it, not even to himself, Peake trusted her not to let him make a total ass of himself
in front of Shambley.
So he smiled at her gratefully, accepted the coffee she poured for him, and said, “You look like a Christmas card this morning.”
A Victorian card, he would have added, straightening his own red-and-green striped tie, except that he was afraid she might
tartly remind him that most Victorian cards pictured only blond, blue-eyed Caucasian maidens. Her white silk blouse was tucked
into a flowing skirt of dark green wool and it featured a high tight collar and cuffs, all daintily edged in lace. Her thick
black hair was brushed into a smooth chignon and tied with a red grosgrain ribbon that echoed a red belt at her waist and
clear red nails on her small brown fingers. She wore a simple gold locket and her drop earrings were old-fashioned garnets
set in gold filigree that caught the light as she returned Peake’s greeting.
“Too bad about the MacAndrews Foundation,” she said. “They turned us down
again?
”
Miss Ruffton nodded, her dark eyes sympathetic. “I left the letter on your desk.”
“Oh well,” he said, trying to make the best of it, “we weren’t really counting on their support.”
She gazed into her coffee cup with detachment. There was no way to break bad news gently. “But we
were
counting on Tybault Industries.”
His thinly handsome face grew anxious. “They’ve withdrawn their annual donation?”
“Cut it,” she said succinctly. “By a third. With a hint that it may be cut by another third next year.”
“Oh, God!” Peake moaned, pacing back and forth from his office door on one side of the room to the dining room door on the
far side. “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned altruism?”
“At least the projection figures look good on the Friends membership drive,” she said, but Peake refused to be comforted.
“Penny-ante. We’ve got to find a way to raise more real money or the Erich Breul House is going right down the slop chute,”
he predicted gloomily.
He started back to his office and hesitated, remembering that Shambley was probably still there.
“What is Dr. Shambley really looking for?” asked Miss Ruffton, with that uncanny knack she had of reading his thoughts.
“God knows,” he muttered drearily. “Fresh material for his new book on late nineteenth-century American artists, I suppose.”
And then, although Peake seldom consciously picked up on Miss Ruffton’s subtle inflections, her last words sank in and triggered
an automatic alert. “What did you mean ‘really’?”
“We’ve allowed other historians access to the Breul papers,” she said slowly. “Dr. Kimmelshue always granted permission. And
not just artists or art historians. We’ve had antique dealers, students of interior design—”
“Well?” Peake asked impatiently.
Miss Ruffton looked at him coldly. “Perhaps it was only my imagination,” she said and turned away.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Please go on.”
But already she had opened the door to the service hall beneath the main stairs, the quickest route to her own desk, and she
did not look back.
“
Merde!
” Peake muttered beneath his breath and charged back into his office.
“Listen, Shambley,” he said to the historian’s slender back, “what are you really looking for?”
“
Mi scusi?
” Whenever he wished to insult, obfuscate, or stall until he’d chosen his next words, Roger Shambley always affected Italian.
He lifted his oversized shaggy head from a low file drawer. “Why should you think I’m looking for something special?”
“You’ve spent the last few days quartering this house like a bird dog,” said Peake, abruptly realizing that this was true.
“All the Breul papers are up in the attic. What do you expect to find in old Kimmelshue’s files?”
“Merely fulfilling my duties as a trustee,” Shambley said smoothly. “Familiarizing myself with past
in front of Shambley.
So he smiled at her gratefully, accepted the coffee she poured for him, and said, “You look like a Christmas card this morning.”
A Victorian card, he would have added, straightening his own red-and-green striped tie, except that he was afraid she might
tartly remind him that most Victorian cards pictured only blond, blue-eyed Caucasian maidens. Her white silk blouse was tucked
into a flowing skirt of dark green wool and it featured a high tight collar and cuffs, all daintily edged in lace. Her thick
black hair was brushed into a smooth chignon and tied with a red grosgrain ribbon that echoed a red belt at her waist and
clear red nails on her small brown fingers. She wore a simple gold locket and her drop earrings were old-fashioned garnets
set in gold filigree that caught the light as she returned Peake’s greeting.
“Too bad about the MacAndrews Foundation,” she said. “They turned us down
again?
”
Miss Ruffton nodded, her dark eyes sympathetic. “I left the letter on your desk.”
“Oh well,” he said, trying to make the best of it, “we weren’t really counting on their support.”
She gazed into her coffee cup with detachment. There was no way to break bad news gently. “But we
were
counting on Tybault Industries.”
His thinly handsome face grew anxious. “They’ve withdrawn their annual donation?”
“Cut it,” she said succinctly. “By a third. With a hint that it may be cut by another third next year.”
“Oh, God!” Peake moaned, pacing back and forth from his office door on one side of the room to the dining room door on the
far side. “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned altruism?”
“At least the projection figures look good on the Friends membership drive,” she said, but Peake refused to be comforted.
“Penny-ante. We’ve got to find a way to raise more real money or the Erich Breul House is going right down the slop chute,”
he predicted gloomily.
He started back to his office and hesitated, remembering that Shambley was probably still there.
“What is Dr. Shambley really looking for?” asked Miss Ruffton, with that uncanny knack she had of reading his thoughts.
“God knows,” he muttered drearily. “Fresh material for his new book on late nineteenth-century American artists, I suppose.”
And then, although Peake seldom consciously picked up on Miss Ruffton’s subtle inflections, her last words sank in and triggered
an automatic alert. “What did you mean ‘really’?”
“We’ve allowed other historians access to the Breul papers,” she said slowly. “Dr. Kimmelshue always granted permission. And
not just artists or art historians. We’ve had antique dealers, students of interior design—”
“Well?” Peake asked impatiently.
Miss Ruffton looked at him coldly. “Perhaps it was only my imagination,” she said and turned away.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Please go on.”
But already she had opened the door to the service hall beneath the main stairs, the quickest route to her own desk, and she
did not look back.
“
Merde!
” Peake muttered beneath his breath and charged back into his office.
“Listen, Shambley,” he said to the historian’s slender back, “what are you really looking for?”
“
Mi scusi?
” Whenever he wished to insult, obfuscate, or stall until he’d chosen his next words, Roger Shambley always affected Italian.
He lifted his oversized shaggy head from a low file drawer. “Why should you think I’m looking for something special?”
“You’ve spent the last few days quartering this house like a bird dog,” said Peake, abruptly realizing that this was true.
“All the Breul papers are up in the attic. What do you expect to find in old Kimmelshue’s files?”
“Merely fulfilling my duties as a trustee,” Shambley said smoothly. “Familiarizing myself with past
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