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He lifts a shoulder. “I thought I had taught my sons better manners. Alex isn’t usually front of shop.” He shakes his head. “Even if Dr. Taylor weren’t a scholar, you know better than to treat visitors to the shop like this.”
Alex frowns and I hear, “Blasted Americans,” as I move toward the promised treats. My bonafides don’t make a dent in his disdain for U.S. Then he turns back to me with a charming smile. “I really am sorry. I’ve had some unfortunate news, and, well, it’s rather thrown me. But I shouldn’t have taken my bad mood out on you.”
“You mean that manuscript I told you not to acquire?” Yevgeny’s angry tone makes Alex flinch.
“Ah, well, yes, um.” He runs a hand gently over one of the red leather covers, a finger tracing a gold crown. “They really are lovely books. I’m sure Brian will love them.”
I gently touch the covers before carefully opening each one. The aroma of old wood-pulp paper rises from the yellowed pages of each volume, telling me these books are post-1843, when publishers abandoned cotton rag for wood-pulp paper. While book lovers salivate over the fragrance, most don’t realize it’s the acid in the paper creating the aroma along with the yellowing of the paper—both signs of deterioration.
But the books are beautiful, and I sigh with delight. I page through the nicely illustrated volumes and the Fraser books have a plethora of documents. They are part of a larger series on the histories of Scottish families. “You can wrap them up,” I tell Alex. “Max asked if you could use gift wrap.”
He grins, all signs of belligerence forgotten. I think we may still have a few sheets from the Queen’s Jubilee celebration.” He moves to the back of the shop, where there is a small office, and comes back with some sheets of blue-and-gold striped tissue paper stampedSheremetov. “Handle them carefully. This paper is a little flimsy.”
While he’s wrapping everything up, I remember that I don’t have a gift for Max’s birthday. I turn to Yevgeny. “I’m also interested in getting a book for Max since it’s his birthday, too. Do you have any classics about racing?”
“Serge is the expert.” Yevgeny calls out to Serge, who has disappeared.
He pokes his head out from the back. “What do you need?”
“A classic on racing for Max.”
Serge walks out, rubbing his chin. “He gave me a list of a few things he wants. Let me check.” He walks over to a bulging section of books, scans them quickly, and pulls one off the shelf. “This would be perfect.” He pauses, frowning. “But it’s quite expensive.”
My eyes narrow to slivers. “How expensive?”
“Maybe a couple hundred pounds?”
I imagine the joy on Max’s face when he opens his gift. “Wrap it up for me, please. Brown paper is fine. Max won’t care.”
Serge takes the book to the worktable and deftly wraps it, just as Alex has finished wrapping the volumes for Brian. He carefully loads them into a shopping bag. Serge puts Max’s book in a different bag.
Not knowing who to ask, I blurt out, “How much do I owe you?“
I watch as Serge rapidly calculates the total in his head. “One hundred and sixty-five pounds.”
I wonder if he’s giving me a discount as I pull out my credit card, and he rings up the sale.
They send their best wishes to Brian and assure me they will be at the party. I exit and find JL hunched over his phone. Tapping him on the shoulder, I say, “All done. Anything wrong?”
He slips his phone into his pocket and stands up. “Texting with Micki.”
“Ready to walk me to the Savoy?”
“Bien sûr. I’ll put the chair back.”
Once he’s delivered me to the restaurant, JL takes off for lunch with Max and the bankers down the way at Simpson’s on the Strand.
ChapterSixteen
Max
Back from Simpson’s, we sit at the small boardroom table. As JL gives his presentation, more paper is handed out, along with teacups and a plate of biscuits. After an hour, we all get up to stretch and I notice that all that is left of the biscuits are crumbs. Surprising, really, after a huge lunch at Simpson’s. We all ate rare beef from the domed silver trolley, served with gravy, cabbage, and Yorkshire pudding. Yet the bankers fall on the biscuits like ravenous wolves. By the state of the tray, Bourbon Creams outclass digestives with bankers.
I snap back to attention as one of the three clears emits a loud “ahem” before asking another question. “I understand you have delayed the introduction of your newest security update. Why?”
Crap. I slip my glasses back on, tent my fingers, and focus on a point above the heads of the three men across from me.
“We’ve bumped up against some unexpected coding issues.” The excuse rolls smoothly off my tongue.
