by Sandra Byrd
I turned away from the case and looked out across the lawn toward the stables. Harry was riding Abalone, but it appeared to me that the guests he was with were riding new, sleek thoroughbreds. Horses I did not recognize. Had the guests brought them? Truly unlikely. More likely, of course, was that Harry had bought new horses. Even my untrained eye could see that they were very expensive animals. Among the riders, I spied Lord Audley, curiously cheerful and unusually friendly with Harry.
Why? It did not feel right.
As I turned to leave the room, Signorina Francesca appeared in the doorway and seemed surprised to see me. She wore a simple dress of red and white. “Miss Sheffield. I am so pleased to see you again.”
“And I, you,” I said.
After a moment, she spoke once more. “If you will please excuse me, there are Italian guests soon to arrive.”
“Your brother?” I was certain my voice reflected my hope.
She shook her head sadly. “I wish it were to be, but it is not. They are . . . known to our family. Mama invited them.”
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” I said softly. And I was. “I will pray for his safe return.” I walked back to my room and found Marguerite waiting for me.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Looking at the art.”
“Aren’t you done with that, now you’ve made your decision?”
“Yes. I still enjoy seeing it, though.” I also remained concerned about a shepherdess disappearing whilst under my firm’s care.
Marguerite had brought a lovely gown of rose for herself and for me a beautiful teal creation, cinched in the back. The color set off my hair. “Surely you must be coming to the end of your new gowns,” I teased.
“I surely am.” Her tone was not quite so teasing. “Let’s make the most of them.”
We joined the others who were mingling in the large reception room ahead of dinner. I saw Harry, and he caught and held my gaze. “Later,” he mouthed to me, and I understood. He had one hundred guests to tend to this evening, but he would find me. I knew he would.
My dining companions were pleasant and personable, friendlier, dare I say it, than the typical aristocrats who had surrounded Harry’s father. As friendly, at least, as those who had thus far blocked me from the Burlington Fine Arts Club, aristocratic and middle class alike. There was one table toward the end of the room which seemed to be a bit louder than the others. I turned my ear toward them; they were speaking Italian and seemed to be angry with Signorina Francesca’s mother. Harry looked firmly in their direction and things quieted down.
The meal was, of course, made up of spiced foods, as Twelfth Night celebrated the arrival of the three kings, and their spices, to worship Jesus. There was spiced meat and spiced ale and soft cider—I wondered if Harry had ensured there would be beverages without any spirits in them on my behalf. Oranges studded with cloves and gold ribbons decorated the tables, and for our final course, beautiful Epiphany tarts: six-sided, star-shaped tarts to hearken back to the star of Bethlehem, filled in with many light-colored fruit jellies so they would resemble the finest stained-glass windows.
Afterward, the men retired to the smoking room and the ladies to converse among themselves until the musical entertainment would begin. As Marguerite was engaged in happy conversation, I decided to use the opportunity to sneak up the back staircase to the third floor for just a moment. Over the course of the meal, I had remembered where I thought I’d seen the chalice at Mr. Clarkson’s rooms. In the third-floor room—perhaps. Had he had the key all along? Or found a way in? Though the figurine seemed to have reappeared, I needed to check that. I’d promised myself, for my own sake and my firm’s, to be thorough.
I slid away from the others and then through a false door which I knew led to the servants’ area. No one paid any attention to me as they rushed to clear the dinner things. I quickly made my way up the back staircase, in the dark. When I reached the top, my heart sank with realized dismay.
The door had been completely removed and replaced. Not that I’d had the key to the former lock—only Harry’s father and his valet had, apparently. But what did this mean?
Harry had seemed so nonchalant when I had mentioned finding Arthur’s treasures. He had remained casually inattentive when I’d mentioned that I did not have the key to this room. But since then, he had made it an apparent priority to have the door and lock replaced. Or had he discovered Mr. Clarkson’s theft? If he had, did he blame me or wonder if I had been involved, somehow?
I tugged my dress down and returned to the ballroom, where the musicians were just striking up, but I could not shake my interest. Perhaps I should see if the room could still be accessed by the hidden door inside the wardrobe. The idea pecked at me until I acquiesced out of a code of honor. I was no fool, though. I was not going to be trapped there again.
I rested my hand on Marguerite’s arm, and she concluded her conversation and followed me back to my room. “What are we doing, dearest? Did things not go well with Harry?”
I shook my head. “No. I want to investigate something, and I need you to help me.”
I took the keys, and we made our way to the late Lord Lydney’s chambers once more. We slipped into the room, and I gently closed the door behind us. The room appeared to be the only one in the house which had not been refreshed. The shrouds remained, as did the dust.
“Why are we in here?” Marguerite whispered. “Investigating in secret? You’ve already given the collection to Harry.”
“Can I trust him? I just need to know. For myself.” I glanced at the mantel clock, staring at me from the dressing table.
She nodded. “I understand.”
I opened the wardrobe door—it had not been tampered with. Harry most probably did not know it existed. “There is a trick door here.” I unlatched the door, and Marguerite gasped as the staircase appeared.
“Do not let the door close,” I instructed her. I did not know if, previously, the wardrobe door had been pushed shut or had snapped shut of its own accord, but I was not going to risk either. “Hold it open the entire time I am gone. I’ll return soon.”
I climbed the staircase. There was a new moon, and therefore no light came in through the tiny window in the upper room, but I let my eyes adjust, and soon I could see, squinting like Uncle Lewis. I had expected to find the items removed, but to my relief, the suits of armor remained in place, bloodless beings. The eye slits in the helmets followed me. I imagined I heard breathing and hoped it was Marguerite.
“Eleanor. I hear voices. Come now.”
I saw the small chalice, matte metal beckoning from across the room. I approached it and sighed with relief. It was not the same one—this one had tiny jewels arranged in the shape of the cross on its side in addition to those on the rim. The one at Clarkson’s certainly had not.
The room seemed intact. Except . . . The costly piece of barding, the medieval armor which protected horses and which I’d suspected was stolen, was now missing. Had it been placed somewhere else?
But where? Outside of these items, there was no official armory, though there were other pieces here and there throughout the house.
Had it been sold? Fear swept across me. Had this entire room been used as a staging area? To contain Arthur’s goods—which Harry might have had placed here out of his sight—and other items which could be sold once he was free to do so? Had his father collected stolen barding, as I suspected? He’d had no use for or love of horses and their accoutrements; that was certain.
Harry did.
I pulled myself together. Even if he did sell it, he now had the right to do so . . . the legally purchased pieces, in any case. I had had to sell my family treasures, after all. But I’d decided to return the collection to him based, in part, on his not selling the treasures and believing his father to have lied about Arthur’s collection. I could ask him . . . perhaps.
“Eleanor? Are you quite all right?”
I stepped down the narrow stairwe
ll and out through the wardrobe. “I’m not certain.” We returned the keys to my room and then walked to the ballroom, where the music was under way, and so was the dancing.
Lord Audley made his way over to me. “Is your dance card full, Miss Sheffield?”
I shook my head. “Not at all, Lord Audley.”
“As Lord Lydney has detained my fiancée with a dance, perhaps you might partner with me for the next?”
“Of course.” I looked once more at the beautiful woman partnering Harry. “I’m surprised you trust him with your intended,” I teased.
Audley laughed aloud. “I wouldn’t go that far, Miss Sheffield. But I am content.”
I looked him in the eye. How had his feelings toward Harry so quickly turned?
The tune changed, and we danced; there was little time for conversation as the dance required us to switch partners back and forth quite often. On one occasion, I partnered with Mr. Rossetti, who smiled indulgently at me, and I affectionately smiled back.
Mr. Rossetti sought me out after another dance or two, and we stood drinking lemonade. We were very near a group of Italian guests, and Mr. Rossetti could barely contain his irritation. I overheard quite a bit of the conversation before they turned their backs to me, and a sudden crescendo from the orchestra interrupted.
“They speak quite often of honor,” I said.
“The more they speak of their honor, the faster we count the spoons,” Rossetti replied. “If I may paraphrase Mr. Emerson.”
“You know them, then?”
“Oh yes. The Italians in England are familiar with one another and our Italian visitors. My father was both Italian and a collector, so . . .” He shrugged. “They are here to visit. They are happy the war is over—as am I. I am happy because I, like my father before me, wanted Italy unified. They are happy because they can make a profit.”
“Why have they been invited?” I set down my nearly empty glass.
“They are friends with the Vieros,” he said. “Or perhaps acquaintances would be a better term. They are not good people, Miss Sheffield. They are powerful, but in England, they are reluctant to tangle with the aristocracy. But they will.”
Harry was dancing again. This time, not with Lord Audley’s intended, but with Francesca. I watched them together. They seemed comfortable with one another. They smiled and talked and laughed, and she was perhaps even more beautiful in the winter than she had been in the autumn; her newly pale skin was set off by her dark hair, a set of white-and-gold wedding cake beads glittering at her throat. The beads were a Venetian specialty, often created by women because they were so small that the great strength required to blow larger glass objects was not needed. A delicate hand was, though, and the beads were infused with emotion. Because they were pretty, ornate, and decorated with hearts and flowers, they were often referred to as wedding cake beads, and sometimes, but not always, used to celebrate said occasion.
What wedding was she planning to celebrate? Or had she already celebrated one?
Rossetti must have been watching me watch them. “They have known one another a long time because of her brother,” he said. “Friends from an early age due to family connections. That is all.”
I realized sorrowfully that Rossetti might equally have been describing Harry and me.
Rossetti partnered me at the next dance, and afterward, Harry sought me out.
“Ellie,” he said. “My turn?”
He took my hand in his and led me out to dance; our hands melded together as perfectly as if they had been carved from one piece out of marble. Perhaps, should I ever come into a wealth of my own, I would commission such a piece to be carved.
“Of course, Your Lordship.” I tried to keep a light tone to my voice. “You have outdone yourself. I have never been at Watchfield when it has seemed so vibrant.”
He laughed. “I’m filled with relief and gratitude that all that belongs to her may remain within her,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
I looked down for a moment before meeting his gaze once more. “They belong here.”
He answered me firmly. “Indeed, they do.”
I waited for a moment, half expecting him to say something like, “As do you.” But he did not. Of course, we were in a public environment, and he continued to look over his shoulders at the Italian guests. When he did, he appeared disturbed.
Someone motioned to him, and he bowed graciously to me and said in the sweetest whisper, “I will seek you out tomorrow so we might have a more private conversation, dearest Ellie.”
The night drew to a close, and I stopped in front of the late Lord Lydney’s chambers on my way back to my room, thinking about the barding missing from the upper room, anger welling. “You planted a seed of mistrust,” I whispered at the door, “to kill my seed of faith. And it’s thriving despite my efforts at every turn to uproot it.”
There was no voice in return, of course. But in my mind’s ear, I could hear the old man’s death-rattled laughter.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Five
The next morning, at breakfast, I was delighted to see my friends Charlotte and Mr. Schreiber.
“We’ve come up for the day,” Charlotte said. “We had family obligations last night, but Lord Lydney graciously extended the invitation to today as well. We are most eager to see some of his friend’s Venetian pieces and hope to view them this afternoon.”
It was too cold for a stroll outside, but the fires were lit and some of the guests who had not returned to their own homes the night before sat around reading or doing jigsaw puzzles.
Within an hour, Harry came into the room in which I was conversing with Charlotte.
“May I speak with you for a moment?” he asked. His voice was unusually urgent. I excused myself from Charlotte and followed Harry to a quiet storage room off the library.
“Do you know anything about Roman-era treasures? Glass and such?”
“Some,” I admitted. “I have studied them, of course, and we have valued or placed quite a few pieces.”
He seemed impatient. “No, Eleanor, not in general. Pieces connected with Watchfield House.”
He rarely called me Eleanor. In private, Ellie. In public, Miss Sheffield. It alarmed me.
“No. I do not understand. Whatever do you mean?”
“Will you please come with me?”
“Of course.” I followed him to the gatehouse. We did not make pleasant conversation; we did not make conversation at all. He seemed as agitated as I’d seen him since Arthur’s death.
When we reached the gatehouse, he proceeded directly to the area in which crates were received and stored. In the room stood Francesca—who appeared to have been crying—her mother, and a group of the Italian men I had seen arguing the night before. In front of them were several crates—the crates with the Viero family treasures—and one that was open and empty.
“I’d like to introduce Miss Eleanor Sheffield,” Harry said in English and then asked me, “Florentine?” I nodded my agreement, and he switched languages.
“Miss Sheffield is with Sheffield Brothers, the firm which my father has used for many years to care for, and accumulate, our collection.”
“A girl?” one of the Italians asked.
“My uncle and my father trained me; my uncle is still quite an expert,” I explained. “However, the late Lord Lydney, his lordship’s father, did trust me with the disposal of his collection. I inventoried these very crates some few months ago when they were returned from Austria.”
The Italians nodded and spoke to me politely. “Then you will be able to tell us where our treasures are. Molto bene.”
“Although it was right next to the crates where the Venetian treasures were stored, this smaller crate was empty when I saw it,” I explained. “There was nothing in there but straw. Were the contents yours?” I asked Francesca.
“No, they were ours,” one of the men insisted.
Harry turned toward Francesca. “Can you explain?”
She nodded. “When we were about to leave Venice—you, me, and Mama—these men, who knew of Stefano and his plan to remove our family treasures from harm’s way, approached me.”
One of the men smiled, but there was a bit of menace behind it.
“They said that surely Roman treasures were as important as Venetian treasures, and as we would be traveling under cover of your father’s diplomatic immunity, as husband and wife, the Roman treasures would make it to Britain unharmed too.”
“Why did you not tell me this?” Harry seemed as bewildered as angry. But had he known the Roman treasures had made their way out with the Venetian ones? Was this yet one more elaborate charade to protect Francesca? Or himself?
“They implied that to keep Stefano safe in the war, from their roving gangs of thugs—” she fairly spat out the words at the men—“I would have to keep their goods safe until they came to collect them after the war.” She turned back toward Harry. “Please forgive me. I did not think it would be a problem—simply that they would remain quietly in England with my crates until Stefano came back. Only Stefano has not come back.”
“This seemed like a fair deal, non è vero?” one man said. “You keep our treasures safe; we keep your treasure safe.”
“No, it does not seem right at all!” Stefano’s mother cried out. “Where is my son?”
“And where are my valuable artifacts?” another man asked. “Perhaps they will both be found at the same time.”
I, and likely everyone else, heard the unspoken threat.
I drew Harry aside. “Did they know that crates were received in the gatehouse before this morning? Did they know this is where the Venetian treasures have been stored, out of sight?”
Harry shook his head. “No. They had no idea where they had been stored—nor did Francesca or her mother—on purpose. I did not know until this morning that there had been any Roman treasures.” He ran his hands through his hair.
“Who inventoried the Venetian goods?” Francesca’s mother asked. She looked at me. She knew I had done it, or at least Francesca did. Was she implying . . . ?
