The Cherbourg Jewels (The Cherbourg Saga)

by Jenni Wiltz

  The scent of the bergamot-flavored tea made her mouth water. Suddenly, Ella realized just how thirsty she really was. “Thank you,” she said gratefully, hurrying toward the tray. She lifted the water glass to her lips and chugged it all. Then she poured a small cup of the tea and did the same, ignoring the tray’s miniature sugar bowl and creamer. “This is perfect. I assumed he was going to let me die of thirst down here.”

  The older woman shook her head. “He didn’t tell me anyone was here or I’d have brought you something sooner. My name is Gertrude Müller.”

  “I’m Ella Wilcox,” she said, shaking the older woman’s hand. “Did he tell you what I’m doing here?”

  When Gertrude shook her head, Ella explained all about the need to certify and catalog the Cherbourg jewels for insurance purposes before transporting them to the museum. As she explained, she realized yet again how insane it was to attempt to have it all done in twenty-four hours.

  Ella looked at the remaining racks and felt her heart sink to the floor. Impossible, she thought. “He wants me to be done by sunrise,” she said, “but I don’t know if I can. I’d love to be done and get the hell out of here, but if I rush, I’m more likely to make a mistake.”

  She looked at the older woman’s face and recognized honesty in the lines around her eyes and mouth. “Can I ask you something, Mrs. Müller?”

  “Of course, my dear,” Gertrude said, nodding her head. “Anything.”

  “What’s Sébastien like when he’s really angry?”

  A small smile played around the corners of Gertrude’s lips. Her brown eyes flashed with amusement. “Not very different than he is at any other time, I suppose. Only more things tend to get broken.”

  Ella grimaced. “So he’s a thrower.” Joey had been a thrower, too.

  Gertrude frowned. “A thrower?”

  “Yep,” Ella said. “It’s my personal theory that there are four kinds of angry people in the world: screamers, criers, pouters, and throwers. For some reason, I always end up with the throwers. I guess that’s why I don’t hang onto very many knick-knacks.”

  “You could stop making people angry.”

  “I could,” Ella said. “But then I guess I just wouldn’t be me.”

  Gertrude smiled. “Don’t stop on Sébastien’s account. The boy needs to be made angry. Too many people give him what he wants because of his name.”

  Big surprise, Ella thought. But she bit back the sarcastic reply. She didn’t want to put the older woman in an uncomfortable position. “Believe me,” Ella said, “I’d love to cause him some grief. I’d just prefer to do it when I don’t have a paycheck on the line.”

  Ella drained a second cup of tea and polished off the small plate of cookies also on the tray. “This is a beautiful piece of china,” she said, touching the tray’s ruffled edge.

  “Meissen,” Gertrude said.

  Immediately, Ella pulled her hand back. “This is worth more than what I make in a year.” She remembered some of the vases and statuary she’d seen in the mansion’s front rooms on her way down to the vault. “The Cherbourg family certainly does have some lovely things. I can only imagine what it must be like to see them all day, every day.”

  “The family or their things?”

  “Their beautiful treasures,” Ella said, smiling. “I can guess what it’s like to see them all the time.”

  She let herself touch the lovely porcelain once more, admiring the beautiful colors in its hand-painted spray of flowers. “But I’d feel like a bull in a china shop around things like this.”

  “You prefer the jewels?”

  Ella nodded. “My dad restored jewelry. Sometimes he’d make me little lockets or bracelets. He always made sure my pieces were reinforced, sturdy enough to withstand a fall or a drop. He knew me. He was the only one who did.”

  She let her voice trail off as her mind descended back into the black hole of doubt. Why did the Cherbourgs have one of her father’s stones? Did they know anything about who had stolen it? What if there were more stolen stones waiting to be uncovered? Get back to work, she ordered herself. It’s what Dad would want you to do.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Müller,” she said, “but I should get back to work. I won’t make Sébastien’s deadline if I don’t start again right away.”

  “As you wish,” Gertrude said, picking up the tray. “Good luck, Miss Wilcox.”

  “I need it,” Ella mumbled to herself.

  She sighed and reached for the next velvet box. But her mind couldn’t focus. All she could think of was what her next move should be. Should she call the police? Take the brooch? Confront Sébastien?

  Ella shivered at the thought of that last option. “No way,” she said out loud.

  She decided to find a bathroom and splash some cold water on her face. Short of chasing after Gertrude and asking for some black coffee, she couldn’t think of a better way to stay on task. She stepped out of the vault, making sure she left the door wide open to keep it from closing on her. Then she wandered down the hallway, looking for a bathroom.

  This part of the house was actually underground. Sébastien had told her there was also a wine cellar nearby. It wasn’t insulated and she had to rub her arms to ward off an explosion of goosebumps. As hot and stuffy as it had been in the vault, it felt freezing in the exterior passageway.

  “Hello?” she called, making her way down the dark passageway. She braced her hands against one side of the wall and felt around for a light switch, but there wasn’t one. She traveled a hundred feet down the dark corridor before she decided she’d better turn back. I don’t need the coffee any more, she thought. I’m creeped out enough to stay awake and focus.

  Ella turned around and retraced her steps, slowly making her way back toward the light of the vault. But something was wrong—the door wasn’t flung wide open the way she’d left it. It was cracked, as if someone had thrown it back on its hinges and it had settled naturally in an almost closed position. Uh-oh, she thought. This isn’t good.

  “Hello?” she called again. “Is anyone there?”

  She gulped and stepped forward slowly, wishing she had a weapon of some sort. What if there was an intruder in the vault? Memories of that night in her father’s shop flooded back over her until she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Darkness, flashlights, shouting, shooting, blood, smoke…she felt her throat close up and she coughed, waving away the gossamer-thin dream images that clouded her vision.

  With shaking hands, she reached for the door of the vault and pulled it towards her.

  Then she screamed as loudly as she could.

  Someone had been inside the vault.

  Empty jewelry boxes were strewn everywhere. Priceless necklaces and earrings lay scattered on the floor. Obviously the intruder had been picky—she could see some of the most expensive pieces lying on the floor. Ella sank to her knees and gathered up as many of the jewels as she could.

  She fought the flow of mental images that brought her back to that horrible night. As her fingers flew over each discarded piece, checking for loose stones or unstable prongs, she choked back the urge to close her eyes and curl up in a ball on the floor. Her sobs flowed from the deep well of horror and sorrow she knew she still carried. She couldn’t hold them back. Part of her didn’t even want to.

  “Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me!”

  She stacked the jewels she’d been able to recover on one of the stainless steel shelves. Then she crawled on the floor, reaching for her purse. The intruder had kicked it under one of the shelves.

  Ella grabbed it and retrieved her cell phone. But then she realized she had no idea who to dial. As she sat, sobbing and clutching her phone, footsteps pounded their way towards her. She looked up into the doorway and saw Sébastien, clothed in loose khakis and a wrinkled, unbuttoned shirt. His hair, thickly gelled and sculpted by day, drooped over his forehead like a little boy’s. “What the hell have you done?” he thundered.

  “I haven’t done anything!” s
he cried. “You’ve been robbed!”

  His face turned white as an opal. “Are you sure?”

  “Look at this mess…why else would someone have done it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m sure as hell going to find out.”

  “How did you even know I needed help down here? Did you hear me?”

  Sébastien shook his head. “There’s a silent alarm down here. It trips whenever someone moves the racks out of place.” He looked down at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, wiping away the tear tracks across her cheeks. “I’m just scared.”

  “What do you have to be scared of? You’re the only one down here.”

  What do I have to be scared of, indeed, she thought. Only the moment that ruined my entire life, playing over and over in my head every time I close my eyes. “Nothing,” she said through clenched teeth. “Not a damn thing.” She got up from the floor and dusted herself off.

  “Where are you going?” he snapped.

  “We have to call the police, don’t we?”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I figure out what happened here.”

  “What good will that do? I didn’t take anything!”

  “Just help me find out what’s missing. Then we’ll see what happens.”

  Ella didn’t feel right about waiting to call the police. Why would anyone who’d been robbed hesitate to make that call? What was he up to? I’ve got a bad feeling about this, she thought. But she was in his house, working with his property. Basically, she had no choice and she knew it. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Let’s get to work.”

  They spent the next twenty minutes combing through the racks, making a basic comparison to the master list he’d provided her with when she started her appraisal. At the end of the hurried task, Ella held up her list. “We’re missing eighteen pieces,” she said.

  When she looked more closely, she noticed the strange uncut ruby brooch was one of them. Damn it, she thought. There goes my evidence.

  Then she realized that she wasn’t the only one who’d lost something. She looked up at Sébastien and reached for his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This can’t be easy for you. But I didn’t take them,” she said. “I promise you.”

  *

  Sébastien left her hand on his arm, absorbing her warmth through his thin linen shirt. I believe you, he wanted to say.

  There was absolutely no reason he could give for believing her, other than the deep sense of fear and sadness he saw in her eyes. Wide and liquid and mournful, they weren’t the eyes of a thief. But still, he had to be sure. “Turn out your pockets,” he said.

  Ella gasped and he could read the hurt in her face. But she did as he asked and turned out her jean pockets, revealing nothing.

  He knew she didn’t have any of the jewels on her. Those tight-fitting jeans made that obvious. Still, asking was the only way he could think of to quash the feeling of sympathy he had for her. He was the victim here. He had every right to demand she prove her innocence. After all, she might have had an accomplice whose job it was to steal the jewels while she sat here and made puppy dog eyes at him.

  “I didn’t take anything,” Ella repeated.

  There was conviction in her voice—something as hard as steel that rested beneath her words. It made him wonder where she found her determination. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that her eyes were the color of cold metal, or the sea at its most unforgiving. But now wasn’t the time for any thoughts like that. Someone had stolen something very important to him…and they would pay for it.

  He shook his head to clear away the fog brought on by her hypnotizing gaze. “If you didn’t take the jewels, who did? Did you let anyone in? Did you see anyone?”

  “No.” Ella shook her head. “I only saw Mrs. Müller. Does your silent alarm alert the police?”

  “Just the guard staff.”

  “You have a guard staff?” Ella asked, wide eyes blinking rapidly.

  “The Cherbourgs have enemies and I’m no exception. There are four armed guards on the premises at all times.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “I sent them to patrol the perimeter and the rest of the house. I didn’t want an intruder escaping while we all converged on the vault.”

  Ella bit her lip. “What are you going to do now?”

  Sébastien looked at her face and noticed a bit of color had come back into her cheeks. She still looked young and incredibly vulnerable and maddeningly attractive. What she didn’t look like was a thief. Still, he couldn’t be too careful.

  “Wait here,” he said. He stepped outside the vault to see what she would do when left to her own devices. Through the crack between the door and the frame, he watched her sink to her knees and put her head in her hands. That definitely didn’t make him feel any better about what he was going to do. But he couldn’t hesitate—he was a Cherbourg and Cherbourgs never hesitated.

  Sébastien pulled his phone out of his pocket. He dialed the number of his on-call private investigator, Jake Grodin.

  Despite the late hour, Jake answered on the first ring. “Yello.”

  “Jake, the word is ‘hello.’”

  “I charge by the hour, big guy. Lecture me on pronunciation all you want.”

  Although usually Sébastien appreciated Jake’s easy sense of humor, tonight the PI’s cheap jokes grated on his nerves. “I need a background check.”

  He could hear Jake shift in his seat, as if he were looking up at a clock. “At this hour?”

  “Yes, at this hour. As deep as you can go, and as quick as you can get it done.”

  “Are we still talking about detective work?”

  “No jokes, Jake. Not tonight. The name is Ella Wilcox.”

  “Am I looking for anything in particular?”

  “A criminal background. Anything involving theft, a heist, or a forgery.”

  “I’m on it,” Grodin said. How do you want me to contact you with the results?”

  “Email me the complete results, including any documents you find. I’ll have my phone on me.”

  “You got it. I don’t suppose the—er—inconvenient hour would entitle me to a bonus?”

  There it was: the Cherbourg curse. Everyone thought that because he had money, he should be willing to share it, whether they deserved it or not. “Do what I hired you to do, you greedy bastard, before you start asking for more.” He disconnected the phone.

  Sébastien glanced back inside the vault to catch a glimpse of Ella. She was wiping her face with the tails of her shirt.

  He couldn’t help but hope her background check would come out clean, but he knew better than to trust someone who hadn’t grown up in the same world he had. As Jake had just proved, people like Sébastien represented one thing and one thing only to them: money. That was what made it so difficult to trust any of them, as Amanda had so painfully proven.

  But Sébastien’s ancestors hadn’t gotten where they were by being kind and loving. They’d been hard men, slow to trust and quick to anger. It had served them well in a world rocked by wars, revolutions and depressions. I have to be more like them, he reminded himself. I will guide this family the way they did—starting now.

  He strode back into the vault and pointed at Ella. “Get your coat,” he said. “We’re going for a ride.”

  Chapter Four

  “Where are we going?” Ella asked as she picked up her coat from the floor. The dust it had gathered failed to dim the bright vermilion wool. She shook it twice to fling off the worst of the dust and slipped it back on.

  Sébastien grimaced. “You can’t wear that.”

  “Oh, come on.” Ella stopped dead in her tracks and looked from corner to corner of the vault in an exaggerated fashion. “Do you see a women’s coat rack in here? I’m all out of options, buddy.” His patronizing look set her blood boiling. “I’m not a millionaire like you. I don’t have a fur coat or a brocade opera cloak just hanging on a hook in my kitchen.�
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  He took her by the arm, like a mother with a misbehaving child. “Come with me,” he said, practically dragging her out into the long, dark hallway outside the vault. She knew better than to struggle against his vise-like grip. She’d had no luck finding a bathroom earlier, so if she wanted out of here, it was best to let him show her the way. She bit her lip and did the best she could to match his long stride.

  Sébastien pulled her through the hallway, never stopping once to turn on a light or find his way. She was surprised by how steady his gait remained throughout their trek. He seemed to know every inch of this belowground maze. It didn’t seem to fit with the image she’d constructed for him in her mind. Why would a spoiled, self-centered rich man’s son spend so much time underground, passing between a vault, a wine cellar, and the kitchens? She knew that was where the passage emerged on the ground level. It was the starting point from which Yves had guided her earlier. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out the question. “How do you know where you’re going in the dark?”

  “It’s my house,” he said quickly. “Why wouldn’t I know every step of it?”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “I was hoping for a bit more specificity.”

  “Hope for less. You won’t be so disappointed.”

  “You’re not very cheerful. Or kind. Or welcoming.”

  “Ms. Wilcox, I’ve just been robbed. How do you think I should feel?”

  “Angry,” she said softly, remembering her father’s harsh words for the intruders to his workshop. “You should feel angry.”

  But she didn’t have time to continue feeling sorry for herself. Soon they reached a flight of wooden stairs and he thrust her up ahead of him. She ascended as quickly as she could, heading for the door that would lead her back to daylight, or at least the artificial light of the kitchen and pantry. She cast her arms out in front of her, fumbling for the doorknob. When she felt it, she grasped it tightly and turned, stepping gratefully out of the cellar passageway.