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The curator coughs, making his intention to begin known, then waits patiently for complete silence. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, nodding politely to us all. ‘And what a wonderful evening it is for us very lucky people.’ He swoops a hand out to the cabinet, and every head in the room follows it, a Mexican wave of turns. ‘The Heart of Hell, named by its discoverer, J.P. Randel, when he discovered it in Burma, June 1939. Until now, that is all we’ve known of the elusive gem. J.P. Randel kept it in his private collection for eighty years, wickedly denying us the pleasure of just a mere peek.’ He laughs, as does the rest of the audience. ‘Which begged the question whether the gem existed at all. There have been tales from his trip companions, as well as some cagey replies from experts in the precious-stone community, but nothing concrete – no sight, no picture, no word. Until now.’ The crowd give a light round of applause, welcoming the gem, before quieting down and letting the curator go on. ‘543.6 carats, raw, rough and unset. The Heart of Hell not only gets its name because of the fire-red beauty and heart-like shape, but because J.P. claimed to have dug so deep, he swore he was only a few more shovels away from the devil himself.’
I listen, fascinated. I’ve never been so rapt by something.
‘There’s a waiter. Would you like a drink, princess?’ Becker whispers, not even the beauty of him pulling my attention from the sparkling gem. I nod, hearing him laugh under his breath a little, amused by my mesmerised state. ‘Don’t move.’ I feel him break away from my body, resulting in a slight shift of position so I can stand on my own two feet.
‘How much is it worth?’ A lady opposite me asks, a coy smile on her face.
The curator laughs, like he fully expected the question. ‘Lady Seagrave,’ he begins, polite and smiley. ‘It is impossible to set a value on such a treasure.’
‘Everything has a value,’ she argues playfully, increasing the curator’s amusement.
‘Its rarity and beauty, not forgetting its story, makes it more desirable, and the more desirable, the more demand there is for it. And we all know that more demand spikes even more demand.’ There are many huffs of agreement. ‘This essentially makes it impossible to value.’
‘I’ll give you ten million,’ Lady Seagrave shouts, spiking laughter in the room.
‘Fifteen!’ A tall man to her side declares.
The curator clenches his belly in amusement. ‘And there we have it.’
I smile and flick my eyes past him when something catches my eye.
And my stomach instantly twists.
Brent smiles cunningly, all kinds of smugness evident on his face, and I quickly look away, rooting my gaze on the precious stone. But I can’t hear the words of the curator any more. All I can hear is my pulse pounding in my ears.
I look over my shoulder, searching for Becker. I spot him lifting two glasses of champagne off a waiter’s tray. My racing hearts calms, relieved to know he’s close by.
Then the room plunges into darkness.
I gasp, blinking repeatedly, momentarily panicked that there’s something wrong with my eyesight, but then the shrill gasps of my fellow observers assure me otherwise.
‘Darn power cut,’ someone says. ‘Did the Masons pay the electricity bill?’
Panicked shrieks are replaced with laughter.
‘Someone get the emergency generators going.’
I force myself to remain still, preventing the risk of bumping into anything or anyone, but it doesn’t stop people from bumping into me. ‘Ouch,’ I hiss when a heel of a stiletto stabs the top of my foot. People scuffle and curse around me, knocking into me, hindering my attempts to remain still until they sort out the generators. ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter, shaking off a hand that grabs me for support.
‘You’re coming with me.’ Brent’s voice is close, and it flattens my plan to remain calm. His cold hand turns my blood to ice, and he starts pulling me from the room. ‘Don’t fight with me,’ he says, increasing his grip. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
My panic flares. It’s dark. No one can see me, most importantly Becker. I’ll be taken with no evidence of where or by who. ‘Let go of me,’ I yell, digging my heels in, making it as difficult as possible for him to move me. I just need to hold on until we have light again. Yet Brent is strong and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop him. So I yell some more, but my desperate cries don’t even dent the noise around me. My stomach has worked its way up to my mouth, and I start to claw at his hand on my arm, fighting and struggling, but my feet continue to stumble forward, my shoulders being barged as I’m hauled through the darkness. All I can hear are Becker’s suspicions of the Wilsons’ involvement in his parents’ deaths. All I can see is Brent’s face when understanding of my deep involvement in Becker’s world descended on him. My breathing becomes short and fast as panic truly grips me.
What’s he going to do? Where is he taking me?
‘You motherfucker.’ Becker’s voice penetrates my eardrums, followed by the cutting smash of glass shattering at my feet. I’m suddenly yanked from Brent’s hold and shoved precisely and delicately aside, and then I hear a roar of anger, followed by the harsh sound of a fist meeting a face.
I jump back as the lights spring on and flood the room with a bright glare, and once my vision has cleared, I find Brent on the floor holding his jaw and Becker looming over him, shaking his fist. I expect Becker to join him on the ground and beat him to a pulp at any moment; he looks spun up with anger, but instead, surprisingly, he grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowds urgently.
Shouting erupts from behind, and I look back on a frown to see a bottleneck of panicked people at the entrance of the showing room. The lights are on. Why the sudden increase of panic and noise?
I see Lucy emerge from the ballroom looking alarmed and Mark looking confused by the pandemonium. He spots me being urgently guided away. ‘Wait up!’ he calls, taking Lucy’s hand and pulling her along behind him. I can’t wait up; Becker is determinedly pulling me through Countryscape, so I wave my arm for them to follow us instead. I catch Brent struggling up from the floor. His eyes land on mine and hold as he brushes his tux down, his grey hair in disarray as he glares at us. And for the first time, I see violence on his face. He looks positively . . . murderous.
Good God.
I return my focus forward, frightened by the intent in his eyes. ‘Becker, slow down,’ I pant, my feet working faster than is safe in my heels. Just like the other time I’ve been to Countryscape, I’m running scared. Becker takes the stairs two at a time, peeking over his shoulder every now and then to check I’m there. Or check I’m upright. I get the feeling his urgency might have something to do with his fear of seriously damaging Brent should we stick around. I can only commend his control, because if I were to hedge my bets, I would have put my life on Becker beating him black and blue. Brent got off lightly.
Once we land at the bottom of the stone stairs, Becker skids to a stop on the gravel and whirls around to face me. His hands rest on my shoulders, his eyes run a quick check of my face before dropping down my body, and his expression twists with worry. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, genuine anxiety lacing his tone.
‘I’m fine.’ I find myself assuring him when I’m not fine at all. I feel better now Becker has me, but my mind keeps returning to the rampant thoughts bombarding my mind when Brent was trying to remove me from Countryscape. Where the hell was he going to take me? What was he going to do?
Becker wastes no time getting us on our way again, and as soon as we reach his car, he opens the door and tries to push me down into the seat. ‘Lucy and Mark,’ I remind him, trying to spot my friends. ‘We can’t just leave them.’
Becker looks back, just as they appear out of the doors of Countryscape. He turns back towards me. ‘What happened?’ he asks, reaching up to take off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes before opening them.
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘One minute I was happily listening to the story behind the Heart of Hell, and the next minute the lights went out and someone grabbed me.’
Becker’s nostrils flare dangerously, and he glances to the side when we’re joined by Mark and Lucy. ‘What’s going on?’ Lucy asks.
‘Nothing,’ Becker and I both answer in unison.
‘Get in,’ Becker says, opening the back door. ‘We’ll be two secs.’ He pulls me away from the car, putting distance between us and my friends. His anger has faded, but his concern is all too evident. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes,’ I assure him, seeing the stress and worry on his face. ‘Why did he do that? What was he planning on doing, kidnapping me and demanding a one-hundred-and-fifty-million-pound ransom?’ I joke, laughing, trying to ease Becker up a bit. But I stop the moment I realise he isn’t joining me in my amusement. ‘Why aren’t you laughing?’ It’s a rhetorical question. I know why, and it scares the shit out of me. The Hunt Legacy isn’t a story any more. It’s my reality. ‘You don’t think he’d—’
‘He’s his father’s son.’ The regret pouring from Becker makes me worry for different reasons – reasons other than Brent using me against Becker in some way. I can see clear as day what Becker is thinking. He’s thinking how he regrets putting me at risk, for bringing me into his world.
‘Don’t you say it,’ I warn, stepping back, reading his mind too clearly. ‘Don’t you dare, Becker Hunt.’
‘This is why I’m better off alone, Eleanor.’
‘Shhhh!’ I slam my finger over my lips, my sexy shush not so sexy, more psychotic. I’m shaking my head, too, giving myself a headache. ‘No,’ I affirm.
His eyes drop to the gravel, and his head goes limp, his chin hitting his chest. ‘Fucking hell,’ he curses quietly. Then his arm comes out and he points to the car, keeping his eyes down. ‘Get in.’
I do as I’m told immediately, afraid to push his buttons. I’m not stupid. As I slip into the car and get comfortable, I reluctantly accept that Brent isn’t going to let go. And I accept that despite grasping the gravity of it all, I’ve underestimated Becker’s enemy. How could I have been so stupid?
I get the feeling that the war has only just begun.
Chapter 35
Back at The Haven after dropping Lucy and Mark home, the need for safety and security is once again dominating me as Becker collects me from the car. ‘I need to check on Gramps,’ he says, turning a kiss onto my forehead. ‘See you upstairs?’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ I tell him. ‘I need some water.’
‘Okay.’ He heads for his granddad’s suite and I make my way to the kitchen.
As soon as I open the door, I’m ambushed by a very excitable Winston. ‘You should be asleep,’ I say, indulging his demand for attention for a few moments before throwing my purse onto the worktop and making my way to the fridge to get some water. But Winston’s high-pitched whine pulls me to a stop, and I glance back to see him circling by the kitchen door. ‘You need a wee?’ I ask, as he continues chasing his tail. Desperately, by the looks of things. I kick my shoes off and rush for the door, hearing my phone ringing as I do. ‘Damn.’ I divert quickly and grab it from my purse, before I make my way to the courtyard, seeing Lucy’s number on the screen. ‘Hey,’ I say as I weave through the Grand Hall.
‘Eleanor’, Lucy says, sounding urgent.
‘Everything okay?’ I carry on my way when Winston starts with the circling again. Pushing the doors into the courtyard open, I’m immediately hit with the cold night-time air. I shiver and Winston bolts past my legs, his nose hitting the floor in search of a suitable place to pee. I perch on the side of the fountain as I watch him cock his leg, his body visibly shaking as he relieves himself.
‘Yeah, fine. We thought we’d catch a bit of TV before hitting the sack,’ she says, and I frown for two reasons. One, because Winston is still peeing like a cart horse, and two, because Lucy can’t have called me just to tell me that.
‘Right . . .’ The word streams out over a few seconds.
‘And what do we see?’
Is that a genuine question? ‘I don’t know, what do you see?’
‘The fucking ruby!’
‘Oh,’ I laugh. ‘So it made the news?’
‘Because it’s been fucking stolen.’
I’m on my feet in a heartbeat ‘What?’
‘Stolen, Eleanor.’
My mind just officially exploded, scattering flashbacks of my evening everywhere – the blackout, the ruby, the chaos as Becker hauled me out of Countryscape. ‘And it’s on the news?’
‘Yes! We were there on the night of a heist that’s going to go down in fucking history.’ Lucy sounds almost star-struck, while I’m just . . . struck.
‘Wow.’
‘Wow? Is that all you’ve got to say?’ She sighs. ‘Fine, Mark and I will be excited alone. Speak later.’
The line goes dead, and I remain unmoving, my phone suspended at my ear, as my mind goes into overdrive. ‘Stolen?’ I ask myself, seeing the two big fellows flanking the cabinet, plus all the cameras dotted around Countryscape. It would be impossible. I start laughing at the absurdity, then I sharply stop. Stolen. I begin to circle on the spot as my phone drops slowly to my side, my eyes taking in the perfection of Becker’s sanctuary. The pure, peaceful place that’s now my home. The place that harbours so many secrets. I should be tracking Becker down and sharing this mammoth news. I should be running to find him. But something is telling me that this won’t be news to him. Something too loud to ignore. And this time, I know it can’t be Brent.
My muscles come to life and lead me out of the courtyard, Winston hot on my heels. I’m on a mission and though my body seems perfectly set on where it’s heading, my head isn’t quite keeping up. My thoughts are a mish-mash of . . . all kinds of wild things. Unbelievable things.
Weaving through the stock of the Grand Hall, I let myself into the main hub of The Haven and I’m at the library a few seconds later. Winston goes to make himself comfortable on one of the chesterfield couches, and I go straight to the bookshelf that’s been a source of fascination since I discovered the secret compartment.
I reach between the shelves, I feel, I find, and I pull. Then I stand back and wait for the compartment to reveal itself.
The clicking of some mechanisms, the slow creaking of wood shifting, the extended time it takes . . .
It’s like a scene from a movie, one of those pinnacle moments when everyone is holding their breath, when everyone knows something monumental is about to be revealed. I don’t realise that I’m holding mine until my lungs start screaming. ‘Oh . . . my . . . God . . .’ I wheeze, my hands coming up to my face and covering my mouth, almost as if I’m preparing to hold back the gasp of shock that I think might be coming.
Everything is functioning of its own accord, on autopilot, and I’m just going with it, not resisting, not fighting, just accepting that I am on the cusp of an immense discovery. It scares me, and, infuriatingly, it thrills me. It’s got me swallowing repeatedly and trying so very hard to steady my trembling body.
Breathing in through my nose, I step forward and reach into the darkness, taking hold of the leather book as I release my stored air calmly. I’m not feeling calm. I’m feeling all kinds of scrambled. I pull the leather-bound book from the darkest depths of the bookshelf and stare at it for a few moments. Then I open it up. I finger the edges of the map poking out at the back for a few moments, but that isn’t what I’m here to see. I turn the first page. And I see everything that I saw before, the very first time I clapped eyes on this book. I see Picasso’s Harlequin Head, I see the Fabergé egg, and I see the Stradivarius violin.
I don’t know why I’m only realising it now – maybe because it’s so unbelievably far-fetched, or maybe it’s simply because what I am currently thinking is way
past my comprehension – but all of these things – the violin, the Fabergé egg, the Picasso . . .
They are all presumed lost to history.
Or stolen.
My hands start to shake, the book shaking with it, as I flick through a few more pages, until I find what I knew I would. A file. The one from Becker’s desk that was unfamiliar to me. Because it was blue, and every file at The Haven is red. The file wasn’t destroyed. It was hidden.
I open it up, breathing through my anticipation, and there, bold as the woman herself in the flesh, is Lady Winchester, smiling up at me.
And next to her, as bold as my red hair, is a photograph of the Heart of Hell.
The book starts to vibrate in my hands, and I let it fall to the floor before it can burn me. ‘Oh my God.’ The lump in my throat swells, making my words of shock sound broken and desperate.
‘Hey, princess.’
My head snaps up, finding Becker standing by the door, his jacket off, the top button of his shirt undone, and his bow tie hanging freely. His words were quiet and passive. They were wary.
I gulp down my shock and try to unravel the crazy in my head, my eyes flitting all over the library floor. ‘How did you find me in the dark at Countryscape?’ I ask, the questions steaming forward, needing to be answered. I look up at him, finding him expressionless. ‘How did you land Brent with a tidy crack to the jaw in the pitch black?’
‘I was wearing night-vision glasses,’ Becker says quietly.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ I stagger back and grab the edge of the bookshelf, my mind swimming, my eyes closing, like I can hide from my reality. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at the man I’m hopelessly in love with and try to unravel all the shit polluting my mind. I’ve dealt with a lot. I’ve questioned my morals. I’ve questioned Becker’s, too. But how much is too much? Again, where the fucking hell does it stop?
Crime, in so many forms. Deception, fraud, vandalism, aiding and abetting, conspiracy, theft, actual bodily harm . . .