He nodded regally. “Of course.”
I unwrapped the package. It was a leather-bound version of what I assumed was a British children’s book I’d never heard of: A Flat Iron for a Farthing, by Juliana Horatia Ewing. I turned it over in my hand. It was fraying at the edges and torn through to the boards in spots. My brain went into bookbinder mode, cataloging the book itself and the work required: original green leather binding so faded it appeared light gray. Title embossed in gold on spine. Faded. Masking tape residue on front hinge. I resisted shivering in disgust.
The front and back boards had come loose from the spine. The paper was thick and in decent condition, with only a bit of insect damage and foxing on several pages. The signatures had begun to unravel from the tapes. It would need new tapes, new flyleaves and a complete new binding.
“It’s charming,” I said, and it was, despite its disrepair-and the masking tape. Ugh. I opened the book to the title page and noted its printing date: 1910. “Do you know what type of binding His, er, Highness would prefer?”
“Leather, of course,” Jones said, waving his hand theatrically.
“Of course.”
“Something elegant and pretty, perhaps somewhat close to the original green.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I turned the book over and studied the back board. Forest green morocco would be pretty. “Would he prefer gilding or heat stamping? Raised cord spine?”
He gave me a deferential nod. “I was told that the details were to be handled at your discretion, Miss Wainwright.”
“And you’ll need it back within a month?”
“Yes, miss.”
I nodded. “I can do that.”
“Excellent.” He bowed. “Thank you, miss.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
He handed me a small white shopping bag with the royal crest imprinted on it in black, and explained that inside the bag was a card with instructions as well as a preaddressed overnight mailing packet for my convenience.
Then he walked with us back along the wide gallery, allowing us a brief glance at the library and identifying the subjects of a number of different paintings. He stopped to allow us to admire a huge set of Sèvres urns that were particular favorites of Queen Victoria. Farther along, he proudly pointed out the impressive silver tea service on display that had been a gift from Lord Wellington.
When he bade us farewell at the limousine, I didn’t know whether to curtsy or bow, so I just shook hands with him.
Once inside the car, I turned to Derek. “Oh, my God, I’m working for His Highness. Whichever highness it is, it totally rocks. You rock. Thank you.”
I kissed him, then sat back. “Wow, this is so cool. I really-”
“Come here.” He drew me back into his arms and proceeded to finish the kiss properly. Before my eyebrows singed and I turned into a yearning puddle of need, the chauffeur had stopped the car.
“That’s a short drive,” I mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” Derek said.
Once inside, we made tracks straight to the restaurant, where the hostess led the way to a corner booth. I scooted in on one side and met Derek in the middle. He ordered a cup of coffee and I went with the ploughman’s platter and a pint of pale ale.
“Platter’s enough for two,” the waitress said as she wrote the order.
“Yes, we’ll have two plates,” Derek said with a smile.
The waitress returned his smile, looked at me and patted her heart, then walked away.
I grinned, then remembered he’d asked for two plates. “I thought you already ate.”
“I did,” he said. “And no, I’m not going to take your food.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I’d rather keep my skin intact.”
The waitress delivered his coffee and my beer. He took a sip and whispered, “I asked for two plates because I didn’t want our waitress to fret about your eating issues.”
“I have no eating issues.”
“I know that, but she doesn’t.”
“Oh, I get it. You were being thoughtful.”
“Yes, I was.”
“That’s such a gift.” I smiled and leaned back against the cushioned booth. I was exhausted and achy. I needed a nap and a massage, not necessarily in that order. But I had my royal assignment, and that made me feel all rosy inside.
“Thank you again,” I said.
“You’re more than welcome,” he said. “I know you’ll do a good job.”
“Well, of course I will, but…”
He was staring.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He moved closer and brushed my bangs off my forehead. “You’ve got a bump and a bruise.”
“I do?” Before I could touch my forehead, he pulled my hand away.
“It looks painful.”