She was searching hopelessly for her handbag, which Margaux knew was resting on a shield-back chair in the front entry; rage or perhaps tears were blinding Imogen to the obvious. Marcus rose solicitously from his seat but it was Gray Westlake who placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and said, “Please don’t go.”
She shrugged him off. “I’m not likely to stay where I’m threatened with the police.”
This was so patently hilarious that Margaux snorted.
“Miss Cantwell,” Gray persisted, “we’re trying to save you from yourself.”
Something in his tone stopped her at last. She went still, studying him, and then with a sudden expulsion of breath, like a child done sobbing, she sank back down on the sofa. “What is it you want?”
“A few days. Three, maybe four.”
“That’s what she said. And it turned into a whole bloody week!”
“But the manuscript is back in safe hands. To convince you it’s safe, and to limit your liability, I propose — ” Gray glanced for confirmation at Marcus — “we write up a series of brief statements everyone can sign. Mr. Symonds-Jones will acknowledge receipt of the notebook itself, over his signature; Dr. Strand will state her professional opinion as to its authenticity — ”
“ — and receive in return an assurance of exclusive access to the material for a period of five years,” Margaux bargained smoothly, “and an exclusive appointment as Manuscript Consultant during any publicity campaign that might follow the notebook’s authentication.”
“Hasty, hasty,” Marcus murmured.
“But small pence, when without my aid and concern you’d never have set eyes on the thing,” Margaux retorted.
“And I get sod-all,” Imogen muttered, “just a nod and pat on the bottom as you shove me back to Kent. What I’d like to know is what you get out of this, Westlake?”
“The satisfaction of preserving your job.” He smiled at her almost sadly. “If the notebook is determined to be as rare as some of you think it is, I would suggest we then approach the National Trust and The Family. Explain that Miss Cantwell has made a Find, and consulted Dr. Strand, and that a generous donor would be prepared to buy the item, support its preservation, and donate it back to Sissinghurst. That should untangle any looming legal snarls and make Miss Cantwell look like a saint.”
Imogen’s sour expression softened. If she still had doubts, she kept them firmly between her teeth.
“Who will type up the statements?” Margaux asked, as she bit into her almond croissant. Delicious.
“Already done.” Marcus pulled a sheaf of papers from his black leather Filofax and handed them around, beaming.
It was only then that Margaux saw how completely they had been managed, from first to last. Gray Westlake had anticipated whatever she or Imogen could muster. Oddly enough — she didn’t really mind.
IT WAS ONLY AFTER THE WOMEN HAD LEFT, CLUTCHING their signed copies according them rights without any particular responsibilities, that Gray Westlake used the intelligence he’d received from his research department that morning.
Marcus Symonds-Jones was chattering in his usual fashion, a mixture of flattery and false intimacy, sprinkled with thanks for the seamless way Gray had handled the business, and offers of assistance in any way possible, present or future. Gray let him run on as he gathered up his documents and secured the Woolf notebook in a plastic bag. Then, as Marcus drew off his plastic gloves and threw one last smile Gray’s way, preparatory to making his exit, Gray said mildly, “You slept with her, didn’t you? Margaux Strand. That’s what destroyed her marriage.”
The man’s mouth fell open, then after a stunned second, snapped closed. “I’m hardly the first.”
“Obviously. Her husband, at least, was before you.”
As Marcus started to protest, Gray raised his hand. “I’m not interested in discussing the woman’s morals, okay? It’s Llewellyn’s reaction I find fascinating. He kicked her out, but he kept working for you. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Marcus shrugged. “She was the one who betrayed him.”
“Not you? Not his boss? No hard feelings between friends?”
“As I’ve said,” Marcus mouthed deliberately, “I wasn’t the first to tickle her knickers.”
“So you’re not concerned — that he lit out with a client and a valuable auction prospect, and is still wandering the country unaccounted for? It’d make me sweat a little, Marcus. If I were you, I’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“What are you saying, Westlake?” The expert frowned, trying to work it out.
Gray shrugged, already bored. “A guy who works for you, and has every reason to hate your guts, gave that notebook to his ex-wife… who brought it straight back to you. Don’t you feel, Marcus, like you’re being set up?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PETER SLEPT LATE WEDNESDAY, AND SAT ALONE over tea and toast in the cavernous dining room of the University Arms hotel, a decidedly gloomy Victorian pile that overlooked a sward of green just off Regent Street in Cambridge. The place was half empty, the hallways echoing, but they had settled on it without debate the previous night as the most obvious place to fall into their separate beds.
Jo’d been rather quiet after the Indian curry, and Peter suspected she was worrying about her client again. Reviewing his own high-handed behavior during the past few days, he was awash in guilt; there was no other way to describe his miserable feeling. Guilt was the British national disease, after all, the baseline emotion beaten into every public schoolboy, and he’d carried it abjectly from childhood straight into his relationship with Margaux at Oxford — something she’d taken for granted and knew how to use. Whenever he was uncomplicatedly happy — as now — a shadow of doubt would loom, a gnawing conviction that the bubble must burst as a result of his stupidity and self-indulgence. He’d selfishly seized on this lark as an escape from boredom. Jo, however, had come to England with a job to do — and he’d prevented her from doing it. He might even get her fired.
It was absurd, in the clear light of day, to consider chasing south to Rodmell, much less his harebrained plan of invading the Monk’s House garden under cover of darkness. They would both be arrested. And Jo wasn’t even a British subject! The consequences might be dreadful.
No, Peter thought — compelling as the adventure was, it could not go on. When she came down to breakfast, he’d offer to drive Jo straight back to London. He poured a third cup of tea, found it was lukewarm and bitter when he tasted it, and set it aside. Life was so damnably depressing.
And then his head came around as unconsciously he recognized her step on the marble flooring. She was wide awake, showered, her hair falling loose about her shoulders for the first time since he’d met her; and she’d changed her clothes.
She’d changed her clothes.
“Morning,” he said, rising from his chair. “You look fresh.”
“I’ve been out shopping.” She was smiling ecstatically. “New underwear, Peter. New jeans. A silk sweater. I paid a fortune for this stuff, given the exchange rate — but I don’t even care. It’s like… rain after a day of heat. Pure bliss.”
Pure bliss. New underthings. He found he was blushing, imagining Jo with her long hair down, in the bath, of all places.
“You look smashing,” he managed. “Tea?”
She shook her head. “I found a Starbucks in town. Let’s check out of this place and go already!”
And at the sight of her happiness, he hadn’t the heart to tell her it was over. He merely paid his bill, stowed her shopping in the Triumph’s boot, and pointed its nose toward Rodmell.