into two short days. She would unpack her things quickly and dive straight in.
She began outlining her stops as she watched London sweep by. When the limo stopped in front of a dignified town house she frowned and searched for the hotel.
No, she remembered with a jolt. Trevor had said “house,” not “hotel.” The man lived three thousand miles away in New York City and had a house in London.
Would wonders never cease?
Composing herself, she took the driver’s hand when he came around to her door.
“I’ll bring your bags straight in, Miss Gallagher.”
“Thank you very much.” She crossed over and started up the short set of steps between rigorously formal hedges, hoping she looked as though she knew what she was doing.
The door opened before she’d worked out whether she should knock or just go inside. A tall, slim man with a fringe of white hair bowed to her. “Miss Gallagher. I hope your trip was pleasant. I’m Stiles, Mr. Magee’s butler. We’re pleased to welcome you.”
“Thank you.” She started to offer her hand, stopped. That probably wasn’t done, particularly with British butlers.
“Would you care to see your room, or may we offer you some refreshment?”
“Ah, I’d like to see my room, if that’s convenient.”
“Of course. I’ll see to your luggage. Winthrup will show you upstairs.”
Winthrup moved forward with barely a sound, a wisp of a woman in the same formal black as the butler. Her hair was a colorless ash, quietly styled, her eyes pale as water behind thick lenses.
“Good morning, Miss Gallagher. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you settled.”
Don’t gawk, you idiot . Trying desperately for casual, Darcy crossed the gleaming golden wood of the foyer, walked under the magnificence of the central chandelier, and started up the grandeur of the staircase.
She couldn’t say it was like a palace. It was too ruthlessly dignified for that. Like a museum, she thought, all polished and hushed and intimidating.
There was art on the walls, but she didn’t dare take time to study it. The walls themselves must have been papered in silk, so smooth and rich did they appear. She had to curl her fingers to keep them from touching.
The housekeeper, as she imagined Winthrup was the housekeeper, led the way down a corridor wainscoted in deep, rich wood. Darcy wondered how many rooms there were, how they were furnished, what she would see from the windows. Then Winthrup opened a deeply carved door onto luxury.
The bed was big as a lake, its four posters spearing toward the deeply coved ceiling. Darcy didn’t know what sort of rugs were spread over the polished floor, but she could tell they were old and magnificent.
Everything—chest of drawers, bureaus, mirrors, tables—was polished to mirror gleams. Dozens of white roses bloomed out of a crystal vase that she imagined weighed ten pounds if it weighed an ounce.
Draperies of deep forest green were tied back with gold tassels, framing the glinting glass.
There was a fireplace fashioned out of white marble veined with rose, and towering candlesticks flanked the mantel. More flowers, lilies this time, in that same blinding white stood in the center.
A cozy arrangement, plush chairs, polished tables, was set in a way that invited her to settle in.
“The sitting room is to the right and the master bath to the left.” Winthrup folded her thin hands. “Would you like me to unpack for you now, or would you prefer to rest a bit first?”
“I . . .” Darcy feared she might swallow her tongue. “Actually, I . . . no, I don’t need to rest, thank you just the same.”
“I’ll be happy to show you around the house if you like.”
“Do you think I might just wander about a bit?”
“Of course. Mr. Magee hopes you’ll make yourself at home here. You’ve only to push nine on the house phone to reach me, and eight to reach Stiles. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up.”
“I would, thank you very much.” On rubbery legs, Darcy started toward the bath. The hell with it, she thought, turned back. “Miss Winthrup, it’s a lovely room.”
Winthrup’s smile was as wispy as the rest of her, but it managed to soften her face a little. “Yes, it is.”
Darcy walked into the bath, deliberately shut her eyes and leaned back on the door. She felt as though she were in a play, or one of her own more creative dreams. But she wasn’t. It was real. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and little thrills of sheer pleasure dancing over her skin.
She sighed once, then opened her eyes to simply grin at the bathroom.
They must’ve taken out another room to make it so large, she imagined. More flowers graced the long counter between two oval sinks. The tiles, floor, and walls were of a soft seafoam green, so it seemed you were in some lovely underwater fantasy.
The tub, with its wide ledge covered with lush, ferny plants, was surely big enough for three. The shower was separate, a room in itself, she thought as she moved closer to investigate. Behind the waving glass were a half a dozen nozzles. She imagined it was like bathing in a waterfall and nearly stripped down to the skin then and there to see if she was right.
More crystal was set about, little bowls and dishes holding fragrant soaps or rose petals, pretty bottles holding bath oils and bath salts and creams. She sat on a padded bench at a separate counter obviously designed for milady and studied her own flushed and delighted face in the mirror.
“You’ve arrived, haven’t you?”
Throughout his first meeting, and his second, Trevor kept Darcy tucked away. Or nearly. She had a baffling habit of popping out of the corner where he wanted her. Sliding out was more like it, he mused. Sneakily, sinuously sliding into his mind when it needed to be focused elsewhere. He glanced at his watch, again. There were hours yet before he could afford to focus on her. But when he did, by God, he’d make sure the wait was worth it.
“Trev?”
“Hmm?” When he realized he was scowling, he smoothed out his features, waved a hand in apology. “Sorry, Nigel. My mind wandered.”
“That’s a new one.”
Nigel Kelsey, the head of the London arm of Celtic Records, had a sharp eye, and sharper ears. He’d been with Trevor at Oxford, where they’d clicked. When the time had come to expand his personal baby into the international arena, Trevor had put the responsibility into Nigel’s trusted hands.
“Just shuffling items in my head. Let’s flip Shawn Gallagher to the top of the list.”
“Happy to.” Nigel sat back in his chair. He rarely used his desk, thought of it primarily as a prop.
He’d been earmarked to follow his father, and his father’s father, into law, a fate that even now caused him to shudder. He hadn’t wanted to thumb his nose at family tradition, precisely, but he was much happier putting what education he had to use doing something entertaining. Celtic Records was vastly entertaining, even if his old friend did run a tight ship. A tight ship, and a profitable one, Nigel thought now.
A ship that visited such fascinating ports. Part of his responsibilities, and he took them seriously, included attending parties, events, entertaining the talent. And doing it all on expense account.
“I’m negotiating with him one on one,” Trevor continued. “Two on one, if we count his wife. And we should. I’ve advised him to get an agent.” Nigel seemed a bit surprised, but Trevor only shrugged. “I like him, Nigel. And I intend to deal straight with him, since he won’t go through a representative.”
“You deal straight in any case, Trev. I’m the one who doesn’t mind slipping a card from the bottom of the deck now and again. Just to liven things up.”
“Not with him. Instinct tells me we’ve got a prize here, one that if left to his own pace will pay off for years.”
“I agree with you. His work’s brilliant, and very marketable.”
“There’s more.”
“Is there?” Nigel puzzled again when Trevor rose to wander the office. It wa
s a rare thing to see Trevor restless, to have the man let any restlessness show. Even to him. “I thought there might be when you scheduled this meeting in the middle of your other project.”
“He has a brother and a sister. I want the three of them to record his stuff, for the first release.”
Nigel frowned, drummed his hand, which was studded with rings. “Must be some brother and sister.”
“Believe me.”
“Still, Trev, you know it would be easier to market this package using an established artist.”
“I’m leaving it to you to find a way around that.” With a faint smile, Trevor turned back. “I’ve heard them. I want you to come to Ardmore for a couple of days. You listen, and if you think I’m wrong about this, we’ll talk again.”
“Ardmore.” Nigel winced, then twisted the tiny gold hoop in his earlobe. “Jesus, Trev, what’s an avowed ur-banite like myself going to do in a barely-on-the-map Irish seaside village?”
“Listen,” Trevor said simply. “There’s something about the Gallaghers, but before I push the point with them or with you, I want you to see and hear for yourself. I want an objective opinion.”
“And when hasn’t your own been objective?”
“There’s something about the Gallaghers,” Trevor said again. “Something about Ardmore, the area.” Unconsciously, he fingered the silver disk resting under his shirt. “Maybe it’s the goddamn air, I don’t know. I want you to come over. I want your take on it.”
Nigel lifted his hands, let them fall. “You’re the boss. I suppose I should see what there is about this place that’s caused you to sink so much time, money, and effort into your theater brainstorm.”
“It wasn’t a brainstorm. It’s a very solid business concept. Don’t snort,” Trevor warned, anticipating him.
“I never snort. I do occasionally guffaw, but I’ll resist.”
“Good. I have a new piece from Shawn Gallagher.” Trevor walked over, retrieved the sheet music from his briefcase. “Take a look.”
Nigel only smiled. “Rather hear it,” he said and gestured to the piano across the room.
“All right, but he’s orchestrated it for guitar, violin, and flute.”