Chapter Eighteen
I awoke from a restless night to a beautifully calm morning, which should have been my first warning.
As I got ready, the view outside my window glittered in the early light, staff drifted calmly between buildings, and somewhere below came the hiss of the coffee machine from the kitchen.
Even the vines seemed unusually still, their leaves suspended in the hazy morning light as though the entire estate had paused mid-thought.
I told myself it was simply the lull before the wedding festivities began properly. But I couldn’t shake the image from the night before. The flicker of movement in the glass. The unmistakable shape of someone standing beyond the terrace while Noah and I talked.
Noah had laughed it off, blaming stress, exhaustion, and one too many late-night debriefs. But even now, walking through the corridor, I found myself glancing instinctively towards the gardens at the edge of the vines.
Empty.
Still, the feeling lingered, winding just beneath the calm.
Who had been out there?
And did they have anything to do with the missing brooch?
Suddenly, the security radio crackled to life.
“New arrival at the gate. Appears to be the Rolls-Royce.”
I frowned just as Cleo hurried over, already looking concerned. The Harringtons had been using Lady Beaumont’s Rolls all week, but how could that be? They hadn’t left the estate.
Through the glass doors of the drawing room, I could clearly see Margaret and Richard Harrington exactly where they’d been all morning, sipping Earl Grey and critiquing the breakfast menu with the intensity of Michelin inspectors.
“Another guest?” I murmured.
Cleo shook her head, eyes widening. “Nothing scheduled.”
I stepped out towards the main entrance just as the sleek black car glided up the gravel drive, tyres crunching over the stones. The chauffeur climbed out first, and recognition tugged at me immediately.
Margaret’s driver.
The very same man Lucas had apparently “borrowed” the day before for what he’d described as an urgent coffee-related emergency.
Before I could properly process that, the rear door opened with slow, almost theatrical precision.
And then she stepped out.
Lady Victoria Beaumont moved like someone entirely unaccustomed to waiting for rooms to notice her.
Elegantly wrapped in cream silk with a sprinkle of diamonds, she somehow even made the sprawling Beaumont estate look underdressed.
Even the air seemed to shift around her, staff straightening instinctively as she crossed the pavement.
It wasn’t just wealth.
It was presence. The kind that arrived before a person spoke and lingered long after they left.
Lady Victoria Beaumont had officially arrived.
“Good heavens,” Margaret gasped, appearing suddenly beside me with a teacup still clutched in one hand. “Mother! You weren’t due until Saturday.”
“I reclaimed my driver,” Lady Beaumont said crisply, smoothing one immaculate glove. “Honestly, Margaret, lending him out for coffee errands. What next?”
The chauffeur gave the faintest nod of solidarity before returning to the car.
Margaret seemed momentarily stricken. Not just guilty, but deeply, emotionally inconvenienced. The sort of expression only mothers could still inspire in fully grown women with country estates and catering staff.
Richard appeared from the veranda, his tie loosened from breakfast but his posture correcting itself almost instantly.
“Lady Beaumont,” he said abruptly. “This is a surprise.”
“I gathered,” she replied coolly, her gaze drifting towards the house. “Still, I’ve never been particularly fond of waiting for the ‘right moment’ to do something properly.”
Margaret tried for composure, though her voice wavered. “You might have called ahead. We could have arranged a proper welcome.”
“Spontaneity, my dear, is the best test of organisation,” Victoria said. “If a household can’t survive an early arrival, what hope does it have surviving a wedding?”
Richard snorted under his breath. “She’s got you there, love.”
Margaret shot him a warning look, then turned back to her mother. “Well, the drawing room is set up for tea. You’ll want to freshen up first?”
“Tea first,” Lady Beaumont said, unbuttoning her gloves with slow precision. “And we can talk about this wedding.”
Richard stepped aside, gesturing towards the house. “After you, Lady Beaumont.”
“Of course after me,” she said lightly, with just enough humour to make everyone laugh, and just enough authority to remind them she wasn’t joking.
As they walked, Lady Beaumont’s eyes swept across the estate, calmly assessing every detail like she was mentally preparing a performance review for the entire property.
“The hydrangeas clash with the terrace stone,” she said lightly. “They’d work far better in white.”
Margaret nodded instantly. “Yes, of course. Holly can arrange that immediately.”
I smiled politely, as though replacing an established garden two days before a society wedding was the sort of thing I did between coffee orders.
Lady Beaumont stopped and turned her attention to me. “You must be Miss Sinclair, the planner. A capable face, at least. I do hope you’re efficient?”
“I do my best,” I said in my most professional tone.
“Good,” she said. “Because there’s nothing worse than incompetence disguised as charm.”
I had to smile at the bluntness. “I’m sure you’ll find everything quite suitable here, at Langston Estate.”
She inclined her head a fraction. “Yes, the air here has that particular sweetness in the morning. You can almost taste the salt from the ocean if you stand just right.”
I tilted my head. “You’ve been here before?”
Her mouth curved. “A lifetime ago when I was younger.” Then she was already moving, the tap of her cane a steady metronome of purpose.
Her gaze shifted towards the horizon, where Noah was walking from the cellar block. “Ah, there’s a Langston. The resemblance is rather striking. The jawline, I suppose. That family always did photograph well.”
Noah approached, expression politely curious. “Lady Beaumont. A pleasure.”
“Mm.” She extended her gloved hand. “You manage the vines now, I understand. Your grandfather spoke of them as though they were children. I trust you treat them with the same affection.”
He paused, startled just enough for her to notice. “You knew my grandfather?”
“Oh, everyone knew your grandfather,” she said smoothly, then added, “He threw excellent harvest parties in the 70’s. The kind that lasted three days and usually ended with someone in the lake. I trust that tradition hasn’t survived.”
“Not recently,” Noah said carefully.
Her face fell a fraction. “Pity. The world’s grown duller.”
I trailed behind as they ascended the steps, mentally shredding my perfectly timed schedule for the day.
“I’ll need a room overlooking the old vines,” she said. “Something with a little air. And the west staircase, if you please.”
Margaret looked up in alarm. “We were going to put you in the east wing, Mother. It’s closer to the terrace.”
Victoria didn’t even pause. “The east wing faces the wrong direction.” She turned back to me, her tone final. “The west wing will do nicely.”
It wasn’t a request so much as a gentle decree.
“Of course,” I said, typing the change into my tablet.
She gave a small, satisfied nod. “Good. I like to know where I am.”
As they disappeared through the doorway, the scent of her perfume lingered behind her.
The drawing room felt expensive in the way only old money can. Cut-glass decanters caught the light, pale roses sat in crystal vases, and the air smelled faintly of Earl Grey. Even the porcelain teacups seemed to sit up straighter when Lady Victoria Beaumont entered.
Lady Beaumont settled herself at the head of the low table with the kind of effortless authority that made it feel less like a seat and more like a throne. A server stepped forward immediately, pouring her tea with near-religious precision.
Margaret sat beside her with a leather-bound notebook already open, looking alarmingly eager for someone attending what was technically only an afternoon tea. Richard positioned himself loyally at her side, while across from them Caroline and James sat neatly dressed and visibly tense.
Elaine, meanwhile, sat politely apart from the group with the careful expression of a woman trying very hard not to become emotionally involved in whatever this family had going on.
“Grandmother, how lovely to see you,” Caroline said, recovering quickly. “We weren’t expecting you until Saturday. You must have left home in quite a hurry.”
Lady Beaumont smoothed the cuff of her sleeve, unbothered.
“I decided waiting felt unnecessary. Once I heard the wedding was being held here, well…” she glanced towards the tall windows, where sunlight spilled across the vines, “I thought it might be nice to come early. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been to the region. ”
James, ever the diplomat, leaned towards her. “I understand it’s changed a lot. The estate’s grown, new vines, new cellar, everything rebuilt to be a little more… modern.”
Victoria gave a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ah, yes. The modernisation of everything. Some things, of course, resist change.”
The silence that followed stretched just a heartbeat too long. Then she turned briskly back to the table, her tone shifting to one of brisk command.
“Shall we begin?”
Margaret immediately straightened, lifting a pen, while Caroline exchanged a quick look with James, the kind that said, here we go.
Cleo and I had been summoned as if to a royal audience, our laptops balanced discreetly on our knees. I caught her eye across the table, she mouthed help me, and I nearly laughed, which felt like it would have been a career-ending move.
“Now,” Lady Beaumont began, folding her hands with the authority of someone who had chaired far more serious meetings. “The ceremony should not exceed twenty-two minutes. Any longer and people will start to fidget. And faint.”
Margaret nodded like a metronome. “Twenty-two minutes. Yes, of course.”
“The hymns are to be replaced with a string quartet. Singing encourages sentimentality, and sentimentality is vulgar.”
“Strings only,” Margaret said promptly, writing it down.
“And speeches,” Victoria continued, “will occur before dessert. Alcohol and sincerity are a dreadful combination.”
“Before dessert,” Margaret echoed, obedient as ever.
Cleo typed furiously beside me, then whispered, “Is she serious?”
“Utterly,” I murmured. “And terrifyingly efficient.”
Across the table, Caroline offered a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. James’s hand twitched against his knee, the only sign of rebellion.
Lady Beaumont turned towards the window. “And do make sure no marquee poles appear in the photographs. Elegance needs restraint. Leave the abundance to the vines.”
The line was delivered with such effortless poise that Cleo blinked, impressed despite herself.
Elaine smiled faintly. “You seem to know how to run an event, Victoria.”
“Someone must,” Victoria replied. Then, softening just enough to sound human, “Elaine, you said your celebrant is a retired principal?”
“Yes,” Elaine said, sipping her tea. “Graham. A dear friend.”
Victoria gave a short nod. “Good. A sturdy pair of hands. We’ve had enough theatrics in this family to last a generation.”
Something unsaid fluttered through the air, sharp and quick. Cleo’s eyebrows shot up, and I kicked her gently under the table before she could comment.
Margaret broke the pause by refilling her mother’s cup. “Mother, Caroline and I were just finalising the bridal bouquet…”
“Roses bruise easily,” Victoria said without looking up. “Use orchids. They last longer under lights.”
Margaret scribbled the note. Caroline stared at the tablecloth like it might offer escape.
Tea was refreshed, and Lady Beaumont stirred hers once, precisely. Her diamond ring caught the light, throwing small shards of it across the table, a reminder, somehow, of all the polished surfaces she came from.
Margaret cleared her throat, that little signal she used before delivering an idea she expected everyone to applaud. “The florist also mentioned adding little jewellery details to the tables. Perhaps crystal napkin rings or vintage trinkets between the arrangements. Just something to add sparkle.”
Victoria’s expression didn’t flicker. Then, slowly, she smiled. “How very modern. In my day, jewellery stayed on the person, not the furniture.”
The silence that followed was polite, but absolute. Even the clock on the mantel seemed to hesitate.
Margaret let out a delicate chuckle that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, of course, it was only a thought.”
“Mm,” Victoria murmured, turning her attention back to the tea tray. “A table should sparkle because the conversation does, not because someone glued rhinestones to it.”
Caroline stared down at her teacup, hiding what might have been a grin.
From my seat by the sideboard, I just sipped my tea and tried not to look too pleased.
I’d spent the last two days diplomatically steering Margaret away from precisely that kind of overdecorated madness.
It was strangely satisfying to watch someone else do it for me, especially with such surgical precision.
Cleo caught my eye, her mouth twitching. “Brutal,” she whispered behind her tablet, pretending to take notes.
I hid a grin. “Brilliant,” I mouthed back.
Cleo stifled a laugh, pretending to cough. I nudged her again.
Finally, Lady Beaumont closed the folder and handed it to me. “I understand that the rehearsal dinner is this evening. You seem to understand taste,” she said, her tone both compliment and command. “Keep us on the right side of it.”
“Of course, Lady Beaumont,” I said smoothly.
Margaret beamed, Caroline exhaled, and Cleo whispered “Well, that went well-ish.”
As we gathered our things, I mentally tallied three new design changes, five new questions, and one undeniable fact:
Lady Victoria Beaumont had just taken control of the wedding. And she hadn’t even raised her voice.