It had been a long day, but Cesca was still buzzing from what, so far, amounted to the find of her career. Her hunch about the crucifix was looking increasingly right – it was almost certainly a unique example and one with finer workmanship she’d never seen up close. The rest of the stuff was perhaps worth less in archaeological terms, but they were no less impressive in their beauty and would undoubtedly have a hefty monetary value. Three long years of undergraduate study, two years of postgraduate and a one-year unpaid internship in the antiquities department of the Met in New York had all been leading to this moment.

And yet, though she’d always imagined feeling on top of the world when her Sutton Hoo or Staffordshire Hoard moment came, the truth was something altogether less satisfying. Something didn’t sit right with her, and she wondered whether that vague feeling of unease was more to do with the find, or with her own personal circumstances and questionable emotional stability. Her life was a mess, and that fact certainly felt as if it was casting a storm cloud across her moment in the sun.

Putting aside some microfiche copies of old parish records she’d managed to obtain to make a start on unravelling her new mystery, she rubbed the muscles of her shoulders and stretched. The dining table in front of her was littered with archaic-looking documents scrawled with unintelligible writing by hands that had long since crumbled to dust. The blinds were still open and the neighbour’s security light suddenly beamed into her dining room, set off by a cat or an urban fox.

God, she hated this house. Paolo had wanted to live here, and then he’d gone off to London and left her with it. She hated the way the houses around it were so close it felt as if they almost smothered hers, and the way she couldn’t open her windows in the summer without the fumes of the city seeping through her home, the noise from other families in the street with timetables very different from her own. Decorating hadn’t helped, nor had landscaping the garden. She knew she should move but the truth was, she wasn’t quite ready to let go of this final little piece of her life with Paolo. It hurt to be somewhere that reminded her so much of him, but it was her last connection and, in a strange way, a comfort. To move from here would be to strike out on her own in a way that sent a clear message to the world and herself – she was a single woman, and she had nobody else to rely on.

She returned from the kitchen twenty minutes later with a tall gin and tonic. There was quite a measure of alcohol in there – or maybe there were two, or three. It was asking for trouble, of course, and tomorrow at work she would pay the price yet again for an evening of excess, but right now she couldn’t care less. She defiantly pulled a sheaf of Tudor banking records towards her just as her mobile phone burst into life.

Paolo – as crisp and clear as if he was in the room with her. Just the sound of his smouldering Latino accent set her nerve ends tingling in a way she knew they shouldn’t.

‘You need to stop contacting me,’ he said.

‘I know. I didn’t mean—’

‘You say that every time. Larissa keeps asking me who it is, and what am I supposed to tell her? I delete your text messages, but if she finds one, what do I say?’

Tell her what you like, Cesca thought. It’s not like I give a shit about your new girlfriend. ‘I’m sorry. I was drunk, and it was a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.’

‘For the sake of anything we once had together, I hope that this time it’s true. I loved you once, but we are no more. You agreed to the split – remember?’

‘I know. There’s no need to keep rubbing it in. I’m pathetic, a loser, a poor specimen of womanhood, I can’t manage without you… Is there anything else you want me to say? You want me to grovel?’

‘You are none of those things,’ he said, his tone kinder now. ‘And I don’t want you to grovel. You were a proud, intelligent, sexy woman when I first met you. Be that woman again and have a wonderful life. We were not meant to be, but you will find happiness with someone far more deserving than me.’

‘That’s easier said than done,’ Cesca replied, fighting back tears. It would have been so much easier if he could be a bastard and say horrible things to her. The fact that he was always so bloody kind and understanding made things a hundred times worse. ‘I’m broken, Paolo. It’s not just you… Ah, shit to it. What’s the point in trying to explain? I can’t even explain it to myself, let alone you.’

‘I am sorry – truly I am – for your troubles. But we are not together now and I’ve moved on. You need to accept that and move on too.’

‘I know… I—’

‘Goodbye, Francesca. Take care of yourself.’

Paolo ended the call, and that was that. Cesca wasn’t given the chance to explain anything and once again was left feeling like the bunny-boiling bad guy.

Letting out a long sigh, she turned her attention back to her studies. At least history didn’t make you feel like crap. You could say what you wanted to fossilised remains and bodies preserved in bogs and they didn’t offer a single disapproving word in return. It was at times like these when she liked dead people a lot more than the living.

---

Harper tossed the newspaper across the table at Shay as he bolted down a coffee and a bacon sandwich on his first break of the morning. Unable to work on the extension for a second day, and having no other jobs to do for the moment, he’d taken to venting his frustrations on their larder, clearing it out in such an aggressive way that Harper was certain he would split a sack and disappear under an avalanche of tea leaves, never to be seen again.

Right now, he was tucked in a little corner of their kitchen while Pip worked the tearoom and Harper divided her time between serving and fighting off questions from reporters and members of the public with more than a healthy interest in their find. Though he hadn’t admitted to it, she couldn’t help but feel vexed at the idea that Shay had probably brought all this to her door with loose lips at the pub on the night they’d found their box. It wouldn’t be the first time his drunken mouth had caused trouble.

‘We could really do with you in the café for the rest of the week if that article is going to bring another influx,’ she said.

Shay pulled the newspaper towards him and read the page where she’d helpfully opened it for him.

‘Ah…’

‘Ah indeed.’ Harper sighed. ‘I know it was inevitable, and in a strange way it’s a good thing for business, but I was hoping it would all just sort of dissolve from view.’

‘Lots of attention but not quite the right kind? People are bound to be curious. It’s not every day you dig up a hoard of gold.’

‘There wasn’t that much.’

‘More than enough.’

‘Maybe. Besides, it isn’t just about that, it’s…’

Shay frowned. ‘What?’

‘I know you’re going to say I’m stupid, but what if it brings attention from back home?’

‘We’re hardly on the News at Ten. Nobody beyond the borders of Dorset will see this, and even less of them will care.’

‘I know, but I can’t help worrying. If he ever found me…’

He stood and pulled her into his arms. ‘If he does, I’ll be ready for him. Nobody is going to hurt you again. But I honestly don’t see it being an issue.’

Harper pulled away and nodded uncertainly. ‘You’re right. I’m being silly about it. I’ll crack on in the café and I’m sure it’ll blow over in a couple of days.’

Shay planted a light kiss on her head. ‘Try not to worry. If it helps, think about the money that’s coming to us when the value is confirmed. I bet it will pay for the holiday lets and then some.’

‘You’re assuming a lot there.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘There are no guarantees we will get any money at all – Francesca told us as much.’

‘She said she was quite sure it would be declared treasure and we’d be entitled to a share for finding it. She said the cross alone—’

‘Quite sure isn’t completely sure. And how do we know there isn’t an owner out there? It’s just another reason why all this publicity is bad – you can bet someone out there is going to try to prove they’re the rightful owners, whether they are or not.’

‘They’d have their work cut out to do that. I don’t see how anyone alive today can prove ownership with stuff that old.’

‘If it’s as much money as Francesca seems to think it will be, then they’ll be doing their best to find a way. All I’m saying is, don’t get too attached to it, because it might never be ours.’

‘You worry too much.’

‘One of us has to.’

‘Look…’ Shay went back to his sandwich and picked it up. ‘There’s no point in worrying about what may or may not happen. When it comes, whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Until then, all we can do is carry on.’

Harper was about to answer when Pip dashed in.

‘Harper…’ she panted, ‘there’s some guy on the phone – a researcher or something. Says he’s from the News at Ten! I don’t know what the bloody hell to tell him…’

Harper turned to Shay with a helpless look. ‘You were saying?’

He shrugged, and instead of replying, filled his mouth with a wedge of bacon and bread.

---

‘Francesca Logan…’

Cesca moved aside the clutter on her desk to search for a notebook that wasn’t already covered in scribbles as she listened to the call.

‘You’re who?’ She suddenly stopped dead, all thoughts of jotting down notes forgotten as her frown deepened. She listened for a moment longer, her expression darkening.

‘Nothing has been confirmed as yet,’ she said finally. ‘If you think it belongs to you then we’ll have to address that at some point, but we don’t even know what we’re dealing with at the moment so I don’t see how you can have a claim—’

She was silent again as the caller interrupted.

‘We haven’t released any images of the items yet,’ she continued after a moment, ‘so I don’t know how you can be so sure… You can visit by all means, but I don’t see what that will achieve at this stage—’

Another interruption. She was beginning to wonder how much trouble she would get in for putting the phone down on this obnoxious man.

‘You want me to see what?’

A pause as he spoke again to clarify his request.

‘I suppose it might be easier for me to come to you in that case. I should be able to verify informally if it’s the same item, if the image is as clear as you say. But I must stress that this would be on an informal basis and the final decision on the matter would not be mine, whether I recognised anything or not.’

She let out a sigh. This was a complication she really didn’t need. Ending the call, she rummaged in the debris of paperwork on her desk.

‘Duncan?’

Her colleague looked up from his PC at the only other desk occupying the tiny office space. ‘Yep?’

‘Any idea where I might find Silver Hill House?’

---

Silver Hill House turned out to be a great deal easier to find than the farm that shared its name, mostly because of its imposing size. But the size was just about all that was imposing about it these days; once it would have been a beautiful colonnaded building that stretched across its grounds, apricot render gleaming in the sun and nestled within verdant gardens, earning the title of stately home in every conceivable way. Now, the render was cracked and grubby, slates missing from the roof, the paint on sash windows peeling and the gardens overgrown. As she drove through gates that had been left open for her arrival, it was hard to believe someone actually still lived here.

Before she climbed out of the car, Cesca checked the satnav again. Yep, this was definitely the right place. She almost wished she’d asked Duncan to come along with her – she was pretty sure she’d watched a horror movie once where a helpless woman was taken hostage and tortured in a sprawling, isolated house that looked very much like this one.

She shook the thought from her head as she rang the bell and heard it echo through the house. It was loud, but then she supposed it would have to be in a place this big. She was surprised when a rather handsome man in his thirties opened the door, rather than a sinister-looking butler.

‘Lord Frampton?’ she asked, feeling more than a bit stupid. Despite her job, she’d never actually visited a member of the gentry at home before – at least, not in a capacity as strange as this one. Usually she was attending some dull function organised by the museum where she’d have to make small talk with Lord and Lady Such-and-Such, or Sir Yawn-a-Lot, and it had very little to do with real archaeology or history at all. That was presuming this was Lord Frampton standing in front of her and that it was, indeed, his home. Not that it looked very homely from the outside; she certainly wouldn’t want to live in its damp rooms.

‘Mrs Logan?’ he asked, his voice rich and deep, his accent perfect and clipped. He had strong, almost Nordic cheekbones, dark curly hair and a crisp, powder-blue shirt tucked into jeans along with brown loafers. In the split second she allowed herself to look into his dark eyes, she wasn’t quite sure whether what she saw there was arrogant pride or wry humour. She settled on a bit of both before tearing her gaze away.

‘Miss,’ she corrected. ‘But please call me Cesca.’

‘Then you must call me Will,’ he said, and there it was again; that indefinable quality in the depths of his eyes that she couldn’t quite interpret. He didn’t smile – far from it – but there was something about him that put Cesca at ease. How could this be the same man who had so adeptly riled her during their phone call earlier that day?

‘But you are Lord Frampton?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘Lord William Horatio Henry Frampton the sixteenth, Earl of Cerne Hay, actually. It’s a mouthful, however, so I tend not to insist on it.’ He opened the door and stepped back to admit her. ‘Would you like to see the painting?’

No chit-chat – straight to business. Cesca really couldn’t decide whether she liked him or not. It didn’t matter, of course, because it wasn’t her job to like him, only to establish the facts around his claim. She wondered whether she was overstepping her professional remit simply by being here at all.

She followed him through a huge lobby, monochrome-tiled floors leading to a sweeping oak staircase lined with portraits of what Cesca presumed to be his ancestors. Like the front of the house, the lobby had seen better days, and there was a distinct smell of damp.

‘You live here?’ she asked, finding it hard to mask the tone of incredulity in her voice.

‘Yes.’

Cesca almost felt sorry for him, living like this; he must love the house very much not to sell it to the nearest developer and get himself a trendy flat in Kensington. She was just about to say as much when he stopped at a doorway and opened it up to reveal a cosy sitting room. It was small in comparison to the rest of the house, but it was tastefully decorated and felt warm and comfortable.

‘I keep a few rooms habitable,’ he said, holding the door open for her. ‘It’s far too expensive to use the whole house, so I have the smaller kitchen, a bathroom, bedroom, a reception room – not that I get many visitors – and this room.’

‘It’s just you?’ Cesca asked, stepping in and watching as he closed the door behind them.

‘Mother lost her marbles and is residing in a very different type of home. Father died of a heart attack three years ago and my brother is currently detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

Cesca’s hand flew involuntarily to her mouth.

‘Yes, it is quite shocking, isn’t it? His fall from grace is a long and complicated story and I won’t bore you with it now. Suffice to say, he was summarily disowned and disinherited by my father after being imprisoned. It was a devil of a thing to keep hushed up though.’

‘So he has no claim to the estate?’

‘I almost envy him that. I suspect his current abode is rather more luxurious and less costly than mine.’

‘Would he have a legal claim to the treasure?’

‘Treasure?’

‘I mean the find… Sorry, in our business “treasure” can mean all sorts of things, though people tend to assume it means huge caskets of gold.’

‘Ah. Well, I suppose that all depends on whether it is treasure or simply my lost property, doesn’t it?’

There was a flash of arrogance, a challenge in his reply. Cesca felt her hackles rise.

‘Assuming your family’s ownership is proved, then,’ she replied coldly. ‘If the gold does turn out to be yours, will your brother have a legal claim? That’s what I meant. At this moment in time it’s a hypothetical question because the coroner will have to establish the nature of the find and who it rightfully belongs to. If your evidence is as flimsy as you mentioned on the phone, I don’t see it going your way.’

He stared at her for a heartbeat. And then a slow smile lit his face.

‘I meant no offence.’

‘I didn’t take any offence. I’m simply stating the facts as I see them.’

‘As was I, Miss… Cesca.’

‘Good, Will. As long as we understand each other.’

‘Perfectly.’ Moving an armchair away from the wall, he dragged a huge, gilt-framed canvas from behind it. Painted on it was a faded portrait of a stern-looking man in sumptuous Tudor-era clothing. He bore a remarkable resemblance to the man currently holding it for inspection.

‘I’ve had to move it here to dry it out,’ he said. ‘But it quite clearly shows a ruby ring that was stolen from Lord William Thomas Henry Frampton in 1526, along with many other valuable items that were never recovered.’

Cesca moved in to take a closer look. There was no doubt that the ring in the painting looked like the one found at Silver Hill Farm. It wasn’t conclusive proof by any means, but it looked as though he might have a case after all. It was a shame, and her heart sank at the idea of that lovely woman at the farm receiving no reward given she’d been honest enough to declare the find. She had a feeling Harper Woods could probably do a lot of good with the money.

When she looked up again he was watching her eagerly. ‘You recognise it.’

‘No,’ Cesca lied. ‘Well, I can’t be sure. The gold found at Silver Hill needed some cleaning and it’s difficult to say. As I said before, this is the coroner’s decision.’

‘But you write the initial report,’ Will said. ‘Your recommendations are the starting point of the inquest. If you say the find is treasure and that the finders have a claim, they will work on that basis. If you say it isn’t, then the property may return to me.’

Cesca frowned; he’d done his homework and it wasn’t going to be as easy to fob him off as it was some. ‘I’m going to need more evidence than this. We’re talking, potentially, about a great deal of money.’

‘Of course we are. My money!’

Cesca took a step back. ‘If you’re going to be aggressive I’ll leave now.’

He smoothed a hand over his dark curls and his tone was calm again. ‘Please accept my apologies. You must understand – this could be a lifeline for Silver Hill House. The place is falling to pieces. You only need to look around to see how much my family needs this.’

‘From what I gather, there aren’t many of you left. So by your family you mean you?’

‘I mean for the family I hope to have one day. This house and land has been passed down through generations until it came to me. And what is this marvellous legacy I hold to pass to my own son or daughter? A heap of rotten bricks and the debt that comes with it.’

‘You could sell it.’

‘I could sell it, but then everything, a thousand years of family history, would be gone.’

‘That’s the case for a great many other people. Families living on any council estate in Britain have no idea who their family is four generations back, let alone forty-four, but they just get on with things regardless.’

‘I’m not such a social dinosaur that I don’t realise that,’ he said quietly. ‘But surely someone as passionate about history as you can understand what a loss it would be if this house passed to private developers.’

‘How do you know I’m passionate about history?’ she said, trying, but failing, not to crumble under the weight of his argument. She was quite unsure whether she liked him, but she was damned sure that she didn’t want his house to get turned into a swanky hotel or spa for pampered footballers’ wives. It was a tricky situation to be in and to admit that would make her position even more difficult. She could no more write the report in his favour than she could for the owner of Silver Hill Farm.

He gave her a small smile. ‘I read your professional profile, of course. Working-class family produces Oxford graduate – that’s quite an achievement. Internship in New York, postgraduate studies in antiquities and art history, first position at—’

Cesca held up her hand. ‘That’s enough. I can’t just write a report that says what you want it to based on this portrait, or how much I love history, or how I might want to save your home from whatever awful corporate fate might await it. I appreciate your position, I do, but you must appreciate mine.’

He paused, looked about to say something more, but then gave a stiff nod. Despite the set of his jaw, she could see that he was far more upset and desperate than he was letting on.

‘Can you find anything more?’ she asked. ‘Papers, other paintings – any kind of evidence to show beyond doubt that the jewels belonged to your family?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, his whole face transformed with new hope. ‘Thank you.’

Cesca waved away the gratitude. ‘I can’t make any promises, but if I can be armed with all the facts it will be helpful.’

‘Of course.’ He looked around the room, suddenly awkward.

‘I can see myself out,’ Cesca said, sensing that they were done for now, her head whirling with a million different thoughts and emotions. This was swiftly turning from the find of the century into the headache of the millennium.

She turned to leave and went back across the lobby, but he followed her anyway. Reaching around her, he opened the front door.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

‘Honestly, there’s no need. I’m doing my job.’

‘Of course. Then thank you for coming so quickly.’

She had come out here quickly, hadn’t she? Why was that? She could have left it for a day or so and it wouldn’t have mattered, yet she had been in the car straight away. She shook the thought that perhaps this case was already getting under her skin far more than it ought to. And it didn’t help that, now he’d obviously got what he wanted from her, Lord William Horatio Henry Frampton the sixteenth, Earl of Cerne Hay, was looking decidedly attractive. Smiling suited him, though she had the feeling he didn’t do it often.

Stepping from the doorway, she almost ran for the car. Oh no you don’t, she chided inwardly. Oh no you bloody don’t.