“Wait, it’s from the TV show? The Pemberley ball! I knew it looked familiar.”
“Robert slipped it to me when he finished filming. Not that that scene was filmed here, sadly. They decided our ballroom would need too much of a scrub-up.”
“Robert?” she said teasingly. “First name terms?”
He laughed, smoothing the waistcoat. “It’s been put to good use. We do have some men’s clothing upstairs that dates from that era, but it hasn’t fit me since I spilt Tango on it at a fancy-dress party when I was twelve.”
“Tango?”
“A fizzy drink. Pop? Soda? Bright orange. Please, my lady Amelia,” he said, sweeping a hand toward the sofa, “take a seat.”
She took a second to appreciate the way he said her name—Amelia—and then sat, glancing at the sofa fabric. With a gasp, she shot to her feet.
“What’s the matter?” He caught her shoulder. “Is it the mouse? I thought I’d got the little bugger.”
“This silk brocade. The embroidery! It’s exquisite.”
“Uh…”
“Look at the wear and fade pattern!” she said, kneeling before it. “This has got to be original, and by ‘original,’ I mean seventeenth century! Venetian, probably, given this scrollwork and the arabesque patterns. Here, see?” She indicated the point where the fabric disappeared into the back of the seat. “You can see it was originally pale blue, but they used only natural dyes back then, so it’s long since faded to the ivory of the silk. Most of the gold and silver thread is intact though.”
“You know your sofas.”
“I know fabric. I’m a textiles conservator. I work in a design museum, and all this…” She ran a finger along a gold-braided seam. “We have scraps of this kind of fabric that we salivate over, not literally. I could actually cry.”
“You might as well sit on it,” he said, laughing. “It was the only reasonably comfortable sofa I could get through the doorway. It’s had the pleasure of my arse for company for the last couple of years, and countless arses before that, so any damage was done long ago.”
Pleasure, indeed, she thought, resisting the urge to check out his excellent “arse.” She sat again, closing her eyes for a few seconds as she sank into the sofa. Just one drink before this lovely bubble burst.
“I could snip off a piece for you. I could skin the whole thing. I’m sure the billionaire won’t notice.” He handed her a goblet and sat in a leather armchair beside the desk. “Cheers,” he said, raising his wine. “To escaping.”
“Escaping,” she echoed, and they both sipped. She gagged. The wine tasted like red wine vinegar, and it burned through her nasal passages like wasabi.
“Ugh.” He peered into his goblet. “It seems 1945 wasn’t such a good year for Bordeaux. I should have tasted it first. Give me your glass. We’ll try the other one.”
She passed him the goblet, stretching her face to clear the burn from her sinuses. He shoved up the sash window and cold air rushed in, as if it had been pressed against the window outside, awaiting its chance. He emptied their goblets onto the gravel outside and worked the window closed.
“So, Amelia,” he said, opening the other bottle. “Where in New York is home?”
“Home?” she said, taken aback.
“Yes, home, you know—where you live? Your digs? Your pad?”
“Oh no, it’s just … I’m between homes, so the question threw me for a second.”
He passed her goblet back, now refilled. “Which homes are you between?”
“I’ve been staying on friends’ sofas, and sometimes with my mom in New Brunswick. Before that, an apartment in Queens. Next, I’m not sure.”
“Nor I.” He raised his goblet. “To the unknown.”
She echoed him, though she wasn’t all that jazzed about the unknown, and warily sipped. This wine was much more drinkable. Plummy and syrupy. “What will you do now?”
“Let’s see … I’ve already tried the military, so as a second son, I suppose I will have to join the priesthood or become a rake.” She scoffed, and he relented, leaning back in the chair. “Back to London. I lived there in my twenties. My mother and brother are there, so I’ll bunk with them at first and ply my trade.”
“As a vacuum salesman?”
He laughed, and his eyes crinkled adorably. “Architect. Heritage renovations, mostly, blending old and new. I was really just getting started with it when my father fell ill and I came home to help him run the place. Do they still sell vacuum cleaners door to door, though? Could be an option.”
