Chapter One #2
Jeremy and Susan’s house appeared as she turned down Dorcas Lane, the lights glowing from the windows a good sign that they were home.
With a lightened heart and a quickened step, she hurried up the front steps to seek a few moments of sanctuary with her beloved brother and his wife.
In another part of London, a gentleman was frowning over a letter his butler had just handed him.
“Come on, old chap. If it’s bad news, I think you should tell me. You know what they say about a problem shared…” Lord Michael Flaherty lounged on one of the overstuffed chairs, comfortably within reach of his host’s excellent brandy.
“I honestly cannot say if it’s bad news or not, Michael.” A pair of blue eyes fixed on the other man’s face. “And what do they say about a problem shared?”
“Damned if I can recall,” chuckled his Lordship. “Something profound, no doubt.”
“Just as I thought.” Sir Oliver Bennett returned to his former position in front of the fire, which nicely warmed his backside. The weather was utterly miserable and brutally cold, to boot.
“Not going to share the contents, then?” Michael nodded at the note.
“It’s somewhat cryptic,” Oliver pursed his lips. “It’s from someone I’ve contacted before about some of his pieces. Apparently, he’s come across something I particularly want.”
“Good God, my friend. Haven’t you enough of ‘em?”
As Michael snorted out his comment, Oliver’s eyes roamed the shelves that ringed the room. They were exquisitely designed to contain his collection; he’d spared no expense, and – in fact – he’d stood over the carpenter’s shoulder and directed the project while it was being created.
The carpenter had since moved on, considerably richer, but with a greater sense of caution as to who he would choose for his next client.
However, all things being equal, Sir Oliver Bennett’s snuffbox collection was gaining quite a reputation in its field for its extensive content and appeal, and he was happy to spend an hour or so just picking them up, holding them, finding his favourites, and wondering what stories they had locked within them.
He was not a snuff user himself, but there was something so fascinating about the little objets d’art.
Many were silver and needed the occasional polish.
Others were enamelled in brilliant shades, and still others were created from God-knew-what but retained all the fascination and mystery he felt when he studied the simple container.
Some of them still held a faint scent…cinnamon, mint, and even honey. They sat in his hand, much as they would have done when new. And he always wondered about their history.
His family thought it rather fanciful, surprised that their practical and sober-minded offspring could find himself so enraptured by such a simple, everyday thing.
But his first snuffbox had captured something in his imagination, and over the years his interest had become a passion. Having reached the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he now possessed a fine collection and was always on the lookout for new additions.
“I don’t think one can ever have enough,” he grinned, in answer to his friend’s question. “I certainly can’t.”
“You need a wife. Much more fun, I’m told.” Michael’s impish chuckle echoed through the room.
“And much more trouble,” replied Oliver dryly.
“But think of the fun…”
“No.” He glanced up. “I’m thinking about whether I should take Mr Barnham up on his offer to see this box he has apparently found. An early enamel, he says. Silver, of course. Probably from Birmingham, unless it’s a lot earlier…”
“I despair of you, my friend.” Michael untangled his legs and stood. “Thus, to spare myself further pain, I shall depart. There is someone waiting for me nearby. And she, Oliver, is a lot more interesting than a snuffbox.”
Oliver shook his head and grinned. “But she won’t last as long, nor be as valuable as she ages.”
Michael blinked. “Er, valid points, but…oh hell. I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Well then. Good luck with your new acquisition.”
“Good luck with your…um…whoever.”
“You need a woman badly, old chap. Better get one soon or you’ll be doomed to a life of loneliness.” Michael departed the room on that sage observation.
Oliver returned to his letter. “Better lonely than forever in pursuit of women,” he mused to himself, scanning the words again.
“A carriage will arrive to collect you at half past four. Should you not be interested, simply send it away. If you decide to accept this offer, I have instructed the vehicle to take you to Craddock Inn, where I believe you will find something of incalculable value.”
That was the phrase that had caught Oliver’s attention.
It wasn’t like Barnham to indulge in hyperbole.
So perhaps he’d come across a splendid find…
something from Switzerland, perhaps. He’d seen a couple that were truly wonderful, and the addition of gems only added to the astounding and unique appearance.
He had the money, so that was no issue at all. If he liked the piece, he’d pay whatever was asked. Barnham had treated him fairly in the past, and he had no reason to imagine that would change.
He glanced at the clock. He had twenty minutes.
And the decision was made. He would take a chance, get into the carriage, and see what awaited him at this Craddock Inn.