Echo of Roses (Echoes in Time #1) -Paula Quinn Page 0,2
believe she didn’t bring a scrunchie.
He led her to a large Victorian-styled chair behind a beautiful wood inlaid desk, its surface as smooth as a lake on a windless day. There was nothing on it. Not a calendar, not a pen, paper, dust. Nothing. The walls were papered with a beautiful burgundy design with gold accents. The lighting was soft, golden. Like candlelight.
She sat and looked at Mr. Rugged. Why hadn’t he introduced himself? “I didn’t get your name.”
He looked down at her and his smile softened. “You have extraordinary eyes.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “You were about to tell me your name.”
“My friends call me Luke.”
She arched a dark brow keeping her smile intact. “Are we friends now?”
“Ah, Ms. Lancaster,” another man greeted as he entered through a side door. “I’m Mr. Green. We spoke on the phone. Let us get down to business, shall we?” He pulled out a chair and sat on the other side of the desk.
He was older than Luke by ten, maybe fifteen years. Big and broad-shouldered in his tailored suit. His hair was cut somewhat short and though he was well groomed, there was something tousled and wild about him.
Right now though, he was all business.
“Yes, let’s,” she said and offered him a fresh smile.
He didn’t smile back but lifted a briefcase onto the table. Had he come in with the briefcase? He opened it and took out a small stack of papers and a small wood box expertly carved with deer and a stag in a forest. That was all she could see of it. She wondered if it was old.
No. Rest. No history today.
“You are…” He buried his nose into one of the papers. “A historian.”
“That’s right. Umm, Mr. Green, why do you know what I do for a living?”
“It is my duty to make certain you are the correct Kestrel Lancaster. Now,” he said as he shuffled more papers. “Is your father Charles A. Lancaster?”
She nodded.
“Grandfather Edward L. Lancaster? Great-grandfather Nelson—
Kes held up her hand. “Yes. Yes. Nelson P. Lancaster. I’ve looked them up.”
“Ah, well, then, given your passion for research and history, perhaps you are familiar with your Aunt Eleanor Pendridge, the Duchess of Glastonbury.”
What did he say? Kes sat forward in her chair. Duchess? Of Glastonbury? There was a duchess in her family, and she didn’t know? “No. I…I don’t know of her.” She narrowed her eyes suddenly. “Is this a joke by someone at the Historical Society?”
“A joke?” Mr. Green repeated as if the words were bitter in his mouth. “I can assure you this is not a joke.”
“So I’m really the niece of a duchess?” she asked, stunned.
“The great-great-great-niece.”
“How come my father never spoke of her? Did she leave him anything?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” His dark eyes bored into her. “Let’s get back to you.”
He pushed the box to her across the shiny surface of the desk.
“Ms. Kestrel Lancaster, you are bequeathed the contests of the box from Lady Eleanor Pendridge, Duchess of Glastonbury,” Mr. Green said all legal-ishly. He pushed some documents toward her. “Just sign this.”
“Only one signature?” she noted out loud.
“It’s all we need. We don’t like to waste time. It’s very precious, you know.”
She nodded.
“You may wish to open the box when you are alone,” he added furtively. He closed the briefcase, stood up and left the room without so much as a goodbye. Luke went with him.
“Good day to you.”
“You, too, Luke,” she bid and set her eyes on the box.
Alone, she ran her fingers over it then picked it up. It looked old. Maybe early nineteenth century. Tiny ivy climbed a tower and swept over the battlements of a carved castle on the other side of the deer. What could be inside? If the box was this nice, what treasure must it contain?
She looked at the door. Should she get her friends? Mr. Green said to open it alone. Why?
She lifted the lid and looked inside. She reached in and lifted a blackened brooch with a classic stick pin out. What was this? She looked up at the door from which Mr. Green left. This was a joke then.
She laughed and moved to return the brooch to its box. Something stopped her. She looked more closely at it. It was too worn to make out the once raised design. Her heart began to pound like a drum. How old was this brooch? Where did it come from? A thousand questions about its history began to catalogue in her head.