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This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
Lauren didn't have time investigate the chateau before dinner, although she very much wanted to. During a brief stop in the bedroom she was shown to, she changed out of her traveling clothes and met Carlos in the common drawing room for drinks fifteen minutes later. In the hour they had been at the estate, they had spent nearly forty-five minutes of it listening to Madame Chatillier's artwork issues.
The chateau had been built on the best side of the Rhine for a flaming sunset, and a subtle glow ebbed into the room. It was one of the more updated sections of the mammoth hall, finished in late nineteenth century horn settees and white and gold gilt Louis XIV chairs. The wood paneling was unnatural, painted a soft cream edged with coffee-colored trim. As much as Lauren wanted to linger in the room's entryway to marvel at the décor, she stepped inside to search for Carlos.
She found the curator cornering an ashtray on the other side of the room. A score of other houseguests milled around the drawing room, a blend of accents and languages heavily seasoned with Madame Chatillier's compulsory grumblings.
"Have you made the rounds?" Carlos asked Lauren as she joined him.
"No. I just got here."
He took out his pipe, tapping its side on the ashtray. He looked to a well-kept woman in her late sixties who stood across the room near a group of people. "Madame Celia Varlette, the Duke's widowed sister," he said lowly. His gaze fell upon another woman of similar age. "Lady Eldicott, former Spode representative at Stoke-on-Trent and Barlastan, Great Britain. She's retired now, but her own interests brought her here."
Lauren made a mental note of the woman. "Vistoli's competition."
"Exactly." He nodded to a stout Englishman who was slaughtering a joke in French with another man. The listener's face stretched wide in a laugh, his comments showing a fluency in the language. "Andrew Morrow and Monsieur Claiborne. I don't know their interests."
"Yet." She watched the curator's fingers press into the back of one of the chairs at his side, feeling the porous, grainy features of the antler decoration. "You like that?"
He smiled at the chair. "Different, isn't it? My mother had a chair of horn and antler. She claimed it was sixty years old when I was a boy. I didn't believe her. Never seen anything like it before. I thought my father had made it out of old hunting trophies."
"Dr. Sheldon?"
Carlos turned to see a blond, lanky young man looking at them. The man glanced between Carlos and Lauren for a moment and then thrust a hopeful hand to him, a relieved smile breaking his face.
"I'm glad you could come on such a short notice," the younger man continued. "I'm Elden Grant. I apologize for not meeting your train this afternoon."
"Duty prevails. I remember Marlon speaking of you when he first brought you into the business," Carlos said. "Ten years, is it?"
"Over eleven."
Carlos nodded, looking to Lauren. "My assistant, Lauren Gates."
Elden's grin warmed as he took her hand. "How do you do?"
Madame Chatillier's malcontent voice neared, her entourage of listeners and attendants rippling around her like smaller fish caught in an eddy.
"Let's move this to the window," Carlos decided.
Lauren was eager to escape the French noblewoman before Madame Poussin's odor caught them.
"I trust Marlon is well," Carlos said.
Elden nodded. "He regrets being unable to meet you personally, but he believes this is an opportunity not to be missed."
As he spoke, the butler announced dinner from the hall. His stiffness was greeted by an eager murmur from the crowd.
Carlos nodded to Elden. "I hope Marlon is right."
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