Chapter Nine
By ten-thirty, the estate was already alive with the unmistakable sounds of wedding prep. Laughter spilled from the guest wing as the women gathered for their hair and makeup trials in Caroline’s suite, the hum of blow-dryers rising and falling like background music.
Someone squealed, Sophie, by the sound of it, “No, absolutely not. I am not doing curls again. Last time I looked like a fluffy poodle.”
“Sweetheart. Embrace it. At this price point, we commit.”
A chorus of giggles followed, the kind that could only come from a room full of women fuelled by mimosas, hairspray, and low-level gossip.
“Just remember,” Caroline said, mock-serious, “if anyone tags me in an unapproved photo before the wedding, I will disown all of you.”
“Promises, promises,” Sophie drawled, and someone burst into another fit of giggles.
The sound drifted down the hall, warm and bright, a reminder that for everyone else, this was just another perfect wedding week morning.
The air carried that distinctive scent of morning luxury, coffee, perfume, and the faint sweetness of freshly baked pastries from the kitchen.
From somewhere out on the terrace came the clink of wine glasses and the low murmur of staff setting up for the eleven o’clock wine tasting. Izzy’s voice carried easily over the hum, firm, efficient, and edged with that particular tone that could curdle milk or straighten a lazy posture in seconds.
“Not that glass, the Burgundy stems, please. If I see another Shiraz poured into a tumbler, I will resign.”
There was a mumbled apology, followed by the scuffle of shoes as someone corrected course.
I couldn’t see her from where I stood, but I could picture it exactly, the wine-stained apron, the expert authority, the look that said she’d seen one too many amateurs hold a wine glass like a mug.
Noah had handed the tasting over to her for the morning, which meant it would run like a military operation. Crisp pours, perfect notes, and not a single guest brave enough to ask for more. It also meant he and I had a narrow window, an hour, maybe two, before the guests would notice our absence.
I checked my watch, then glanced down at my tablet, trying to ignore the familiar buzz of nerves fluttering in my chest. The day was already mapped out in neat colour-coded blocks. Normally that kind of precision calmed me.
Today it just reminded me how fast this could unravel if word got out.
Every step echoed a little too loudly as I made my way down the corridor towards my room, passing open doors and half-packed suitcases.
Noah had reached my room before me, leaning against the wall with a look that suggested he wasn’t thrilled to be playing detective before lunchtime.
He smirked. “You look like you’re about to conduct a forensic audit.”
“Just a standard search and containment,” I said tightly.
He raised a brow. “Containment?”
I didn’t answer. I unlocked my door and pushed it open, motioning for him to follow.
The room was exactly as I’d left it: pristine.
The bed was neatly made, the pillows lined up like they were auditioning for home open. The curtains were half-drawn in a hotel-brochure way, and the faint smell of lavender from housekeeping still hovered in the air.
Noah stepped in behind me, giving the room a slow once-over with that signature type of controlled impatience he seemed to reserve specially for me. Like even somehow the furniture had personally inconvenienced him.
“So,” he said, shutting the door with a sharp click, “this is where it was stolen.”
“Please don’t say it like that,” I said, already crossing to the bedside table. “I’m barely holding it together as it is.”
I pulled the drawer open.
Still empty.
The velvet indentation was still there, though, a little outline where the box had been resting. A tiny hollow. Mocking me.
“See?” I said, stepping aside so he could look. “This is where I put it. This exact spot.”
Noah leaned in, bracing one hand against the table as he studied the drawer. His brows pulled together, and for a moment he didn’t say anything.
Which, for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, felt worse than if he had immediately started panicking.
He straightened, looking at me with a seriousness that made my skin prickle. “So someone walked in here, went straight to this drawer, and took it?”
“Well it didn’t walk out by itself,” I said, flinging my hands up, a flash of irritation cutting through the nerves.
Noah crouched beside the door to the room, running his hand along the inside of it. “No forced entry. It’s in good order.”
He stood, inspecting the lock itself. “This is one of the old mechanisms. Original to the house. These can jam. Or slip.”
“It didn’t slip,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I’m careful.”
He gave me a look, one part amusement, one part sympathy. “I can see that. You probably iron your receipts.”
“Only the important ones,” I shot back.
His grin was brief but disarming. Then he tried the handle again, testing the latch. “All right, so, locked room, missing brooch. Either someone can pick locks, or…”
“Or?”
He shrugged. “Or it grew legs.”
I glared. “Very helpful, thank you.”
He took another slow look around the room. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s not theft. Could’ve been moved, picked up by staff, misplaced during turndown.”
“It was in the drawer when I left for breakfast this morning.” I said.
“And what time was that?”
“Six thirty.”
“Right,” he said, glancing around once more. “Then maybe one of your colleagues came in?”
“Not even Cleo has a key to this room, and she’d rather eat her clipboard than lose a client’s property. Also, she was with me the whole time.”
He nodded slowly, scanning the carpet near the bed, then crouched again near the doorframe. “Huh.”
“What?”
He ran a thumb along the skirting board. “Tiny scuff here. Fresh.”
I moved closer. “Could be anything.”
“Could be,” he agreed.
I frowned. “Surely that was made by a previous guest?”
He looked up at me, the grin gone. “That mark’s fresh. Someone could’ve hit the door hard enough to jolt the latch.”
A chill ran down my spine. “So, I didn’t imagine it.”
Noah crouched again, running his thumb lightly over the scuff before straightening, his expression unreadable.
For a long beat, neither of us spoke.
Then I finally found my voice. “But hardly anyone even knew I had the brooch.”
“Exactly,” he said, folding his arms. “So who did know?”
“Just Cleo and Caroline,” I answered quickly. “And Caroline’s mother, obviously, she’s the one who handed it to me. Oh, and… well. You.”
He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck like he wished he could erase himself from that list. “Then whoever took it either overheard us… or knew exactly where to look.”
My pulse skipped. “You think someone inside the wedding party?”
“I think,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “someone knew the perfect moment. When you’d be out. When the guests were distracted. When no one would be anywhere near this hallway.”
I stared down at the faint black scuff mark on the drawer front, a tiny scrape against polished wood I hadn’t noticed before. “That sounds… planned.”
He nodded once, grimly. “Yeah. Which means this isn’t bad luck or a mix-up.” A beat. “Someone knew exactly what they were doing.”
The thought hung there between us, heavy and unnerving.
For a few seconds, neither of us moved. The tension wasn’t just from the missing brooch anymore. It was the sharp, charged awareness of being suddenly, unwillingly, on the same side.
I crossed my arms, thinking. “We need a plan. Something structured.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Structured?”
“Yes,” I said excitedly. “We retrace every step. We’ll need to check the delivery times, and at the security and maintenance logs. If we have all the information together we can figure this out.”
Noah leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, looking far too casual for someone whose vineyard might be hosting a small disaster.
“Or…” he said, “we keep it simple. Ask around discreetly, see if anyone noticed something off. No charts. No colour-coded Excel spreadsheet.”
I stared at him. “That’s not an investigation, that’s gossip.”
He grinned. “Gossip gets results faster than spreadsheets.”
“Data,” I said, “doesn’t lie.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Neither do people, if you ask the right way.”
For a moment, we just stared at each other, his easy confidence grating against my desperate need for order.
Finally, I exhaled. “Fine. We’ll do both. If one of us turns something up, we regroup.”
“Deal.” He took a sip of his coffee, that infuriating grin returning. “I’ll go check the security and delivery logs, see if anyone new has been on the property lately. You handle the staff interviews. Divide and conquer.”
I stared at him in annoyance. “I’m still not sure how talking to the staff will help, but okay.”
He grinned wider. “Glad we’re on the same page, boss.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw yesterday. “I’m not your boss.”
At that moment, Cleo appeared in the doorway, holding her clipboard like a shield. “Please tell me this is going well,” she said, eyes darting between us.
“Depends on what you mean by this,” Noah said, straight-faced.
Cleo sighed. “Great. Productive energy. Love that for us. Just remember, you’re both adults with reputations to protect.”
As she retreated down the corridor, Noah raised his eyebrow. “You really think your plan’s going to solve this?”
“I know it will,” I said, straightening. “We’ll see whose method works faster.”
He started for the door, throwing me a glance over his shoulder. “Guess it’s a race, then.”