Lindsay Armstrong - An Exception to His Rule

‘Which streak prompted that, do you think? A rather large ego?’ Arthur enquired heavily after a moment’s thought.

Damien grinned. ‘No idea. Bring her here for an interview tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Damien—’ Arthur rose ‘—I have to say I can’t guarantee the girl.’

‘You mean everything you told me about her provenance et cetera—’ Damien raised his eyebrows sardonically ‘—was a lot of bull dust?’

‘No,’ Arthur denied. ‘I followed up every reference she gave me and they all checked out, I’ve talked to her and sounded her out on a range of art work, as I mentioned, but—’

‘Just bring her, Arthur,’ Damien interrupted wearily. ‘Just bring her.’

* * *

Despite this repeated command, Damien Wyatt stayed where he was for a few minutes after Arthur had gone, as he asked himself why he’d done what he’d just done.

No sensible answer presented itself other than that he had somehow felt goaded into it, although not because of anything Arthur had said.

So—curiosity, perhaps? Why would Harriet Livingstone want to have anything to do with him after, he had to admit, he’d been pretty unpleasant to her? Some quirky form of revenge?

More likely a quirky form of attaching herself to him, he thought cynically. All the more reason to have stuck to his guns and refused to see the girl.

What else could have been at work behind the scenes of his mental processes then? he asked himself rather dryly. Boredom?

Surely not. He had enough on his plate at the moment to keep six men busy. He had an overseas trip coming up in a couple of days, and yet...

He stared into the distance with a frown. Of course the possibility remained that it wasn’t the same girl...

* * *

At three o’clock the next afternoon, Harriet Livingstone and Arthur Tindall were shown into the lounge at Heathcote by a tall angular woman with iron-grey hair cut in a short cap. Arthur addressed the woman as Isabel and kissed her on the cheek but didn’t introduce her. Arthur was looking worried and distracted.

Damien Wyatt came in from outside through another door, accompanied by a large dog.

He threw his sunglasses onto a side table and said something to the dog, a young, highly bred and powerful Scottish wolfhound, that sat down obligingly although looking keenly alert.

‘Ah,’ Damien Wyatt said to Arthur after a brief but comprehensive study of Harriet, ‘same girl.’ He turned back to Harriet. ‘We meet again, Miss Livingstone. I’d almost convinced myself you wouldn’t be the same person or, if you were, that you wouldn’t come.’

Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wyatt,’ she said almost inaudibly.

Damien narrowed his eyes and cast Arthur an interrogative glance but Arthur only looked blank.

Damien returned his attention to Harriet Livingstone.

No batik wraparound skirt today, he noted: an unexceptional navy linen dress instead. Not too long, not too short, not too tight, although it did make her blue eyes even bluer. In fact her outfit was very discreetly elegant and so were her shoes, polished navy leather with little heels. This caused a faint fleeting smile to twist his lips as it crossed his mind that this girl probably rarely, if ever, wore higher heels. And he wondered what it must be like for a girl to be as tall, if not taller, than many of the men she met. Not that she was taller than he was...

Then there was her hair. Shoulder-length, fair and with a tendency to curl, it no longer looked as if she’d been pulled through a bush backwards. It was neatly tied up instead with a black ribbon. Her make-up was minimal. In fact it was all so...what? he asked himself. Well-bred, classic, timeless, discreet—he had no difficulty imagining her in the hallowed halls of some revered antique and art auction company or a museum.

But, and this caused him to frown rather than smile, the main difference between this Harriet Livingstone and the girl who’d run into him was that she was no longer thin. Very slender, perhaps, but no, not exactly skinny.

Despite being slender rather than skinny and despite her more composed outward presentation, it was, however, plain to see that she was strung as taut as a piano wire.

It was also plain to see—and his eyes widened slightly as his gaze travelled down her figure—that her legs were little short of sensational...

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you were right, Arthur, but let’s get down to brass tacks. We’ve organised a few of my mother’s things in the dining room. Please come through and give me your opinion of them, Ms Livingstone.’

He moved forward and the dog rose and came with him but stopped to look at Harriet with almost human curiosity. And, as Harriet returned the dog’s gaze, just a little of her tension seemed to leave her.

Damien noticed this with a slight narrowing of his eyes. And he said, somewhat to his surprise, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce you—this is Tottie, Miss Livingstone. Her proper name is much more complicated. Something tells me you like dogs?’

Harriet put out a hand for Tottie to inspect. ‘Yes. It’s one of the reasons I ran into you,’ she murmured. ‘I thought I’d killed the dog and I—just froze.’

Arthur tut-tutted.

Damien Wyatt blinked, twice. ‘Much worse in your estimation than killing me, I gather?’

Harriet Livingstone allowed Tottie to lick her hand then said quietly, ‘Of course not. I didn’t—I’m sorry but I didn’t have time to think about you or anything else. It all happened so fast.’

‘I’m suitably damned,’ he replied. ‘All right, let’s get this show on the road.’

‘If you’re having second thoughts I’d quite understand,’ Harriet said politely, with a less than polite glint in her eye, however.

She really doesn’t like him, Arthur thought and rubbed his face distractedly. So why is she doing this?

But what Damien said took him even further by surprise. ‘On the contrary, after what Arthur has told me about you I’m positively agog to see you in action. Shall I lead on?’

He didn’t wait for her response but strode out with Tottie following regally.

* * *

Harriet put the exquisite little jade peach tree down on the table with a sigh of pleasure. And her gaze swept over the rest of the treasures spread out on the dining room table. ‘They’re all lovely—she had marvellous taste, your mother. And judgement.’ She took off her red-rimmed glasses.

Damien was leaning his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed. He did not respond to her admiration of his mother’s collection but said, ‘Is that a new pair or did you get them fixed?’ He nodded towards her glasses resting on the table.

Harriet looked confused for a moment, then, ‘Oh, it was only a lens that got broken so I was able to get a new one.’

‘Red glasses.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Not quite in keeping with the restrained elegance of the rest of you—today, that is.’

A fleeting smile twisted Harriet’s lips. ‘Ah, but it makes them a lot easier to find.’ And, for a moment, she thought he was going to smile too but he continued to look unamused.

Harriet looked away.

‘How would you catalogue them?’ he asked after a moment. ‘This is not even one tenth of them, by the way.’

‘I’d photograph them in the sequence I came upon them and I’d write an initial summary of them. Then, when they were all itemised—’ Harriet laced her fingers ‘—I’d probably sort them into categories, mainly to make it easier to locate them and I’d write a much more comprehensive description of them, their condition, any research I’d done on them, any work required on them et cetera. I’d also, if your mother kept any receipts or paperwork on them, try to marry it all up.’