CHAPTER1
LONG ISLAND, NY, EARLY DECEMBER, PRESENT DAY
After the long flight from Scotland, Caitlin Paterson couldn’t use either of her favorite sources of caffeine to help her combat jet lag. She’d been hired to research and catalog the contents of a private estateseaside cottagein the Hamptons recently inherited by a Holt Ridley from California. With so much at stake, she had to make a good first impression, which ruled out coffee or tea spills on her clothes.
She hoped her contact at the National Museum who’d recommended her for the job was right about its scope and potential value to her career. Added to Caitlin’s recent work assessing a hidden cache of Jacobite treasures, this trip across the pond could cement her professional reputation. And that should guarantee her selection for her dream position in Inverness at the Highland Museum, which would make the uncomfortable trip worthwhile.
She shifted on the taxi’s sprung seat, trying for the hundredth time to find a position even slightly more comfortable than the one in the airplane’s economy cabin that she’d recently vacated. Giving up, she let herself dream of a leisurely sail across the Atlantic, complete with one’s own stateroom, gourmet meals, interesting dinner companions and, when one desired, glorious solitude.
And icebergs, rough seas, and motion sickness for a week, she consoled herself.
Still, she couldn’t complain. The advance from the Ridley estate’s solicitor, ratherlawyeras they were called here, would have allowed her to fly business class. She hadn’t because she hated to waste so much money on the elevated fare. Stifling a yawn, she vowed it was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat.
A sudden slowdown and turn pulled Caitlin back to her present circumstance. The driver spoke into a box outside a large gate, which opened smoothly once he said her name. They had arrived.
As the taxi pulled up the long tree-lined approach, Caitlin’s stomach sank. The lawyer’s description had not done this place justice. She had done her research, she had. But the family was either social-media ignorant or exceedingly private. Or both. Nothing she’d learned about the resident family or this estate in the little she could find online prepared her for its sheer size. She’d never heard a pile like the one before her now called a cottage. It might be as big as her cousin Ian and his wife Lara’s estate, Cairn Dubh, in the Highlands of Scotland. Depending on what she found inside, she could be here for months rather than the two weeks she’d anticipated.
The taxi stopped at the front portico, a massive, white semicircle that fronted the stone and stucco edifice. “That’ll be two hundred and eighty-five dollars, miss,” the driver told her as he opened his door.
He got out, opened the trunk, and began unloading her bags while Caitlin dug through her purse for a credit card, mentally subtracting the fare from the advance she’d been given to make the trip. The fare seemed quite high, even discounting the conversion rate from Scottish pounds to dollars. And she couldn’t forget the tip. Americans expected a tip, right?
The front door to the estate opened, and a dapper older gentleman dressed in a dark suit and bow tie approached. He had a word with the driver, picked up Caitlin’s bags, and turned.
“Sir, where are ye going with those?”
The driver opened her door and stepped back. “He took care of everything. Just follow him inside.”
“Aye? Very good.” Caitlin stuffed her wallet back in her purse, and after looking around to make sure she wasn’t going to leave something behind, she got out. “Thank you,” she mumbled and headed up the steps, barely aware when the taxi pulled away.
The gentleman waited for her at the front door, a confection in beveled glass set in wood painted white to match the portico’s trim. “Welcome to Hampton Dales,” he announced without offering his hand. “I am Mr. Farrell, in charge of this property for the Ridley family. You may dispense with the title and call me Farrell.” He opened the front door, gestured her inside, and again, picked up her bags. “If you’ll allow me, I will show you to your rooms, and later, give you a tour of the house.”
He sounded like a bloody English butler minus the accent. She heard some New York in his speech, calling on her recollection of American cop shows she’d seen. He didn’t sound like Ian’s wife, Lara, so he was not from California like the heir to this great pile. Caitlin managed a polite nod before she responded. “Thank you, Farrell, I’d appreciate that.”
She entered the house but had to pause in the high-ceilinged foyer to admire a sparkling chandelier. “Waterford?”
“Baccarat, miss. I apologize for the lack of seasonal decorations, but given the circumstance this year…”
“Of course. Such a celebration would seem out of place.”
“Thank you for understanding. Now, you must be tired from your trip. Follow me.”
Farrell led her to a suite of rooms larger than her flat at home, including a sitting room, a bedroom and a privy that reminded her of the huge Roman baths in the English city of Bath, complete with luxurious towels, scented soaps and a plush robe. If it included a stocked kitchen and a telly so she could watch her favorite TV shows, she would never have to leave it.
“I trust this will be suitable, miss.”
“Of course,” Caitlin replied, still intent on studying every aspect of her new surroundings.
The sitting room included a wood-burning fireplace, now cheerfully warming and illuminating two facing wing-back chairs upholstered in what looked to be butter-soft suede the color of cream. They were anchored by a navy-blue leather sofa, broad and deep enough for her and at least two other people to relax comfortably.
An ornately carved four-poster large enough to accommodate a caber toss, with a mountain of pillows at its head, dominated the bedroom. Farrell then showed her a walk-in closet that included a built-in chest of drawers, a wealth of shelves, and its own time zone.
“I believe this will do nicely,” Caitlin managed to say. “I didn’t bring enough with me to use a fraction of this space.”
“The estate has provided an allowance, should you require any new clothing, coats or shoes. You may not be prepared for the change of seasons here on the water.”
“I come from Scotland. Yer weather canna be any worse than a Scottish winter.”
Farrell cleared his throat, apparently too polite to disagree directly.
