A heritage architect? Could this man be any sexier? “Is it hard for you, knowing this place will be?—”
He looked at the ceiling. “Don’t say it,” he whispered melodramatically. “Yes and no. It was the best place in the world to grow up. Like an Enid Blyton storybook, minus the smugglers and kidnappers. It has good memories, but some … not so much. Besides, the battle is lost. The retreat has been sounded. Who knows, perhaps the king needs a new fendersmith? I like lighting fires—but not in a psychotic way, I assure you.”
He seemed to be making a big effort to keep the tone light. She thought of the trampoline in the ballroom. One of the good memories, presumably. But then there was his father’s recent death, and the grandfather missing on the moor. If she weren’t here, would he be drinking alone? She knew from experience that the calmafterthe storm could be worse than the storm, largely because it lasted much longer.
“Check this out.” He looked something up on his phone and handed it over. It was open at a social media account called Tandy Upcycles. “Play the first video. The billionaire’s girlfriend posted it this morning. Turn your back on a Gen Z-er for one second and they’re bloody livestreaming.”
Amelia pressed play. “Guys, I’m straight-up flipping out here,” Tandy gushed, doing a three-sixty of the room she was in—the study upstairs where Amelia had almost been caught by Tom’s lawyer. “I’m beyond ready to work some magic on this old furniture. Check out this desk! Hasn’t been updated in a hundred years, and here’s the proof.” She zoomed in on a silver frame on the desk—a photo of a man and a woman in that very room, wearing Edwardian clothing. “Legit vintage feels, am I right?” Tandy turned the lens back on herself. “My brain is literally on fire with ideas. I’m thinking chalk paint in a pastel vibe. Some light distressing, a matte shabby-chic finish. Stenciling on the top, maybe a fleur-de-lis, maybe calligraphy!Some quote or saying in French?Joie de vivre? Drop your ideas into the comments. Love to have you along for the ride as we create our dream estate in England.”
“It’s a Chippendale desk,” Tom said, leaning over to mute Tandy. “She’s going to ‘upcycle’ an eighteenth-century mahogany Chippendale. I’m tempted to open a fake account to suggest she stencils it withnouveau riche. You know she’ll re-cover the sofa you’re sitting on with pink faux fur.”
“Don’t even joke about that.” Amelia checked Tandy’s profile. “She has two million followers. Seventeen thousand likes on this post already.”
Tom sat straighter. “You’re joking. What couldweupcycle?”
An agonized groan rose, seemingly from inside the walls. Amelia flinched, sloshing the wine in her goblet.
“Oh, don’t mind Miss Havisham,” Tom said. “Something’s set her off today.”
Outside, a vehicle engine started up. “The tour’s finished,” he said, looking out a window. From her low perch, Amelia could only see gray sky. “I guess Xanthe didn’t notice your absence. Not ideal from a health and safety perspective—though you were lucky just to fall down some rotten stairs and not through a rotten floor.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
“But there are so many valuable things. The tapestry in the entrance hall, the furniture, the carpets… They must be worth millions.”
“Some of which have already been sold and we’re leasing back for the tours. The rest, along with the house itself, will go to wiping out debts, none of which were incurred in the pursuit of anything remotely scandalous or fun on the part of my family. No blackmail, no gambling, no mistresses. Well, mistresses, yes, but not in my lifetime.” He picked up a chunkyglass paperweight and started tossing and catching it. A habitual move, she guessed. She recognized it from the old photo the upcycler had zoomed in on—it had sat on the Chippendale desk between the Edwardian couple. As Tom tossed it, the glow from a desk lamp filtered through it, flickering colored confetti around the room. “Mostly, the money went on taxes, plumbing and wiring. And even then, only the most essential fixes. If you find yourself in the west wing, don’t use the loo.” He made a face. “My grandfather refused to consider new income streams. He would have turned in his grave—if he had one—at my infomercial. And then my father took out loans he couldn’t hope to repay. He felt that the house was a symbol. A literal pillar of the community.”
“You don’t?”
“Her heyday has long passed. Times have changed, and that’s not a bad thing. Fighting for something is important but knowing when to run away is even more so.”
“But when it’s yourhomethough… It’s your cocoon. Your safe place.”
He caught the paperweight and eyed her curiously, as if he knew she was projecting. Evidently, he also correctly read her I-don’t-want-to-go-there expression. “Once upon a time, a great estate like this would keep hundreds of people employed and housed and fed. Not anymore.”
“But surely it could generate jobs again, somehow. You said yourself they were in short supply. That ballroom alone would be an amazing events space.”
He laughed. “You did go off the tour, didn’t you?”
She winced.
He put the paperweight aside. “It’s too late to save her, I’m afraid. It’s time to stop trying.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself of that.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “No,” he said, after a beat. “I have officially checked out.” He raised the bottle. “Top-up?”
She hadn’t realized she’d emptied her goblet. If she had another, she’d have to stay a couple of hours at least, to let the effects wear off. And was that such a hardship? Tom’s eyes reminded her of the shimmering blue moonstone her mom had given her after the robbery. “Healing, calming, and soothing,” her mom had said. “I thought it might help you move on.” It hadn’t worked … yet.
Smiling, Amelia offered up her goblet. “To moving on,” she said, as Tom filled it.
He refilled his own glass, and they clinked, or rather,clunked. “Moving on.”
As she went to drink, there was a loud rap on the window. She started, and managed to lean forward just in time for a few burgundy drops to land on the dark carpet and not the sofa or her pants. Would this happen with every loud noise for the rest of her days?
Tom leaned back in his chair and shoved the window up.
