The Secret Gift (27 page)

“Come on,” Philip said then, looking at the tube of drawings Graeme had brought with him, “let me see what you’ve done with this wretched project.”

They spent the next hour or more going over Graeme’s preliminary drawings, discussing every aspect of the job, and Graeme’s undemonstrated plans.

“This is unlike anything we’ve ever considered before, Graeme. It’s forward-thinking while at the same time remaining true to the past. The prince will almost certainly approve. Well done! I’ll have a preliminary model made up and present the plans to His Royal Highness’s offices as soon as possible. In the meantime, you need to continue to lay low until this project has been granted approval. We don’t want anything, most especially any paparazzi high jinks, threatening this. If all goes well, I don’t think I’d be exaggerating to say that a directorship with the firm would be well within reach for you. Think you can manage to avoid the spotlight until then?”

But the praise was bittersweet, since Graeme had agreed to give up his career as soon as the project was concluded. He hadn’t told Philip that news yet, perhaps waiting for some sort of divine intervention that would suddenly occur, allowing him to be an architect and a duke and earl all at once.

They shook hands over the project’s future success, and then Philip gave a glance at his watch. “It’s early yet. Can you make time for lunch at the club before you need to head back?”

The gentlemen’s clubs of London were a time-honored tradition that had remained virtually unchanged since their inception in the eighteenth century. Most of them had begun as coffeehouses, where men would gather to discuss politics, news of the day, and their mistresses. They soon became havens for gambling, with certain social and political sets squaring off into their own separate little societies. Their memberships were exclusive, and members could be assured of the utmost discretion and privacy once behind the hallowed doors of the noble and elevated St. James’s Street mansions. Given his familial connections, Graeme had had his choice among them.

But it had been an easy decision, given the fact that the club of choice for all Gransboroughs since time immemorial was, had always been, White’s.

The esteemed club had been housed behind the great columned facade at numbers 37-38 St. James’s Street for well over two hundred years. Men like Beau Brummell, who had held court in its front bow window, and even the great Duke of Wellington had been admitted to membership. HRH Prince Charles was a member and had had his bachelor party at the club. Graeme suspected that was one of the reasons Philip had chosen the club for their luncheon that day. But no matter the reasons, Graeme was grateful he wouldn’t have to spend the entire meal looking over his shoulder for a photographer’s lens.

Philip’s hunch paid off. The prince was just leaving the club as they arrived. Philip stopped, exchanged greetings and introduced Graeme as the latest project director of the prince’s pet project.

“Wait until you get a look at the preliminary model, Your Highness,” Philip told him. “I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”

The prince gave Graeme a lift of his eyebrows before making arrangements to have a look at the project the following week.

“So, tell me,” Philip said as they sat down to the club’s luncheon, “how are things in the wild, barbaric Highlands?”

“More beautiful than you can possibly imagine.”

Unknown to Philip, it wasn’t the picturesque scenery Graeme was really thinking about.

“I can’t imagine Perpetua living more than five miles from Harrods. She’d never survive.”

“I never thought I’d love it as much as I do. But I do. The place wraps itself around you until you’re inextricably tied to it.”

Philip nodded, taking a sip of claret. “Well, we’ll have to come up some weekend and see for ourselves.”

“You’d better make it soon. I may find myself having to vacate the premises.”

Graeme went on to explain the whole story of Libby’s arrival and the subsequent litigation to regain her inheritance.

Philip shook his head. “If the papers get wind of this, you’ll be splashed right back on the front pages. I don’t think I need to remind you how harmful that could be to this project, Graeme.”

“I know. But you needn’t worry. Libby’s suit is against Lady Venetia, not me. And the castle’s sale was through a trust in my mother’s name, not mine. As far as anyone is concerned, I’m simply the caretaker. Any news it makes will be put at my mother’s doorstep.”

“Well, I can’t think of a more able person to handle that imbroglio.”

Lady Ardmuir was famous for her success in fending off even the most fervent reporter’s inquisition.

“Let’s see we keep it that way, hmm? And what of this American? An antiquarian bookseller, you say? She must be cut of some rather sturdy cloth if she thinks to take on Lady Venetia Mackay.”

Instead of responding, Graeme simply blinked. Philip, who knew Graeme better than Graeme himself sometimes, instantly caught the hesitation.

“I see.”

“You see what?”

“I see she’s obviously more than just some American antiquarian bookseller.”

Graeme looked at him.

“Be careful, Graeme.”

He shook his head. “She has no idea who I am.”

“That’s not a charade someone in your position can keep playing too long.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” Graeme frowned. “But that doesn’t mean I have to go out of my way to end it before I absolutely have to. I rather like being just Graeme Mackenzie again.”

Philip merely looked at him. The unfortunate truth of it was, Graeme wasn’t, would never be
just
Graeme Mackenzie ever again. A future of nothing but responsibility and duty to his family’s noble lines stretched out before him like a prison sentence once the duke and Graeme’s mother were no longer there to man their appointed posts. It was a life he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. So until then, Philip could certainly understand Graeme’s dogged insistence that life remain as it had been, even if it was only for a short while longer. And if hiding away in the Highlands provided that for him, then so be it. Philip would do everything he could to protect what small freedoms Graeme had left.

Graeme called ahead to his driver to ask where he might find Libby and had Philip drop him at the intersection nearest to it.

Out on the sidewalk, Graeme blended in with the eclectic pedestrian traffic of disoriented tourists, businessmen, backpacking students, teenagers emulating pop stars, and every other cosmopolitan imaginable. This section of the city, near Leicester and Soho Squares, was one of the busiest in London, both during the day and at night when the many restaurants and nightclubs kicked into high gear.

The bookshop that the driver had directed him to was near the church at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, tucked away in an alleyway called Cecil Court, a narrow cobbled hideaway packed with tiny shops featuring antiques, prints, but mostly books. There were shops just for children’s books, another for the occult, even a shop for books written only by women. Graeme popped into three of them before he finally found Libby at the fourth, standing at the back counter flanked by two stacks of books.

She hadn’t noticed him come in. He stood a moment to watch her at her work, impressed by her knowledge of the books and her shrewd negotiating skills as she bargained with the shop owner. Libby certainly knew her stuff, and by the time she was finished, Graeme expected she would be telling the shop owner he should be paying her to take the books off his hands.

As the shopkeeper went off to figure shipping charges to the States, Libby turned. It was then she saw Graeme.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

The expression on her face was the sort any man would like to see after a day’s work, an expression that said she was happy to see him. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Just arrived.” He motioned toward the back office, where the bookseller had disappeared. “I think you could have gotten him down at least another fifty pounds.”

She grinned. “Probably, but I did want to leave him feeling he had made something in the deal. My generosity now will help give me a favorable edge should I find myself up against another buyer for a particular title from him in the future.”

Graeme nodded. Shrewd and tactical.

“I’m just about finished here,” Libby said, glancing at her watch. “I hope I’m not holding up our ride home. I sort of get lost when I’m around bookshops. Completely lose track of the time.”

Her use of the word
home
sent an unexpected twinge through Graeme. Having been born to a life of country houses, city houses, boarding schools, and holiday getaways, and after having had to move from place to place over the past eight months, the word
home
suddenly left him a keen sense of longing.

“No, we’re not late at all. In fact, I was thinking perhaps we’d delay our flight a few hours to take in some of the city sights. You said you’d never really seen London before. Perhaps we could even have dinner before we leave. I know of this brilliant little Polish restaurant, one of those places off the beaten path.”

“Polish? I think I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever had Polish food. You mean like those sausages they sell at the baseball games?”

Graeme chuckled. “There’s much more to Polish cooking than that.
Golabki. Pierozki. Mazurek.
My grandmother on my mother’s side is Polish. My grandfather met her during the war and brought her home with him afterward. She always makes traditional Polish dishes for us at holidays. You’re in for a definite experience.”

The shopkeeper returned, and within a quarter hour they were on their way. Libby had left most of the books she’d purchased with the shop, filling out a packing slip to have them delivered straight to her employer, Belvedere Books in New York. She’d bought a few other titles for herself, tucking them into a canvas tote bag as they headed for the street.

Graeme took the bag and handed it to the driver, who had appeared almost as soon as they got to the main street. “So ... we have a few hours left to explore the city before dinner. What would you like to do first?”

He’d expected her to name the usual tourist spots—the Tower, Buckingham Palace, or even Westminster Abbey. The answer she gave was not at all what he would have expected.

“I always thought if I ever came to London, the first thing I’d want to do would be to ride on a double-decker bus.”

Graeme had never ridden on a bus, double-decker or otherwise. All his life he’d been chauffeured by private car, or those times when he’d been really desperate, he’d been known to hail a cab. But a bus? He wouldn’t even know how to find one.

“You’re quite certain that is what you want to do ... ?”

“Look.” She pointed down the street. “There’s a bus stop there.” She took his hand. “Let’s do this. We’ll get on the first one that stops and just see where it takes us.”

Graeme’s expression was less than enthusiastic.

“Come on,” she said. “Where’s your sense of adventure? It’ll be fun.”

Fun?

Adventure?

A London city bus?

Libby tugged a reluctant Graeme toward the red-and-white sign.

In only a few minutes, one of the red double-decker busses so distinctive to London came lumbering up to meet them. It looked like an antique, surely at least fifty years old. He wondered that it wasn’t being pulled by a draft horse. Libby stepped up on the rear platform, quickly asked someone how to get a ticket.

“Jes’ go on to yer seat, love. The conductor’ll be ’round to collect your fare.”

Grinning ear to ear, Libby scuttled up the stairs to the bus’s top level, walking all the way to the front where they would have the best view.

A conductor wearing a change belt soon came seeking their fare.

“Where you off to, then?”

“That depends,” Graeme answered. “Where does this thing go?”

The conductor recited what was obviously his daily litany. “Fulham—Chelsea—Victoria—Westminster—Aldwych—St. Paul’s—Bank—Liverpool Street ...”

Graeme removed his billfold from his pocket and pulled out a fifty-pound note. “Will this do?”

The conductor’s eyes widened. “You’re planning to pay for everyone on the bus, then? Otherwise, I can’t change that.”

Graeme pulled out a twenty.

The conductor frowned.

It was the smallest bill Graeme had on him. And he wasn’t the sort of man to carry around a pocketful of change.

“My treat,” Libby said, pulling a handful of coins from her purse.

After helping her to count out the correct amount, the conductor handed her two tickets, then went on his way, shaking his head.

“Now,” Libby said, “just sit back, relax, and tell me what everything is.”

And Graeme did. He spent the next three hours pointing out every feature on the cityscape they passed, describing the history of each building and bridge in architectural detail. He’d been running from it so long, he had almost forgotten how much he loved London, how around any corner a person could find themselves having a pint in the same pub that had once been frequented by Shakespeare, or standing beneath the oak where the eighteenth-century Duke of Hamilton had fought his famous duel against Lord Mohun (an event that, unfortunately, neither man survived).

Mostly Graeme talked about the buildings. He knew what they were, what they had been used for over the centuries, who had lived in them. About a half hour into their spur-of-the-moment tour, Graeme happened to look at Libby, half expecting to see her bored to tears by his commentary. But instead of the blank stare he usually found whenever he would start talking architecture, Libby was actually listening to him. More amazingly, she was listening with a keen interest, asking thoughtful questions, and seeming eager to hear more.

They spent the afternoon crisscrossing the city’s various bus routes, eventually making a game of it. They’d get off one bus and board another, then do the same thing again. All the while, they talked and talked, discussing everything from shared interests in music (they both liked Clapton) and reading tastes, favorite movies (anything from Martin Scorsese) to their worst childhood schoolteachers. Graeme had never talked so honestly with another person in his life, nor had he ever laughed so freely. For those precious few hours, he was able to forget all about Libby’s legal battles, the conflict of her moving into the castle, even his impending inheritances. He shed his suit coat, pulled off his tie, and let down his guard for the first time in months.