Chapter Twenty-Nine
We trailed Cooper down the corridor, trying our best to stay subtle, but to anyone watching, we would’ve seemed wildly uncoordinated.
Noah stepped on a floorboard that screeched like an outraged bird.
“Stop walking so loudly!” I hissed.
“I’m a full-sized man, Holly,” he whispered back defensively. “I can’t tiptoe like a ballerina.”
Fair enough.
We ducked behind a marble pedestal that was absolutely not wide enough for both of us. Noah had to lean close, very close, and suddenly I was aware of every inch of him.
Cooper kept walking ahead of us with crisp precision, heading towards the west wing, the older, more private part of the estate, used only when certain VIPs were in residence.
Like Lady Victoria Beaumont.
“The Lady is the only one staying here,” Noah whispered.
“Which means … he’s taking the locket to her?”
We exchanged a look.
Cooper reached the end of the corridor with his usual crisp, no-nonsense stride and stopped outside Lady Beaumont’s guest suite. He glanced over his shoulder, a quick, professional sweep of the hallway, then disappeared inside.
The door shut behind him, although we could still hear a few footsteps.
Then an unmistakable click echoed out into the corridor.
But it wasn’t the door latch, it was something else.
Something sliding.
Noah and I froze.
I leaned close to his shoulder. “That wasn’t the door.”
Noah’s jaw tightened. “A hidden panel?”
We exchanged a look, half oh no, half oh yes, and pressed ourselves flat against the wall beside the doorway.
From inside her suite came the faint scrape of furniture, then muffled footsteps… then stillness.
We waited, breath held, nerves flaring, until several long seconds passed.
Then the sound of a panel closing again.
Another click.
A moment later, Cooper reappeared in the doorway, now empty-handed, expression perfectly neutral.
He checked his watch.
Straightened his jacket.
And walked off down the corridor, entirely unaware that he had just broadcast his biggest secret to us.
The second he rounded the corner, Noah whispered, “Now.”
Noah and I hurried forward, slipping into the room right before the latch caught.
The room was immaculate, bed made, curtains drawn neatly, everything in strict order. But the far wall told another story.
A wall panel next to a bookcase sat ajar.
My pulse kicked up.
We approached it cautiously and slid it open, just enough to slip through, and stepped into a hidden antechamber bathed in the dim lamplight.
The scent hit me instantly.
Her perfume.
Imperial Summer Lavendar No. 2.
Lady Beaumont’s signature, the kind of perfume that permeated every room she ever entered.
This room was narrow and cluttered, shockingly so, considering Lady Beaumont’s suite seemed like a museum exhibit.
Travel trunks were stacked in a crooked tower against the wall, their leather worn and their brass clasps dulled with age. Faded stickers clung to their sides, Zurich, Vienna, London, Bordeaux, all stamped with dates from the sixties.
Noah froze when he saw them.
“Hang on,” he murmured, stepping closer. “These aren’t hers.”
His fingers traced a cracked shipping label.
“These belonged to my grandfather. Edward. He brought them back from Europe after his vineyard apprenticeship.”
My eyebrows shot up, “Are you sure?”
He nodded, slow and certain.
“Dad showed me once when I was little.”
His voice dropped further. “They were supposed to be in the basement.”
And yet here they were.
In Lady Beaumont’s secret antechamber.
Noah’s eyes darkened, a mix of disbelief and betrayal. “So she took them.”
Not a question.
A fact.
We moved further inside. Beside the trunks sat estate ledgers stacked unevenly, their bindings worn and pages delicately yellowed. One lay open on a crate, showing Edward’s looping handwriting, vineyard maps, rotations, early harvest notes.
Noah inhaled sharply.
“She’s been reading these,” he whispered. “She’s been going through his life.”
A dressing table sat tucked in the corner, its drawers open, its surface littered with jewellery boxes, velvet, satin, cracked leather, all mishandled, half-open, some empty, some holding a single cufflink or brooch mount.
The locket Cooper left behind glinted beneath a scattered length of ribbon.
I reached for it.
Noah leaned in close to look.
With careful fingers, I eased the clasp. It clicked softly, like it was exhaling.
Inside, protected beneath a tiny pane of clouded glass, sat a faded photograph. Black and white and creased with age. A young man stood in it, tall, dark-haired, smiling in that careful, hopeful way of old portraits.
Edward Langston.
And beside him, a woman, her hand looped through his arm, eyes bright with unmistakable affection.
I carefully took the photo out and studied the back, in neat handwriting it proclaimed Edward and Tori.
Noah went very still beside me.
“Tori,” he repeated in shock.
Victoria.
“Lady Beaumont did all of this?” I asked. “She’s the one who’s been searching the Estate?”
Noah let out a small, hollow laugh, one of those sounds that wasn’t funny at all.
“Searching,” he echoed bitterly. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
I set the locket back with tender precision, even though everything else in this secret room had been shoved, rummaged, handled with far less care.
I turned slowly, scanning the cramped space again, then something unusual caught my eye.
Half-hidden beneath one of Edward’s large trunks was a smaller chest. Newer. Different.
Out of place among the travel-worn, time-scarred luggage.
I crouched down, pulling it into the light.
Noah leaned over my shoulder. “I don’t think that’s Edward’s,” he murmured.
The wood was polished, the brass corners gleaming. Someone had maintained it, oiled it. Protected it. And on the lid, engraved in elegant old-fashioned script, were the letters:
L. V. B.
My heartbeat stumbled. “This is hers,” I whispered.
Noah didn’t respond, but his silence said everything.
My pulse was hammering as I lifted the lid.
Inside was a velvet-lined compartment. Empty except for one antique box resting in the centre.
The air left my lungs in a single, punched-out breath. I opened the box.
Diamonds caught the light.
Pearls curved in familiar arcs.
Gold filigree.
Unmistakable.
“The brooch!”
All at once, the scattered clues we’d been tripping over for days began sliding into place.