We stacked all the food on the counters, and the butler introduced himself as Jack Briggs. He was probably in his fifties, not at all stuffy, more like someone eager to please. He had a wide smile and begged William to save him some leftovers “because it smells amazing. My wife’s the cook, and she turns out a lovely meal, but I’d still be very grateful if there was a plate left at the end of the evening.”
The way to William’s heart was through his food, so I knew Jack Briggs was going to get a very nice plate of leftovers.
“I’ll be welcoming the guests at the front door, and then Hugo and Mrs. Percival Brown have kindly given me the night off.” I thought that was strange. Who gave their butler a holiday on the night they were entertaining? Unless they didn’t want someone local, who might be liable to gossip, witnessing whatever happened here tonight.
“Now, let me show you the principal rooms you’ll be using.”
We all nodded and followed. “This is the preparation room,” he announced, leading us into a room off the kitchen that looked almost like a second kitchen, with the same granite countertops, double sinks and a wine fridge.
William said, “The food will be cooked and prepared in the kitchen and then brought in here, where you will take it into the dining room.”
“Which is through here,” Jack Briggs said, smoothly leading us into a sumptuous dining room. Sumptuous isn’t a word I use very often, but it fit. The dining room was like something out of a movie set. Or a castle. It was gorgeous. The walls were painted in a dark maroon, which should have been hideous but wasn’t, probably because of the quality of the art on the walls. Not that I knew much about art, but these were beautiful. From oil paintings of fields with horses in them and an oil that looked very old and featured the Madonna and child to a modern portrait with the face so lumpy-looking, I was certain it was a Lucian Freud.
Pamela headed straight for the Madonna and seemed to fall into a trance. “Is this a Bellini?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“Yes. Well done. My employers love their art.”
“This is exquisite.” She looked over at me. “And of course that one, Lucy, is painted by Lucian Freud. His style is so unique.”
Thank you Ms. Master of Art History, I’d worked that out for myself. Still, Bellini. I’d seen a few in places like The Louvre. I doubted his art collection rivaled Rafe’s, but then Hugo Percival Brown only had one lifetime in which to do his collecting, so it wasn’t fair to compare.
Enormous sideboards in rich woods gleamed with a fresh polishing. The chandelier looked priceless and extremely well polished, and it cast a fountain of light down on a long table perfectly set for twelve. I checked the gleaming silverware. Honestly, somebody must have used a ruler to get them so lined up. The napkins were crisp, perfectly folded. Wineglasses fanned out and glittered to their crystal depths.
There was nothing to do but light the candles.
“I’ll show you a few other key rooms,” Jack Briggs said, walking out of the room, and we followed as though we were tourists. I think we were all gazing about like tourists, too. I mean, we were inside Hugo Percival Brown’s English manor house. Of course, we gawped. I knew he had a compound in the British Virgin Islands and homes in other parts of the world too.
Hugo Percival Brown was a seriously rich dude, and his home reflected that. As we walked down the hallway, we passed exquisite antiques, paintings that looked like they should hang in the National Gallery, mixed with informal family photos. I paused at a family grouping. There was, unmistakably, Hugo, and beside him was a thin, glamorous blond woman. Standing on either side of their parents were two really beautiful teenagers. One male, one female.
We paused when Jack did. In a soft voice, he said, “This is the main drawing room.” I peeked inside and glimpsed Rafe and Hugo sharing a cocktail with two other men. All exuded wealth and power and somehow managed to not look like they were playing dress-up in their fancy suits.
A fire burned in the large fireplace. Two modern-looking couches faced each other in a cozy seating area in front of the fire. The rest of the furniture was a combination of designer originals and probably designer antiques. More remarkable art hung on the walls.
I knew Rafe could sense me there, but he didn’t glance my way.
We passed the open doorway as though they were part of the exhibit, and then the butler took us up a wide staircase. “Mr. Percival Brown keeps a set of rooms and a second, smaller dining room up here, purely for business.”
That seemed odd to me. One dining room for your friends and another for your business associates? Whatever. This dining room was smaller and much more modern. The table was glass, and the art was modern. An Andy Warhol I recognized. The brilliantly colored fields I thought was a David Hockney. Pamela barely listened to our instructions. She was walking around the room staring at each painting as though there’d be an exam at the end.
The table was set for four, and behind this dining room was another preparation kitchen.
We retraced our steps even though I’d have loved to tour the rest of this gorgeous home. Once back on the main level, Jack Briggs pointed out a door that I’d have missed. He opened it and gestured down another flight of stairs. “That leads to the games room, cinema and the wine cellar, should you need it.”
From the amount of wine I’d spied in the wine fridges, I couldn’t imagine there’d be a need.
The front doorbell went, and Jack Briggs waved his hands at us, motioning us to return to the kitchen.
