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But Buck had never been so close, so focused on her alo
ne before. She had always managed to slip away, vanish around corners, merge behind something more interesting when she had inadvertently strayed across his path.
She could smell him now: tobacco, sweat, onions, a cheap cologne. Phyllida gripped the edge of the table and fought the primitive instinct to run.
‘I know you, don’t I? Where do you deal?’ Buck demanded. His shrewd eyes were narrowed on her face.
Phyllida fought for self-possession. If she showed fear, it would only intrigue him more.
He raised one hand as if to take her by the chin and hold her while he studied her face. ‘Wot’s your name?’
‘I do not think the lady wishes to talk. You are distracting her from studying the goods.’ The calm accented voice came from her right, then she felt the brush of his coat hem against her skirts as Ashe moved to stand between her and Buck.
‘You’re not from round ‘ere, are you?’ Buck said. ‘Perhaps you don’t know how things go. I was talking to this piece.’
‘Things go the same around the world,’ Ashe said calmly. ‘A gentleman does not trouble a lady.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’m no gent and she’s no lady.’ Buck slammed down a hand on the trestle table beside Phyllida’s hip. She flinched away and found one of the bullies had moved round behind her. ‘So you take yourself off, pretty boy, before you gets hurt.’
There was a sudden movement, a flash, and a thin knife was quivering in the wood between Buck’s thumb and forefinger. The porcelain shivered and clattered together with the force.
‘My hand slipped,’ Ashe said into the thick silence. ‘I find that happens when I am crowded. What a pity if anyone was to fall and break your valuable consignment, sir.’
‘Mine?’ Buck did not move his hand. His attention had shifted from Phyllida like an actual weight lifting from her chest.
‘I think you are the money behind this, are you not? I really do suggest you ask your men to move away. If I were to faint from terror I think I would probably fall against that stand of Song Dynasty wares, which would be a tragedy, considering how valuable they are and the fact that I was prepared to spend a significant sum on that set of vases.’
‘You were, were you?’ Buck eased his hand away, his eyes fixed on Ashe’s face. He was a lout and a bully, Phyllida thought as she fought to get her breathing under control, but he was not stupid enough to lose money to make a point, not if he could save face. No one else could see the knife. And then it vanished as fast as it had appeared, point first into Ashe’s left sleeve.
‘I was. If we can agree on price. And, if you do not frighten the lady away, I imagine she was about to enquire about the cost of the articles she has set to one side.’
She looked up at Ashe looming large and dangerous next to her. He seemed completely relaxed, but then she was probably tense enough for both of them. He held Buck’s stare with his own and the man’s wavered.
‘Show us your money first.’
‘No. We agree a price first. Then I send for the money, then we make an exchange,’ Ashe said as pleasantly as if they were chatting over afternoon tea.
‘Done,’ Buck said with a grunt and moved away, his men pushing past Ashe and Phyllida to follow him.
‘Oh, my God.’ She unclenched her fingers from the trestle table and painfully massaged life back into them. ‘Are we going to get out of here alive?’
‘If I spend enough money,’ Ashe said with a suppressed laugh. ‘Have you chosen?’
‘Yes.’ Phyllida knew she could not just bolt from the warehouse, which was what every instinct was screaming at her to do. It would draw attention back to her and Ashe would be curious. She righted a little figure that had been knocked over with the force of the knife blow.
Ashe gestured to Bertram and stood back as she haggled. Her voice shook at first, but the familiar cut and thrust of bargaining soothed her a little and they agreed a price that gave her almost everything that she wanted. ‘I’ll take them now,’ she said, paid, then stood aside while a porter packed the pieces and Ashe negotiated the price of the vases.
‘They are Northern Song,’ Bertram declared. ‘Very rare.’
‘No, they are southern celadon ware. Thirteenth century, quite late for Song,’ Ashe countered.
He knows what he is talking about. It was easy to watch and listen to Ashe, to the rhythm of that lovely, lilting accent, to the fluent movement of his hands as he gestured. He had become less European, more Indian, just by the way he pitched his voice, the way he stood. He did not nod, but swayed his head from side to side in the sinuous Indian gesture of agreement.
Fascinated, she watched, saw Bertram’s nervous glances to the back of the warehouse, guessed he was under orders from Buck about the price. Ashe was going to pay in money for coming to her rescue.
‘I’ll help this lady out with her purchases,’ he said when the deal was concluded. ‘And I will send for my man with the money. Do not pack them until I get back, we wouldn’t want anything to get chipped, would we?’
Or substituted, Phyllida thought. But what man with the money?
