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  With blood pulsing in his ears, Faucheur sheathed his dagger and slithered back against the wall, out of sight. Then he walked noiselessly in the direction of the stairs, calculating his stride to assure he would run headlong into the girl.

  Johanna rounded the corner.

  “Ohhh!”

  As they collided, the stack of bed linens she carried crushed into her shoulder and sent the candle flying from her hand. It clattered against the parquet floor, splattering hot wax all over Faucheur’s silk dress shoes.

  After some fumbling, Johanna recovered her grasp on the sheets. “Oh!” she cried again. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I didn’t see you!” She curtsied and quickly bent down to retrieve the candlestick.

  Faucheur theatrically dusted off his breeches and straightened his wig, feigning disgust. “Ugh—you should take greater care to mind where you’re walking!”

  Johanna stared anxiously at the whitish glops of wax drying on his shoes. “I am so very sorry. Please forgive my clumsiness. I’ll have Agnes clean your shoes straight away, sir…I mean, Monsieur. If you would care to give them to me, I—”

  “Yes, fine,” he said brusquely, caring nothing for the ruined footwear. Johanna’s body stiffened when Faucheur moved in close behind her and brushed his full lips against her ear. “But you can do that later.”

  His lustful gaze slid down to the laces that held her quilted corset together. “Now then…we shall have to find a way for you to make up for your carelessness, no?” Faucheur reached around with both hands and traced his fingertips along Johanna’s collarbones, then up the smooth skin on the front of her neck. “Do you not agree, Mademoiselle?” he murmured.

  He wrapped his hands around her throat, taking pleasure in the feel of her quickening pulse. “Y-Yes, Monsieur,” she whispered, swallowing hard.

  In one swift motion, Faucheur grasped her shoulder, spun her around and pressed her against the wall. Johanna turned her head away as he began kissing and sucking on her neck, taking in the exquisite scent of her.

  “P-Please, Monsieur, what if someone comes?” whimpered Johanna.

  Faucheur ignored the question, thrilling to the sound of the girl’s breath catching in her throat. Why did these young servant girls persist in acting timid when they were all such little sluts?

  Faucheur pulled back and lightly brushed his lips over her jawline, her soft mouth. “I was expecting you to come to my room last night,” he said casually. “But you did not, mon chaton. I don’t like to be refused.” He suddenly gripped Johanna’s chin and violently wrenched her face forward. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  Laughter erupted downstairs, followed by the sound of breaking glass and another peal of laughter, louder than the first.

  “Are you sure Sir Perceval and Lady Wheatley won’t miss you in the drawing room, Monsieur?” breathed Johanna.

  Faucheur smiled. The girl’s weak attempt at distraction amused him. “The only thing on my uncle’s mind for the next hour will be how to best cheat Baron Müller out of the contents of his purse.” He released her chin and rubbed his middle finger back and forth beneath her rosy bottom lip, his gold signet ring glinting in the candlelight. “As for Aunt Henrietta…she was, as usual, already in her cups before supper. The woman would scarcely notice if the entire manor crashed down around her ears.”

  Faucheur sealed his mouth over Johanna’s, this time pressing on her chin with his thumb to force her lips apart. His tongue snaked its way into the warm recesses of her mouth, exploring seductively until her resistance faltered, and she leaned into the kiss. At length, he pulled back and glanced down at the stack of neatly folded bed sheets she hugged to her breast.

  “Shall I help you with those, then?” he suggested, his dark eyes glittering.

  Faucheur guided Johanna into the manor’s most spacious bedchamber and locked the door behind them. Walking into the middle of the room, he turned in a slow circle, snorting his disapproval. His aunt’s boudoir overflowed with heavy furniture, thick carpets and numerous gilt-framed paintings. A long settee covered in beige silk sat in front of the fireplace, and a massive bed stood against the far wall, surrounded by brocade curtains with red fringe.

  Faucheur removed his long gray wig and raked a hand through his dark hair. “A vulgar bed for a tasteless woman,” he sneered, surveying the obscenely lavish room. He sauntered over to the fireplace and snickered at the fleshy portrait of his Aunt Henrietta hanging over the mantle. “Well, then, you wretched cow, you may as well watch as I defile it,” he muttered to the picture.

  Johanna stood behind him. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur?” she asked uneasily.

  Faucheur turned and leveled his steely gaze at her. He lifted the stack of linen from Johanna’s arms and dumped it on the settee. “I was merely speaking of my esteemed aunt. Now, where was I? Ah yes. I have several questions about what really goes on in my uncle’s household, Johanna, and I believe you have the answers to them.”

  Faucheur gripped the top of Johanna’s corset and roughly pulled her toward him. Then he unceremoniously plunged a hand down the front of it. “We shall start right here.”

  Johanna gasped as he proceeded to grope between her breasts. “Monsieur! What are you doing?”

  “I know you have it, I saw it the other day in the laundry.” Faucheur withdrew his hand and held up a bronze key on a chain. “What, pray tell, does this open?”

  A look of terror sprang into Johanna’s green eyes and she swallowed mutely.

  Faucheur moved his face to within an inch of the girl’s.

  “I will ask you again…to what lock does this key belong, Johanna?” Faucheur inquired, his voice so loud in her ear that she flinched.

  “But I cannot tell you that, Monsieur,” Johanna pleaded. “Lady Wheatley will have me beaten if I do!”

  Faucheur narrowed his eyes and yanked on the chain, causing Johanna’s head to snap back slightly. “This is for the entrance to that hallway on the third floor, is it not? The tall, mirrored doors?”

  “I…yes, Monsieur,” said Johanna, her breath shaky. “How did you—”

  “Why are those doors kept locked—what’s back there?”

  “Please, Monsieur! It’s not my place to say!”

  “Is has something to do with my uncle’s newfound wealth, doesn’t it?” hissed Faucheur.

  Johanna looked away, her bottom lip quivering.

  “I knew it!” crowed Faucheur. “Uncle Perceval possesses only two ships—two—in that measly little Plymouth shipping concern of his. That’s three voyages at most to the West Indies and back per year.” Faucheur gestured at the elaborate mural on the bedroom ceiling. “He can’t possibly have afforded all of this by hauling nutmeg and cinnamon.”

  Johanna watched Faucheur with anxious eyes as he reached out and fingered a strand of her golden hair. “You must tell me what’s beyond that door, Johanna,” he said calmly, an edge of menace in his tone.

  But the insolent girl shook her head at him.

  Faucheur scowled. “Just give me the key,” he demanded, jerking on the chain again. “And I shall see for myself.”

  Remarkably, Johanna’s face darkened. She fixed Faucheur with a defiant stare and wrapped her pale hand firmly around the chain. “I’m very sorry, Monsieur, but Lady Wheatley said I was never to let this passkey out of my sight. Besides—it only opens the door, and not…not what lies beyond it.”

  Faucheur regarded the girl quizzically. So, the mysterious source of Sir Perceval’s recent windfall was indeed under lock and key in the third floor hallway. “Bien sûr! But of course!” He was thinking out loud now, his mind working excitedly. “How could I be so blind? One of my uncle’s schooners must have intercepted a Spanish galleon bound for Cadiz on its last trip to Plymouth! It’s likely he kept the spoils for himself instead of sharing them with the Crown and the ship’s crew. But how could my uncle have smuggled the entire treasure here?”

  Johanna said nothing.

  “Imagine…Sir Perceval,
a pirate!” Faucheur laughed heartily. “Oh, that’s bloody brilliant. I may actually have to amend my opinion of the idiot!”

  “I can assure you…your uncle’s no pirate, Monsieur,” Johanna mumbled, yanking the key from Faucheur’s grasp.

  “Can you?” Faucheur cocked his head, his mouth curling into a seductive smile. “Mademoiselle—I fully understand your desire to protect the interests of my relatives. You are their most trusted servant. I certainly wouldn’t want you to lose your prestigious situation over such a trivial matter. And to think of the reality, it’s just a tiny little key, n’est-ce pas?””

  “Y-Yes, Monsieur,” said Johanna, her expression guarded.

  “After all,” continued Faucheur, “a young peasant such as yourself has so very few opportunities in this life—wife, mother, servant, laundress, whore…”

  Johanna’s blond eyebrows knitted together, but she said nothing.

  “You’re quite lucky to have a position at all, aren’t you? Why, I’ve seen dozens of young girls in the streets of Plymouth, huddling in doorways and begging for crumbs.” Faucheur raked his eyes up and down Johanna’s plump form. “Though obviously, you are no stranger to hunger.”

  “What is your point, Monsieur?” Johanna asked darkly, her cheeks burning now. She dropped the passkey and chain down the front of her chemise.

  Faucheur tucked a strand of Johanna’s hair behind her ear and tenderly cupped her face with his hands. “If something were to happen to cause you to leave this house, you and I could no longer be such close friends.”

  He kissed Johanna lightly on the mouth, then grazed her bottom lip with his teeth as he bit down on it softly. “I know you wouldn’t want us to be separated, would you, my sweet?” he whispered.

  Johanna shook her head mutely, gasping.

  She’ll not last long…I can already feel her resistance fading. “What’s behind the doors?” Faucheur breathed between planting feather-soft kisses along her jaw.

  Again, Johanna shook her head. “Please don’t go back there, Monsieur. The chest is dangerous. A tool of the devil, some have said!”

  “A chest, eh?” Faucheur’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting. What kind of chest?”

  Johanna’s eyes grew large as she realized her mistake. “No, you mustn’t—”

  “I expect Aunt Henrietta holds the key to it, does she not?”

  “I know what you are thinking, but you must not try to open it, Monsieur! I beg you! Lady Wheatley is the only one who knows how—”

  “The question is…” Faucheur paused to tap a finger against his full lips, “How will I persuade her to give me that key?”

  “No!” Johanna cast a worried glance at the bedroom door. “You must listen! Many who have gone near the chest were never seen again—including someone from this very household!”

  Faucheur scoffed. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Monsieur, I speak the truth!” Johanna whispered hoarsely, as if the chest itself were listening. “I don’t understand how it works—no one does—but it has the power to take things from this world!”

  “You mean it contains some sort of hidden snare? Hmm. I expect that’s handy to know.”

  “I know not what’s inside of it,” Johanna said. “Only Lady Wheatley herself opens it. But I have heard that the chest once swallowed a person.”

  “What, swallowed someone whole, like a great crack upon the earth? Nonsense. It’s a stick of furniture we’re talking of, not a monster of the deep sea,” Faucheur sneered. He took her warning to be a ruse, designed to distract him. “What rubbish has my aunt been feeding into that pretty peasant head of yours?”

  “She…she told me that one day in years past, a servant’s curiosity got the better of him, and he stole the key and opened the chest. A great rumbling was heard throughout the house, and the servant disappeared forever!”

  Faucheur flicked his eyes at the ceiling in exasperation. He was tiring of their conversation, and his growing need was now pressing against his leg. “Lady Wheatley means to frighten you with folk tales so you won’t discover the secret of her wealth, Johanna. Do you really think me, a nobleman, to be deterred so easily?”

  “But Monsieur—”

  “Do not worry, my dear. I will find a way to see the chest for myself.”

  Moving closer to the girl, Faucheur pulled off her white head covering and removed a wooden pin from her golden hair, letting it spill to her shoulders. He sifted his long fingers through her flowing tresses a moment before grasping a handful and holding it up near his face. He inhaled deeply, savoring her delicious scent.

  “Please, Monsieur…I must ask you again not to go near that hallway.”

  “Shhh. No more talk. Let us save our strength for more stimulating endeavors,” he purred, brushing back the pocket of his blue silk coat with his hand. For an instant, the inlaid pearl handle of his dagger gleamed in the candlelight.

  The movement was not lost on young Johanna, who stepped obediently toward the bed.

  On a side table stood an untouched tray of biscuits and a tepid pot of the newest novelty drink of the wealthy class—tea. Faucheur casually picked over the contents of the tray while he removed his lace collar and silk waistcoat. Ah—these should do nicely for what I have in mind. He pulled his billowy white shirt off slowly, relishing the feel of Johanna’s gaze upon the powerful, taut muscles of his bare back.

  He spit the mint leaf he’d been chewing onto the tray and sauntered toward the lavish bed, casting a sideways glance at himself in a dappled looking glass. His lean, lithe physique gave him the appearance of a sleek panther…and he had cornered his prey.

  Faucheur crept fluidly over the bed covers toward Johanna until his knees sank deep into the coverlet on either side of her curving hips. “Mon Dieu, I believe I’m quite famished,” he remarked as he unfastened the silk buttons on his breeches. Grinning wickedly, he held up two small ceramic pitchers from the tray. “So, what shall it be? The raspberry confit, or the honey?”

  Johanna’s green eyes flicked to his right hand.

  “Honey it is…”

  EIGHT

  Bucks County, Pennsylvania

  Saturday, October 6th, 9:16 a.m.

  “ARE WE GETTING CLOSE?” HAVEN asked. The winding country roads were making her stomach queasy, and she was eager to be out of the car. Brian pointed to a quaint farmhouse in the distance, buried behind a grove of tall oak trees.

  “Actually, Hall Farm’s right at the top of this hill.”

  Haven peered out the window. Tall weeds nearly obscured a low fieldstone wall running along the front of the property. Brian slowed the Mercedes and swung the car between two crumbling limestone pillars, one of which had a rusted sign fastened to it that read: NO HUNTING OR TRESSPASSING.

  “Wow. It’s really pretty here,” Haven said as they travelled up the gravel driveway. Dappled sunlight flashed through the oak trees and fell on the vibrant carpet of leaves blowing across the overgrown yard. Haven rolled down her window and inhaled the damp, earthy smell. The federal-style stone farmhouse itself was charming, but had at least two different clapboard additions, lending it a somewhat jumbled appearance.

  Haven took in the weather-beaten green shutters, the cracked slate roofing tiles, the overgrown bushes. “The house is nice, too, but it definitely needs work.”

  Brian nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’d say Hall Farm has seen better days. Whoever buys this place better have some deep pockets—they’re going to be busy.”

  Brian stopped the car behind a maroon sedan parked on the side of the house, and Haven watched an elderly man struggle out of the Buick. He waved at them and began to move toward the Mercedes with slow, deliberate steps.

  “That must be Gail Crosby’s lawyer,” Brian said. He glanced around the driveway. “I don’t see Rich’s pickup anywhere. He and Victor must’ve stopped off for something to eat.”

  The old man was impeccably dressed in a navy blue sport coat with a matching silk tie and
neatly pressed trousers. His longish white hair was combed straight back, lending him a sophisticated, European air. Haven and her brother took their time gathering up their things, giving the attorney a few moments to reach the side of their car.

  “Hello there,” the man called, placing a hand on the fender of Brian’s Mercedes to support himself.

  Brian got out and shook his hand. “How are you, sir? Brian Meadows, Stockton Estate Sales.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Meadows,” the gentleman said. “Claude Venimer, attorney for Miss Crosby. I’ll be overseeing the estate sale on her behalf.”

  While the men exchanged business cards, Haven got out and walked around the front of the car.

  “And who might this lovely young lady be?” Venimer asked. Haven’s dark blond hair glistened in the sunlight as she came to stand next to her brother.

  “Mr. Venimer, this is my sister, Haven Meadows,” Brian said. “She’s also my assistant, so if you need to find Rich or me at any point this weekend, you can speak to Haven—or to Victor, our delivery supervisor. They’re usually in close contact with both of us.”

  Haven smiled warmly. “Hello, Mr. Venimer, nice to meet you.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle, enchanté,” Venimer said, holding out his palm. Haven blushed slightly at the clichéd greeting and reluctantly placed her hand on top of his. She was startled when instead of shaking it, Venimer bowed slightly and caressed the back of her hand with his thumb.

  Um…okay…

  “Très enchanté,” he said again. His dark eyes, shining, locked on hers while he brushed his lips lightly across her knuckles.

  Haven shifted uneasily as her insides squirmed. Seriously? Is this old guy actually trying to flirt with me? She looked down at her hand, which had started to tingle at his touch. Suddenly, the nagging feeling from her dream rose sharply within her once more, and Haven’s attention was drawn to the gold signet ring on the man’s middle finger. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Venimer, but you don’t by any chance live near the East Falls area of Philadelphia, do you?”