"I see that," I said. "And thanks for the warning on this one." I tilted my head toward Tenn. "I'll get the better of him eventually."
"I have no doubt," Miss Martha agreed.
Tenn let out an exaggerated sigh, closing his hand over mine, interlacing our fingers. The affectionate contact was so unexpected, my mouth snapped shut. I followed him to the door, my lips silently curving as he loudly complained, "That's what I get for arguing with a woman who changed my diapers."
"And don't you forget it," Miss Martha called after us.
"Did she really change your diapers?" I asked, finding my voice again.
"A lot of them. We had a stepmom, but she had her hands full, and I have a twin sister. Avery. You'll meet her at dinner tonight. Miss Martha pinch-hit whenever Darcy needed her, which was a lot."
"Where was your mom?" None of my business, but I was curious.
"She took off when Avery and I were a year and a half old." His lips quirked in a bitter smile. "She liked the big house and the money but popping out kid after kid for Prentice wasn't her life goal. He gave her a big settlement, and a month after the divorce was final, he married our nanny."
"Oh." I wasn't sure what to say about that. For all the discussion about his murder, no one had sounded particularly sad about their father's death.
"It wasn't as bad as it sounds. At least, not for us kids. I'll never know what Darcy saw in Prentice, but she was the best. Darcy was pure love."
I knew without asking that Darcy was dead. Tenn fell silent, his words weighted with old grief. I had more questions, but I kept my mouth shut. I knew what it was to lose someone I loved. I wasn't going to poke at him over a loss that still hurt.
"So," I said instead, "what now?"
Tenn stopped at the base of the stairs. "What do you want to do?"
I only had one answer. "Tour of the house? Please?"
Tenn appeared to think over my request. "We'll start with the library."
That sounded good to me. It would take days to explore all of Heartstone Manor. Not an issue since it seemed I wasn't going anywhere.
Thatcher had told me very little of what he needed. My guess was that he didn't know much himself.
I was working off of two pieces of information. One, that Thatcher was eventually going to end up in Sawyers Bend. And two, that he was after a work of art, one I'd seen myself, and if he didn't find it, heads were going to roll. Including, possibly, his own.
Roughly six inches tall, the bust of Roman Emperor Vitellius was fashioned of rock crystal on a marble and bronze base. Dating from the nineteenth century, the piece lacked historical or artistic significance and wasn't particularly valuable.
On top of that—no offense to Emperor Vitellius—but the bust was ugly. The base was okay, white marble accented with bronze, but the bust itself was… Let's just say that Emperor Vitellius wasn't going to win any beauty contests. When I'd originally seen it at the auction house, I'd estimated it would go for around $7,500.
I couldn't fathom why such an insignificant work would be the subject of so much drama. I'd guessed it had been stolen from whoever won it at the auction I'd appraised the piece for, but why? There had been far more valuable and desirable works in the same auction, all just as accessible once whoever stole it had broken in. What would have drawn the thief to this particular work? It made no sense. Yet here I was, looking for a needle in a haystack.
The library at Heartstone Manor was massive and, unlike the empty rooms we'd passed earlier, every shelf was full. Most were packed with leather-bound books, some of which I'd bet were quite valuable themselves. Here and there, small objets d'art were interspersed among the books, breaking up the monotony and creating an appealing sense of flow.
The artist in me appreciated the balance of color and space someone had created here. The art historian wanted to examine everything, from the carvings on the woodwork to the antique books and furniture, the oil paintings, and other objets d'art. The rest of me just wanted to find the damn bust, then Thatcher, and go home.
On one hand, I knew exactly what I was looking for. On the other, considering the scale of Heartstone Manor, the bust was a speck. How many places could someone hide something six inches tall in a house that had to be forty thousand square feet? An infinite number of places. If the piece wasn't on display, I could spend a year looking and never find it. Still, I had to start somewhere.
Dragging Tenn to the closest shelf, I scanned the books, stepping back to look up—and up. How was I going to get to the upper shelves? I put that problem aside and lost myself in the search. Despite the high stakes, I found myself drawn more by history and beauty than an interest in the bust of Vitellius. The Sawyers had collected a fascinating selection of books, the subjects covering everything from history to art and architecture to science and philosophy. So far, no fiction.