The gardener just smiled. “It’s a surprise.”
Drayton opened the grand double doors with a flourish and ushered her in. “So we’ll just meet with Timothy and sort of . . . spill the beans.”
“Let’s try to do it with a little more aplomb than that,” Theodosia said.
The Heritage Society’s foyer was elegantly appointed with a marble floor, an antique persimmon-and-blue Oriental carpet, and well-worn leather chairs. A magnificent crystal-and-brass chandelier cast rainbow prisms over the front desk.
The snapping of Theodosia’s kitten heels echoed through the anteroom, raising the attention of a serious-looking young woman at the front desk.
Theodosia decided she was probably one of the many interns that the Heritage Society employed. Although most of the time they were paid only in college credits.
“We’re here to see Timothy Neville,” Drayton 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.”
“But 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.”
“Oh.” The receptionist blinked rapidly, realizing she might have made a serious tactical error. “Then I guess you could . . . um . . . go right in.”
“Thank you, we will do that,” Theodosia said.
They walked down the hallway. “She seemed nice,” Drayton said, barely able to keep a straight face.
“If 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.
“I 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.
“For the Fabergé egg,” Drayton said. “That’s right.”
“Are there any security measures in place?”
“Locks on all the doors,” Drayton said.
“No laser beams, or thermal or pressure-sensitive alarms?”
“I 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.”
“There will be lots more treasures on display, too,” Drayton said. “Some Early American paintings, Greek vases, Chippendale furniture, and some absolutely superb . . .”
“You’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.”
“Yes, 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 busy here. 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.