An Exception to His Rule(52)

                They simply stared at each other for a long moment then he said, ‘Can I come in?’

                ‘Of course.’ Harriet slipped off her stool and pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘I...I...’

                ‘Kitchen parties are not your cup of tea?’ he suggested as he closed the door behind him.

                ‘No. I mean...I haven’t got anything against them really.’ She grimaced. ‘That sounds a bit weird.’

                He didn’t agree or disagree. He simply looked at her with patent amusement. Then he looked at the objects on the table and noticed the chess set.

                ‘I was wondering where that had got to,’ he commented. ‘Charlie and Mum used to play a lot of chess. Charlie is a bit of a genius at it. Do you play?’ He lifted a king, rotated it then set it down.

                She nodded.

                ‘Well?’

                ‘Well enough.’

                He studied her narrowly. ‘Why do I get the feeling that’s the guarded sort of response someone who is sensational at something gives you just before they set out to fleece you shamelessly?’

                Harriet maintained a grave, innocent expression—for about half a minute, then she had to grin.

                ‘You look like the proverbial Cheshire Cat,’ he drawled. ‘Did I hit the nail on the head?’

                ‘I’m not bad at chess,’ she confessed. ‘I used to play with my father.’

                ‘Don’t think Charlie has had time to play for years.’ He moved on and picked up the tooth-like object she’d been handling.

                ‘Hello!’ he said, as he picked it up. ‘Haven’t seen you for years!’

                Harriet’s eyes widened. ‘You know it?’

                ‘Sure,’ he said easily. ‘My mother showed it to me when she got it.’

                Harriet’s eyes widened further. ‘So you know what it is?’

                ‘Uh-huh. Don’t you?’

                ‘No. Well, a tooth of some kind from a whale maybe, but I can’t find any paperwork that goes with it so I’m a little frustrated.’

                He picked it up again. ‘It’s a tusk—a warthog tusk.’

                Harriet’s mouth fell open. ‘Seriously?’

                ‘Seriously. My mother was quite taken with African artefacts.’

                Harriet frowned. ‘Where are they?’

                ‘Haven’t you come across any more of them?’

                ‘No. Apart from this, nothing.’

                He sat down on the corner of the table. ‘We’ll have to consult Isabel.’

                Harriet stared at the warthog tusk with its delicate scrimshaw. ‘We’ll have to get in an African expert,’ she said.

                ‘Couldn’t you look it up?’

                Harriet shrugged. ‘Perhaps. How many do you think she had?’