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, crackedleather, 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 proclaimedEdward 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.
