Chapter 26
OLIVER
“Here?” Eve glances up at the building, the distinctive blue flag fluttering in the gentle breeze. “Really?” Her doubtful gaze returns to me.
“Yes, really,” I reply, fastening the button on my jacket as I take her hand. “Come on. We’re already late.”
The door opens before we reach it, meaning that Eve stops tugging, hissing questions, and generally fussing. She’s right; I might’ve mentioned we were visiting one of the world’s most prestigious jewelers, but that would’ve spoiled the surprise. And created a lot of questions, more to the point.
“Mr. Deubel, Miss Fairfax, welcome to Garrard & Co.” Our greeter, a Mr. Jones, slides his hand down his blue tie and a slight middle-aged paunch.
“Good afternoon.”
“Hi. Hello.” Eve’s eyes widen as we step inside. The interior is stylish and luxurious, but I expect her reaction is more about the store’s numerous displays of diamonds.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Mr. Jones, our consultant for today, seems enchanted by Eve’s apparent wonder as she stares at the high Edwardian ceilings, the chandeliers, the silk-lined walls. And the jewels, of course.
“That’s one word for it.” She gives her head a tiny shake, almost as though coming back to herself.
Relief expands between my ribs. Eve is, in so many ways, unlike any woman of my acquaintance, but I’ve yet to meet a woman who wasn’t dazzled by diamonds.
“This way, please.” Jones indicates we walk ahead, though we do so very slowly as Eve marvels at the display cabinets housing various necklaces, bracelets, rings, and even ancient archival records.
“What are we doing here, devil boy?” Eve asks from between gritted teeth. Or that could be a smile, I suppose.
“‘Devil of a man.’ If you’re going to use my name, at least use it right.”
“El diablo,” she whispers in an exaggerated Spanish accent, making a discreet horned sign as though warding off evil.
“Get thee behind me, Satan?”
“No, because you’d just stare at my ass. Oliver,” she complains, “why are we here? You said it yourself—I’m dressed like a thief.”
“Just keep your hands in your pockets, and if the alarms go off, whatever you do, don’t run.”
“This is very confusing.”
“Relax.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “You should only worry if it looks like I’m about to get down on one knee.”
“That’s not even funny,” she grumbles, but before I can answer, her head doubles back to where a number of illustrations hang on the wall. “Is that ...”
“Yes, beautiful, isn’t it?” Jones puts in, coming up from behind us. “It’s a hand illustration of the Imperial State Crown, prepared for the coronation of George VI by ourselves.”
“George VI, as in the king of England?”
“King of the United Kingdom and the dominions of the British Commonwealth, at the time, I believe. Emperor of India also, if memory serves. Now, this one here ...”
We’re not here to buy a crown, but I wait patiently as the pair discusses the members of royalty whose persons Garrard has adorned over the centuries.
“... by royal warrant of appointment,” Jones drones on. “Authorized to provide goods and services to the British royal family, dating back to 1735 by Frederick, Prince of Wales.”
Eve, suitably impressed but obviously troubled, clings to my arm as we’re shown up a grand staircase to where a door stands open.
“We’d better be here to buy a present for your mom,” she whispers, crossing the threshold.
“That would be a pointless exercise,” I whisper back. “She’s been dead for years.”
“Your secretary?” She looks slightly panicked as she thumps her fists into the pockets of her long cardigan.
“Andrew wouldn’t appreciate this type of bonus. I could probably see Fin wearing a crown as he wines and dines our clients, but it would give him ideas.” Releasing the button on my jacket, I lower myself to a sofa of muted gray.
“Here we are, then,” Jones says, closing the door behind him.
“Come and sit next to me.” I pat the cushion next to me, and Eve pulls her hands from her pockets, warily lowering herself. Meanwhile, Jones crosses the room, busying himself at a tall cabinet.
“I took the liberty of selecting a few pieces,” he says, making his way to the sofa setting, having put on a pair of white cotton gloves. “Of course, if these are not to your liking, we have many other suites to choose from.”
“Pieces?”
I stifle my amusement at Eve’s reedy tone and the way her eyes appear glued to the tray Jones sets on the table before us.
“Rings?” Her eyes dart to mine, not without panic.
“Surprise! I thought you might like to choose something sparkly to wear until the fateful day I manage to pin you down.”
“Too kind,” she mutters, murdering me with her eyes.
“She’s overcome,” I murmur as I slide my arm along the sofa back, pulling her closer. “You see, she’s yet to say yes. You like to keep me dangling, my darling, don’t you?” It takes everything inside me not to chuckle as she slides her hands under her thighs as though to stop herself from strangling me.
“It is a lady’s prerogative,” Jones adds jovially.
Eve seems to forget her intended reply as he lifts a ring from the velvet stand.
“Oh, my,” she whispers. “That’s really something.”
“Yes, it’s quite an eclectic piece. Sapphire, aquamarines, topaz, tanzanite, and turquoise. Very striking, if I might say so.”
Personally, I think it looks a little like something you might get out of a Christmas cracker, but I don’t mention it as he proffers it her way. Eve slips it onto the middle finger of her right hand. Her face is a picture of loveliness as she turns her hand this way and that so it catches the light. “It’s so sparkly.”
It didn’t take her long to ease into this, I think, glancing back at the tray as Jones begins to talk about carats and clarity. Then she cuts him off.
“What about that one?”
“A snake,” I say doubtfully, staring at the ring she’s pointing to. “It’s not quite what I had in mind.”
“I don’t know,” she says silkily. “There’s something about it that speaks to me.”
“It’s not quite a snake,” Jones carefully corrects. “It’s a serpent and one of our popular cocktail rings. A striking piece. Aquamarine and diamonds in white gold.”
“It’s very ... avant-garde,” I say diplomatically. “But I believe Eve to have more traditional tastes.”
“I think it’s appropriate,” she contradicts, swapping the first ring for the second.
“I can’t think why.”
“Can’t you?” She smiles but not with her eyes. “Think harder .”
Eve and the serpent weren’t my aim. “What about that one?” I say, plucking a sapphire ring from the tray to turn it between us. The light from the chandelier turns it a shade I wouldn’t have expected.
“You have excellent taste!” Jones exclaims. “One of our modern classics. A double cluster of diamonds and a violet sapphire of striking color and brilliance.”
“It looks like an engagement ring,” Eve says, quietly discomposed.
“Don’t worry, darling. I wouldn’t cheat you out of it when the time eventually comes.” It glints as I twirl it between my fingers, my mind slipping to a long-ago memory. In the meadow at the back of my grandparents’ garden, I twirled a buttercup under my sister’s chin to see if it would reflect gold. Do you like butter or not? So went the game.
“Do you like it?” Our eyes lock, the huskiness of my voice twisting the question into something else.
“The color reminds me of your eyes.”
A madness grips me as I move closer. As I offer it to her. As she tentatively reaches for it. It feels like it could be the first in a lifetime of moments—shared laughter. Loving, living hand in hand as our bones weaken and our skin turns papery. But then, I remember who I am. What I’m about. And it occurs to me that I could never love her as she deserves.
I swipe the ring away just in time.
“But this one is more my taste than yours. Let’s look at the aquamarine again.”
EVIE
What the fuck?
Did that just happen, or did I imagine it? Because, for a split second, it looked like he was about to propose. Worse—I was not running for the hills! Did he think his shoelace needed tying and I misunderstood? Or did his brain misfire—or did mine explode, because I know I learned my lesson some weeks ago. Mitchell lied and cheated and manipulated. And Oliver, well, he’s guilty of at least one of those.
I am not that girl. I can’t be that stupid. Twice.
I resist the urge to press my hands to my cheeks. They feel nuclear-blaze hot.
Did anyone notice? Did anyone see my literal brain fart? I cast a quick glance in Oliver’s direction. He looks like he normally does, and Mr. Jones is still waffling about stones.
What in the actual fish cakes is wrong with me? I’d briefly considered throat punching Oliver when he made a joke about proposing earlier. I knew it was all just for show. Maybe my brain suffered a power drain because a stone complemented his eyes.
I don’t want to be here. I. Want. To. Run. Away.
“You look a little flushed, Eve.”
“I’m fine.” Or another f-word. My eyes dart to Oliver’s but don’t hold as I make a grab for the ring that looks least like a promise. “It’s just a little warm in here.”
“Let me adjust the air-conditioning.” Jones makes to stand but stills as I shake my head.
“No, it’s fine.” I plaster on a smile, hoping it doesn’t look too scary.
“How about a glass of water?”
Stop being nice to me, or I’ll cry. Come on, Evie. Get ahold of yourself, for fudge sake.
Oliver turns his wrist, the rubies (garnets?) in his cuff links catching the light as he moves back his pristine cuff. Hallelujah, he’s going to say it’s time to leave. Sounds good to me. I’ll feign an appointment—a meeting. Hit the nearest wine bar to drown this ick.
“I think we will have that champagne, Mr. Jones.”
“Ah, hell.”
“Sorry?”
“I said ah hella like this one?” Shit. I’m wearing the ugly ring again. The one I only said I liked because Oliver didn’t. It probably costs a small fortune, even if it reminds me of a mouthful of broken teeth. But the other ring? The one that matched his eyes? It’s perfect—exquisite. I almost feel like I should tell him to buy it, to set it aside for his future wife. Except, when I think of that happy occasion, I feel a little stabby. I guess I’m just not that nice.
“This one?” Our eyes lock, his filled with something I can’t place. Relief? “All the more reason to celebrate.”
“Wonderful!” Mr. Jones actually claps his white-gloved hands. “I’ll call for refreshments.” He bounds from his chair. He must work on commission.
“Why do I even need a ring?” I whisper hiss, leaning in as Mr. Jones leaves. “And why isn’t he worried I’ll stuff all these jewels in my pockets?” I gesture to the velvet tray holding at least a dozen rings.
“He must be expecting me to keep an eye on you.”
“You,” I scoff. “What makes you think he’d trust you?”
“Money,” he whispers with wide-eyed glee.
“Exactly the reason people won’t trust you.” Why I won’t trust you.
“Don’t worry. I’d visit you in prison.” He reaches for the tray, his fingers spread wide as though ready to grab.
“You’re not stealing anything,” I say, slapping his hand away. “I don’t even want a ring. I have no idea why we’re even here.”
“To give people lots to talk about, of course.”
“I don’t see how wearing a ring will help unless you also want me to wear a pin that reads, ‘Oliver bought this ring for me.’”
His fingers are soothing on the backs of my hands. “Just trust me.”
“About as far as I can throw you,” I mutter, making him smile. “Just so you know, when this is over, you’re getting it back.”
As Mr. Jones clears away the tray and sends off my lucky-bag ring, champagne arrives on a silver tray, and Oliver touches the rim of his glass to mine. “Here’s to getting what you want.”
“Yeah,” I return flatly. “And not what you deserve.” The story of my life, I think as I take a sip, ignoring the way his eyes stay on me. I get a ring, but what I need is to get out of here. Get this experience over with, get my visa, and get my life back on track.
I pretty much guzzle my champagne, and judging by the tiny-looking gift bag that appears on the table, Oliver paid for the gaudy bauble by sleight of hand.
“I hope you’ll come back to visit us again,” Mr. Jones says as we leave the room, and my panic seems to lessen. “Perhaps for one of our afternoon soirees. We call them ‘tea and tiaras.’”
“Tiaras? Like a princess?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to see Oliver’s mouth lift in a slow grin.
“Princesses wear crowns, not veils.” His tone strokes like a caress. Our inside joke.
“Princesses do indeed wear crowns,” sings a high-on-his-commission Mr. Jones. “But they also wear tiaras. In fact, anyone can wear a tiara.”
“Oliver would look fabulous in one.” I snicker quietly. Mr. Devil of a Man. You are due some payback.
“You think so? Perhaps we should take a look at them.”
“Oliver, no. I was joking!”
“Not for me,” he says in the tone of obviously .
“When am I going to wear a tiara?”
“Indulge me,” he says, taking my hand again.
Dammit. I nearly escaped. At least headwear isn’t dangerous.
The room is blue and gray, with tones of silver and gold. And so many twinkling stones. I’m drawn to where dozens of tiaras twinkle iridescently from nooks set in the wall.
“The Lotus Flower Tiara,” Mr. Jones begins, noticing my interest in a tiara festooned with pearls. “A replica, of course. The original was a necklace gifted to Queen Elizabeth, the queen mother, by her husband, the then-future George VI.”
He had me at queen , not that I’m into the royals, but I do love history. And this country has so darn much.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It was made here at Garrard, and then remodeled into the design you see today. Would you like to try it on?”
“Oh, no?” I hold up my hand. “I’m fine.”
“Do it,” Oliver whispers tauntingly in my ear.
“No.” I whip around to find him standing too close, his blue eyes blazing, goading me on. “I’m not—”
“Lift it down, Mr. Jones. I’m sure Eve would love to try it on.”
“Stop making decisions for me,” I whisper, conflicted. Of course I want to try on the damn thing, but I don’t want or need his permission.
“When will you next get the chance to try on a piece of history?”
Does he know? Did I mention my love of old stuff to him?
“Not an actual piece of history,” Mr. Jones puts in. He already has the thing in his hand.
What the heck. My fingers pull at my silky scrunchy, tightening it, hoping it’s not too messy. I reach out for the tiara, when I find it being passed into Oliver’s out-held hands.
“Allow me.”
Something inside me twists needily as he sets it on my head. He’s too close. It feels wrong, more dangerous than before. I spin away to face the mirror, finding myself blinking slowly into a face I don’t recognize. I’m not some girl from the backwoods, but I’ve never been impressed by baubles and trinkets. I’m practical. Low key. Yet here I stand, in the middle of moneyed Mayfair, wearing diamonds on my head and loving it.
“All that glitters,” I whisper.
“Isn’t gold.” In the mirror, Oliver appears behind me, his eyes not on the diamonds and pearls but on my hair. “It’s champagne, with threads of copper, amber, and ruby red.” His gaze meets mine in the mirror when he adds, “It needs no adornment because it’s beautiful. Just like you.”