Chapter Ten
By the time I’d circled halfway through the guest wing, my face actually ached from smiling. The kind of tight, over-practised expression you pull out when someone tells you their wedding theme is “Coastal Rustic Enchanted Glamour” and expects you to make it make sense.
The corridor buzzed with movement.
Housekeeping trolleys rolled past like very polite tanks, stacked with linen in gravity-defying towers. A bellboy hurried by carrying a bouquet the size of a small child. Somewhere down the hall, someone was loudly debating the correct pronunciation of “charcuterie.”
The air smelled of lemon polish, fresh sheets, and anxiety.
Mostly mine.
And the worst part?
I had to pretend I was not a one-woman covert search party.
I couldn’t ask direct questions. I couldn’t describe what I was looking for.
I couldn’t even say the word brooch without risking a full-scale Harrington meltdown reverberating through the estate like a tsunami.
So instead, I wandered. Smiled. Asked vague, cheerful things like “Everyone settling in okay?” and “No unusual activity this morning?” while praying no one asked me anything specific.
It was like trying to solve a crime while hosting a wellness retreat.
No, I had to be… discreet. Calm. Professional. A woman who just happened to be casually asking everyone she met if they’d noticed any mysterious strangers near her bedroom at dawn.
Totally normal behaviour.
Except I wasn’t a detective.
I was a wedding planner.
My biggest mystery up until now had been who keeps moving the charger from my desk?
“Morning, Miss Sinclair,” said one of the housekeepers, pushing a trolley stacked with folded towels.
“Morning! Lovely day, isn’t it?” I replied, voice an octave too high. “Busy one ahead, I imagine.”
She smiled kindly. “Oh, every day’s busy around here.”
“Of course. And, um…” I tried to sound casual, which meant I definitely didn’t. “You haven’t seen anything… unusual this morning, have you?”
She blinked. “Unusual?”
“Yes, like, oh, I don’t know, someone wandering where they shouldn’t be? A guest behaving oddly?”
Her brow furrowed. “You mean, besides the bridal party?”
Right. Fair point.
I let out a nervous laugh. “No, no, you’re right. Forget I said anything.”
She gave me the same expression people give to nervous dogs before they slowly back away.
So much for subtle.
I moved on, pretending to check my tablet, which currently displayed a to-do list I was too panicked to process.
My reflection flashed in the hallway mirror, neatly tied hair, crisp shirt, calm demeanour, all utterly misleading.
The kitchen was my next stop. If anyone had seen anything suspicious, it would be the catering staff. They noticed everything, mostly because nothing escaped Brian, the head chef, and his terrifyingly sharp knives.
When I stepped inside, the scent hit me first, butter, thyme, and the faint sweetness of pastry. The space buzzed with controlled chaos. Pots clanged, knives chopped, and someone was flambéing something that probably didn’t need flambéing.
“Morning, Miss Sinclair!” Brian called, waving a spatula. “You look tense. Want a croissant?”
“I’d love one, but I’m… working,” I said, scanning the room. “Just checking in. No issues this morning?”
“None,” he said proudly. “Deliveries on time, staff on point, everything’s running smoother than a bottle of my top-shelf olive oil.”
“Great,” I said. “You didn’t happen to see anyone strange wandering near the guest wing earlier, did you?”
He frowned. “Define strange.”
“Not wearing a uniform, maybe? Acting like they didn’t belong?”
He shrugged. “Half the guests act like they don’t belong until the champagne starts.”
I smiled weakly. “Right. Of course. Sorry, just being thorough.” He squinted at me. “Everything okay?” “Completely,” I lied. “Totally fine.”
I turned to leave just as one of the sous chefs yelled, “Brian, the blender’s possessed again!” Sparks flew, and I decided that was my cue to exit.
Back in the corridor, I inhaled slowly. The air was cooler here, almost tranquil, except for the faint banter still drifting from the suites. The world carried on, hair being curled, champagne being poured, photos uploaded to social media, while I was quietly losing my mind.
I stopped near the tall window at the end of the hall, trying to breathe normally. Outside, the vines stretched out like the world’s calmest wallpaper.
Somewhere near the terrace, I heard Izzy’s unmistakable bellow:
“No, not that decanter, the clean one, for heaven’s sake! If you chip another glass, I’ll start serving the guests in paper cups!”
I couldn’t help smiling, just a little.
Izzy’s voice was pure comfort food when the world around me was, for now, blissfully unaware that I was one minor scandal away from entering witness protection under the name Linda from Accounts.
I bit my lip, an unfortunate habit whenever I was out of my comfort zone.
Okay. The housekeepers hadn’t seen anything. The kitchen was a bust.
Fine. This was only step one. Rule things out. Stay methodical.
That’s what detectives did, right?
It felt like something they did.
The catering team were setting up trays in the back courtyard, a small army of calm efficiency. The sound of clinking glass and the low murmur of voices filled the space. Linen napkins were stacked in symmetry, plates gleamed, and a mild breeze carried the scent of rosemary and something citrusy.
If anyone had seen anything, maybe it would be them.
I plastered on my brightest, most non-desperate smile and approached a young man polishing cutlery.
“Morning,” I said sweetly. “Everything running smoothly?”
He nodded. “Like clockwork.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “And you’ve been here since…?”
He blinked. “Six, I think. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Just making sure everything is in place.”
His brow creased. “You mean like food?”
“Yes! Food, plates… things.” I coughed. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”
From across the courtyard, Cleo gave me a what are you doing look and mouthed, subtle! I ignored her and turned to the next person, a middle-aged woman arranging flowers.
“Hi there,” I said. “You didn’t happen to see anyone wandering near the guest wing this morning, did you? Maybe someone unfamiliar?”
She thought for a second. “Just the usual. Delivery vans came through before breakfast. Oh, and Izzy was out near the vines, yelling at someone about a hose.”
“That sounds about right,” I muttered.
Still nothing.
I thanked them both and retreated before I could embarrass myself further.
Back inside, I paused at the foot of the main staircase. The marble tiles gleamed, sunlight pouring through the tall windows, casting striking golden patches on the floor. Everything was immaculate, and yet all I could see was that empty drawer in my mind.
I checked my watch. Ten fifty-five.
Noah would be finishing his check of the delivery logs soon, which meant I had approximately five minutes before he came striding back with that insufferably calm look of his, the one that said told you so without a word.
I rubbed my temples. “You wanted a challenge, Holly,” I muttered. “You wanted to prove you could run destination weddings. And now look, missing jewellery before lunch. Excellent work.”
“Ms Sinclair?”
I jumped out of my skin.
One of the maintenance crew, Liam, I thought his name was, stood nearby holding a coil of cable and looking apologetic.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know I fixed that wobbly table you mentioned yesterday.”
“Oh?” I said, pausing.
Liam wiped his hands on a rag as I approached, the faint scent of furniture polish clinging to the air. “Gave it a proper tighten early this morning before the guests were up.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, grateful for at least one thing running smoothly. “You’re saving my sanity one piece of furniture at a time.”
He grinned. “Figured it was easier to fix it before the breakfast crowd descended. Place was empty then, barely a light on. Oh, except I did see someone moving about near the guest wing while I was in the corridor.”
He said it so casually, like it was nothing. But the words landed hard, like a stone skipping once before sinking.
“Near the guest wing?” I tried to keep my tone light, neutral.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, already reaching for his toolbox. “Must’ve been around six, maybe a bit before. Figured one of the stylists had an early start.”
He offered a polite nod, ready to move on with his day, while I stood frozen, replaying his words.
And suddenly, I remembered the soft scuff I’d heard outside my door earlier, that tiny brush of movement I’d dismissed as housekeeping or someone up too early for coffee. I’d barely registered it at the time, more focused on keeping the day on track than deciphering stray noises in old corridors.
But now the memory nudged at me, sharper than before. A human step. A shift of weight. A pause, like someone deciding where to go next.
A chill threaded down my spine.
Had I heard… them? Whoever was snooping, searching, unlocking doors they shouldn’t?
I tried to keep my voice sturdy. “Could you tell who it was?”
“Nah. Just saw their shape through the frosted glass. Could’ve been anyone.”
He gave me a sympathetic shrug and wandered off, leaving me rooted to the spot.
Someone had been near the guest wing. Before dawn. Before the day had even started.
For a moment, I could hear my own heartbeat.
I closed my eyes and straightened my shoulders.
Okay. So maybe my detective instincts weren’t entirely useless after all.
Sounds drifted from the terrace where the wine tasting was in full swing, the clink of glasses, the hum of polite compliments, and, unmistakably, Emma’s polished PR voice cutting through it all as she declared, “This one tastes like a long weekend in Capri, definitely marketable.”
Izzy’s firm, no-nonsense voice cut through every so often, reining in the guests like a teacher wrangling overexcited students.
It was the perfect distraction. Everyone important was occupied.
I slipped down the side path towards the cellar, tablet tucked to my chest. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of oak, earth, and fermenting grapes. My pulse quickened, though I told myself it was just the brisk walk.
Noah was already there, leaning against a stack of crates, arms folded, eyes sharp beneath that perpetual half-frown. “You’re late,” he said.
“I had to make sure the bridesmaids didn’t follow me,” I replied. “They’ve hit the tasting flight, and Sophie’s threatening to start a conga line. I’m not taking chances.”
He grinned slightly, then gestured to a crate beside him. “So, what’ve you got?”
I sat, lowering my voice. “Someone was moving around the guest wing early this morning. Around six. One of the maintenance crew saw someone while fixing a table.”
That wiped the grin clean off his face. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. He thought it was a stylist, but the vans hadn’t arrived yet. So unless one of your vines learned to walk…”
He frowned, running a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s early. Whoever it was knew the timing, before staff started setting up, before deliveries. Too specific to be random.”
“Exactly,” I said, feeling a flash of vindication.
He hesitated, then pulled a small notepad from his pocket, an old-school gesture that somehow suited him. “You’re not the only one with a clue. I checked through the property logs. Deliveries all clear, but one of the maintenance keys was signed out yesterday by someone named Benson C.”
I stared at him. “Benson. C? No last name?”
“Nope. But there’s a problem,” he said, flipping the notebook closed. “We don’t have a Benson. Never did. I double-checked payroll, rosters, everything.”
“So either someone forged the signature…”
“Or someone’s on the property who shouldn’t be.”
The silence stretched, heavy and still.
From outside, the tasting crowd erupted in laughter again. Izzy’s voice followed sharply: “That is not a spittoon game, Miss Harrington!”
I glanced towards the terrace, then back at Noah.
“So we’ve got an impostor and an early morning break-in. Lovely. Add a candlestick in the drawing room, and we’ve got ourselves an Agatha Christie weekend.”
He cracked the faintest smile. “You’re handling this well.”
“Barely,” I said, clutching my tablet like it was a flotation device and I’d just been tossed overboard. The worry was practically oozing out of me at this point.
He shifted closer, leaning against the wall beside me, his voice dropping low. “We should just… keep this under wraps for now, all right? The last thing I need is the Harringtons accusing my vineyard of theft.”
I gave him a look. “Trust me, the last thing I need is the Harringtons accusing anyone of theft.”
His eyes flicked down to me, kinder than before. “Then we’re on the same team.”
I met his gaze, steadying myself. “Agreed. But we can’t sit on it for long. If word gets out…”
“It won’t,” he said, firm but calm. “I’ll keep looking at the security tapes. But we can’t discount the wedding party. Talk to them. Quietly.”
“Quietly how?” I asked. “You mean, what… casually interrogate the bridal party over starters?”
He shrugged, completely unfazed. “You seem good at it. Make it sound natural, ask a few harmless questions, see what slips.”
I folded my arms. “Right. So I play undercover detective to the people signing my paycheck, and you… what? Supervise from a safe distance?”
“I’ll be talking to staff. Listening. People say things when they think it doesn’t matter.”
He hesitated, then added with a faint grin, “You take the champagne crowd. I’ll take the people who actually work here.”
I sighed. “Great.”
“It’ll be easy,” he said, though the corner of his mouth already had that traitorous twitch that suggested he fully expected drama and was just bracing for it.
“And if we find something?” I asked.
He smiled, slow, certain, annoyingly confident. “Then we meet up and compare notes.”
“Fine,” I said, pushing myself to my feet and smoothing down my shirt like that might somehow make me more prepared.
He straightened too, giving me one of those brief looks that felt unreasonably grounding.
For half a second, it really did feel like we were partners.
Then I remembered who we were, what we were doing, and exactly how fast this could all go wrong.
As I stepped out towards the guests, I could hear Sophie’s unmistakable voice: “This wine tastes like a bad decision waiting to happen!”
I closed my eyes. “If the brooch thief doesn’t kill me,” I muttered, “this wedding might.”
Behind me, Noah let out a low chuckle. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to help save the day.”
I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Let’s just find the brooch, hero.”