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. âIâm afraid Mr. Neville is unavailable.â
âBut we have an appointment,â Drayton said. âI called Timothy something like fifteen minutes ago.â
Theodosia stepped forward. âDrayton is on the board of directors.â She tapped the desk with a fingertip. âHere.â
âOh.â The receptionist blinked rapidly, realizing she might have made a serious tactical error. âThen I guess you could . . . um . . . go right in.â
âThank you, we will do that,â Theodosia said.
They walked down the hallway. âShe seemed nice,â Drayton said, barely able to keep a straight face.
âIf your taste runs to rottweiler guard dogs,â 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 sheâd 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 didnât 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.
âI take it thatâs the display place of honor?â Theodosia asked. A cluster of pinpoint spotlights shone down on the empty case, suggesting her hunch was right.
âFor the Fabergé egg,â Drayton said. âThatâs right.â
âAre there any security measures in place?â
âLocks on all the doors,â Drayton said.
âNo laser beams, or thermal or pressure-sensitive alarms?â
âI donât think so. Not yet anyway.â Drayton seemed to shrink back self-consciously. âIâm not sure I even know what those things are.â
Theodosia walked in and circled the empty display case. âWell, this just isnât good. Sitting right out in the middle like this.â
âThere will be lots more treasures on display, too,â Drayton said. âSome Early American paintings, Greek vases, Chippendale furniture, and some absolutely superb . . .â
âYouâre a bit early for the festivities, arenât you?â an authoritative voice suddenly rang out.
His train of thought broken, Drayton immediately spun around. âTimothy. Theo and I were just on our way to see you.â
âYes, yes, of course you were. Then, come along.â 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. âWeâve been busyhere. Busy, busy, busy,â his voice floated back at them as they struggled to keep up.
When they reached Timothyâs office, the octogenarian scurried behind a mahogany desk the size of a tennis court and gestured for them to take a seat. Of course, Timothyâs 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.
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