“Thank you,” I said, determined to make eye contact with each of them. “I really appreciate knowing the truth.”
The driver breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll thank you as well, then. We didn’t know what else to do when we heard you were spinning tales but try to appeal to your higher principles.”
By kidnapping me? I thought, but resisted saying it, instead asking, “How did you hear about me?”
“Anonymous phone call,” the driver said with a shrug. He settled back behind the wheel and started the car, leaving me to wonder who had made that anonymous phone call. It could’ve been anyone attending my workshop, but my money was on Perry McDougall.
We drove the five miles back to the Royal Mile in silence. When they reached the drive in front of my hotel, Tommy turned and faced me.
“We’ll come in with you and spring for a pint to celebrate.”
“Oh, no!” Dear God, just let me go in peace, I thought. But I squeezed out a smile and said, “I would love to, but I injured my ankle earlier and should probably soak it in Epsom salts.”
“You’re injured, miss?” the third man said.
“It’s probably nothing serious, but I should take care of it.”
“Are you sure it’s not serious?” Tommy said. “Harry’s a doctor.”
I gaped at the third man.
“Aye, I am,” Harry said, then glared at his partner. “Did Tommy push you too hard?”
Good grief, thoughtful kidnappers. Only in Scotland. And a doctor among them? I was truly going mad.
“Uh, no, it happened earlier today,” I said, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Walk her to the door, Harry,” the driver prompted.
“Aye.” Harry the doctor whipped out of the car and held his hand out for me. I had no choice but to allow him to help me. My ankle throbbed and my back was stiff. I swayed once before steadying myself.
“There, see?” I said, giving Harry my best smile. “I’m fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.”
“We’ll take a rain check then,” the driver said as we passed by his open window.
“Perfect,” I said.
Harry dug into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “You’ll call if you have any problems while you’re in town.”
I glanced at the card and I prayed my eyes didn’t bug out of my head. HARRISON MCFARLAND, MD. It was true, then. One of the men who’d kidnapped me was a doctor. Maybe Tommy the gunman was a lawyer.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
I stared at him. “Absolutely. Thanks.”
“Go inside and rest, miss. You’ve had a day.”
“Thanks for making it more interesting.” I waved good-bye to my new Freemason friends and hobbled to the door.
The first person I saw when I entered the lobby was Derek Stone, and I almost wept with relief. And hunger. Dear God, I was hungry to the point of starvation.
He saw me and sauntered over. “Where did you run off to?”
“Ah, where to begin?” I said. “But first, I need food. Do you want to come with me?”
He threaded my arm through his. “While it’s always entertaining to watch you consume food, I must run an errand first. I was hoping you’d come with me.”
I rubbed my stomach.
He smirked but took hold of my arm and we walked back outside. “I believe this short detour will be worth your while, and I promise to feed you afterward.”
“I hate to remind you, but when we last spent quality time together, I ended up hiding in a closet and finding another dead body.”
He leaned in close. “Are you too much of a coward to give it another try?”
“Coward?” I said, insulted and excited all at once. “Lead the way, Jack.”
A black Bentley limousine pulled up. The driver hopped out and opened the door for us. When we were ensconced in the backseat and the driver made his way out to the Royal Mile, I turned to Derek. “Where are we going?”
“To the palace.”
“What?”
Within minutes we’d left the High Street behind and I could see rugged Arthur’s Seat rising up to stand sentry over the Palace of Holyroodhouse. Then, within moments, we were actually driving onto the stately grounds of the palace.
Wow.
I turned to Derek. “What are we doing here?”
“Just picking something up,” he said cryptically.
The driver opened the door and Derek led me to a side entrance away from the public tour area. Before I could get over my shock, we were met at the door by an older woman in a slim blue dress. She escorted us to an elegantly appointed sitting room, where a well-dressed man in his early forties was waiting.
“Ah, Mr. Stone,” the man said. “Here you are, right on time.”
“Hello, Jones,” Derek said. “This is Brooklyn Wainwright, the book restoration expert I was telling you about.”
“Lovely,” he said with a slight nod.
“ Brooklyn,” Derek continued, “this is Phillip Pickering-Jones, personal secretary to the royal highnesses.”
The royal highnesses?
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pickering-Jones.”
“Delighted,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. “And just ‘Jones’ is fine. His Highness is quite delighted at the thought of your doing the work. He asks only that you ship the parcel back within a month, in time for the young lady’s birthday.”
His Highness?
Were we talking about the prince? Like, the real freaking prince? Was it the cute one? Or the other cute one? Or the much older, not-so-cute one? Did it matter? I looked from Jones to Derek. “What am I working on?”
“Ah, you haven’t informed her, then?” Jones asked Derek.
“No,” Derek said with a slight smile. “I thought you might do that.”
“With pleasure, sir.” He walked to a small, elegant pale green desk set against the wall under a portrait of some distinguished lord of something or other. He picked up a brown-paper-wrapped parcel and handed it to me.
“It’s a favorite childhood book belonging to a dear friend of His Highness,” Jones explained. “Now tattered and torn, as you’ll see. We would be most appreciative if you would work your magic to transform it into a gift of beauty for his lady friend’s birthday.”
I took the parcel and found the seal. “May I?”
He nodded regally. “Of course.”
I unwrapped the package. It was a leather-bound version of what I assumed was a British children’s book I’d never heard of: A Flat Iron for a Farthing, by Juliana Horatia Ewing. I turned it over in my hand. It was fraying at the edges and torn through to the boards in spots. My brain went into bookbinder mode, cataloging the book itself and the work required: original green leather binding so faded it appeared light gray. Title embossed in gold on spine. Faded. Masking tape residue on front hinge. I resisted shivering in disgust.
The front and back boards had come loose from the spine. The paper was thick and in decent condition, with only a bit of insect damage and foxing on several pages. The signatures had begun to unravel from the tapes. It would need new tapes, new flyleaves and a complete new binding.
“It’s charming,” I said, and it was, despite its disrepair-and the masking tape. Ugh. I opened the book to the title page and noted its printing date: 1910. “Do you know what type of binding His, er, Highness would prefer?”
“Leather, of course,” Jones said, waving his hand theatrically.
“Of course.”
“Something elegant and pretty, perhaps somewhat close to the original green.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I turned the book over and studied the back board. Forest green morocco would be pretty. “Would he prefer gilding or heat stamping? Raised cord spine?”
He gave me a deferential nod. “I was told that the details were to be handled at your discretion, Miss Wainwright.”
“And you’ll need it back within a month?”