Swept off Her Feet (7 page)

“It’s a dueling pistol?” I asked cautiously. It had a dark feeling about it.

Innes nodded. “One of a pair.”

“How
interesting
,” said Duncan, his shoulders bouncing up and down with excitement. “What d’you say they’d be worth, eh, Evie? In your professional opinion?”

I swallowed. I could hardly say I didn’t know, not when I’d come up here under the guise of being an expert—but I
didn’t
know. I didn’t come across a lot of firearms in my day-to-day business.

“You’d need to go to a specialist appraiser for something like this,” I gabbled, hoping Innes hadn’t just had them valued. “I’d hate to mislead you about something with so much . . . family significance.”

That was a good phrase. Max used that a lot, when he had
no idea whether something was worth millions or buttons. “I can give you a number for an
excellent
dealer,” I went on, feeling more confident. “I certainly don’t come across anything as unusual as this every day.”

“Ah’m not planning to
sell
,” objected Innes, cradling the pistol dangerously to his bosom as if I’d threatened to grab it then and there.

“Of course not!” Duncan beamed genially. “How interesting, though! Rough value?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to . . .” I demurred.

“Roughly?” Duncan persisted.

I tried a polite laugh. “I couldn’t . . .”

He carried on looking at me with his boggly fish eyes. Hard. “Ballpark?”

“A thousand pounds?” I guessed. It was a figure that usually went over well.

Duncan raised his eyebrows in a belated display of discreet appreciation.

“Evie!” Someone grabbed me by the arm. “Have you met Sheila?”

I turned and saw Ingrid McAndrew standing behind me with Sheila the shocked lady, now more flushed and embarrassed than shocked. Sheila was twice the size of Ingrid, and her bright red cheeks were being offset nicely by her bright red twinset; with her white hair on top, she had a bit of a Mother Christmas look going on, right down to the general air of jolliness and the faint aroma of tangerines.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, holding out my hand. “Hello.”

“Fraser’s mother,” Ingrid added, but she didn’t need to: Sheila’s wide-set blue eyes were exactly like Fraser’s, as was the welcoming, open smile.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Evie.” At last, a proper Scottish accent! “I’ve heard so much about you and your family.”

“Really?” I couldn’t imagine what Alice had found to tell the Grahams about our family. We had the shortest Christmas letter in existence. “All good, I hope?”

“Och, yes. Alice says you’ve been working with one of London’s best dealers since you left college,” Sheila said, glancing at Ingrid.

“Ha-ha-ha!” I stopped when I saw how anxious Ingrid looked. “Oh, um, yes. Max is . . . very well-known in his field.”

“There you go, Ingrid, you’re in good hands!” Sheila nodded reassuringly, and Ingrid managed a nervous smile, which faded as quickly as it had come.

“You really do have an
amazing
house . . .” I began, but ran out of words.

Amazing
didn’t really do justice to the sheer magnificence of it all. If this was just the drawing room, what was the rest of the place like? My eyes roamed greedily around the room, taking in the many knickknack-piled tables, huge sofas, and paneled walls that probably swung round to reveal hidden passages down to the secret chapel. Mum would have passed out at the sheer surface area of dust-attracting furniture, but I was struggling not to rush round touching everything.

I tried not to stare too obviously, but everyone was pretending they weren’t staring at me. Over by a towering brass urn filled with aspidistras, Duncan and Innes had been joined by a bony lady cradling a teapot in one arm like a baby. When I looked round, all three stopped talking, and Duncan raised his tumbler in my direction. It was nearly empty, unlike everyone else’s glasses, which remained noticeably full.

A thought occurred to me. Max often rhapsodized about
the bizarre social habits of the rich, especially rural types, and this lot looked good and eccentric. One woman had a tiny spaniel draped over each shoulder, and there were a pair of identical white-haired men, both smoking pipes.

It might not be a valuation party at all. They might just be . . . doing some kind of predinner show-and-tell? After all, my handbag contained a powderless powder compact and a jade frog, for no other reason than I liked having them around.

“Do people often bring dueling pistols to parties round here?” I asked Ingrid hopefully.

“Just for English guests!” said Sheila. “Only joking!” she added, patting Ingrid’s arm as Ingrid squawked in horror. “I think someone’s trying to catch your eye, Evie.”

I looked round, and immediately everyone’s eyes dropped. Most of the guests seemed to be roughly the McAndrews’ age—midsixties or so—but there were a couple of younger women standing by the grand piano. They were doing that party isolation thing, blocking off a conversational victim from the rest of the room, using their shoulders as a sort of vest-clad velvet rope. I wondered who they were talking to with such intensive flirtiness.

The taller of the two shifted as she made some tipsy gesture with her drink, and I spotted who it was: Robert McAn-drew. He must have slunk in through one of the other doors. It was the sort of drawing room that boasted more than one entrance, so unseen staff could swoop in and out with trays and suchlike. He looked even more handsome in full light—but he seemed very uncomfortable—irritable, even. He kept fiddling with the silver-framed photos on the piano, rearranging them as if they were in his way.

Fraser was
much
more heirlike, I thought to myself. He’d
have been leaning on that piano, holding forth about the relatives in the photos with charm, not looking as if he’d like to sweep everything off with one whoosh of his arm.

Robert lifted his glass to drain it, and caught me staring at him. He raised one eyebrow at the items cluttering the piano, as if to say,
See? Junk!
I made a big show of looking appreciatively at the oil next to me, a pile of dead pheasants next to an apple. It was a bit grisly, now I examined it closely, but I tried not to let that show.

Sheila made a low gurgling noise. “Ah, I’ll just . . . refresh my glass. Excuse me, Evie.”

“Sheila, no! Don’t—oh, thanks,” hissed Ingrid, just as Duncan approached with a lady who was far more what I’d had in mind for the chatelaine of the castle. She had a long nose, swept-back dark hair, and a silver Celtic knot brooch on her fluffless navy cardigan. She made it look like some kind of badge of state.

Ooh. Maybe it was.

“Evie, meet Janet Learmont!” boomed Duncan, presenting her to me with a flourish. “Janet’s the chairwoman of the Kettlesheer ball! What she doesn’t know about reeling isn’t worth knowing! Janet, this is Evie Nicholson, our antiques consultant.”

“The famous ball!” I said. “I’ve heard so much about it already. It sounds magical.”

“Yes, it is,” said Janet, without any shred of modesty. Her accent was so posh the Scottishness was almost undetectable. “The Learmonts have been on the committee for years, so it’s very much in the blood. My mother, and her mother, and her mother before, have all done their bit. And I’m hoping my daughter will be taking over soon enough.” She cast a meaningful
look in Duncan’s direction. “It’s good for Catriona to learn the ropes now, before she has the rest of Kettlesheer to worry about!”

Ingrid let out a faint squawk.

“It
is
a responsibility, I know,” said Janet condescendingly. “Catriona’s had a wee bit more training than you, Ingrid. You’re doing very well.” She left a microscopic pause before adding, “Considering.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Ingrid, and I wished Sheila would come back.

Janet angled her long neck over our heads. “Where is Catriona? Now I’ve got you two, we should have a quick chat about the set reel. And Robert’s outfit.”

“I think she might have left already,” I said, trying to be helpful. “And it sounded like a no on the kilt front.”

“I managed to get him to agree to white tie, though,” blurted Ingrid, as Janet’s face darkened. “It was quite a struggle. Robert hates formal dress. He says it makes him look like a waiter. Not that there’s anything wrong with waiters.”

“Oh, I don’t know, these London types. . . . Let’s get him over here to explain himself,” said Duncan. “Where is he?” He turned round and searched the room.

Robert had vanished.

“I do think he’s being a bit pigheaded about this.” Janet’s voice was clipped with disapproval. “He has a very important role to play as the heir. They’re first couple in the opening Reel of Luck,” she added to me.

“What’s the Reel of Luck?” I asked.

“The first dance of the night,” said Ingrid. “Traditionally, it’s supposed to bring good luck to any courting couples in the room, and—”

“It goes back many, many years to the great Sir Ewart McAndrew,” Janet began, as if Ingrid hadn’t spoken. “He founded the ball in order to find wives for his seven sons. Traditionally—correct me if I’m wrong, Duncan!—the favored girl of the McAndrew heir was invited to dance this first reel in front of all the assembled McAndrews, alongside his family.”

Duncan opened his mouth to agree, but Janet swept on regardless.

“The story goes . . .” Her voice hushed, and her catlike face assumed a distant expression, the type you see tour guides adopt when they’re trying to convey the solemnity of Westminster Abbey to a group of non–English speakers. “Wild Cullen McAndrew was the heir to the estate, and his partner was the most beautiful girl in the Border counties, Louisa Bell, incidentally a distant relation of mine. They danced upstairs in the great ballroom of Kettlesheer, without a single step out of place. And when they were done, the bold Cullen was so smitten with Louisa’s fine footwork, he gave up his gambling and mistresses and called for the local priest to marry them on the spot. And they were wed in the chapel on the grounds that very night.”

I was spellbound. I could totally imagine the whole thing: pipes, reels, flaming torches, discarded mistresses, the lot. “How romantic!”

“And since then—” Ingrid began.

“And since then, there’s never been a ball that hasn’t resulted in a proposal,” Janet carried on as if she hadn’t heard Ingrid. “So long as the reel is performed without a hitch.”

“And Robert and Catriona dance this on their own?” I asked Ingrid. It only seemed polite to direct one question to her, as the hostess.

But Janet leaped in. “Oh,
no
! No, dear, you need eight people for a reel. Four couples. Everyone else watches while this reel opens the ball.”

“No pressure for the others, then!” I joked.

Janet let out a little laugh, while Duncan and Ingrid turned ashen. “Did you hear that, Ingrid? No pressure for you and Duncan at all!” Her voice took on a metallic note. “I hope you’ve been doing the practices I gave you?”

“Yes, Janet.” Ingrid nodded.

“And have you—”

“Robert!” Duncan suddenly shot out a hand and pointed at Robert, catching him in the act of sidling out. His teacher’s eyes in the back of his head clearly still worked. Reluctantly, Robert came over.

“Your mother tells me you’ve said no to a kilt! For God’s sake, lad! You can’t turn up in those jeans of yours! It isn’t a nightclub, it’s a big occasion!”

Robert’s eyes slid toward me, then returned to Janet, who was pretending to be embarrassed at Duncan’s mentioning it. “I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not,” he said. “I’m not Scottish. I was born in Merton.”

“That doesn’t matter!” said Janet. “You’re part of Kettlesheer now! Catriona will be wearing
her
clan tartan. Everyone will be expecting you there in your full regalia.”

“We’ll see,” he said politely. “Would you excuse me? I’ve got to take a call back at the lodge. Work. Sorry.”

“Always working, that boy,” said Duncan as Robert weaved his way through the furniture to the door. I couldn’t tell whether he sounded frustrated or disappointed, or both.

“Still no date fixed to move up here properly?” asked Janet.

“Soon, I should think, Janet.” Duncan winked. “Depending on how this reel goes, eh?”

I was so overwhelmed by the Jane Austen nature of this exchange that I took a theatrical sip from my glass, and nearly choked.

It was like drinking petrol flavored with carrots. Suddenly I understood why no one had been touching theirs.

Just to compound my embarrassment, an old lady suddenly thrust a butter dish into my hands, and I had to spend the next twenty minutes doing off-the-cuff valuations. Pottery spaniels followed a silver snuffbox; then came a carved elephant with a missing tusk, about which I managed to get quite emotional after its owner explained it had belonged to his twin sister who died in the Second World War.

At a quarter to seven exactly, I was in the middle of pronouncing on a Spode teapot when I became aware of a marked thinning-out of the guests. It was as if a plug had been pulled out of a bath, and they were all circling toward the door, half against their will.

In the hall I could see a dour woman in a plain black dress, evidently wielding some kind of invisible social tractor beam. She was handing people their coats from a portable rack that had also materialized, and they were dazedly bundling up in fur hats, scarves, and lots of Barbour jackets.

“Mhairi’s a wonder. Her family has looked after the house for years, her father was the last butler,” murmured Ingrid, appearing at my elbow with a full tray of unfinished drinks. “Do you know, everyone round here leaves parties when they’re supposed to? And they arrive on time, not an hour late!”

We both gazed at Mhairi. Something about her didn’t encourage dawdling.

“Do you have a lot of staff?” I asked, envisioning rows of black-and-white-clad parlormaids in starched caps, lining up by the stairs.

“Just Mhairi. I don’t know how I’d cope without her.” She looked down at her full tray. “Actually, it was Mhairi’s idea to let Duncan serve his carrot schnapps instead of sherry. She doesn’t like parties to go on after half seven.”