Devonshire Scream by Laura Childs

said.
    The young woman lifted horn-rimmed glasses from a dainty silver chain and pushed them over the slope of her snub nose. Her black high-collar dress was almost as severe as her expression. “I’m afraid Mr. Neville is unavailable.”
    â€œBut we have an appointment,” Drayton said. “I called Timothy something like fifteen minutes ago.”
    Theodosia stepped forward. “Drayton is on the board of directors.” She tapped the desk with a fingertip. “Here.”
    â€œOh.” The receptionist blinked rapidly, realizing she might have made a serious tactical error. “Then I guess you could . . . um . . . go right in.”
    â€œThank you, we will do that,” Theodosia said.
    They walked down the hallway. “She seemed nice,” Drayton said, barely able to keep a straight face.
    â€œIf your taste runs to rottweiler guard dogs,” Theodosia deadpanned.
    More Oriental carpets covered the hallway, and oil paintings and elaborate tapestries were hung on the walls in a patchwork of rich, dark colors. The Heritage Society was a testament to old-world elegance and luxury, almost a cross between a medieval castle and a baronial manor house. Before she’d purchased her own home, Theodosia had always thought she could happily live here. Ensconced in a four-poster bed in the cozy, leather-book-lined library, anyway.
    They paused at a doorway with a two-story archway. An engraved plaque announced: GREAT HALL .
    The sign didn’t lie.
    Wide, arching beams and stately columns marked the vast space with quiet authority. Natural light streamed through clerestory windows, illuminating dust motes and adding to the grandiose atmosphere. Workers in white overalls bustled about the room, arranging heavy wooden display cases and ornate library tables. Additional lights were being set up and tested.
    A tall glass case stood pretentiously in the center of the room, as if to announce itself as being more important than any other.
    â€œI take it that’s the display place of honor?” Theodosia asked. A cluster of pinpoint spotlights shone down on the empty case, suggesting her hunch was right.
    â€œFor the Fabergé egg,” Drayton said. “That’s right.”
    â€œAre there any security measures in place?”
    â€œLocks on all the doors,” Drayton said.
    â€œNo laser beams, or thermal or pressure-sensitive alarms?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Not yet anyway.” Drayton seemed to shrink back self-consciously. “I’m not sure I even know what those things are.”
    Theodosia walked in and circled the empty display case. “Well, this just isn’t good. Sitting right out in the middle like this.”
    â€œThere will be lots more treasures on display, too,” Drayton said. “Some Early American paintings, Greek vases, Chippendale furniture, and some absolutely superb . . .”
    â€œYou’re a bit early for the festivities, aren’t you?” an authoritative voice suddenly rang out.
    His train of thought broken, Drayton immediately spun around. “Timothy. Theo and I were just on our way to see you.”
    â€œYes, yes, of course you were. Then, come along.” Timothy Neville turned on his heel and gestured impatiently for them to follow him. He bopped along, a man extremely spry for his advanced age and diminutive stature. “We’ve been busyhere. Busy, busy, busy,” his voice floated back at them as they struggled to keep up.
    When they reached Timothy’s office, the octogenarian scurried behind a mahogany desk the size of a tennis court and gestured for them to take a seat. Of course, Timothy’s desk chair was set at a much higher level than that of his guests. A sly little trick that brought him infinite pleasure.
    Theodosia scanned the dramatically masculine office that was crammed with antiques, bronze statues, paintings, and trinkets from every era.