Chapter one
Diana Bennett trailed her fingers slowly down the mahogany banister, the cool, polished wood a familiar comfort against her palm. In her mind’s eye, she was a child again, skirts flying as she raced up these very stairs, her father in playful pursuit. Those had been days of laughter and tall tales—stories of Great-Great-Uncle Arthur, a man of such legendary daring that half his adventures seemed birthed from her father’s imagination.
Perhaps they were. Who knew?
John Bennett had been a master of creating fiction, having authored twenty-five celebrated mystery novels before his passing. Diana had grown up assuming the stories of Arthur’s exotic exploits were merely rehearsals for her father’s next bestseller. After all, some of the tales were too unbelievable for the printed page—yet readers around the world couldn’t get enough of the Tapestry of Lies series.
In those novels, Great-Great-Uncle Arthur was portrayed as a rogue of the highest order, a man who traveled the globe in search of sunken gold and forgotten gods. In fiction, Arthur had amassed a fortune. As Diana surveyed the foyer of the forty-five-room estate, it was clear that at least part of that story was rooted in truth. The house itself bore silent witness: exotic artifacts collected and displayed here for more than eighty years, each worth a king’s ransom.
But truth, unlike fiction, came with consequences.
When her father fell ill, funds were needed—quickly. Hospital bills mounted. Back taxes loomed. And as John Bennett lay dying in that sterile hospital bed, Great-Great-Uncle Arthur’s empire began to crumble, stone by stone, until its weight settled squarely upon Diana’s shoulders.
Her heart ached at the necessity of today’s auction, but there was no delaying it any longer. Debt collectors and tax agents circled like wolves, patient and relentless.
The sharp crack of the auctioneer’s gavel snapped her back to the present.
“Sold!”
The word struck her like a physical blow. Diana watched, breath hitching, as Lot 402—a landscape of haunting beauty—was carried away by white-gloved porters. Her gaze shifted to the buyer: a man in a charcoal suit, his satisfied smirk sending a shiver of unease down her spine. He lacked the soft reverence of a true collector. There was something lean and hungry about him. Predatory.
The bidding opened on a magnificent Xuande Ming vase. Again, the paddle rose—his paddle—smooth and arrogant. Diana fixed him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass, silently pleading for a rival bidder to challenge him. None did. His pockets, it seemed, were as deep as his eyes were cold.
Unable to endure watching her life dismantled piece by piece, she retreated into her father’s study.
The scent of stale pipe tobacco lingered, wrapping around her like a ghostly embrace. Her father had been her anchor, her constant. His death five years ago had left a hollow space inside her no amount of ancient lore or inherited grandeur could ever fill.
Her gaze lifted to the portrait of Arthur.
He stared back with weathered grit and defiant eyes—eyes that mirrored the same stubborn resolve Diana saw whenever she faced her own reflection. In the painting, Arthur stood with one calloused hand resting on a brass globe, a scarlet cravat knotted loosely at his throat, radiating a quiet, dangerous confidence.
“Ah, there you are.”
Diana whirled, a gasp tearing from her throat.
The man from the auction—the buyer of the Ming vase—stood in the doorway, his sharp features and deeply set eyes assessing her with unnerving intensity.
“This area is off-limits,” she said, forcing steel into her voice. He may have startled her, but she refused to let him see it, even as instinct urged her to retreat.
He stepped farther into the room, as though ownership were his by right. “My name,” he said smoothly, “is George Desmond.”
“I don’t care who you are. This room is private.”
His dark eyes narrowed, amusement flickering there—cold and calculating. “For a librarian, you’re surprisingly sassy,” he mused, his cultured voice edged with threat. “But utterly wasted on a woman watching her legacy bleed away.”
He moved closer. The air seemed to thin beneath his presence. “I am not ‘the public,’ Miss Bennett. I am the man who holds the keys to your salvation. I recognize desperation when I see it. You’re not selling because you wish to—you’re selling because you must.”
He gestured toward the desk, his gaze lingering on the wood as if he could see through it. “Your father wove beautiful mysteries, but he left you a grand estate and an empty purse. I can offer you a different ending. One where you keep your dignity—and this drafty monument to the past—and I take only what I require.”
He leaned in. The sharp scent of his metallic cologne clashed with the warmth of the room. “The Bennett portrait. The desk. And every scrap of paper hidden in its drawers. Give them to me, and the tax lien haunting your sleep will disappear before sunset.”
His attention slid back to the portrait, and Diana could have sworn his eyes burned with hunger.
“Those,” she said through clenched teeth, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice, “are family heirlooms. They are not for sale.”
Desmond clicked his tongue. “Heirlooms are luxuries for those without debt,” he replied, stepping fully into her space. “I know about your taxes, Diana. Hand over the portrait and the desk, and your troubles end today.”
Her pulse froze. How does he know?
Still, pride rose like armor. “I will not change my mind.”
He might have continued, but an interruption spared her.
“Oh! Pardon me,” an auction assistant said from the doorway, visibly flustered. “Mr. Sterling asked me to find you.”
Grateful for the intrusion, Diana turned a cool smile on George Desmond. “You’ll excuse me.”
She addressed the assistant, chin lifted. “Please see that Mr. Desmond finds the front door. He seems to be under the mistaken impression that I conduct private sales.”
With that dismissal, she walked past them, her steps measured, her head high. She didn’t look back.
But his voice followed her, low and certain, clinging like mist.
“This isn’t finished, Miss Bennett.”
