Chapter Fifteen
I didn’t sleep much.
Cleo’s message looped through my head. The wording, the urgency, the ‘come alone’ of it all.
It wasn’t just what she’d said. It was how she’d said it. Cleo didn’t do urgency. She did rambling updates and voice notes about things that didn’t matter. Not short, sharp messages that felt like they’d been sent quickly—or worse, after too much thinking.
Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed it, trying to make it sound less like a problem.
It didn’t work.
Come alone.
I turned onto my side, then onto my back, the sheets twisting around my legs. At one point I reached for my phone and reread the message, as if it might have changed overnight.
It hadn’t.
By the time the sky began to lighten, I’d given up on sleep entirely.
I slipped out of my room early, easing the door closed behind me.
I found Cleo hunched over the table in the library in her robe. When she saw me, her expression was equal parts pride and guilt.
“I kind of… went exploring,” she blurted, before I could even open my mouth. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. I wasn’t snooping, I promise! I just ended up here and… well, this sort of fell into my hands.”
She held out a photograph, looking both guilty and intrigued. “It was tucked underneath one of Noah’s grandfather’s old ledgers. There’s a whole shelf of them in there, weather charts, wine-making notes, even receipts for barrels from the seventies.” She gestured helplessly at the bookcase.
“Cleo!” I exclaimed.
“Okay, fine,” she said, wincing a little, “maybe I was snooping. A tiny bit.”
I leaned in to have a look. The black-and-white image was faded at the edges, the kind of photograph that had spent too many summers in a frame.
Time had given it a faint haze, as if the moment itself was beginning to dissolve. A young man in a sharp suit stood with easy confidence, his tie slightly crooked, as though he’d started laughing before the photographer was ready.
Beside him, a woman in a fitted dress leaned in, beaming at the camera, her expression bright and unguarded.
His hand hovered near the small of her back, not quite touching but close enough to suggest it was familiar.
The light caught the edge of her smile and the glint of something at her collar, a moment that felt far more intimate than posed, especially for a time when most portraits were stiff and deliberate.
“That’s Noah’s grandfather Edward,” I said slowly. I recognised the Langston jawline immediately, softened by youth.
Then my eyes shifted to the woman beside him.
The light caught on her lapel, where something glinted faintly, a brooch, small and intricate, its details surprisingly sharp even in monochrome.
I leaned closer, a faint prickle of recognition tugging at me. The swirling shape, the delicate filigree, the cluster where the light caught… It couldn’t be, could it?
I lifted the photograph for a better look.
The pattern was unmistakable now: filigree curling at its crest, pearls gathered where the waves might form, and the faint suggestion of tiny leaves or feathers framing the curve.
Even without colour, I could see it. The missing brooch, shimmering in a photograph taken decades before it should have been here at all.
Cleo pointed, eyes wide. “You can see it too, right? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the same brooch. The little twist at the top, the wave thing in the middle, look!”
I took the photograph gently and turned it over. On the back, in faded pen, it read: 1963.
“That’s not right,” I murmured.
“What isn’t?”
“Noah said his grandfather didn’t come back from Europe until 1967. He didn’t marry until 1969.” I looked up, my voice lower now. “So if this was taken in ’63…”
Cleo’s grin widened. “Then it was taken in Europe?”
I sighed, though the same unease prickled at my skin. “Or the date’s wrong.”
“Or…” she surmised, eyes bright with the thrill of it, “maybe he had a secret girlfriend no one knew about.”
“Cleo,” I said reproachingly, “we don’t know that. She could be anyone.”
She folded her arms, still smiling. “Well, it’s definitely Noah’s grandfather. And that’s definitely the missing brooch. I mean, look at it, same design, same shape. That can’t be a coincidence!”
Her excitement was almost contagious, but I kept my tone measured. “Let’s keep this between us until we know more. The last thing this wedding needs is a generational scandal resurfacing before dessert.”
Cleo tilted her head. “Fair. But it does make you wonder.”
“About what?”
“If this photo is of Noah’s grandfather,” she said slowly, tapping the photo, “then how did the Harrington family get the brooch?”
I studied the image again, looking at the laughing faces caught in a moment that shouldn’t exist.
“Good question,” I said faintly.
I slipped out of the library, the photograph tucked safely into my folder.
Today was about fine-tuning. Dress fittings for the bridesmaids were underway in the main suite, the florist was refreshing the table arrangements, and the caterers were testing the timing for the entrée service.
Caroline and James were meeting their celebrant before lunch for a run-through, and somewhere in between all that, I needed to make sure the seating cards didn’t mysteriously change again.
But before any of that could claim my attention, I needed to find Noah. I wanted to show him what we’d discovered and see if he could make sense of it all.
Izzy intercepted me first, stepping out from the cellar doors with a clipboard in one hand and the faint scent of oak barrels clinging to her clothes. Her boots clicked across the flagstones, a fixed rhythm that matched her dry humour.
“Well, if it isn’t the wedding whisperer herself,” she said with a grin.
“Hey Izzy, have you seen Noah around this morning?” I asked.
“You and Noah seem to be clocking some serious hours together. Should I be worried you’re planning to run off with him and start a new venture?”
I stopped mid stride, caught off guard, my cheeks blushing at her comment. “We’re just making sure the wedding runs smoothly.”
“Of course you are,” she said, eyebrow arched. “That’s usually how the good stories start.”
I smiled, trying not to rise to it. “Trust me, the only story I’m starting this week involves flowers and mild panic.”
Izzy chuckled, leaning against a post. “I’m just saying, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him smile like that before nine in the morning. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
“I’ll add that to my list,” I said, as she stepped past me.
I watched Izzy disappear down the path towards the cellar, the sound of her boots fading beneath the rustle of vines. Her teasing lingered longer than it should have. She thought Noah and I were… what? Flirting over florals and timelines?
The truth was far less romantic. The only thing holding our unlikely partnership together was a missing brooch and a pile of questions that refused to make sense.
Still, if Izzy had made assumptions, maybe that was for the best. Better to let people think it was mild workplace chemistry than admit I was spending my mornings looking for a thief.
I eventually found Noah in the kitchen, standing by the window with a cup of tea and a half-read briefing folder beside him. He smelled like fresh soap.
He looked up when I entered, that cautious half-smile flickering into place.
“Morning,” he said. “Just looking over today’s plans. Looks like a busy one.”
“Before you drown in schedules,” I said, setting the folder down, “there’s something I came across that I can’t quite explain.” I said, holding up the photograph.
He frowned, setting the cup down as I passed it to him.
“That’s definitely my grandfather,” he said after a moment, studying the image. “But he didn’t come back from Europe until ’67.”
“Exactly,” I replied.
He tilted the photograph under the light, squinting at the woman beside his grandfather. “I’ve got no idea who she is.”
“Well, look what she’s got pinned to her dress.”
He leaned closer. “Wait, hang on. Are you saying that is the same brooch?”
“Positive. The design’s identical. It’s way too specific to be a coincidence.”
He let out a low whistle. “So either the date’s wrong… or my grandfather had a secret life no one knew about.”
“Cleo’s betting on the secret life,” I said.
He chortled, shaking his head. “Of course she is.”
“So,” he said slowly, “if this photo’s real, then maybe the brooch wasn’t stolen from Langston Estate at all.” He seemed thoughtful. “Maybe it was returned to us.”
I frowned. “Returned?”
He nodded. “Think about it. If my grandfather actually knew this woman, whoever she was, maybe he gave it to her. A gift. Then somewhere along the line, it ended up with the Harringtons instead.”
“That would make a very expensive love token,” I said dryly, crossing my arms.
He smiled, faintly amused. “You’d be surprised what people do for love.”
I glanced over at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Until now, Noah had been mostly all business, quick to frown, slow to joke. But something in the way he said it made me pause.
There was history there, maybe not dramatic or scandalous, but something that had left a mark. I found myself wondering what love had cost him.
For a while, we stood shoulder to shoulder, studying the photograph like it might confess something if we stared long enough.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “I’m starting to think you missed your calling. Forget wedding planning. You’ve got an inner detective trying to break free.”
“Only part-time,” I said.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you think it’s time tell someone? The police, maybe?”
“Not yet,” I said quickly. “Once they’re involved, it all gets very official, statements, insurance claims, the whole circus. And the press is already camped outside waiting to pounce. The last thing you need is reporters asking why the Langston’s’ can’t keep track of their guests’ jewels.”
The corner of his mouth twitched despite his concern. “You really have thought this through.”
“It’s literally my job to stop disasters before they reach social media.”
That earned a laugh. “So what’s your plan?”
“We keep it quiet,” I said. “Keep looking into it ourselves. If it doesn’t turn up on the day before the wedding … then we involve the authorities.”
He nodded slowly. “Discreet, and mildly terrifying. I approve.”
When he passed the photograph back, our hands brushed, the briefest, accidental contact, but enough to send a spark of awareness through me. The kind that lingers, uninvited.
Neither of us moved. The morning light caught the edge of the photograph between us, turning the paper gold. And suddenly, I couldn’t tell if the warmth rising in my chest was pride in a plan, or something else entirely.
Before either of us could speak, a voice carried in from the terrace, Margaret, brisk and commanding as ever. “Noah! We need you!”
He grimaced. “Summoned by the queen,” he said, but his tone didn’t quite match the words.
Our eyes met for a moment that stretched just a little too long.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, he straightened, the professional mask sliding back into place.
“Duty calls,” he said gently.
I gave a small nod, pretending not to notice the hesitation in his step as he turned towards the door.