architect.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t let him make recommendations until the house has been investigated properly.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘He’s just looking.’
She nodded, halted at the back of the house, and looked up.
Following her gaze, not at all sure what he was supposed to be looking at, he finally proffered, ‘A bricked-up window?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is that good?’ he asked as he turned to smile at the architect, who had followed them.
A reciprocal smile on his thin, humorous face, Mike also glanced upwards.
‘Good?’ she queried. ‘Good? It’s Decorated Gothic!’
‘Ah.’
‘It’s the most... I can’t believe it. Oh, I can’t believe it,’ she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the window.
‘Does that mean you’ll stay?’
But she wasn’t listening. ‘Hardly any of them have survived,’ she breathed. ‘Or only in cathedrals. Lincoln and Carlisle, Melrose Abbey, York Minster. You’ll need to hack the interior plaster off very, very carefully, of course, but you can see from here that the stonework is much narrower, and in “bars”. See how the window area is much larger and wider, and encompassed by an equilateral arch?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, his eyes on her beautiful profile.
‘Divided vertically by stone mullions, it gives five, seven or even nine lights. Mid-fourteenth century.’ Turning, only to find him staring at her instead of the window, she looked hastily away. ‘You haven’t instructed any builders...?’
‘No,’ he denied. ‘I don’t, as yet, have any builders.’
‘Good. Only it’s very important...’
‘Not to disturb anything?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Looking anywhere but at him, she murmured, ‘Perhaps you ought to think about getting the Manor listed.’
‘No,’ he said, because he knew very well that if it was listed nothing would be allowed to be done.
‘But Inigo Jones might—’
‘No,’ he interrupted softly.
‘You don’t know who he is,’ she accused.
‘Was.’
Mike laughed. ‘Give in,’ he urged his friend. ‘You appear to have met your match, and I have to go. Nice to have met you, Miss...?’
‘Langrish,’ Nash supplied helpfully as he steered Mike back towards the path, without allowing him to say anything further.
‘Talk about “speed the parting guest”,’ he complained humorously. ‘Not that I blame you; she’s stunning!’
‘Yes, she is. A phoenix who falls into the ashes rather than rises from them. That’s her name,’ he explained at Mike’s frown.
‘Oh.’
‘She was born in a fire—well, not precisely, but there was a fire in the next-door apartment whilst her mother was in labour. She arrived just as the firemen were carrying out the stretcher.’ And he wanted her with a fierce desire that was almost frightening. ‘How knowledgeable is she?’
Halting again, Mike gave his friend a silent scrutiny before asking, ‘Not sure about her?’
‘I’m not sure about anybody. You have heard of bar tracery?’ he queried lightly.
‘Er...’
Nash laughed. ‘Inigo Jones?’
‘Now, that I can tell you. He was one of England’s first great architects.’
‘Professor Morton? She apparently trained under him.’
‘Yes, and certainly he’s reputable.’
‘Good.’
‘As if you didn’t know.’ Mike grinned. ‘Knowing you as well as I do—or as well as anyone is ever likely to—I imagine you’ve checked her out down to what colour nail varnish she uses.’
‘Was she wearing nail varnish?’ Nash queried innocently. ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Liar.’
Reaching the gate, they both turned to stare at the Manor. ‘Had the surveyor’s report in yet?’ asked Mike.
Nash shook his head.
‘And will you live here when it’s restored—if it’s ever restored?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Heard from Chrissie?’ he asked casually.
‘No.’
‘Mind my own business?’
‘Mmm.’
With a faint smile, he strolled towards his car. ‘Perhaps someone ought to tell her she has fierce competition,’ he added slyly. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll get some ideas down on paper and let you have them in a few days. Let me know if you need a demolition expert,’ he called back. ‘Or a chaperon.’
As the car drove away, and with nothing of his thoughts showing on his face, Nash turned to see Phoenix picking her way back along the rutted path.
Reaching the front door, he was just in time to catch her as she tripped over the step. And he wanted to kiss her.
She moved hastily away from his supporting arm, avoided all eye contact.
‘Still falling over, I see,’ he murmured softly.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look awkward, or embarrassed about it, just accepting. Because she was so used to falling over things that it no longer held any importance? A fact of life, he wondered, like being left-handed?
‘You should have worn flat shoes,’ he reproved mildly.
‘I know,’ she agreed, her gaze fixed on the top of the staircase. ‘I was interviewing the Mayoress and there wasn’t time to change. I wonder why they covered it up?’
Momentarily off balance, he glanced at the wall at the top of the staircase and back to Phoenix. ‘The window?’
‘Yes.’
‘Window tax?’ he offered, not very knowledgeably.
She shook her head. Opening her notebook, fumbling for her glasses, which were hanging on a cord round her neck, she began to write. ‘I won’t
