I shouldn’t have told him the truth about what county we lived in. Then I wouldn’t be facing this latest predicament. He was going to be in the area next week. Without her even knowing, Haze was tantalizingly close to finally meeting her father. Wasn’tthis the reason I started all this? To get to this big moment? I’d talk to her tonight. Maybe I could break my no-drinking-unless-I’d-just-killed-someone rule.
Richard had set up the boardroom for the imminent arrival of Benjamin Norwood, a potential big client. Richard had been corresponding with his financial manager for the last couple of weeks, and this had culminated in today’s meeting. He’d bought croissants and cookies from the ridiculously expensive bakery round the corner and arranged them artfully on a large blue platter. I didn’t want to upset Richard by letting him know that the platter was actually Lalique, and had been an incredibly generous Christmas present from a grateful client.
Richard placed the platter in the center of the meeting room’s mahogany table.
“Benjamin Norwood is the eldest son of the Duke of Drysdale. He was born with a silver monogrammed spoon in his mouth. The family have a huge stately pile in Northumberland.” Richard handed me a bio on Norwood. “I haven’t been able to find much on him online. Only photographs of him at big splashy parties, usually hanging out with minor royalty, someone with a triple-barreled surname or a glamorous blonde.”
I flicked through it. Templeton Estate was very impressive. Beautiful Georgian architecture, and so huge it must have at least thirty bedrooms—and no doubt a ballroom or two.
“He’s never had a proper job, just been involved in running the family estate. Whatever that means.”
I had a pretty good idea. It sounded like Norwood had had a very nice life.
“How did he hear of us?”
“He said he was recommended by friends. Declined to mention who. Norwood’s father, the duke, is on his last legs. He transferred the family home over to Norwood several years ago. Rumors are rife that Norwood has decreed five generations is long enough for his family to have owned it, and that it’s time tolet someone else take it on. I’m guessing it’s why he’s looking for help with what to do with the eight-digit payday he’ll be getting as soon as it’s sold.”
“Did he mention how much he wanted to invest?”
“He said a substantial percentage of his portfolio.” Richard rubbed his hands together. “I’m excited. Are you excited?”
I scanned down the bullet points on Norwood. Two words shouted out at me. “ ‘Restore Glory’—what’s this about?”
“It’s a foundation Norwood set up to help restore houses of national importance to their former glory. They do fundraisers—posh parties at stately homes.”
“Who donates to places like that?”
“History buffs. National pride–filled rich people.” Richard paused. “Flag shaggers really.”
Restore Glory was the charity that the event at Balgray Hall was in aid of. Was this just a coincidence, or was every aspect of my life currently being invaded by The Chameleon?
The buzzer went off. Richard jumped to attention. “I’ll let him in and get the coffee organized. He mentioned in an interview that he loves this particular Turkish blend, so I’ve had it ordered in.”
I sat down at the head of the small boardroom table. We couldn’t compete with the larger firms, so our whole selling point was a discreet and very personal service. That and our usually outstanding numbers.
I heard Richard in the reception room. “I’ll show you in to meet Mr. Cabot, then I’ll bring in that coffee.”
Norwood was tall and disheveled with dark hair. He was better-looking than the photos of him Richard had located online indicated. According to his bio, he was forty-nine. He looked in pretty good shape. I supposed not having the inconvenience of work meant he could focus on himself. I tried not to think about how much he could bench-press. Four years older than me, but could he still outdo me in a fight?
Get a grip, Cabot.
I stood up, holding out a hand. “Nathaniel. Good to meet you, my lord.” Norwood’s title was Viscount Norwood. In his bio, Richard had included information on how to address him correctly. He didn’t want his American boss letting him down.
Norwood had a strong handshake. “Now, now, call me Benjamin. I don’t worry about any of that.” Norwood was wearing a blue shirt, red chinos, and a navy blazer. The blazer did look like it had seen better days. He had recently gone through a messy divorce—his ex was a striking Russian model fifteen years younger than him. I wondered if this crappy dress sense had been caused by the divorce, or if it was part of the reason for it.
“I’m delighted you wanted to meet. Your family home is really very famous. We’ve even heard of it back in the States.”
“How lovely! Yes, the old pile isn’t too shabby. Can you believe my ex tried to lay claim to it? The very cheek of it!” Norwood chuckled as he sat down in the chair next to me.
“I was just reading about your foundation, Restore Glory. You set up that charity to help other houses like yours?”
Norwood reached for a cookie and took a bite. He spoke with his mouth full. “Yes! Thought it would be good to do a little something to give back, not just because a tax man highlighted the benefits. And if I was going to do charity, why not one that helped houses like ours?” Cookie crumbs sprayed from his lips.
“It must be a lot of work, organizing all that.”
“Oh, I outsource it.” Norwood chuckled to himself as he ineffectively brushed crumbs off his shirt. “An events company does it for me. They know which rich people to target for tables. It’s all about who can stump up the cash.” Norwood tapped his finger against his chin. “My finance man says I need to ask you all kinds of clever questions, but I can’t seem to think of any.”
“I know Richard has already sent a pack giving our figure highlights. Is there anything else you want to know?”
