The Gown(81)

“It’s not far at all,” he assured her. “Eaton Square in Belgravia. Enormous old pile but it keeps the rain off my head.”

He kept the conversation going as he always did, moving from topic to topic in his smooth way, never seeming to desire or require much involvement on her part. Likely it was a skill that served him well in his work.

After about fifteen minutes he turned the car onto a side street, or perhaps it was a mews of some kind. It was lined with large doors, the sort that once had led to carriage houses but now were fitted up for expensive motorcars.

“We’ll be going out again, so I won’t bother putting the car away,” he said. He dragged open one of the doors, just enough for them to pass through, and led her through an empty garage and, beyond it, a darkened garden. No lights were shining from the interior of the house ahead, and she tripped more than once as she followed him through the night.

They went down a short flight of steps to a door, and after fumbling for the correct key, Jeremy let them inside and switched on an overhead light.

“Hello?” he called out, but no answering voice broke the silence. “My sister must be out. Oh, well. Shall we go upstairs?”

“What about your gloves?” she asked.

“Like as not in my bedroom. Or the drawing room. No point in your staying down here—it’s as cold as a tomb. I’ll make a fire and you can have a drink while I rummage around. Give me your coat so I can hang it up.”

He led her up a flight of stairs to street level, switching on lights as he went, and along a high-ceilinged hallway to a drawing room that was, on its own, at least as big as the entire main floor of her little house. It was decorated in the usual style of such places, with elaborate draperies, wedding-cake plaster moldings, and several centuries’ worth of intimidating antiques.

“Come and sit while I deal with the fire,” he said, and nodded in the direction of a pair of settees that flanked the hearth. “We’ll have a drink together before I try to run down those blasted gloves.”

She sat, shivering, and waited as he piled coals in the grate and set them alight. “There. That’ll take the chill from the air. Would you like a sherry? Or possibly something stronger?”

“Sherry is fine,” she said. The glass, when he handed it to her, was dusty. In fact, everything in the room was dusty, and the air was stale, too, and she was almost certain she could see cobwebs clinging to the top of the draperies. On the far wall, opposite the fireplace, were a pair of darkened patches.

“My mother had them sent out for cleaning,” Jeremy said, noticing her interest. “The paintings that usually hang there. Said they needed a freshening up.”

“Oh. I, ah . . .”

“So. Hartnell. Have you worked there for long?”

“Since I was a girl. I’ve never worked anywhere else.”

He sat opposite her and sipped at his drink. “You must have had a lot of people asking after the princess’s dress. You know there’s a king’s ransom to be made there.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, although she had a terrible feeling she did.

“It’s a secret, and there’s nothing people love more than secrets. Uncovering them, I mean. In the right hands, a picture of that gown is worth a lot. A fortune, even.”

“Is that what this is about? The princess’s gown?”

“’Course not. I mean, I did have an idea of what you did for a living. Saw you with Carmen that first night, didn’t I? She used to go out with a friend of mine. Until he found a decent girl to marry, that is. But you never said a word about your work, or that bloody gown, and I wasn’t about to go digging. I do have my pride.” He gulped at his drink; it was half gone now.

She was going to be sick. “If I told you anything, even a single detail, I’d be sacked. I’d be betraying all of my friends at work.”

“Have I asked? No. So let’s forget about it. Do you feel like seeing some more of the house? Been in the family for ages, you know.” He tipped the glass to his mouth. Emptied it.

And then he looked at her, and there was something in his eyes, or behind his eyes, somehow, that set every nerve in her body jangling with apprehension. His easy friendliness of their earlier meetings was gone, and in its stead was a sort of avid, predatory watchfulness.

“I’m not feeling all that well,” she protested. “I think it might be best if I went home.”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket. Finish that sherry, and let me show you this house. How often does a girl like you get a peek inside a place like this?”

He’d taken her coat when they came in, but she still had her bag. The front door was only yards away. But would it be locked? And surely he didn’t mean to hurt her. He’d think her mad if she suddenly ran across the room and started clawing at the front door.

“Come on,” he said, and took her hand in his. He led her to the stairs, wide and carpeted, and she was surprised by how gritty the banister felt under her free hand. As if no one had wiped it down in months and months.

They reached the top of the stairs. “There’s another drawing room at the very front,” he explained, “and several guest rooms along the hall. At the back are my parents’ bedrooms. You’ll like my mother’s room. She had it done up by some poncy decorator just before the war.”