Present day
Framlingham
East Suffolk County, England
Where Dublin had been home, with its iconic blend of Old World tradition and modern sensibilities, the thriving metropolis seemed a world away from the quaint pastoral hamlet that was Framlingham, England.
Bridge Street curved in a long, lazy row past shop fronts of brick and vibrant façades of mint, sapphire, and buttercup yellow. Union Jacks hung from row houses with brightly hued doors, with dog walkers strolling by. Cardinal-red telephone boxes sprouted up every few corners. Tourists nosed about the pubs and a tea shop and dress shop, which seemed as original to the storied old town as anything could be.
The faint hum of chimes sounded in the distance, their melody spreading charm at just after nine o’clock in the morning. Keira looked left and right out the car windows—only shops, sidewalks, October’s colors painted on the trees, and humble row houses greeted them. “Are those church bells?”
“’Tis services at the Church of St. Michael, miss,” said Mr. Farley, a driver of perhaps fifty with peppered hair, a swift nose for side-street navigation, and a decidedly lead foot for the entire journey since he’d picked her up at the airport. She’d emailed Mr. Scott when she arrived, and Mr. Farley showed up right after.
He angled the sleek silver Mercedes around a curve and through tightly packed rows of shops, parked cars, and a brick-walled garden, until the lane suddenly blossomed and the buildings stretched wide again, giving them space to breathe.
Keira checked the map on her phone, pinpointing their location. Brilliant. They were just down the street from where she needed to be.
“It’s just there.” He pointed out the left corner of the windshield as he slowed the car by a clearing of autumn-tipped trees.
A cemetery of ancient limestone grave markers, all white and mossy and tarnished with age, bordered the immense structure of a cathedral looming behind the scene.
“It’s beautiful.” Keira glanced at it. Quickly. So wishing she could linger over it but knowing they must be close, and she’d have to give attention or miss their stop. “If you’ll just pull up on the right. I’m booked in a flat on the second floor of a shop, just before the Theatre Antiques Centre. There’s a red front door and—” Keira noted, even as the driver picked up speed again and the cherry-red portal she suspected was hers whizzed by the open window.
They breezed past the back side of the cemetery, with more of its collection of weathered and weary gravestones, and a bower of trees that gave way to a fork in the road.
“Excuse me, sir. But that was my flat.” She glanced at the map on her phone and hooked her thumb toward the back window. “We passed it.”
“We’re going on to Parham Hill, miss.”
“Parham Hill? Where is that?”
“’Tis not a where but a what—Parham Hill Estate is just down the road a few kilometers from Framlingham Castle. I’ve been instructed to take ye there.”
“And who gave you this instruction? Was it Mr. Scott?”
The man shook his head, as if the name were as foreign as the idea that she’d stay in the flat she’d booked on her own instead of some estate grounds she’d never heard the first thing about.
“Afraid I do not know a Mr. Scott, miss. I’ve been employed by a Mr. Carter Wilmont, says the reservation. Don’t know more than that. All I can say is I’m on the payroll with instructions to retrieve a Miss Foley from the airport and ferry her to the manor house straightaway.”
“There’s a manor?”
He chuckled. Seemed everyone thereabouts must have known of it by his reaction. “Aye. Parham Hill has a manor. And a church, a village, their share of cottage gardens, and a grand estate at that. The manor ’tis rumored to be one of the largest privately owned houses in all of England. And I’m told to deposit you on its front steps or I don’t receive payment. And, miss, I’ve kids in the highbrow school their mother demands, with a sticker shock to match. So I’ll be taking you on as the instructions bid. If that’s not to trouble you, of course.”
“No. That’ll be fine.” Keira backed down with a smile, meeting his hopeful glance in the rearview mirror.
Children in prep school uniforms and knee socks with bright futures at stake melted something inside, forcing Keira to exhale over a prickle of irritation that she was, in effect, being professionally kidnapped at Mr. Wilmont’s request. But it wouldn’t hurt, she supposed, to go on to an estate she was there to survey, have the driver receive his due, and at least find out what she had been enticed to cross the Irish Sea for.
She sat back, watching as they drew up on a little pub on the left.
The Castle House.
It had charm with wide, street-facing windows bordered in country-blue paint and a memorable view of green hills and ancient castle spires just a stone’s throw away. She hoped along with the view they had a warm fire, a thick stew, and a stout cider. If the estate was a dilapidated hovel buried in the East Suffolk countryside, then the Castle House just might have another patron by night’s end.
If this was a sham, Keira was boarding a plane bound for Dublin that night—right after she gave Mr. Scott the what-for he’d deserve.
Between the hollows and hedgerow and an open gate of weathered wood tangled over by ropes of ivy, a hidden road sprang up so fast, she’d have missed it had she not been looking out the window. Instead of venturing on to Framlingham Castle—which loomed large and majestic on the horizon—the driver veered off onto this secluded road, through a heavy gate of stone and scrolled iron, into what Keira presumed were the estate grounds of Parham Hill.
Golden willows waving in the breeze stretched out on either side of the drive. Rock walls bordered the road, their dappled faces fading into a one-lane cobblestone bridge that spanned a rolling brook. She leaned forward, spotting the thatch roof of a humble cottage just peeking out beyond the hedgerow, its moss-green door dirtied to a patina sheen and covered in overgrowth that masked it behind bramble and bush.
And then, as if she could have prevented her breath from being stolen away, the trees leaned back, the grounds expanded in a lazy stretch of green tipped in harvest orange, and the road widened . . .
A construct of beveled stone, leaded glass, and towering stories became the showstopper one might imagine of an old English manor.
Sharp corners cut rows of windows—too many to count at first glance—along the ground floor. Three stories soared high with Corinthian columns bracing the façade. Stairs flanked a grand stone canopy that arched over a cracked and cobbled drive. Gardens hemmed in both sides of the manor in the only weary and overgrown bit of the property she could notice straightaway.
Save for the arrival of carriages and ladies in empire-waist dresses, it was as if Pemberley had fizzled from the pages of Pride and Prejudice and managed to sneak, unannounced, into the realm of real life. But instead of a brooding Mr. Darcy character haunting the manor’s landing, the faded-tee-and-jeans-clad figure of Emory Scott emerged from the front doors, tossing a casual open-hand wave and a smile from the top step.
“So this is it—Parham Hill,” Keira whispered on an exhale.
The driver stopped under the canopy just as the clouds gave way to a soft, misty rain.
She peered up through the fogged backseat window, shoving back Cormac’s reminders to “be on yer guard with the Yank” and “Are ye sure ye want to be doin’ this?” as he’d driven her to the airport. And just as her brother had done when she’d been stubborn and rash and packed up her world to move to New York on a whim, he gave a quick hug and a kiss to her temple, whispering, “Remember, ye always have a home in Dublin,” as his last good-bye.
The longing pricked her heart. Having home fires burning somewhere was a luxury not everyone could afford to cast off. Even if hers might be a flat above a Dublin pub with family dynamics that had tripped them all up for years.
Home is still home.
How could a lavish manor tucked away in the countryside dare attempt to compare with the familiar comfort of that?
Knowing Emory watched from his perch, Keira crafted a veneer she hoped would read as professional, relaxed, and completely detached from anything but speeding this business along. The driver opened her door and she stepped out, riding boots to the stone ground. She flipped the hood of her yellow rain jacket over her head, protecting her neck from the chill of the mist.
“You’re late,” Emory called out with a hand cupped around his mouth, then checked his watch. “It’s Sunday.”
“Is it?” Keira rolled her shoulders in a shrug as she pulled the strap of her leather messenger bag up from the backseat. “You told me to email when I arrived at the airport, so I did.”
“I thought we agreed on Saturday.”
“You said Saturday. I didn’t say anything except that you might wish to find a seat in another pub.”
Emory trotted down the stairs with rain dotting the shoulders of his heather-blue ringer tee. He could have been coming down a flight in his own home for how natural the greeting was, like they weren’t virtual strangers but old friends.
Once under the canopy, he slipped a tip into the driver’s hand, then reached for the suitcase the man set out on the cobblestones. “Well, you’re here now. Dublin’s loss is our gain, right?”
“There’s no need—” Keira reached out politely, but enough that her hand caught near his on the handle at the same time.
“I don’t mind.”
“But I’m not staying.”
Emory flashed a look that read every bit of Then why the suitcase?, his hand still gripping leather in a brush against hers. He released it without a breath and stepped back with hands that drifted into his jeans pockets, then tipped his head toward the looming structure behind them. “I think you’ll find we have an extra room, or fifty, at our disposal.”
“It’s not that. It’s just, I’m already booked at a flat in town.”
What Keira wanted to say, but didn’t, was that there was no way she was going into that maze of Pemberley-esque rooms alone with him. If he was able to read her at all, he could have guessed why: she didn’t trust him.
And she wouldn’t be fooled by a packaged smile again.
Keira flitted her glance up to the immaculate spread of stone and glass, trying her best to show only marginal interest. But the sky had settled into the familiar English temperament of gray and blue layers of clouds that hung low and a steady rain that made the senses come alive. The rich aromas of earth and autumn were loosed by it, and the glow inside manor windows bespoke a welcome so inviting, Keira was fast becoming overpowered by the invitation to explore its world—despite the presence of a rain-soaked Mr. Scott in its midst.
“And yet . . . you still want to stay on.” Emory smiled, a curious tip at the corners of his mouth that said he’d read the silence accurately. She’d been taken in. Either by the majesty of the manor itself or the lure of what could be inside it, he had her number.
“It’s your choice, Miss Foley. In town or here. If you really want to go back, it’s not too far a walk from the village up to the manor. We’ll pay the driver and cover your expenses for the flat. But just so you know, the rest of the team is already here. You won’t have to entertain anyone on your own.” He paused, she was certain for effect. “If, in fact, that’s what’s worrying you.”
“I’m not worried.” Keira ignored the cleverness that was too easy for him. “What team? You didn’t say anything about that in Dublin.”
He tipped his brow in challenge. “Come in and find out.”
* * *
Instead of the sound of their shoes hitting the black-and-white marble floor in a vast empty space, the faint melody of “As Time Goes By” floated through the foyer as Emory led Keira out of the weather. She pulled off the hood of her rain jacket, listening as water drops trickled down to the floor.
“Do I hear music?”
Emory shook his head once he’d closed the outer door and fiddled with a security system on the wall. She peeked down the hall.
They have a security system but empty rooms?
Baritone notes careened off high-coffered ceilings to the checked marble floor, like the rich tones had every bit of business to invade the interior with their velvet rendition of Casablanca’s famous song.
“Not again . . .”
“The music’s a problem?” Keira couldn’t see it as that, not when the notes were inclined to drift so effortlessly.
“Not the music; it’s Ben. You can’t tell him anything. He’s our historical adviser and is vintage to a fault. It’s charming to start—and he says not a bad in with the ladies—but if I have to hear ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ once more, it’ll be too soon for a lifetime. At least we make a game of hiding his fedora, and then he agrees to buy dinner because he refuses to go out unless he looks like Sinatra’s twin.”
Keira extended the handle of her suitcase and set it to roll as he started through the entry hall.
“You said Ben is your historical adviser?”
“He is.”
“Of what? And why the attempt at making this place a second Fort Knox?”
Keira’s heart skipped over her question as the music swelled, and they passed through to an empty hall lined with burgundy-and-gold damask wallpaper, gleaming hardwood, floor-to-ceiling windows with whitewashed shutters opened to the rainy landscape . . . The glow of crystal chandeliers stretched out before them, and an oversize marble fireplace stood smack-dab in the center of it all, with gold and orange flames dancing.
She paused, feet frozen in place.
Emory slowed beside her, looking down the same hallowed view as she—sconces aglow and view stretching for what seemed like acres in front of them.
“I know. Feels like you’re lost in a scene from The Shining, right?”
“Something like that. Only more royal and slightly less terrifying.”
“We should hope.” Emory began rolling her suitcase before she could this time and tipped his head down the hall, leading again so she’d follow. “This way.”
They walked, the sound of big band music growing.
Emory led them past the sparking fireplace along a span of windows dotted with rain. “So, the security around art—you must be used to that. I’ve been told you were part of a field team that handled the restoration of salons at Versailles. Is that true?”
“I’d say more of a glorified assistant who made the café and crepe runs. But yes, security is a necessary evil, isn’t it?”
“You used the contacts from that job to secure a position on a team that restored paintings at Wentworth Woodhouse in South Yorkshire. You worked in curatorial at Buckingham Palace for a summer stint. Should I add ‘master of persuasion’ to your list of skills?”
“Maybe I didn’t have to persuade anyone. Maybe my education speaks for itself.”
He shook his head. “Right. Sorry. I tripped into that one. But what I was trying to say is you don’t have the royal connections by family, but you’ve been on the inside of some of the art world’s crown jewels. I’d still like to know whether it’s true or just internet rumor that you once attended a royal ball at Chatsworth House. All that, and yet you’ve never been here?”
“It’s not as glamorous as all that. In truth, a friend and I talked our way in a back entrance at Chatsworth and were very nearly thrown in the Tower of London as a result. And I wasn’t even aware here existed. If this is a private family estate, it’s been hidden well from the outside world.”
“Forgotten more like, until the owner decided to air out some rooms and found a heck of a wrench had been tossed in one of them.”
“Well, my last job was curatorial in a Manhattan gallery and you plucked me out of a Dublin pub, so it’s safe to say I’m not here to put on airs about my résumé at present.” Keira slid a sideways glance at him. “You may have named a few things I’d have to put on it if I wanted to update it. But my father and brothers didn’t feel the need to check my experience when they decided I could fill a pint glass and ring up a sale.”
“Big of you to say so.” He nodded and led her to the end of the hall. “Here we are.”
Tarps were spread where dust and buckets and piles of brick lay bare the entrance to a room, its polished wood doorway cracked with age. Emory held out his arm, inviting her to step through in front of him.
“What’s all this?” Keira edged around the brick, careful that her boots wouldn’t brush against the mounds of work in progress as she went inside.
“Ground zero for the restoration efforts.”
The room lay long and shadowed, with corners enveloped in musty books and rows of wood shelves, and an iron ladder system that stood dusted over like flour had been tossed in the air. The ceilings were high—so lofty she felt they’d stepped under the vaults of a grand cathedral—with a painted surface that hinted at glorious hues they might uncover with a good restoration. And affixed to the wall at the far end of the room stood something obscured by brick . . . A wall of weathered wood? Standing on scaffolding, a young man in worn flannel and black-rimmed glasses removed its brick shield at a snail’s pace, so close his nose almost touched the mortar.
A small crew bustled about beneath him, connecting wires to cameras and hanging lights in draped corners. Emory shouted out, gathering attention. Someone flipped the switch on a cell phone, deadening Ben’s beloved big band tunes.
“Everyone—this is Keira Foley. She’s joining up with us.”
“Brilliant! Boss here said we should have been lookin’ for ye yesterday.” A young woman left a laptop on an antique sideboard and stepped forward, sprightly in size with chopped ebony hair, a deep lavender decorating the wavy tips, a bright smile, and an accent full of Irish moxie.
She stuck out a hand, which Keira accepted. “An’ Emory wouldn’ dare let on how worried he was when ye didn’ show. Must have checked that expensive watch of his every few minutes for the last twenty-four hours. Way to keep him in suspense. Ye ought to try that tactic durin’ contract negotiations.”
Emory cleared his throat over the woman’s blunt delivery. “Ah, so this is Maggie Jane Mitchell, our project manager on-site. Basically, she makes sure the world keeps turning while we’re working.”
“An’ she’s a wicked social media maven, don’ be forgettin’.”
“Right. She’s recording restoration efforts. And we may tease her about being named after a famous American authoress, but M. J. suits her just fine. And being from Irish stock, she doesn’t pull any punches, as you can tell—though she hasn’t quite learned the art of English subtlety. But we’re working on that.”
“Ha. That from the loud subtleties of an American.” M. J. gave him a mock squint as Emory moved out of earshot, over to another member of the crew who was inspecting the setup of monitors and cameras in the corner.
“Nice to have another gal in the mix to give these gents the what-for. If everythin’ Boss here’s told us about ye is true, ’tis an honor to work wit’ ye.”
An honor?
She cast her gaze over to Emory. What had he said about her? More than that—what did he know?
“Thanks . . .” Keira looked from their leader to the controlled chaos around them. Stacks of books. Library shelves with an iron ladder system. A skeleton crew of guys setting up filming equipment and untangling wires at their feet. “But what’s this all about? He didn’t set me up—just tossed some euros my way and told me where to show up.”
M. J. smiled and leaned in on a whisper. “Not surprisin’. Ye’ll learn that Boss Man o’er there keeps his cards close to the vest. All o’ ’em.”
“Keira? The rest of the crew’s over here,” Emory shouted and waved her over, then pointed out the guys with noses buried in technology, camera equipment, and to-go coffee cups. “This is Eli with the Red Sox cap—our videographer. And Ben is our historical archaeologist by the scaffolding—that’s fancy talk for the guy who tries to dismantle a brick wall with a toothbrush without taking the entire house down with him.”
“It’s nice to meet everyone, but . . .” Keira paused after shaking the hands they’d stretched out in greeting, taking in the sight of production plans taking over the manor. “Am I here for some sort of art consult or a reality show?”
M. J. tossed a sideways glance over to Emory. “So ye didn’ think to warn her?”
Emory shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “How could I? Would’ve ruined the surprise.”
M. J. turned back to Keira. “Well, welcome aboard. Yer in for a treat. We’ll flick on the lights an’ roll film as soon as Carter pops in. Then ye’ll see.”
“See what?”
“What all this lot is for. Our guest of honor.”
Keira didn’t even have time to assess what they were looking at, let alone to know why a crew was mixing with the likes of Emory Scott. “Is Carter another member of the crew here?”
Emory shook his head. “Not likely. He thinks we art-lovers are all a little crazy. But Carter Wilmont—also teased as our Viscount Huxley—is the owner of the estate.”
“An’ yer best chap from prep school, don’ be forgettin’.”
“More partner in crime. He gives us free rein around here because we do all the work. So he indulges our whims to research musty old books and bricks, while he pops in every now and then to write checks and make sure we don’t burn the place down.” Emory shrugged. “Keeps us honest.”
“Honest enough to tell me what’s going on here, Mr. Scott?”
Emory glanced at M. J. and the crew, who’d heard her question and stood smiling with a shade of half knowing upon their faces.
“We need you to authenticate a painting. Simple as that. You tell us the who, what, and when behind it, then I can hand over the rest of your fee.”
“Alright. You have my attention.” Keira slipped the leather strap of her messenger bag over her head and set it on the floor at her feet. She looked around, finding only books, shelves, and shadows dominating the walls. “What painting?”
“Why wait? Carter’s late and this isn’t his show anyway. It’s hers.” Emory stepped over to connect an extension cord into a portable outlet. “Miss Foley . . . meet Victoria.” He stooped to flip the switch, and the room exploded in light and color and spines lining bookshelves all the way back to the scaffolding. One last spotlight flicked on and then, under the glow of soft white light . . .
Queen Victoria.
The immaculate portrait of the queen had her royal shoulders bared, hair unbound in a rich brunette coil over her collarbone, and a subtle longing in the eyes that seemed to invite the room to delve into their cerulean depths. She hung surrounded by book spines and aged shelves, tucked in the corner so she was nearly hidden by the skeletal frame of an iron rolling ladder.
Keira abandoned her bags and stalked forward, aching to touch fingertips to canvas—though she never would do such a thing.
She stepped up until she was a breath away, inspecting the paint strokes. Barely visible but breathtaking at the same time. Hues had faded from years of existing unseen in the dark, with color clearly not what it once had been. But Victoria stared out, steady, with a presence so regal Keira’s legs weakened because even a whisper that the portrait had once been in the presence of a queen was enough to warrant reverence.
“That is . . . Queen Victoria . . .” Keira breathed out on a ragged whisper before she could stop herself. Her skin prickled the length of her limbs as she collected her thoughts. “This isn’t a Winterhalter, is it?”
“We don’t know. That’s why we need you.” Emory had shouldered her leather satchel and rolled her travel suitcase along, then stopped it on the hardwood next to her boots. He stepped around the iron ladder into her line of sight and casually leaned an elbow against the metal tine as he looked at Victoria alongside her. “So it’s back to town then?”
Keira shook her head, still transfixed by Victoria’s regal domination of the immense room. “Not on your life. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what in the world is going on.”
A smile—free and knowing—covered Emory’s profile as he, too, took in the image of the queen. “Like I said, Foley, welcome to the team.”