Night Over Water - Ken Follett [65]
“Harry Vandenpost is the name,” he said. “But my memory is better than yours, I’ll bet. You’re Margaret Oxenford, aren’t you? How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said dazedly. She was more confused than he. She would let him take charge of the situation.
He put out his hand as if to shake, and she extended her own; and in that moment inspiration came to him. Instead of shaking her hand, at the last moment he bent over it with an old-fashioned bow; and when his head was close to hers, he said in a low voice: “Pretend you never saw me in a police station and I’ll do the same for you.”
He stood upright and looked into her eyes. They were an unusual shade of dark green, he noticed, quite beautiful.
For a moment she remained flustered. Then her face cleared, and she grinned broadly. She had caught on, and she was pleased and intrigued by the little conspiracy he was proposing. “Of course, how silly of me, Harry Vandenpost,” she said.
Harry relaxed gratefully. Luckiest man in the world, he thought.
With a mischievous little frown, Margaret added: “By the way—where did we meet?”
Harry fielded that one easily. “Was it at Pippa Matchingham’s ball?” “No—I didn’t go.”
Harry realized he knew very little about Margaret. Did she live in London right through the social season or hide away in the countryside? Did she hunt, shoot, support charities, campaign for women’s rights, paint watercolors or carry out agricultural experiments on her father’s farm? He decided to name one of the big events of the season. “I’m sure we met at Ascot, then.”
“Yes, of course we did,” she said.
He allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. He had turned her into a coconspirator already.
She went on: “But I don’t think you’ve met my people. Mother, may I present Mr: Vandenpost, from....”
“Pennsylvania,” Harry said rashly. He regretted it immediately. Where the hell was Pennsylvania? He had no idea.
“My mother, Lady Oxenford. My father, the marquis. And this is my brother, Lord Isley.”
Harry had heard of them all, of course: they were a famous family. He shook hands all round with a hearty, overfriendly manner that the Oxenfords would think typically American.
Lord Oxenford looked like what he was: an overfed bad-tempered old Fascist. He wore a brown tweed suit with a waistcoat that was about to pop its buttons, and he had not taken off his brown trilby hat.
Harry spoke to Lady Oxenford. “I’m thrilled to meet you, ma’am. I’m interested in antique jewelry, and I’ve heard you have one of the finest collections in the world.”
“Why, thank you,” she said. “It is a particular interest of mine.”
He was shocked to hear her American accent. What he knew about her came from his careful reading of society magazines. He had thought she was British. But now he vaguely remembered some gossip about the Oxenfords. The marquis, like many aristocrats with vast country estates, had almost gone bankrupt after the war because of the world slump in agricultural prices. Some had sold their estates and gone to live in Nice or Florence, where their dwindling fortunes bought a higher standard of living. But Algernon Oxenford had married the heiress to an American bank, and it was her money that had enabled him to continue to live in the style of his ancestors.
All of which simply meant that Harry’s act was going to have to fool a genuine American. It had to be faultless, and he would have to keep it up for the next thirty hours.
He decided to be charming to her. He guessed she was not averse to compliments, especially from good-looking young men. He looked closely at the brooch pinned to the bosom of her burned orange traveling suit. It was made of emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds in the form of a butterfly landing on a wild rose spray. It was extraordinarily realistic. He decided it was French from about 1880 and took a guess as to the maker. “Is your brooch by Oscar Massin?”
“You’re quite right.”
“It’s very fine.”
“Thank you again.”
She was rather beautiful. He could understand why Oxenford