A Highlander for Christmas (9 page)

London

Three weeks later

Car horns screamed along Bond Street. Angels spread fluffy wings above cases bright with Christmas treasures. Men in wool hats sold roasted chestnuts from smoking metal stalls, and ornamented trees flashed in bright shop windows.

Maggie barely noticed.

The man was watching her again. Oh, he was careful about it. Discreet in that amazing way the English had. A flicker here, a short glance there.

She crossed the street, moving briskly, then stopped at a shop window. He was twenty feet behind her, speaking on a cell phone. And he was
definitely
watching her

Maggie surveyed the street. Two cafes. A bookstore and a jewelry shop. Her body was tense as she pushed open the door to the jewelers. She almost forgot her pursuer in the glitter of diamonds and pink pearls and star sapphires. The cameos arranged on an elegant cushion of black velvet immediately caught her eye. Several were rose, and some were blue. All were sculpted with the fine hand of a master.

Maggie heard the door to the shop open and the bell tinkle behind her. She managed not to turn, despite the burning sense that she was once more under scrutiny.

“Something is wrong with the cameo, madam?” The graying jeweler crossed behind the counter and looked at her anxiously.

“No, it’s beautiful, but I prefer that pale cream intaglio. The woman and child are exquisite and the cutter’s flair shows best with no distracting color. It’s brilliant work.”

The jeweler nodded, approving her choice. “My thoughts exactly. So many want new colors, new styles. The classical is soon forgotten.” He shook his head in resignation. “Where money goes, the artists must follow.”

“Not
all
artists,” Maggie said firmly. “And no one could possibly improve on this. The look on the mother’s face is pure emotion.” She cupped the beautiful oval of a woman holding a young child. It was nineteenth-century Italian, very beautiful and very expensive. “Is it by one of the Saulinis?” This pair of sculptors, father and son, had excelled at meticulous detail. Maggie had seen examples of their work, but had never touched one.

“So it is. I was fortunate to acquire it in Florence last year. You would like the piece perhaps?”

In the excitement of her discovery, Maggie forgot about the man who had been watching her. Her mind raced through a dozen design ideas: a platinum choker or gold braid. Perhaps a simple knotted satin cord.

She took another glance at the discreet price tag. Steep, but worth every pence. Especially for a real Saulini cameo. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

“My compliments. You have excellent taste.” The stranger she’d forgotten in her excitement spoke from behind her.

Maggie stiffened as he crossed the room and admired her cameo.

“I couldn’t help but notice. It’s a lovely piece.”

His eyes were harder up close, and she noticed there were little streaks of gray at his temples. “Yes, it is,” she said stiffly.

He smiled, slightly uncertain. “Forgive my question, but I believe that I recognize you.”

Maggie shook her head, looking away. She refused to believe that he could be a reporter, although she’d heard gambits like this before. Why did she never seem to have Chessa’s ready quip or Faith’s brash bravado, the throwaway line that turned intrusive questions into good-tempered camaraderie? “You’re wrong. We haven’t met.”

She turned her back as the jeweler returned with her receipt. Then the old man smiled broadly at the stranger. “So nice to see you again, my lord. Give my regards to your wife if you will.”

Lord?

The man beside her thrust out his hand, smiling apologetically. “I should have introduced myself immediately. I’m Nicholas Draycott, and I’m quite certain that you’re Margaret Elizabeth Kincade, though the photo you sent with your jewelry designs doesn’t do you justice.”

Maggie swallowed.
He
was the twelfth Viscount Draycott? At least that explained why he had been following her. But she’d pictured someone balding and overweight, with red cheeks and faded tweeds covered with dog hairs.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry if I’m not what you expected.”

“My mistake. But call me Maggie. All my friends do.”

“Maggie, it is. When did you arrive? Our meeting isn’t until Thursday.”

“I had some things to do before we met, and I didn’t want to miss the Etruscan exhibit at the British Museum. Then when I saw the cameos, I couldn’t resist coming in for a look.” She decided not to mention that she had put him down as a Lothario on the prowl.

“Perfectly understandable. My wife and I succumb to temptation here far too often.” He chuckled softly. “Samuels makes it impossible to say no to his private treasures.”

“One tries for quality, my lord.” The jeweler turned away to aid a matron agonizing over a choker of matched pink pearls that was worth a small fortune.

“My wife will be delighted to meet you. We both loved your design of the abalone swans set in etched silver. As a matter of fact, she should be home now, if you can spare an hour. And since you’re here I think we should talk about ideas for the display cases. After that we can make arrangements to get you down to the abbey and see the layouts first hand.”

Maggie swallowed, feeling overwhelmed. She was intensely conscious of her well-worn blue jeans and plain white shirt. His wife would be exquisite in vintage
Chanel,
no doubt. Someone beautiful and exceedingly aloof.

The old, painful shyness hit Maggie in a rush. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly visit today. I’m not dressed, and I’m sure your wife won’t want to—”

“I insist,” Nicholas said firmly, taking both her package and her arm. Somehow Maggie was out on Regent Street before she knew it. “Kacey will never forgive me if I let you get away. Besides, we’re just around the corner.”

Maggie followed, awkward and self-conscious. There was no polite way to escape him now. All Chessa’s fine dresses were packed in her single bag, along with the clever high-heeled sandals and elegant pumps. Today Maggie had dressed solely for herself in worn jeans, plain white T-shirt, and a simple white shirt. Her sole adornment was a beaten silver necklace inset with a single chip diamond.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

Nicholas smiled broadly as they rounded the corner to a street of quiet town houses. “You’re probably right. I warn you, my wife will covet that necklace you’re wearing.”

He was just being polite, Maggie thought. Hammered silver didn’t exactly go with vintage Chanel.

“Here we are.” Maggie caught a breath as Nicholas pushed open the door. Blue shutters covered the tall windows. The tiny courtyard was explosively green, bright with climbing roses.

Inside, the house held a delicate scent of lavender and pine needles. A set of white doves decorated the long marble mantel, nesting above sprays of holly and tartan ribbons. Even the shadows seemed warm and full of peace.

“Kacey, I’m back. I’ve brought someone to see you,” the viscount called. “Ms. Kincade has arrived early, it seems.”

Maggie’s heart sank. A door opened up the stairs. No doubt Lady Draycott would be tiny and exquisite. Probably color coordinated in perfect heirloom pearls and a cashmere sweater set. Or maybe a museum-quality designer suit.

A door slammed.

Maggie gawked at the figure flying down the steps. There was nothing stiff or formal about her. Her hands were streaked with oil paint, and her blond hair spilled about her shoulders, shoulders covered by a simple white T-shirt over a pair of worn blue jeans.

“You’re here already?” Kacey Draycott’s green eyes glinted with good humor as she studied her visitor. “I must say, I appreciate your taste in high couture, Ms. Kincade. But I won’t shake your hand because I’m up to my elbows in oil paint.”

“My wife is restoring a Whistler
Nocturne
from the Tate Gallery. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been in town today.” Nicholas’s voice was warm with pride, almost as warm as the heat that filled his eyes when he looked at his wife. He held open the door to a sitting room where sunlight spilled over bright chintz armchairs. A pair of fine rosewood end tables was covered by a dozen stuffed bears in bright tartan jackets. Children’s books were piled beneath a fig tree decorated with tiny white lights. There was beauty but no formality to the room, and Maggie felt her awkwardness begin to fade.

Almost immediately a black-clad figure appeared with a tea service balanced on a lacquer tray.

“Ah, Marston, come and meet our new artist. Ms. Kincade has just arrived from the States.”

The butler bowed slightly. “I found your inlay work to be most extraordinary, Ms. Kincade. Do you use flux or solder for your joinings?”

Maggie blinked. “Both. It’s more whim than technique, I suppose. If I went by the book, there would be no room for inspiration.”

“Perfectly understandable.” As the butler arranged the tray, Maggie saw that in addition to his very correct dark suit he was wearing neon orange running shoes. “And inspiration is all, is it not?”

“For me, it is. You’ve done metalwork before?” Somehow it seemed hard to imagine that proper English butler handling a blowtorch.

“A bit here and there. I’m nowhere near your league, I’m afraid.” Marston arranged the linen napkins expertly, then straightened. “There is a caller for you, my lord.
”
He hesitated for a moment. “The gentleman is in the study. I believe he was hoping for your swift return.”

Nicholas looked at Kacey, who made a brushing gesture with her hand. “Go away, love. This will give me a chance to corner Ms. Kincade about that necklace she’s wearing. I’m under strict orders to buy something of Ms. Kincade’s for Kara MacKinnon. Otherwise she’ll never speak to me again.”

“Not
the
Kara Fitzgerald MacKinnon of Dunraven Castle?” Maggie frowned. “The editor of
New Bride
magazine?”

“One and the same,” Nicholas chuckled as he headed to the door. “She and my wife have become thick as thieves. But Kacey can tell you about that better than I.” He appeared slightly distracted.

Kacey Draycott poured a cup of tea as the door closed behind her husband. When she handed the cup to Maggie, a carved pendant slid from beneath her shirt.

Maggie drew a sharp breath. “That’s lovely work.”

Kacey stroked the intricately carved oval of rare lavender
jadeite.
“It was a gift from Nicholas on our first wedding anniversary, and I seldom take it off. He told me it was very old.”

Maggie studied the design of entwined dragons. “From the carving style, I’d say it’s about sixteenth century. And the stone is genuine
jadeite,
Burmese, no doubt. The best always is. You don’t see that shade of lavender very often today.”

Kacey caressed the smooth stone. “Sometimes I could almost swear I feel the other women who’ve worn this piece, along with their joy and pain. It actually feels warm against my skin.”

“Good jade always does. The ancient Chinese believed that jade protects better than any medicine. Poisoned food was even supposed to crack a jade dish, which made it a handy stone for suspicious emperors worried about a possible assassination. In fact, my father always said…” Maggie stopped, then drew a level breath. “My father was an expert in jades as well as faceted gems. He could have told you what hill village your piece was mined in and probably the name of the court carver who sculpted it. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about fine period stones, from Han jade to old mine diamonds.”

“Daniel Kincade, your father,” Kacey said matter-of-factly.

Maggie nodded, already steeling herself for the questions to come.

“My mother had a pair of his earrings, pink diamonds on tiny silver chains. She never had more compliments than when she wore them.” Kacey hesitated. “I’m … sorry about what happened.”

Maggie tried to forget the incessant ringing of the doorbell in the house above the Hudson. Day after day the restless reporters had gathered for a glimpse of her, like wolves to the kill. What better sport than to stalk the daughter of the jeweler who had tried to cheat two governments out of a fortune in uncut gems?

“Just for the record, my father
didn’t
steal anything. They said he’d been given those stones to cut and polish, and instead he’d stolen them, but it just isn’t true. He couldn’t have done a thing like that.
”

Kacey met her gaze directly. “Just for the record, we don’t believe the story either, so you can put that concern out of your head.”

“You don’t understand.” Maggie’s palms were damp, her heart racing. “My presence at the abbey will be a problem for you, considering the scandal. It isn’t over.” She shoved back her hair. “You may soon regret choosing me.”

Kacey’s smile was gentle, but chiding. “A little scandal is the last thing Nicholas and I are worried about, Ms. Kincade. We’ve had our share of pushy reporters here and at the abbey. In fact, you might say that a scandal first brought us together. We don’t budge.” She sat down gracefully and filled her own cup. “Did you ever find out what happened to your father?”

“I tried, but all I got was the official government report that his plane went down after he had fled to avoid arrest. But my father would never have done something like that. I even sent an investigator to Sumatra, and his report was unequivocal. There was no sign that my father had lived through the crash. There was also no sign of any stolen gems.”