The Secret Gift by Jaclyn Reding

Author:Jaclyn Reding [Reding, Jaclyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, General, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780739438343
Google: GOih_Lc3qwkC
Amazon: 0451209567
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2003-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The drive to the estate sale took them a meandering route along the northernmost coast of the Scottish mainland.

They passed through several small villages and sparse settlements all separated by mountains and vast tracts of wild, untamed moor. The sea stretched far to the north beside them, and the day was mostly clear with a modest, teasing wind. A clump of dark clouds, however, was gathering low and to the north, threatening rain later that afternoon.

They made good time driving and so stopped once or twice along the way to watch the soaring path of a sea eagle or to explore the ruins of an ancient castle. The sale would open at noon, with a preview at eleven. With five minutes to spare, they rolled up the drive and swung in to park beside the other cars.

The former Victorian hunting lodge where the sale was being held was a huge Gothic-looking pile with a mishmash of narrow turreted towers and gargoyles peering out along the roofline. According to the newspaper, it had belonged to an elderly war veteran who had become quite a hermit in his later years, refusing to leave his house or admit anyone other than his trusted valet. A niece and nephew from London had been left with the task of sorting through his effects and had decided it would be far easier to dispose of the nearly three generations’ worth of belongings at a local sale, instead of having to haul it all to the south to be sold through Sotheby’s or Christie’s in London.

A yellow-and-white canopy had been set up on a stretch of green lawn with signs that directed Graeme and Libby inside. Once there, Libby headed off for a quick peek at the books area while Graeme had a browse of some of the other items that would be offered for sale.

He was looking over a rather fine example of a seventeenth-century Flemish tapestry when he suddenly heard his name being called from across the room. The voice that called him, however, was not Libby’s, but the very deep, very distinctive voice of Henry Cabotte, otherwise known as the Earl of Ashburnham.

“Graeme, m’boy! I thought that was you. I told Clarissa there, ‘Say, isn’t that the Mackenzie lad?’ She told me I must be mistaken, that no one had seen you in weeks, so of course I had to come over here to prove it to her.”

Graeme turned to where indeed Lady Ashburnham was standing, smiling under the brim of her wide straw hat. He offered a casual wave.

“So, what the devil are you doing all the way this far north, and at an estate sale of all things?”

Think, Graeme told himself. Think fast.

“Just decided to take advantage of this incredible weather before winter comes storming in, my lord. Saw the signboard on the main road and found myself wandering in.”

“Yes, us, too. Alone, are you?” The man never had been one to mince words.

“Of course. Just flew up for the weekend. Get away from the city and all.

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