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The parlor was magnificent, with old-fashioned chintz furniture that, while pretty, looked as unyielding as a park bench. The carpet was a plush Aubusson that Lyssa recognized because Will had imported several similar rugs from France. A chef could have roasted an entire cow in the fireplace, while the mantel was marble, and the lion-shaped andirons looked like bronze. All around were delicate figurines on tables, some with skirts that looked as if the lace had been dipped in porcelain. Lyssa was afraid to sit or even move in case she broke something.
When the doors opened, she expected the butler returning with their coffee, but the man entering was much taller and much younger, his short hair very dark, his eyes very blue, his features aristocratic.
Dane Harrington looked as though he could have stepped out of a Jane Austen novel too, apart from the fact that he was wearing jeans and a sweater.
The two men shook hands first. “It’s great to meet you, Cal.” Then Dane turned to her. “And you must be Lyssa Spencer. I appreciate both of you flying to meet me here, as we’re two weeks away from opening my latest resort at Dunston Castle, just outside London, and I couldn’t have gotten away until the launch was over.” He waved a hand at the sofa and chairs. “Please have a seat.”
Cal chose the nearest chair, while Lyssa looked nervously at the various antique options, terrified the delicate sofa would crack beneath her. Once Dane Harrington sprawled his long body in that creaky chair and it didn’t even strain, Lyssa finally relaxed.
The butler entered with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and a plate of English tarts.
Dane smiled at the man. “Thank you, Fernsby.”
Fernsby set the tray on the delicately painted coffee table, pouring the coffee, then pointing to the plate of treats. “Butter tarts and Bakewell tarts. Both delicacies here in England.”
Dane laughed. “According to Fernsby, no one bakes as well as the British.”
Fernsby gazed down his nose at his employer. “There is a reason we have The Great British Bake Off, sir.” Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
Dane was still laughing as he said, “Don’t let him know I said this, but I think he’s right.” He lowered his voice as if he were confiding a secret. “Bakewell tarts are the best.”
“Your house is amazing too,” Lyssa said. She’d pored over brochures and magazine shots of his resorts when she was researching, but this place, with its period furniture—not to mention a butler right out of the Victorian era—was a far cry from his contemporary resorts.
“When I first saw it after buying it with all the furnishings, I originally intended to redecorate.” He smiled. “But it’s growing on me. It feels like a stepping stone back in time.”
“There’s a special charm to it,” Lyssa agreed. “I wonder if altering it might extinguish some of its magic?”
“You’ve said exactly what I’ve been feeling but couldn’t put a name to,” Dane said. “This place is magic.”
Cal nodded. “Lyssa knows magic when she sees it.”
And she did. Last night had been magic. And maybe she was still under its spell.
Then Dane waved his hand. “On that note, let’s skip the small talk. Talk to me about the foundation.”
Lyssa got out her laptop, putting it on the table next to the coffee service. “We’ve put together a presentation—”
“Please,” he said, “no presentation.” He looked at her, then Cal. “Just give it to me from the heart.”
Cal didn’t miss a beat. “Gideon Jones is the most honorable man I know. Instead of pocketing the money he received for the Miguel Fernando Correa painting, he’s putting it to work for foster care children, like his fiancée once was, and for veterans like him. He’s seen PTSD firsthand. He lost comrades and witnessed the aftermath of what their families endure. He’s seen the struggles of those who were injured, their lives radically changed. While Veterans Affairs does what it can, this foundation can do so much more.”
Dane raised one dark eyebrow. “He got sixty million for that painting, and it’s not enough?”
Lyssa couldn’t keep from jumping in. “Honestly, no. Not for what we want to do. We envision rehab facilities, social groups for veterans’ kids, aid for widowed families. We can’t expect people to come to us. We have to bring these services to them in cities throughout the U.S. Can you imagine what one facility costs?” She rattled off a number, and Dane’s eyes widened. “If we want to put one in every major city, sixty million is like a dandelion in the wind.” She blew on her fingers as if she were blowing away dandelion fluff.
“I see your point, Lyssa. Tell me more.”
“As you know from our brochure, Gideon Jones was a veteran himself. He lost a whole squad in Afghanistan. He joined the army to take care of his little sister, Ari, and his mother. But it was hell over there, and when he returned stateside, he couldn’t find his sister. He didn’t know she’d gone into the foster care system. And he also couldn’t face himself due to suffering through his own fair share of PTSD from what he’d been through.”
