As he’d hoped, at the end of the hour and a half drive, Holt felt much better. The limo pulled through the gate that broke the line of the high, dense hedges lining the lane and made its way up the long drive to the main house. Farrell opened the back seat door and stood aside.
Holt swung out of the car and then turned to regard the house. Still, an overblown, overlarge tribute to the 19th century, with newer wings added to blend with the style but always looking oddly out of place.
The whole sordid mess was his now, evil spirits and all. If he was truly stuck here for three months, he’d spend the time doing what he could to exorcise the bad feelings he retained, and then sell the damned lot. Let them become someone else’s problem.
He started for the steps leading to the double front doors, then paused and turned back to Farrell. “Is the appraiser still here?”
Farrell glanced toward the house. “Yes, sir. She arrived the day before yesterday and went immediately to work.”
“She? I assumed the appraiser was a man.”
Farrell’s upper lip quirked. “Not in the least, Mr. Ridley.”
Whatever that meant. At the moment, Holt didn’t care. He wanted this visit finished, his business concluded, and himself on the first available flight west. He shook his head and mounted the stone steps, Farrell on his heels. On the porch, he paused, allowing Farrell to open the door. “Not locked?”
“Not when the staff is in residence— we’re well away from the village. The rare visitor tends to be from the waterside.” At Holt’s frown, he added, “From the occasional boat run aground. The point is wreathed in shifting sands, sir.”
“Indeed. I’d forgotten.” He’d beached a small rowboat here during a summer squall when he was fourteen but had not dared approach the house. What would he say to the people who’d turned out his mother?Hello, I’m the grandnephew you’ve never welcomed…I need your help?He could imagine how that appeal would have been greeted— with a slammed door. Instead, he’d rescued himself, walking a mile in driving rain and wind along the beach. Thankfully, he’d reached another estate before the coastline rose too high or steep for him to climb. The staff there had let him call his mother for a ride home. She hadn’t been happy to hear where he’d landed and warned him never to go near the estate again. He’d defended himself, determined to retrieve his boat, blaming the storm, and they’d argued. He still regretted some of the things he’d said.
He wondered if the remains of his little boat still littered the sand. Likely not, after years of tides and storms. Too bad he hadn’t been able to retrieve it. He had a sudden fit of nostalgia, sadness that struck him unexpectedly now and again. Grimly, he shook it off and entered the grand foyer.
The first thing he noticed was the height of the ceiling. It soared 20 feet, the cavernous space filled with a large, sparkling crystal chandelier. Ostentatious, he thought, especially for a place referred to as a beach cottage. Glossy black and white tiles laid on the diagonal drew the eye down a long hallway to large windows, or perhaps french doors, leading to the back garden, lush mounds of green punctuated by bright pops of colorful flowers. The blues of water and sky peeked through gaps in the landscaping. Doors lined the hallway left and right, open and giving glimpses of the rooms within, except for one set. Walnut, he surmised, the closed doors dark and rich against pale walls.
“This way, sir,” Farrell announced.
Holt tensed, startled as Farrell’s voice intruded on his inspection of their surroundings. “Is there an office?”
“There is, but perhaps you’d like a chance to rest and have a meal?”
“No, thank you. I’m only here to inspect the property. I’ll leave my case in the office, then you can show me around.”
Farrell’s mask of noble servitude cracked for just an instant, the line of a frown appearing between his brows, just as quickly smoothed away. Holt wondered what about his request disturbed the man.
“Very well,” Farrell replied evenly and then gestured toward the closed doors. “In there.” The doors glided open soundlessly at Farrell’s touch. He waved Holt forward with an open hand.
Holt let his gaze rove over the space before he entered. Sheer curtains softened the shaft of sunlight piercing a part of the gloom. A heavy desk centered on an ornate oriental rug in shades of red and gold dominated the side of the room nearest the window. Dark paneled walls and heavy green velvet drapery on the large, single window created a deep sense of quiet.
Opposite the window, a wide wall unit stood, doors open. Snug black pants-clad legs extended from inside onto the floor, then to crossed ankles and the soles of narrow shoes. The rest of her, for Holt was certain only a woman could boast those delicate ankles, was on hands and knees inspecting something inside the cabinet. He cleared his throat.
The woman’s torso jerked upward. A thunk, followed by a mostly unintelligible string of epithets in an otherwise charming accent, filled the air. She backed out of the cabinet, pert rear then curved hips, a tiny waist, and finally the rest of her on knees and one hand gripping a small flashlight, the other hand rubbing the back of her head. The gloom left Holt wondering if her hair was brown or auburn. As pale as her skin appeared, he decided it must be auburn.
“Your pardon, miss,” Farrell intoned from behind him.
“Farrell, how many times do I have to tell ye, dinna sneak up on a lass like that?” she complained as she turned, saw Holt and shifted her hand from the back of her head to her mouth. “Oops, sorry.”
Her comment to Farrell and her position in the cabinet suggested to Holt she was from a cleaning service the estate used. “And you are?” Holt kept his expression neutral, but it took effort. The view from the front was enticing, too. Large dark brown eyes in a perfect oval face, fair skin, dark auburn hair in a disarrayed pixie cut, and a chest designed to counterbalance her nicely curved bottom half. But her expression was so chagrined, he had to stifle a laugh. He saw no reason to embarrass her further.
“Caitlin Paterson,” she replied from behind her hand then dropped it to her side. “And ye are?”
“This is Mr. Holt Ridley,” Farrell announced from behind Holt’s shoulder. “The heir. Mr. Ridley, your appraiser.”
“Ach, I thought I’d have more time,” Ms. Paterson muttered under her breath, half turning to glance back toward the wall unit she’d just exited, then casting a narrow gaze on Farrell.
Holt was certain she hadn’t meant for that comment to be overheard either because she colored when her gaze moved from Farrell to him, and she saw the quirk of his lips. “Interesting to meet you,” he chided with a glance toward the floor of the open cabinet, then back to the roses staining Ms. Paterson’s ivory skin.
Thiswas the expert antique appraiser the lawyer had promised to make a full and complete assessment of the contents of this overblown mausoleum?
“Sorry. I was looking for a maker’s mark in…well, I have no’ found it yet.” She shoved the small flashlight into a back pocket.
