Swept off Her Feet (37 page)

“That’s fantastic!” I began, then remembered Max’s rules about keeping cool. “I mean, do you? What sort of price were you looking to pay?”

Walter was so wrong-footed by this unheard-of tactic that he stopped licking his lips and stared at me.

“Maybe you’d like to show me which ones,” I said, pulling up the photograph on the laptop. “They were very good examples, some with the original baize.”

He leaned forward, but I barely noticed the sudden nasal assault of stale sweat and tobacco, thanks to the pang of nostalgia that rushed over me when the crowded upstairs room popped onto my screen. I wasn’t looking at the piled furniture: my eye went straight to the crisp blanket of snow and the forest visible in the corner of the windows. Two doors down was the ballroom, and my bedroom, and—

“I want the whole lot,” said Walter. “Two grand. For everything in that room.”

I glanced across. He was staring at the screen with a manic gleam in his eye. Not normal. And not at all like the way Max had gripped his head and moaned aloud at the bourgeois tastes of the upper middle classes.

Alarm bells rang in the back of my mind. Had he seen something in that photo that Max hadn’t? Had one of those escritoires belonged to someone famous? Was there a Ming vase hidden behind an elephant’s foot?

“If you can have it packed up, I’ll send my lad up with the van,” said Walter, reaching into his pocket.
“The whole room,”
he stressed. “Top to bottom.”

“Max has just popped out for lunch,” I said, peering desperately at the photo. “You might want to—”

“You don’t want to make the commission yourself?” He withdrew a tempting wad of actual notes. Red notes. Fifties. “You’re the one who did the hard work. What’s your cut—twenty percent? Max needn’t know.”

Now, this was definitely suspicious. No one ever cut deals with me. My head swam at the thought of making some real money, but a sterner voice cut in.
This is Robert’s property.

“I’d need to check with the owners first,” I said, playing for time.

“Three grand,” blurted Walter, then looked furious with himself.

I reached for my phone, staring at the laptop screen. It was like a Where’s Waldo puzzle. “I’m going to call the McAndrews,” I said. “Run it past them.”

I almost dialed Duncan’s number, then chickened out. He’d say yes at once, and now my instincts were telling me that something in there was worth a packet.

Oh, be honest,
I thought.
You want to call Robert. Any excuse.

I dialed his mobile, and it started ringing. My heart started banging to much the same rhythm. I hadn’t even had time to imagine this conversation. I hadn’t thought through how I’d open the batting, what he’d say, how I’d casually ask about his wedding plans. …

“Three and a half,” hissed Walter. “Max has really trained you well, the sneaky—”

“Hello?” said a familiar voice in my ear.

My stomach did a slow loop-the-loop, like the Red Arrows aerobatic squad trailing plumes of excitement through my bloodstream.

“Hello, Robert!” I managed. “It’s Evie.”

“Evie!” He sounded pleased to hear from me. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, thanks, bit busy, um . . .” I suddenly realized that I didn’t
want
to do small talk: I didn’t want to hear about
the wedding. “I’ve had an offer for some of the furniture from the house,” I said, trying to sound professional. “Are you still interested in selling some of it?”

Just that room,
Walter mouthed, sending a jet of halitosis in my direction.

“I might be,” said Robert easily. “I have various expensive plans in the pipeline, could do with some cash flow. Which furniture?”

I pushed aside the image of Catriona’s expensive wedding needs. She’d be bound to go for the huge marquee, nine-foot cupcake towers, eighteen bridesmaids all St. Tropezed the same shade, the lot.

“The . . .” I almost called it the upstairs junk room. “The room with the . . .” I peered at the screen, trying to find a star item to make it sound better. There was so much stuff packed in that you could barely see the carpet. “. . . table your dad thinks is made out of wreckage from the Armada. Allegedly.”

And it was then that I saw what Walter had seen. The carpet
wasn’t
carpeting: it was an enormous rug, and the tiny areas visible between the repro writing desks had delicate leaf and star patterns woven into the pile. My pulse banged.

That
was what he was after. Not the furniture—the
rug
. I didn’t know a lot about them, but my instincts yelled that it could potentially be worth a lot more than three and a half grand, especially if Walter had doubled his offer in the space it had taken me to make one phone call.

I kicked myself. Why hadn’t I spotted it? Because I’d been too busy checking the escritoires for hidden love notes and diamond necklaces in secret drawers. Chasing after the imaginary romance instead of seeing what was under my nose.

“The room stuffed full of tables?” Robert said. “Oh, take the money. Please.”

“Don’t rush into a decision,” I insisted, and Walter’s expression changed. “There might be items in there that need reassessment.”

“Are you angling to come up to Kettlesheer again?” he asked. I could almost see his straight face, his dark eyes glinting as he spoke.

“No, no! I mean, yes, but . . .” My cheeks turned crimson.

“Four grand, and that’s my final offer.” Walter’s toxic breath gusted far too close for comfort.

“Maybe I should drop in and talk it through?” Robert went on.

“Yes!” That sounded a bit keen. “I mean, yes, that’s probably a good idea,” I said, trying to regain my confident tone in front of both of them. “Why don’t you do that? How about—”

There was some background noise on Robert’s end. “Hang on,” he said, “I’ve got a call waiting. Don’t go away.”

As if.

“I won’t.” I put one hand over the phone and stared Walter down. Forget keeping my job; this was the least I could do for Duncan and Ingrid. Max was always muttering about what some of those rugs fetched—it might make up for the table.

“What’s it really worth?” I demanded. “It’s the carpet, isn’t it?”

Walter’s eyes went sideways. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on,” I snapped, anxious to get this brokered before Robert finished his other call. “We can bring you in as an expert. Just tell me.”

The shop bell jangled, but I ignored it. If it was Max, it’d do him good to see me playing hardball for once. “Walter? I can easily advise him not to sell.” I raised my eyebrows. “Did Max mention the important table? The one that’s
staying in the family
after all?”

At that, Walter seemed to choke on his own tongue. “And I thought Max was a coldhearted, self-interested . . . I’ll double your cut. Just get on with it!”

“It’s not for me,” I hissed. “It’s for them! It’s my duty to get the best price for the client!”

“Good,” said a voice.

Walter and I spun round.

Robert was standing next to an Art Deco globe drinks cabinet, one hand resting on the top. He swiveled it casually, as if choosing his next holiday destination. My skin went chilly, then very hot, and finally settled on a buzzing warmth.

But Walter, like Max, was no friend to the casual browser, and gave him a dismissive glare, then turned back to me. “Okay, so it’s probably worth a bob or two. They don’t need to know that. Get it at the right price, and if we split the profit on it three ways, we’re still quids in.”

“They deserve to know what it’s worth,” I said.

“Philistines like them don’t
deserve
a priceless Persian carpet!” Walter roared, finally losing it. “They’re using it to line their junk room! You might as well let them use
straw
!”

I gestured to my phone. “I think they’ve come off hold. Um, hello? I can offer you five thousand pounds.”

“No, I’m going to take private advice,” said Robert into his mobile. “But thanks for your professional honesty.”

Walter gripped hold of the desk as if he was about to keel right over, then gave me a piercing glare. “I’m going to talk
to Max,” he whispered furiously, pointing a nicotine-stained finger right in my face.

“Do,” I said. “And I’ll tell him how you were going to cut him out of the deal.”

Walter let out a strangled squeal, then gathered himself sufficiently to stalk out of the shop, tipping his hat down so as not to meet Robert’s amused gaze. He tried to slam the door behind him, but it was set up to release slowly to spare Max’s nerves, and he had to haul it shut, which rather spoiled the effect.

The bell jangled, and Robert and I looked at each other. I could feel an involuntary stupid grin playing at the edges of my mouth—not so much at Walter, but because my chest felt full of bubbles. My mouth went dry and my mind went blank as all the blood rushed elsewhere.

“So, we have another unexpected valuable in our midst?” he inquired.

“If Walter Piven’s sniffing around, then yes,” I said, grabbing on to the facts. “I mean, I’m assuming Violet didn’t know any backstreet rug-weavers in Jedburgh . . . ?”

“It’s all cashmere golf sweaters, as far as I know.” Robert helped himself to a chaise longue. “Any chance of a cup of coffee? I hear it’s a specialty of the house.”

I don’t think I’ve ever made coffee so fast, or cared so much about the state of the cups.

Robert sipped it politely, and if he was suffering clutter-phobia surrounded by so many sewing boxes, he didn’t show it. Instead, he chatted about the “big family conference” that had erupted shortly after I left.

“Fraser sorted us out in the end,” he said. “Put me and Dad in the dining room with a good bottle of wine and told us not to come out till we’d cleared the air. I mean, obviously we had to send out for more wine. It took hours. Went through the lot—why he thought I needed a qualification to fall back on, in case people stopped needing storage; why it drove me mad that he didn’t even ask if I wanted to do law; why I was never
ever
going to play cricket, but how that didn’t make me a bad son. . . .”

He rubbed his face. “Anyway, we’ve basically reached a compromise—we’re giving it a three-year trial. Kettlesheer Gold. He’s going to have his distillery in the stables, but I’m going to run it and get some specialists in, so it actually makes a profit. I’m looking into grants. And insurance.”

“Wow. That’s brilliant news,” I said, delighted for Duncan as much as for Robert. “So you’re moving up there?”

“Not yet.” Robert looked for somewhere to put his cup down, and settled on a gramophone. “I’ve got things in London that I don’t want to give up yet.” He looked at me, his dark eyes searching mine. “It’s not going to be straightforward, working with Dad, but I think keeping a little bit of space is important. I don’t want us to fall out and ruin everything.”

I smiled. “You’ve changed your tune.”

“Well . . .” He looked away, slightly embarrassed. “Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, but I think I’d just got too close to it all. Looking at it through your eyes made me realize, yeah, I’m pretty lucky.” He reached into his pocket. “I’ve got a present for you.”

Robert leaned over and handed me a small tissue-wrapped parcel, tied up with a tartan ribbon. “Sorry about the packaging,” he added. “Bit twee, but Mum’s already started looking into packaging for Kettlesheer Gold.”

“Family business, eh?” I said, unwinding the tissue paper. I didn’t mention Catriona. I wanted this to be our moment.

Something heavy and silver dropped out of the tissue into my palm, about the size of a drumstick with a decorative end to it, topped with a solid thistle.

“Wow, thanks!” I said. I had absolutely no idea what it was.

I looked up. Robert was watching me with a grin.

“Go on,” he said. “Pretend you know what it is.”

“Of course I know what it is. It’s a . . . reeling aid?”

He swung himself up from the chaise longue and held out his hand for the silver stick. “It’s a porridge spurtle,” he said, waggling it around an invisible pan. “For stirring porridge. I found it among Violet’s belongings—it was a subscription wedding present from the tenants on the Kettlesheer farms. She kept it in the original box, with the note. I thought since you were so good at stirring us into action, it was an appropriate thank-you present.” He handed it back, his eyebrow raised. “And, of course, I know how much you like sentimental knickknacks.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” I protested, touched and thrilled to have a tangible memento of a woman I now felt I knew better than my own great-granny. I might even start eating porridge for breakfast.

“You did. You made us look at stuff we’d been doing our best to ignore for years. And I don’t just mean the dining table.”

“Oh, come on. You had to tell your dad you don’t like carrot schnapps at some point,” I teased.

“No. Not that.” Robert glanced down, then up at me, and I flinched at the direct honesty in his eyes. “Catriona and I have decided to go our separate ways.”

“Oh,” I said faintly. “I thought . . . at the ball . . . the announcement?” Was that what I’d seen, when Robert had led her away? Was that not
Will you marry me?
—but instead
Goodbye
?