“It has an understated elegance,” she said. “It’s … very attractive.”
Understated elegance shouldn’t appeal to her, but it did. Sawyer was obviously rich as Croesus, and it was hard to withstand the beauty that money sometimes bought.
In Sawyer’s case, Tamara grudgingly admitted, generations of wealth came with good taste that meant he didn’t flaunt his money, so beauty didn’t shade into gaudiness.
When had she developed an appreciation for low-key charm? Her mind went back to her meeting this morning with the hedge-fund wife. The bigger, the better appeared to be that client’s motto. Sawyer just seemed appealing in comparison, she told herself.
When she and Sawyer stepped inside the town house’s cool foyer, she took in the gilded mirror on one wall, the crystal chandelier overhead and the black-and-white tiled floor.
Sawyer’s cell phone rang, and he fished it out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Excuse me a moment. It’s work, I’m sure.”
Tamara turned away. She was grateful for the interruption actually. She needed the reminder that like her father, Sawyer was tethered to a demanding business—a business for which he was marrying her.
A middle-aged woman stepped from the back of the house, an inquiring look on her face as she took in the tableau before her.
Tamara extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Tamara, Sawyer’s fiancée.”
She didn’t care what the proper etiquette was for a future countess. This one greeted the household help with her first name.
Tamara watched as the chestnut-haired woman briefly looked surprised before her face settled back into a pleasant expression.
Were all the members of Sawyer’s household so well trained? Or perhaps, Tamara thought hopefully, they were inured to shock by his various escapades.
“Oooh, gracious!” the woman before her said with a British accent as she shook Tamara’s hand. “We thought Lord Melton would never settle down. A crafty one, he is!”
“So true,” Tamara responded.
Sawyer sauntered out of the foyer and into a nearby room, still with his cell phone pressed to his ear.
“I’m Beatrice, the housekeeper,” the woman said. “The butler—”
“Alfred?” Tamara inquired drolly.
Beatrice hesitated, looking momentarily perplexed. “No, Richard, my husband. He’s running an errand at the moment.”
Tamara gave a studied sigh. No Jeeves the valet, no superhero’s butler named Alfred.
Beatrice clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “I’ve been praying that Lord Melton would finally find happiness and settle down.”
Tamara didn’t know about the finding happiness part, but Sawyer had definitely decided to acquire a countess. “Lord Melton is certainly fortunate that those nearest to him have him in their prayers.”
The devil.
Beatrice threw her a surprisingly perceptive look. “And why not? He’s been a fair, kind and generous employer.”
“Have you thought about writing ad copy, Beatrice?” Tamara quipped.
Beatrice laughed lightly. “Oh, you’re simply perfect! Exactly the person I’ve been praying for. You’ll do very well here, miss.”
“It’s Tamara, please.”
Tamara wanted to protest that she wasn’t perfect at all. And, she wouldn’t be around long enough to need to worry about how she’d fare.
She wasn’t the answer to Sawyer’s prayers in any way but one—namely, the bride who would net him Kincaid News.
Beatrice leaned forward conspiratorially. “We use the name Sawyer when we’re not around guests.”
Wonderful, Tamara thought. She’d made jabs about Sawyer’s loftiness, but he was turning out to have egalitarian tendencies to rival any new money Silicon Valley plutocrat. And his housekeeper liked him.
She grasped at any straw she could think of. “Tell me he owns a custom-built submarine and employs someone just to shine his shoes.”
Beatrice shook her head, her expression sympathetic. “He’s been known to toss his own clothes in the washing machine.”
At that moment, Sawyer reentered the foyer, pocketing his cell phone. “Ah, Tamara, I see you’ve met my indomitable housekeeper.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice smiled. “And I’ve met your lovely fiancée. I’m absolutely delighted to offer my congratulations, my lord—”
“Sawyer,” Tamara corrected sardonically.
“I’m going to give Tamara a tour of the house, Beatrice.”
“Of course.” Beatrice turned to Tamara. “I hope you’ll feel readily at home here. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need.”
After Beatrice departed, Tamara discovered on her tour with Sawyer that his house was decorated in an English style, with furniture from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries blended with more modern pieces. Lively flower patterns on the upholstery contrasted with stripes and solids.
She wanted to hate everything, but unfortunately she was too knowledgeable not to appreciate tastefulness and elegance.
And the house was intimate. Yes, she could identify several valuable objets d’art and a couple of Matisses—Belinda would love them—but the Gainsborough portraits of family ancestors and the Ming dynasty vases had obviously been kept at the historic family home set among thousands of rolling acres in the English countryside. But even with its nod to English décor, this town house was more the home of a twenty-first century entrepreneur than of an aristocrat with a centuries-old title.
After she and Sawyer had passed through the front parlor and dining room, they went downstairs to the kitchen and servants’ rooms. There, she was introduced to André, the chef.
Thank goodness, Tamara thought, for the French chef. At least one person lived up to stereotype.
Afterward, she and Sawyer took a private elevator to the upper floors.
“There are six bedrooms on two floors here,” Sawyer said.
“I’ll take the one farthest from you,” Tamara replied. “In fact, since I won’t be here for long, and I’d really prefer to remain inconspicuous. What about the maid’s room in the attic?”
Sawyer grinned, but Tamara didn’t like his too-knowing expression.
“There is no servant’s bedroom in the attic. That’s only on my Gloucestershire estate,” Sawyer deadpanned.
“How
