Read Online Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Atherton
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because one sidelong
look from her would have sent me into a prolonged and embarrassing giggle fit. I hadn’t
met someone as entertaining as Miles Craven in years and I was delighted to see that
his apartment was as flamboyant as he was.
The living room was a cheerful Edwardian mishmash of styles. The walls were hung with
vintage art nouveau advertising posters featuring sinuous and scantily clad women,
and the furniture ranged from a hefty Victorian armchair to a lighter-than-air neoclassical
divan. In one corner, a wicker chair with a broad back and curled arms sat before
a bamboo occasional table. The laptop computer on the bamboo table was the only visible
concession to modernity.
Our host motioned for us to be seated on the divan, but he remained standing.
“I hope you’ll overlook my louche garb,” he said, bending to close the laptop. “I
permit myself to dress informally when I work from home.”
“So do I,” I said, though my idea of informal attire—sweat pants and T-shirts—was
a lot less formal than his. “My name is Lori Shepherd, by the way, and this is my
friend, Bree Pym.”
“A pleasure,” he said, bowing to each of us in turn. “May I offer you a spot of tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. The fact
of the matter is, I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”
“How intriguing,” he said. He smiled winsomely, sat in the wicker armchair, crossed
his legs, and tented his long fingers over his smoking jacket. “Ask away, dear lady,
ask away.”
“I wonder if you might give me Amanda Pickering’s address?” I said.
Miles Craven’s smile vanished and his eyes flickered down to his fingertips before
shifting between my face and Bree’s.
“An unusual request,” he observed.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. I took it as my cue to trot out my cover story.
“I have two young and very lively sons,” I explained hastily, “so I don’t have much
time to spare for housekeeping. When I ran into Amanda on Saturday, she seemed like
an ideal candidate: a hardworking young woman who—”
“Ah,” he interrupted. “You need a char.”
“It would only be for a few hours a week,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t dream of luring
her away from the museum, but I thought, if she needed a little extra cash in the
kitty, she might be willing to work for me on a part-time basis. I’d like to discuss
the idea with her in person, but I couldn’t find a listing for her in the telephone
book.” I peered at him entreatingly. “So I came to you.”
“I wish I could oblige you, Mrs. Shepherd,” he said, smoothing his cravat.
“Lori, please,” I said, resisting the temptation to explain that, since I’d kept my
own last name when I married Bill, I was Ms., not Mrs., Shepherd. “Everyone calls
me Lori.”
“I wish I could oblige you, Lori,” he began again, plucking at his sleeve, “but the
one thing you ask of me is the one thing I am unable to provide. My staff’s personal
information is private and confidential. I cannot in good conscience—” He broke off
as the doorbell rang. “Dear me, I am popular today. Pray excuse me . . .” He rose
from the wicker chair and left the room.
Bree promptly jumped to her feet, darted over to the bamboo table, opened the laptop,
and began tapping away at the keys.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Finding Amanda’s address,” she muttered.
“And I was worried about involving you in a slightly illegal scheme,” I said, rolling
my eyes. “You’ve taken lawbreaking to a whole new level.”
“All in a good cause,” Bree murmured. “Here it is. Payroll records. There’s Les and
Al, the useless security guards, and . . . here’s Amanda.” She scanned the screen,
tapped a few more keys, closed the laptop, and flung herself onto the divan mere seconds
before Miles Craven reentered the room.
“The telephone
look from her would have sent me into a prolonged and embarrassing giggle fit. I hadn’t
met someone as entertaining as Miles Craven in years and I was delighted to see that
his apartment was as flamboyant as he was.
The living room was a cheerful Edwardian mishmash of styles. The walls were hung with
vintage art nouveau advertising posters featuring sinuous and scantily clad women,
and the furniture ranged from a hefty Victorian armchair to a lighter-than-air neoclassical
divan. In one corner, a wicker chair with a broad back and curled arms sat before
a bamboo occasional table. The laptop computer on the bamboo table was the only visible
concession to modernity.
Our host motioned for us to be seated on the divan, but he remained standing.
“I hope you’ll overlook my louche garb,” he said, bending to close the laptop. “I
permit myself to dress informally when I work from home.”
“So do I,” I said, though my idea of informal attire—sweat pants and T-shirts—was
a lot less formal than his. “My name is Lori Shepherd, by the way, and this is my
friend, Bree Pym.”
“A pleasure,” he said, bowing to each of us in turn. “May I offer you a spot of tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. The fact
of the matter is, I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”
“How intriguing,” he said. He smiled winsomely, sat in the wicker armchair, crossed
his legs, and tented his long fingers over his smoking jacket. “Ask away, dear lady,
ask away.”
“I wonder if you might give me Amanda Pickering’s address?” I said.
Miles Craven’s smile vanished and his eyes flickered down to his fingertips before
shifting between my face and Bree’s.
“An unusual request,” he observed.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. I took it as my cue to trot out my cover story.
“I have two young and very lively sons,” I explained hastily, “so I don’t have much
time to spare for housekeeping. When I ran into Amanda on Saturday, she seemed like
an ideal candidate: a hardworking young woman who—”
“Ah,” he interrupted. “You need a char.”
“It would only be for a few hours a week,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t dream of luring
her away from the museum, but I thought, if she needed a little extra cash in the
kitty, she might be willing to work for me on a part-time basis. I’d like to discuss
the idea with her in person, but I couldn’t find a listing for her in the telephone
book.” I peered at him entreatingly. “So I came to you.”
“I wish I could oblige you, Mrs. Shepherd,” he said, smoothing his cravat.
“Lori, please,” I said, resisting the temptation to explain that, since I’d kept my
own last name when I married Bill, I was Ms., not Mrs., Shepherd. “Everyone calls
me Lori.”
“I wish I could oblige you, Lori,” he began again, plucking at his sleeve, “but the
one thing you ask of me is the one thing I am unable to provide. My staff’s personal
information is private and confidential. I cannot in good conscience—” He broke off
as the doorbell rang. “Dear me, I am popular today. Pray excuse me . . .” He rose
from the wicker chair and left the room.
Bree promptly jumped to her feet, darted over to the bamboo table, opened the laptop,
and began tapping away at the keys.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Finding Amanda’s address,” she muttered.
“And I was worried about involving you in a slightly illegal scheme,” I said, rolling
my eyes. “You’ve taken lawbreaking to a whole new level.”
“All in a good cause,” Bree murmured. “Here it is. Payroll records. There’s Les and
Al, the useless security guards, and . . . here’s Amanda.” She scanned the screen,
tapped a few more keys, closed the laptop, and flung herself onto the divan mere seconds
before Miles Craven reentered the room.
“The telephone
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