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Sunlight filtered in through the gossamer sheers that hung from the windows on either side of her bedroom. There was no need for anything that offered more privacy as one window looked out onto the River Thames and the other onto the old mill wheel. Some people found solace in the waves of the ocean. Claire found it in the steadily turning water wheel as it splashed through the water, scooping it up only to let it fall with a pattering sound like a heavy rain from a gutter as it completed its rhythmic circle.
Mia would be here soon. They wanted to go over their plans for their next heist outside of London. Claire knew she should get out of bed and get dressed. Unlike many people, Claire preferred to shower at night. Her property had a small barn and she continued to keep horses, ride, and compete in equestrian events. She rode most evenings and so preferred to shower afterwards so she didn’t go to bed early smelling of horses. Even when she didn’t ride, she most often showered right before bed.
Drawing her legs up, Claire hugged them to her chest and smiled as she laid her head on her knees. Poppi. He’d been gone for more than a decade, but she never failed to think of horses without thinking of him.
Her first clear-cut memory—one that she could see in her mind’s eye—was of being atop a caramel-colored pony with a blonde mane and tail. Poppi was leading her under a canopy of weeping willows at the top of the hill, which rolled gently down to a pond that was home to several pairs of Mute Swans.
Ducking under the graceful bows as they walked in and out of the dappled sunlight, Claire knew there had to have been other people around, but her memory was based on a child’s interpretation and remembrance of the unconditional love that Poppi had bestowed on her.
“Are ya havin’ fun, darlin’?” he asked her as he strode along, the placid pony following just behind and to the side of him.
“Yes, Poppi,” she answered, lifting her face to the sky and stretching her arms wide to embrace the entire universe, truly believing the world was her oyster and that she would only find priceless pearls within.
“That’s me girl.”
She might have lost her parents in a horrific accident as an infant, and as a teenager she’d had to face some brutal truths, but the in-between had been truly idyllic. She glanced at the clock on the mantle of the fireplace.
One thing about the Tudors—they crafted beautiful fireplaces.The one downstairs in her studio was an ornate masterpiece. It had taken her months to restore it. Both fireplaces worked, but she had kept them more for their beauty and master craftsmanship than for their functionality. She had a sophisticated and hidden HVAC system to keep the house warm and cozy in the winter and cool and comfortable in the summer.
Her mind drifted back to the night before. Instead of focusing on the target and how they might have done things differently, all she could think of was the hunky guy who’d spilled his drink all down the front of her dress.
Did he really say to me that if he decided to have me, he wouldn’t ask for my dress?The implication being he would rip it from her. Why was it the thought of that lit up her whole erotic system? She had no doubt he could do it, probably had done it, but the idea that he would want to do it with her made her nipples pebble and her pussy clench. Men like him didn’t make suggestions like that to ‘curvy girls’ like her.
“He isn’t here; so, get your arse out of bed, girl,”the little voice inside her head whispered. Her little voice was blunt to the point of rudeness, but it did have a point. He wasn’t here, the horses needed to be fed and Mia would be here at any time.
Claire knew that Mia had always been in favor of her changing up her look and either renting an Airbnb or a hotel room when she was casing a place. While it might prove necessary when looking at private estates, to Claire it made perfect sense to go into museums as herself to have a look around. After all, she and Poppi hadn’t spent all that money for her to get an art degree if she wasn’t going to use it.
“I don’t want to go, Poppi. I can learn so much from you. I don’t want to work in a stuffy old museum.”
“And I don’t want to see you end up in prison. I don’t want you in this life.”
What he didn’t know was that she had a plan—a plan to continue on with his mission to restore the things he’d stolen to their rightful owners.
In the end, she had done as Poppi wanted and graduated with a doctorate in conservation from the Fine Arts Institute of Monaco, and a commission from the ruling family there had set her reputation. Nonetheless, she would not be swayed from her plan. It wasn’t until Poppi caught her boosting something from his cache that he’d confronted her for a second time.
“Did ya think I wouldn’t notice there were pieces missing?”
“I guess I didn’t care. I’m only trying to follow in your footsteps—trying to make things right. There are people to whom these things rightfully belong. They aren’t the ones I stole them from.”
“I’m well aware of that’,” he said with a tolerant tone and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t you trot out your Irish charm. It doesn’t work on me and hasn’t since I was twelve. I guess I don’t understand why you’ve risked everything for people you never even knew. I could understand if you took them to sell so that you could afford to take care of me and give me all the things you thought I needed, but how did you choose the people to steal from? Some of them are our friends.”
Poppi smiled. “As I said, you don’t understand. Let’s go sit at the kitchen table. You can make your old granda a proper cup of tea.”
He walked past her, taking her hand and leading her into the small kitchen in the carriage house where she’d grown up.
“First those people you set such store by? The ones you think are our friends? Their children might be your friends, but their parents look down on me and you both.”
She remembered the conversation she’d overheard between Evangeline and Gemma.
“Maybe, but it’s still too close to home. I recognized Lady Haversham’s brooch, and I heard the maids whispering about it being stolen.”
“Aye. I took the brooch. But it was never Lady Haversham’s. It was part of a cache of jewels taken out of one of the Nazi concentration camps. Sir Godfrey’s father and some of his old chums used World War II as their own investment scheme. That brooch once belonged to a French family by the name of Geller. They lost everything. Only one son survived because he wasn’t there when the Gestapo came calling.”
“Do you think Lady Haversham knows?” she asked, fascinated.
“Doubtful. But her da and Sir Godfrey’s were up to their neck in looted Nazi treasure. I took the brooch and mean to see it gets back to its rightful owner. He’s an old man now, but it will mean something to his children, and their children.”
