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“Don’t sign anything. Just kiss me.”
They sealed the compact with a quick, tight kiss, and Cora was out the front door a minute later, her skirts swishing as she ran for the grotto. Mrs. Gracedew was left alone, smiling as she listened to the heavy door slam shut. “Well,” she sighed, her eyes soft, “I like funny old grottos.” Her quiet moment of amusement didn’t last. A minute later, the formidable shadow of Mr. Prodmore darkened the doorway, his face set like stone.
VII
“My daughter’s not here?” Mr. Prodmore demanded from the threshold, already scanning the hall like he expected to find Cora hiding behind a tapestry.
“Your daughter’s not here.” Mrs. Gracedew was ready for him, composure smooth as polished oak. “But it’s a convenience to me, Mr. Prodmore, that you are, for I’ve something very particular to ask you.”
He brushed past her without a word, heading straight for the morning room, his hand hovering on the latch like he expected to catch Cora and the Captain in flagrante. “I shall be delighted to answer your question, but I must first put my hand on Miss Prodmore. Unless indeed she’s occupied in there with Captain Yule?”
“I don’t think she’s occupied anywhere with Captain Yule,” Mrs. Gracedew said, calm.
Mr. Prodmore whirled back, his temper fraying. “Then where the deuce is Captain Yule?”
“His absence, for which I’m responsible, is just what renders my inquiry possible.” Mrs. Gracedew faltered half a second, then pressed on, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “What will you take? What will you take?”
He raised his eyebrows, completely misreading her intent. “Take? Nothing, thank you—I’ve just had a cup of tea. Won’t you have one?”
“Yes, with pleasure—but not yet.” Mrs. Gracedew looked around the hall, hand pressed to her brow, visibly anxious. “I want to know how you’d value one of these charming old things that take your fancy?” She nodded at the ancient portraits and carved oak lining the room.
He followed her gaze, swelling with the pride of a collector who’d spent a lifetime gathering such pieces. “One of these charming old things?”
“Every single one!” Mrs. Gracedew said, her voice warm. Then, with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather, she dropped the real question that had been burning in her mind since she walked through the door: “Should you be willing to treat, Mr. Prodmore, for your interest in this property?”
He froze, then laughed like she’d told a preposterous joke. “Am I to take it from you then that you know about my interest in the place?”
“Everything!” Mrs. Gracedew said, sharp, no room for him to lie.
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