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I looked up. Was that the clue that I’d been looking for, wondering why the ball mattered so much? If so, then I was no wiser than before. Thanks a lot, Grandpa, I sighed. That was about as useful as beware of pastrami sandwiches. I turned the page.
“Don’t be scared,” said a voice behind me.
Those must certainly fall into the category of Famous Last Words, the sort that are the last thing you hear before your death. (Along with “it isn’t loaded” and “he only wants to play.”) Of course I was terribly scared.
“Only me.” Gideon was standing behind the sofa smiling down at me. The sight of him instantly switched my body into emergency mode again, with all kinds of contradictory feelings swirling about inside me, unable to decide which way to go.
“Mr. Whitman thought you could do with a little company,” said Gideon casually. “And I remembered that the lightbulb down here really must need changing.” He threw a bulb up in the air like a juggling ball, caught it, and at the same time dropped on the sofa beside me in one graceful movement. “Hey, you’re very comfortable down here. Cashmere blankets! And grapes. I think Mrs. Jenkins must have a soft spot for you.”
As I stared at his handsome, pale face and tried to get my chaotic feelings under control, at least I had the presence of mind to close Anna Karenina.
Gideon was looking at me attentively, his gaze wandering from my forehead over my eyes and down to my mouth. I wanted to turn away and move farther along the sofa, but at the same time, I couldn’t get enough of the sight of him, so I went on staring at him like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.
“A little hello, maybe?” he said, looking me in the eye again. “Even if you’re cross with me at the moment.”
The amused way the corners of his mouth lifted brought me back to myself. “Thanks for reminding me.” I put the hair away from my forehead, straightened my back, and opened my book, quite close to the beginning this time. I’d simply ignore him—he needn’t think everything was okay between us.
But it wasn’t so easy to put Gideon off his stroke. He looked up at the ceiling. “I’d have to switch the light out for a while to change the bulb. That would make it rather dark in here.”
I said nothing.
“Do you have a flashlight with you?”
I didn’t reply.
“On the other hand, the light doesn’t seem to be giving much trouble today. Maybe we’ll just wait until it does.”
I sensed the sidelong look he was giving me as clearly as if he were touching me, but I went on staring at my book.
“Can I have some of your grapes?”
At this I lost my patience. “Oh, have the whole bunch—but leave me in peace to read!” I snapped at him. “And just keep your mouth shut, will you? I don’t feel like making silly small talk with you.”
He said nothing for the time it took him to eat the grapes. I turned a page, although I hadn’t read a single word.
“I hear you had visitors this morning.” He began juggling two grapes. “Charlotte said something about a mysterious chest.”
Oh, so that’s the way the wind was blowing! I let the book sink to my lap. “Which part of keep your mouth shut don’t you understand?”
Gideon grinned broadly. “Hey, I’m not making small talk. I’d like to know what gave Charlotte the idea that you may have something in your hands that was passed on to you by Lucy and Paul.”
He was here to interrogate me, obviously. Probably on behalf of Falk and the others. Be nice to her, then she’s sure to tell you whether she’s keeping something hidden, and if so, where. After all, thinking women stupid was the de Villiers family hobby.
I drew my legs up on the sofa and sat cross-legged. When I was angry, it was easier to look him in the eye without letting my lower lip quiver. “Ask Charlotte yourself what gave her the idea,” I said coldly.
“I did.” Gideon sat cross-legged too, so that we were sitting opposite each other like two Native Americans in a tepee. Was there an opposite of smoking the pipe of peace? “She thinks that somehow or other you’ve come by the stolen chronograph, and your brother and sister, your great-aunt, and even your butler are helping you to hide it.”
I shook my head. “I must say, I’d never have suspected Charlotte of having too much imagination. Seems that all we have to do is carry an old chest through the house, and she goes right off her head.”
“What was in the chest?” he asked, in a rather uninterested tone. My goodness, how transparent!
“Nothing! We use it as a card table when we play poker.” I thought this was such a good idea that I only just managed to suppress a grin.
“Arizona hold ’em?” inquired Gideon, paying more attention now.
Ha, ha. “Texas hold ’em,” I said. As if he could unsettle me with such a feeble ruse. Lesley’s father had taught us to play poker when we were twelve. He thought that all girls should learn—why, he never told us. Thanks to him, anyway, we knew all the tricks and were world champions at bluffing. To this day, Lesley rubbed her nose when she had a good hand, but I was the only person who knew. “Also Omaha, but not so often. You know,” I said, leaning confidingly forward, “we’re forbidden to play games of chance at home—my grandmother has some very strict rules. We began playing poker just out of protest and sheer defiance, Aunt Maddy, Mr. Bernard, Nick, and me. But then we started really enjoying it.”
Gideon had raised one eyebrow. He looked kind of impressed. I couldn’t blame him.
