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This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
New chapters to Room of Fire will now be weekly.
As the auction day dew near, Lauren found a restive urgency growing in her professional curiosity. She saw it also affected Carlos, and it was for more than the possible finds at the auction. The other houseguests exhibited a subdued eagerness for the event, especially Madame Chatillier, Lauren had noted. She shared the woman's admiration for what Madame Varlette called the bastard collection, an assortment of jewelry sets who had lost pieces over time, but not her taste in fashion.
As a penance for the previous company of Reuben, Lauren let herself accompany Mesdames Chatillier and Poussin as they made yet another study of the collection. The second floor drawing room to which Madame Varlette led them was everything Lauren had expected of a fifteenth century French chateau. A 300-year-old gold and bronze Turkish rug stretched beneath the women's feet as the pale chestnut and green ceiling appliqué of fleur-de-lis towered overhead.
Although the room was once the center of entertainment, most furnishings now consisted of staunch maple cabinets, bulbous bombe cases, and a few bergere and early Louis XVI chairs. It took Lauren a moment to recognize a few of the pieces from Dr. Karen's display rooms at the museum, but eventually the names of the designs drifted into her memory.
Madame Varlette stepped past the set of battoir-style fans on the walls to an olive toned chinoiserie highboy. Lauren understood little of the woman's rapid French and so resolved to quietly watch her open a black case that she withdrew from the top drawer. The only piece inside was an oval brooch of aquamarine and flanking emeralds fringed by tiny diamonds.
A small gasp escaped Madame Poussin. Lauren looked to her, then stifled a smile; the washed-out blue color of the largest stone would compliment the woman's wane features.
When Madame Chatillier asked her opinion, Lauren made the appropriate comments in her most precise French, relieved Madame Varlette had opened the next drawer. From here she displayed a necklace of garnet, pearl, and delicate filigree gold, a piece, their hostess insisted, that had been worn by actress Olivia de Havilland in two films.
The bottom drawer contained half a dozen small boxes of fine gold with ivory and enamel decorated lids depicting lords and ladies of the eighteenth century courts. This sent Madame Chatillier into a flurry of agitated chatter, of which Lauren could only understand that she owned a matching piece Madame Varlette had considered lost.
Lauren found the items interesting, but not as the earlier gold and gem-studded pendants and ear clips Madame Varlette had presented when the tour had first begun two hours ago. She made her excuses at an opportune moment, seeking refuge from Madame Poussin's stifling aura.
A smile came to her face as Lauren recalled the lavish garnet necklace. Olivia de Havilland was Carlos' favorite screen actress from any era and she wondered if he would find an excuse to purchase it for the museum.
She made her way down the corridor for a long moment and halted at an open window, looking out over the eastern garden. The proximity of Madame Poussin once again left the unmistakable odor of flowers on the verge of decay. She took a deep breath, welcoming the timid garden breeze that rode into the hall. She felt an invasion of space and looked to see Reuben standing close by.
"I didn't want to startle you again," he said before she could speak.
"You still did." She turned away from the window, figuring Carlos would come down the hall at any moment.
"Come to the old library," he said. He stepped around her. "Dr. Sheldon will not object."
A fleeting smile touched her lips. "He might."
He shook his head. "Why should he?" He watched her steadily, estimating her hesitation.
She wasn't sure how thick his veneer of honesty was, but she believed he didn't remember Carlos from the past.
If it's him, she added to that thought. "Dr. Sheldon has a strong vein of protection," she said. "He's even a bit overprotective at times."
His smile was genuine. "I offer no threat, Lauren."
She looked beyond him down the hall. "What's in the library?"
"A professional interest. I've a collection to assess before the auction tomorrow and I prefer to do so without his lordship."
Carlos' suspicions of him were slipping from her mind. "All right."
The collection Reuben appraised in the defunct library reclaimed as an armory was eclectic at the least. Lauren had no knowledge and little appreciation for what she had always termed guns and knives. Actually, there were only a few firearms in the converted armory. Even these were notables, like the pair of French pistols from the mid-nineteenth century that Reuben gave considerable attention.
The bulk of the compilation was edged weapons, and she decided that while he may not drivel over a piece, but he would certainly come close. He peered into a glass lid at the four swords inside the second case.
"Hand-and-a-half swords," he said when she moved closer. "Popular from the late thirteenth century, typical of fighters on foot; the English equivalent to the two-handed Scottish claymore to come later. A choice selection. That is the claymore," he added, pointing to another case. "An eighteenth century model."
She recognized the rampant lion on the long, otherwise plain sword hilt from the design on a set of plates Elden had passed on earlier. "I thought your buyers were German."
"They are, but their interests transcend the country. They particularly seek the very rare Celtic swords featuring the crowning Claddagh. Like that one."
He led her to a wall case that housed a lone weapon. The long, double-edged blade gleaned more as a jewel than a sword in the bright lighting. The Claddagh perched atop the leather-wrapped hilt, its gold hands clasping a crown of Connemara marble and emeralds. The crossguard below flared to each side in opposing coils of interlaced dragons.
She whistled lowly. "I don't pretend to know weapons, but that looks like a pricey item."
"It is," he agreed. "Herr Langstraudt liquidated two other properties for a chance to bid on it."
She made a mental note to tell Carlos and Elden why Reuben seemed to be waiting on something and felt suddenly a little more comfortable with him. "How old is it?"
He grinned at her growing interest. "It dates to about 100 years before Christ."
Her gaze dropped from the weapon and her attention shifted, as did her brief confidence in him. She debated asking about Eischmidt. It really was not any of her business, merely prying. Or just idle curiosity.
He sensed her debate and leaned close to her ear. "What are you thinking?"
She shook her head. What if he was the youth with Eischmidt? That had been years ago. Carlos admitted there had been no trouble, no felonies committed. She looked to him, nearly biting her tongue against the query. Instead she made a simple statement. "You're not German."
"No." He studied her eyes, comparing them to the green stones of the Celtic sword. He straightened. "I'm Russian. Does that matter?"
She shook her head, but not in regard to the question. Don't ask, she kept telling herself. She looked anxiously to her watch and lied. "I'm meeting Dr. Sheldon in ten minutes."
"Dr. Sheldon is discussing a tapestry with Monsieur Morrow. I don't believe he plans to meet you." He frowned when she refused to look at him.
"Excuse me, Reuben."
She all but bolted for the double doors. Her feet clipped over the corridor floor, her mind choking with contrasting thoughts. She couldn't understand the need to know if Carlos had met Reuben previously. There was something about him that was beginning to make her think of the curator's earlier career. Both threads of thought gave her an uneasy feeling.
And Reuben had a watchful, attentive nature, as if any information crossing his path would be carefully estimated, digested, and stored for future use.
"Like a computer," she muttered. Perhaps that was what made Carlos so suspicious of Reuben. A mirror into his own past.
That was all it was. Nothing personal, she thought.
Her pace slowed in the first floor antechamber that led to the main hall. In the distance she could hear Madame Chatillier's shrill bark, accompanied by the faint, musty smell of Madame Poussin. The combination suddenly became too much and Lauren made her way to another part of the castle where she knew there to be a winding staircase.
After what seemed an eternity of climbing the ornate wrought iron stair in dizzying circles upward, she found the secluded tower room on the fourth floor. She leaned against the rough stone wall and watched workmen at the stables beyond out the window, letting her mind and vertigo unravel. In all the storybooks she had read as a child, castles had been portrayed as dark, cold, and drafty, necessitating constant fires in their numerous hearths. At the moment she would have preferred a dark, cooler environment and she couldn't blame all the heat on the unseasonably warm weather.
She decided against analyzing the situation that was not a situation any further. Carlos was protective of not only her, but also her reputation with the museum. Patricia Mullins had made that mistake already, and it had cost her her tuition and candidacy as assistant, and ultimately the chance at a possible curatorship in the future. Patricia's indiscretion was a bit more public, Lauren had to rationalize. Making a drunken spectacle of one's self while entertaining an Australian diplomat was not tolerated, even if it did make for a happy Australian.
"Are you all right?"
She spun around to see Elden's mousy blond head poke into the circular room. She smiled in relief, nodding. "Yes."
"The way you took those stairs," he said, shaking his head, "you looked like someone was after you." He stood behind her, scowling as he looked out the window at the stable destruction. "If I were the Duke I think I'd cry."
"I feel like crying for him."
For a moment they watched the rubble below being loaded into a waiting dump truck, both feeling the heavy equipment sorely out of place on the meticulous grounds.
"Marlon phoned this morning," he said without emotion. "I have an appointment in Hamburg I don't dare miss."
"Your English is perfect," she realized suddenly. She turned to him. Elden's speech had bothered her from their initial meeting, but she couldn't quite pinpoint why.
"It should be." An easy smile crossed his face. "I grew up in Seattle. Washington's Seattle."
She shook her head. "But you're Vistoli's chief representative. When did you go to Italy?"
He looked almost bashful. "I was an exchange student one year in high school for Marlon's family. He introduced me to the plate business, cultivated my interest in it, and invited me to come back after I graduated in the States." He shrugged. "I went back. It's been nearly twelve years now."
"You must have real promise, Elden."
A modest grin reached his eyes. "I hope so. But it won't matter if I don't keep this appointment."
"I'm sorry you had to delay your plans to wait for us. Dr. Sheldon wouldn't have—"
"It turned out best this way." He offered her his arm and she took it. "Marlon can't wait to see the jeweled collections, and I think I made a wise contact with the Duke."
They began their way down the winding case.
"I'm sure you have."
"I don't have time to say goodbye to Dr. Sheldon. I have to leave now."
"So soon?"
He smiled. "Will you give him my regards?"
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