There was a fractional pause before he responded blandly, “Just a small research project. But we were hoping to have a look at the private collections.”
“A research project. I think it can be arranged.” She exhaled. “Good heavens, I owe you a good deal more than that.”
“You owe me nothing. But we would appreciate the short-term loan of that key.”
“I owe you my whole world.” The words were soft, but slipped immediately into normal tones before Dominic could reply. “You’re lucky with your timing. I’m on leave after this week. But I can certainly give you a couple of hours now.”
Stepping back from the desk, she held up the electronic key card and spoke with the resonant burr of a tour guide. “Follow me, lady and gent, as we enter these hallowed halls and step back in time.”
Despite her initial enthusiasm to fossick amongst antiques and lovely old letters, Sylvie was feeling a little uncertain in general now, but she followed them through a locked door behind the desk and into a chilled corridor. Which, in turn, led into an absolute tangle of hallways. If she got lost in here, she’d probably emerge back into the square at about age fifty-three. She was pleased to discover that the farther they receded into the building, the messier and more archaic-looking things got, and by the time Dolores let them into a large chamber, they might be in the country house attic of her dreams.
High wooden beams across the ceiling were spotted with the odd cobweb, and shelf after shelf was stacked with labeled cartons and bubble-wrapped picture frames.
“When members of the royal household pass,” Dolores said, “often their personal belongings extend into hundreds of boxes. These came from Patrick’s own properties. Some of it has been catalogued. A great deal has not. We’ve only had this set for eighteen months. You can be assured that if you return in eighteen years, the archivists will have at least half of these boxes fully classified.”
“Are we allowed to just . . . touch things?” Sylvie asked.
“As I’m personally vouching for you and not telling anyone about this, yes,” Dolores returned cheerfully. “Just put on a pair of those gloves, don’t break anything, or take anything, and put things back where you found them. If any long-lost crown jewels fall out of a file, it’s not Finders Keepers.” She gestured over to a long worktable and handed Sylvie the Post-it. “There’s a tape deck on the far table. Here’s the shelving reference for the music recording. It has been logged and digitized, but I think you’re a woman after my own heart. You’ll always seek the original source.”
She studied them for a further moment. “What are you hoping to find?”
Once more, briefly, Dominic’s eyes met Sylvie’s. “Inspiration.”
“I see.” Dolores’s response was a little enigmatic. “Well, that’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it? I’ll leave you to it.”
She was already heading out in a brisk stride, but popped her head back around the door to fix Dominic with a stern stare. “Postscript. I’ve chased enough snuggling students out of the public stacks lately. No hanky-panky in front of Will.” She patted a bronze bust of Shakespeare on the head. “You’re old enough to know better.”
The door slammed shut behind her, dislodging a wave of dust particles in the cool air, sending them spinning past Sylvie’s hot cheeks.
She was very aware of Dominic standing a few feet away but wouldn’t have looked at his face just then if a million-pound contract and her life itself were at stake.
“Dolores seems very, um, energetic,” she offered into the echoing silence.
“Yes,” Dominic said, intensely drily. “Doesn’t she?” He was already slipping on a pair of white gloves and reaching for a carton, lifting it down from a shelf and reading the detailed label on top. The sleeves of his shirt and wool pullover were pushed back, his famous forearms on full display.
To be quite honest, the more he kept shoving his shirt up, the more she could see why they had their own fan account on Instagram.
“How do you know her?” Not planning to lose ground on the battlefield, Sylvie pulled on gloves and chose a stack of wrapped photographs.
“She was a customer, a long time ago. One of the first I handled after I finished my qualifications and started working for my grandfather full-time.”
Sylvie wanted to ask what Dolores had meant by a favor owed, but there was something about Dominic that made her cautious of prying too far. He was like a human fortress, seemingly impenetrable. But no human being was beyond hurt. She was beginning to have the strangest, prickliest feeling when she was with him, that she could tap, tap, tap against the stone wall—and, just maybe, stab through the tiniest of cracks.
And the feeling it was very important she didn’t.
“You know,” she said suddenly, lifting out a photo of three ascetic, anaemic-looking people with guns and spaniels, “your grandfather is one of my earliest memories.”
Dominic was leafing impatiently through a thick file. His fingers paused on the paper. “Sebastian is?”
“And his chocolate.” Sylvie grinned. “Figures. Most of my strongest memories are food-related. And of those, most of them chocolate. It was my fifth birthday. My aunt Mallory took me to De Vere’s. Your grandfather was out in the storefront. He shook my hand, wished me happy birthday, showed me the front page of the paper, and asked which of these people should win the general election. I chose the one with the nicest eyes, and he said, ‘Excellent. A wise young woman.’ He gave me a cupcake on the house, and Mallory let me pick out a whole box of chocolates. A dozen of Sebastian De Vere’s signature truffles, all for me. I didn’t even have to share.” Her smile flickered. “But I did. Mallory and I went to Kensington Gardens, we sat near the Peter Pan statue, and we gorged ourselves on milk caramel creams. It was . . . a really good day. I’ll never forget it.”
She didn’t really expect Dominic to reply, but he looked across at her. “In the bare bones of an anecdote, I can hear his voice.”
“You were close.”
He said nothing. And then: “We were. Despite a rocky beginning.”
Sylvie frowned.
He must really want to change the subject. He actually voluntarily encouraged her to speak. “And you were clearly close to your aunt.”
A pang. And a flood of love, always, forever love, from her heart to the tips of her toes.
“She was the great love of my life so far.” Sylvie looked down at the second photo she’d unearthed. It was—must be—a mother and daughter, two women a couple of decades apart in age, their features so similar. The daughter was seated, her mother’s hand resting on her shoulder. And at their feet, yet another spaniel. Royals and spaniels seemed to go hand in paw. “My parents died when I was a baby. I never knew them. Mallory was my father’s younger sister. She was barely twenty-one when she was landed with custody of me. There was no one else. My mother was an only child of only children. My father had no other siblings, no cousins, or aunts or uncles. If Mallory hadn’t taken me, I’d have had to go into foster care. I don’t think she even hesitated.”
She traced her fingers lightly over the photograph. “She used to strap me to her chest and take me to her uni tutorials. She was an artist and became a curator, an expert in nineteenth- and twentieth-century glass art and sculpture. Any time she had a contract or speaking engagement outside of London, she made sure I was okay with it, and off we both went.” Finally, simply: “She was always there.”