by Fiona Grace
Frank stopped his nervous monologue. He nodded, looking touched. “Then leave it with me.”
Lacey watched him head off to get to work on his laundry list of tasks.
“I need a coffee,” she murmured under her breath. If this was any indication of the day to come, she’d need a triple shot espresso to get through it. She was already exhausted.
Just then, the bell over the door tinkled and Lacey looked over to see Gina arriving for her morning shift. A light rain had started, and the older woman’s yellow fisherman’s mac was covered in a fine mist of droplets.
Lacey watched, narrowing her eyes, as Gina let a soggy Boudica off her leash, before walking over the wires on the floor toward her like they weren’t even there.
“Morning,” she said, merrily, as she reached the counter.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” Lacey said.
“Uh-oh,” Gina said, removing her raincoat and shaking the droplets from it. “What have I done now?”
“What do you think?” Lacey said.
Gina unwrapped her long woolen scarf as she went around to the back of the counter, then hung her coat and scarf on the hooks. “No idea. You’ll have to tell me.”
Lacey ground her teeth. “You left the door unlocked last night. Again. Which gave Dad the chance to get inside and do all this before I could stop him.” She opened her arms up to the chaos of the dismantled security system.
Gina removed her glasses and rubbed the condensation off them onto her green fluffy jumper, then returned them to her face and glanced about at the mess. “Ah.” She looked back at Lacey. “Sorry about that.”
Lacey huffed with frustration. Sorry just wasn’t enough on this occasion. But she held her tongue, because she couldn’t bear another stressful conflict situation.
“Dare I ask how your day with your dad went yesterday?” Gina asked tentatively.
“It was … a lot,” Lacey said, casting her mind back through Taryn’s awkward introduction to the painful tea with Tom, the melancholy cliff walk, and the dreadful family reunion. “I’ll tell you all about it later. I’d better go and see what Dad is doing. Stop him before he rips up the entire electric system.”
“I’ll come with you,” Gina said.
“Fine,” Lacey said with a sigh.
They headed off the main floor and found Frank in the storeroom working on the electrics box.
“Morning!” Gina exclaimed.
Frank paused and looked up from his work. “Gina, how are you today?”
The older woman smiled. “Just marvelous, thank you. And you? Did you sleep well in Crag Cottage?”
“Oh yes, I slept very well.”
Lacey couldn’t help but bristle. Here she was, a stressed-out bag of nerves, and Dad and Gina were chatting away like they didn’t have a care in the world!
“Hey, Lacey,” Gina said, interrupting her thoughts. “Did you pack away the wedding dress?”
“Huh?” Lacey asked.
“The dress,” Gina said again. “I hung it up here and now it’s gone. You know, if you don’t like it you can just say. You don’t need to pack it away and hope I don’t notice.”
“Gina, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Lacey said. “I haven’t even touched the dress.”
“Maybe it was stolen?” Frank said.
Gina gasped, and Lacey rolled her eyes. Of course the dress had not been stolen. No one would try to steal such a hideous dress. Unless it was the fashion police…
It was far more likely Finbarr packed it away on her behalf, knowing full well she’d never wear it. The boy was probably trying to do her a favor by packing the ugly dress away in the hopes Gina would forget all about it. But now that Frank had floated the idea of a thief, there was absolutely no way Gina was going to drop it. She was always very prone to drama.
“Oh no, Lacey!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! Someone must have seen me bringing it in yesterday, then took the opportunity to steal it when they saw the back door was left unlocked!”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Frank added, with a stern look. “You cannot scrimp on personal safety.”
Right now, Lacey thought he was just as likely a culprit as anyone else. If he was prepared to use a screwdriver to prize off her restroom window to prove a point, she wouldn’t put it past him to hide a wedding dress to prove it as well! But before she had a chance to mention it, she heard the bell go from the main floor.
“Everyone calm down. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she said. “But first I need to see to this customer.”
She left them in the storeroom and headed to the main floor.
A slim man was standing at the counter. He was shorter than average, with neat gray hair and a moustache, and black-framed spectacles. He had the air of a university lecturer.
“Good morning,” Lacey said. “Do you need any assistance?”
“Are you the owner here?” the man asked. He had a slightly shifty energy about him, a sort of nervousness.
Lacey nodded. “I am. How can I help you today?”
“I need to speak to you about a very important matter.”
“What kind of matter?” Lacey asked, her curiosity piqued.
Just then, the man’s gaze went over her shoulder. “I’d prefer to speak in private.”
Lacey glanced back to see Gina and her dad poking their heads around the corner, watching on with interest. She made a shoo gesture. The two of them were starting to get on her nerves.
She turned back to the man. He was now protectively clutching the strap of his leather satchel. Whatever he was here to talk to her about, it presumably was inside the bag. She felt herself filling up with curiosity.
“Somewhere private,” she echoed. “Of course.” She gestured toward the arch that led into the auction room. “Right this way.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“My name is Ronan Pike,” the man said once they were alone.
Lacey regarded him with interest. She wondered if she was supposed to know the name. Maybe he was famous in England?
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
She was more than curious about what he was here to show her, why he had insisted on speaking to her privately, and why he seemed so shifty.
“I need your help,” Ronan said.
He glanced about himself as if to ensure they were definitely alone, then reached into this leather satchel and pulled out a glass frame. He handed it to her.
Frowning, Lacey took it in her hands and looked down. Behind the glass was a well-preserved letter, written on fine paper, in blue ink.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Read it,” Ronan said with an encouraging nod.
“Dear Mr. Dickens,” Lacey read aloud. Her eyes flicked up to the older gentleman standing before her. “Mr. Dickens? As in…”
“…Charles,” Ronan filled in for her.
Lacey’s eyebrows shot up. She continued aloud,
I am writing to commend you on the success of your most recent reading tour of the United States. I regret not having been able to attend in person, as I am told your live readings are the most enjoyable of affairs. I, myself, am an avid reader, and enormously fond of Oliver Twist, which I find to be excessively interesting. I have now on several occasions requested your presence at the palace, but I understand you have rejected me as a mere provincial devotee like any other. Perhaps you may accept this more recent proposal? I would love to discuss literature with you, and have a copy of my self-penned book, Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands, that I would like nothing more than to gift to you, as a sign of gratitude for all your hard work.
Until we meet,
Yours sincerely,
Queen Victoria.
Lacey felt her mouth go dry. She scanned the letter again, taking in the sloping cursive writing that was immediately recognizable as the late Queen Victoria’s, who was famed for writing long diary entries and letters, many of which
were displayed in museums.
Which led Lacey to frown skeptically. How was it in the possession of this random man, rather than the estate of the royal family?
“How did you get hold of this?” she asked with a frown.
“It was my father’s,” Ronan said. “Charles Dickens’ assistant is an ancestor of mine. My dad kept so much stuff over the years, it took me a long time to sift through it all after he passed away.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lacey said. She didn’t want to doubt a grieving man’s story, but it was quite a claim to make, and one she’d naturally be doubtful of without some kind of evidence.
“I have an authentication certification,” Ronan added, as if picking up on her reticence. “Here.”
He rummaged in his bag again, this time pulling out a letter, and held it out to Lacey. She recognized the letter heading immediately as belonging to the famous Westminster Auction House in London. She’d not dealt with them personally—they almost exclusively worked for aristocrats and other blue-blooded types—but Percy Johnson, her kindly antiques mentor from Mayfair, had on plenty of occasions. So she knew the authentication letter was real.
She quickly read the letter.
“They valued the letter at a million pounds?” Lacey said, her eyes widening.
“Yes, that’s right,” Ronan replied. “And they seemed very keen to buy it from me. They wanted to take it off my hands right away.”
“And you turned them down because…?” She couldn’t fathom why anyone would turn their back on a million pounds.
“Because I suspect they’re lowballing me,” Ronan said. “I don’t trust the big auction houses to treat me fairly. I’ll pay you a good commission.”
“Wait, wait, hold on one second,” Lacey said, shaking her head. “You want me to auction this for you?”
“That’s right,” Ronan said. “What’s your usual commission? Ten percent? I’ll give you twenty.”
Lacey couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But why me?” she stammered.
This was all too much to take in. Even with the letter of authentication, she needed more to go on. Surely there was some kind of different protocol when it came to the royal family, like how the queen legally owned all the swans in England? Perhaps that was why he’d chosen her? He’d taken a gamble that, as an American, she’d be unfamiliar with any special requirements that may come with the territory of selling something royal.
“I already told you,” Ronan said. “I don’t trust the big auction houses. You’re fairly new, aren’t you? An independent? You have no agenda.”
“I guess,” Lacey replied, not really sure what to make of it all.
She couldn’t help but be naturally dubious about the whole thing. But the prospect of its potential value was far too alluring to resist. She could always study up once he was gone, and back out of the situation if it felt too uncomfortable for her.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll auction the letter.”
“Fantastic,” Ronan replied, making a triumphant fist with his hand. “How soon can you do it? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Lacey echoed with incredulity. “Absolutely not! That’s far too soon.”
“I don’t want this dragging on,” Ronan said. “And I really don’t like carrying it around like this.”
“Well then let me lock it away in the shop,” Lacey suggested. “I have a safe.”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d prefer to keep it on me until the auction. Can you please arrange it for as soon as possible?”
Lacey twisted her lips. This was too much of an opportunity to turn her back on, but the pressure he was putting on her was making her even more dubious.
“I know,” she said, holding up an index finger. “Will you just let me make one quick call? You can wait here. I’ll be five minutes.”
Ronan let out a tense sigh. “Yes, okay, fine,” he said, with a reluctant hand flap.
Lacey hurried out of the auction room and to the office. As she grabbed the phone and punched in Percy Johnson’s number, Gina’s and her father’s faces appeared at the door like two gophers popping out of a hole.
“So?” Frank prompted.
“Who is that guy?” Gina asked.
“What does he want?” Frank added.
“Is it something exciting?” Gina continued.
“Shh!” Lacey said, batting them away. “I’ll tell you once I know. Go away! Shoo!”
Gina and Frank ducked back out of sight.
The call connected.
“Lacey?” came Percy’s voice in her ear. “How the devil are you, old friend? Did you get my RSVP? I’m so excited about the wedding.”
“Oh!” Lacey exclaimed. In all the excitement she’d quite forgotten about her upcoming nuptials. Receiving Percy’s RSVP had been a special moment. “Yes, I got the RSVP, and I’m glad you’re coming. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“It’s not?”
“No. I have a very bizarre question to ask you…”
*
“And you’re absolutely certain I’m not doing anything illegal?” Lacey said into her phone.
“I promise you,” Percy said for the millionth time. “The letter may be written by Queen Victoria, but it belongs to the estate of whomever it was sent to.”
“Which would be Charles Dickens, wouldn’t it? But this man said he was an ancestor of Charles Dickens’ assistant. Doesn’t that put the letter firmly into a different gray area?”
“Not if it was classified as an administrative document, which, knowing the history between Charles Dickens and Queen Victoria, it quite likely was.”
“The history?” Lacey asked, curious.
Percy chuckled. “You don’t know? Well, Charles Dickens decided he was in love with Queen Victoria when he was a young man, even though they’d never even met. On the night of her wedding, he stood in the palace gardens and wailed. After that, he refused every invite of hers to the palace for a meeting. It was rather scandalous for the time. No one ever refused an invitation to the palace! Eventually they met when they were very old, and Dickens died very shortly after. I find it highly likely that the letter you have from Queen Victoria expressing her admiration of his work would have been simply added to a pile of other letters his assistant was in charge of, which was legally passed on to him following Dickens’ death.”
“So you’re really saying this is legit?” Lacey pressed. “That I have the green light to auction a million-pound letter for a twenty percent commission?”
“I absolutely am!” Percy said, chuckling with delight. “Congratulations, Lacey.”
“Thank you,” Lacey said, breathlessly.
She ended the call and headed back into the main storeroom. Gina and Frank had taken it upon themselves to make a pot of tea for the jittery Ronan Pike, and they were all perched on the red velvet love seat sipping out of flowery cups. They all looked at her expectantly as she stepped inside the room, and Lacey could tell that everyone was holding their breath.
“It’s on,” she said to their expectant faces. “I’ll do it. I’ll arrange the auction for tomorrow.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was all hands on deck to get the impromptu auction arranged. The store turned into a whirlwind of activity.
“There’s no point putting up ads,” Lacey explained to Gina and Finbarr. “No one will have any time to see them. We’ll do targeted invites only.”
“Ooh,” Finnbar said. “How exclusive!”
“Exactly,” Lacey replied. “I want this to feel like a once in a lifetime opportunity. High-end. Exclusive. Invite only. So Finnbar, I need you to call museums that specialize in the Victorian era, or Charles Dickens, or royalty. That sort of thing. I want representatives here from the V&A, and the Charles Dickens museum without question, so make sure you don’t take no for an answer!”
“I’m on it,” Finnbar said.
“Gina,” Lacey said, turning to her friend. “Can you call the Wi
lfordshire Weekly? This is the sort of story they love, and I think it will be really good press for the store. Just don’t tell them it’s happening tomorrow, okay? I don’t actually want them here harassing my guests. You know what they’re like.”
“I’ll tell them it’s next week,” Gina said with a nod.
Lacey turned to Frank. “Dad. How’s it going with the security system? Will it be operational by tomorrow? It’s imperative that I have a functioning system in place considering the cost of what I’m selling…”
Frank looked down at his spool of wires on the floor, spilling out like intestines all over the place, and grimaced. “Um…” he said with uncertainty.
“Let me rephrase that,” Lacey said, more firmly. “I really, really need this to be done by tomorrow. So please, please, please make it happen.” She held her hands in prayer position. “Please!”
Frank looked doubtful. “Okay, yes, yes, all right. I started it so I have to finish it. I’ll get it done.”
“Thank you,” Lacey said.
She sighed. This was going to take an operation of epic proportions to pull off, but she had a feeling that it might just work out.
Hands on hips, she glanced around, assessing the surroundings. Her self-appointed take was to rearrange the shop to make it more appealing to the upper-class clientele she was inviting. Her prior work as an interior design assistant meant she had a good eye for design, and she knew the shabby chic, cluttered, vintage aesthetic wouldn’t go down well with people who were more accustomed to opulence. She wanted the place to look like an exclusive art gallery’s grand opening. Which meant everything would need to be rearranged.
She picked up a silver serving platter with a mind of moving it to the storeroom, when she was hit by a sudden thought.
“Canapes!” she cried aloud.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her.
“Huh?” Gina asked.
“Rich people eat canapes!” Lacey exclaimed. “I can’t hold an exclusive event without champagne flutes and little bits of salmon on toasted brioche! But where am I going to get catering at such short notice?”