvent and we can wait out a bad season, or even two, if we have to.”

“Even two,” Sabrina repeated thoughtfully. “And what are you doing to change a bad season to a successful one?”

“Well, you know, one talks to clients, as always, one meets new people, one gathers information for the future; the main thing is to make sure that one's clients and their friends don't forget one.”

“You mean you continue to build goodwill for Blackford's and Ambassadors.”

“Exactly. Exactly. One is always at work, always.”

“But the question seems to be, Nicholas, for whom?”

“I beg your pardon?” He finished his martini, waved to the waiter for another, and picked up his soup spoon, absently tapping it on the table. “You tend to talk in riddles, dear Stephanie; many of us find it disconcerting—even, on occasion, unpleasant.”

My God, Sabrina thought, is that the best he can do to try to make me afraid of him? “If that's true, I regret it,” she said evenly. “I've not heard that from anyone, but of course you deal with rumors far more frequently than I do.” She watched several expressions flit across his face. “I'm concerned about our reputation, Nicholas. I've been thinking of expanding from our three shops, adding two more, in New York and Paris”—she had not been thinking of any such thing, but as she said it, she thought, Why not?—” and I will not tolerate anything that might tarnish
our good name. There are only two things we have to offer our clients: expertise and trust—you know that as well as I do—and it takes a long time to establish both of them. I worked too hard to create that for Ambassadors to allow anyone—”

“Well, but my dear Stephanie, surely you mean your sister did.”

Abruptly, Sabrina struck the table with her hand. “It's the same thing!” She stopped, astounded at her lack of control. Nicholas was staring at her in amazement. And, in fact, she had never before raised her voice in a business discussion, nor had she done anything as untoward as striking the table in a discreet restaurant.
It's being back here for the first time in months, but not really being back, because I have another life now.

“Stephanie?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for. Of course my sister built Ambassadors, but I often find myself speaking for both of us, especially when it comes to business. As you know, we were very close. My point remains, Nicholas: I will not tolerate anyone making the slightest attempt to undermine my reputation or that of the shop.”

“Of course, of course.” His head tilted, Nicholas looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Forgive me for getting a trifle personal, Stephanie, but you seem to be under a strain; I think you're trying to do too much. Why don't you go back to your husband and children—you're obviously a fine housewife and mother—and let me manage Ambassadors? I'll continue to report to you at regular intervals, and I assure you, you will be quite satisfied.”

“What satisfies me,” Sabrina said softly, “is working with the three shops we have now, and any others we decide to purchase, and being kept informed on all major purchases and sales at Ambassadors and Blackford's. What satisfies me, Nicholas, is trust.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but really, Stephanie, you cannot run a business from across the ocean. There are major
decisions that must be made every day involving hundreds of thousands of pounds—millions, on occasion. These are not small dealings such as you handle from your little shop in Chicago—”

“Evanston.”

“Evanston, yes, of course.” The waiter placed another martini in front of him and refilled Sabrina's wineglass from the bottle on the table. “The point remains—”

“And I intend to keep doing it, Nicholas, with help and cooperation from you and Brian. I do own Ambassadors, as I hope you remember. I think there's nothing more to be said about that.”

“
Nothing more to be said?
My dear Stephanie, that is not for you to decide.” He took a long swallow of his martini. “The fact is, I am bringing new clients to Ambassadors far more prominent than those Sabrina dealt with before her death. I am commissioned to locate and purchase pieces of furniture, jewelry and paintings that are among the most precious in the world.”

“I thought business was down. The economy and so forth.”

“Even in a slow season, I am finding the best clients. And you are in no position to deal with them. Sabrina might have been able to, but beyond the physical resemblance you are nothing like her. You are quite out of your depth here; London is really no place for you. You're far better off in Evanston with your family and friends. I promise you, at regular intervals, your share of the profits—”

“Excuse me, Nicholas,” Sabrina said as the waiter approached again, “may we order now?”

His face was flushed. “I haven't decided . . . well, what are you having?”

“Scallops and then the duck.”

He nodded. “Fine. The same.”

The sommelier had joined them. “And perhaps a red wine to accompany the duck?”

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” said Sabrina. “Do you still have any of the 'fifty-eight?”

“Ah,” he said approvingly. “We have a few bottles, madame.”

As he left, Nicholas spread his hands. “Did she tell you everything?”

“Yes. Now, if I heard you correctly, you were talking about profits. You alone would send my checks? With no one else looking at the account books?”

“A ship has one captain, Stephanie. I will take care of you, I promise.”

Sabrina laughed. “Oh, Nicholas, a Fabergé egg isn't enough.”

His face reddened again. “Don't play games with me. You're a very pleasant woman, Stephanie, but—I regret having to repeat this, but it is important—you do not have your sister's class and sophistication. You're a housewife and a mother, both admirable occupations, but they do not prepare you for dealing with wealth and royalty. You can wear Sabrina's clothes and live in her house, you can even order wine that she told you about, but you're still a poor imitation of Sabrina Longworth. You're not as experienced as she was, not as socially adept, and because of that, I am the one who should be concerned about our reputation, and I cannot allow you to continue to interfere in the workings of these shops, putting everything at risk. Too much is at stake.”

Sabrina had leaned forward so that their faces were a few inches apart. “A poor imitation?” she echoed seriously. “Everyone else has trouble believing I'm not really Sabrina.” She held his gaze for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. “Poor Nicholas, to be so desperate. I won't ask you what is at stake; you'll have to deal with whatever you've done that has made you so anxious to be rid of me. But I will tell you what I've decided. I'm going to write letters to all our clients and to others—those prominent people you mentioned—assuring them that our services are as complete as ever and that we act on their behalf from the moment an item is purchased to the time it is delivered. That means we will not allow any item,
however small or large, to be shipped to a customer without a thorough inspection of its condition and a search of its provenance in our shop. Any sale at auction is contingent on the item's condition being as stated in the catalogue—you know that, Nicholas, but many clients do not—and one of our most important duties is to fulfill that part of the sale. Those letters will go out this week over my signature. It would be appropriate, if we are to remain partners, for your signature to be there as well.”

His face had darkened; his eyes were bulging. “You can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“It undermines my integrity; it makes me look a fool.”

“How does it do that if your signature is on the letter?”

“You must not write it; it would be a mistake.”

“I don't think so.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to clients who already know what you can do for them.”

“I think perhaps I do.”

“You are absolutely determined to do this?”

“Absolutely.”

He sat frozen, then abruptly shoved back his chair. “We have nothing to talk about.” And with only the slightest hesitation as he realized he was deserting a woman in the middle of his favorite restaurant, he turned and walked out.

Sabrina sat alone. The sommelier brought the red wine and held the bottle for her to read the label. She nodded and he uncorked it. The minutes passed. The waiter put a dish of scallops before her and set another at Nicholas's place. “You may remove that,” she said. “Mr. Blackford has been taken ill and has gone home.”

The waiter's brows went up. In a moment, the maitre d' sped to her table. “If madame is uncomfortable and wishes to leave, we would understand . . . there would be no charge . . .”

Sabrina smiled at him. “I'm not at all uncomfortable. But I am very hungry.”

He stood looking at her, wondering why a beautiful woman forced to eat alone in a fine restaurant was not uncomfortable. But she continued to smile at him, and so, after a moment, he bowed. “If there is anything I can do . . .”

“Not at the moment.” She watched him walk away. In fact, she was very uncomfortable, but not for the reason he thought. Nicholas's hostility had shaken her; it wound itself around her and made London seem unpleasant, even treacherous. She sipped the superb red wine and felt depressed. She didn't really love being back in the fray, fencing with people who had hidden motives; it was a terrible waste of energy and she resented having to do it when she could be concentrating on making a marriage, building a home, bringing up children, spending her time loving instead of parrying thrusts from greedy or frightened people.

The waiter brought a plate of duck and wild rice and she contemplated it. She had no appetite but she would eat some of it, to prove to Nicholas and Denton and the waiters at the Savoy that she could eat alone anywhere. But she missed her family. She missed her home. She missed Garth. She wanted to look up and meet his eyes down the length of the dinner table. She wanted to hear her children chatter and even squabble over the things of their day. She wanted her house to creak about her and know that the windows were tight and the doors secure. I don't want two lives, she thought. I only want one.

But she would not let Nicholas win. She would find someone to buy Ambassadors and she would withdraw from her participation in Blackford's. She had known the time would come to do this; now that it had come, she realized how anxious she was to cut these ties. But she would not rush: now that she knew what she wanted, she would do it properly, even if it took a few months. I'll sell the house, too, she thought. Maybe by September I'll have sold them both.