Lady of a Thousand Treasures Read online

  PRAISE FOR SANDRA BYRD

  LADY OF A THOUSAND TREASURES

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  “A thousand treasures for a reader indeed! Sandra Byrd’s new, highly-anticipated novel presents a determined, realistic heroine to care for and to root for. An amazing cast of characters and Victorian settings pull the reader right into the story. And an appealing hero is ripe for redemption. I became happily lost in this compelling, lovely book.”

  KAREN HARPER, New York Times bestselling author of The Royal Nanny

  “Eleanor Sheffield is desperate to save the family business. Skilled in valuing antiques and separating the authentic from the fraudulent, she must search for clues—and her heart—to decide whom to trust. Is her old love telling the truth or currying her favor for his own selfish ends? Lady of a Thousand Treasures delivers mystery, romance, and suspense in a well-researched Victorian setting.”

  JULIE KLASSEN, bestselling author

  “Lady of a Thousand Treasures by Sandra Byrd is another adventure into history and the human spirit. Sandra gives us a rich, page-turning plot, golden threads of mystery, a sparkle of romance and a treasure trove of detail about nineteenth-century collections of porcelains and paintings and the role a lady appraiser played in the collections of the English wealthy. You’ll be drawn into many vivid images and precious insights about life and faith applicable to this present moment. What a grand book! I’m always swept away by a Sandra Byrd novel, and Lady of a Thousand Treasures will be long remembered as one of Sandra’s best.”

  JANE KIRKPATRICK, New York Times bestselling author of All She Left Behind

  “Lady of a Thousand Treasures is truly a treasure of a Gothic romance, aptly named! Sandra Byrd is the rare writer whose evocative, atmospheric prose grabs hold and doesn’t let go, delivering a complex, intelligent novel infused with romance and faith, an enigmatic hero who will steal your heart along with a clever, antiquity-dealing heroine who will keep you on the edge of your Victorian parlor chair. The Victorian Ladies series is off to a stunning start!”

  LAURA FRANTZ, author of The Lacemaker

  “Like the antiquities prized in this novel, Lady of a Thousand Treasures is a rare treasure of its own. I was swept away from the first page, back to Victorian England and into the haunting mysteries of Watchfield House. With stunning characters and impeccable research, Sandra Byrd has woven together an exquisite treasure hunt with an ending that will leave you breathless.”

  MELANIE DOBSON, award-winning author of Hidden Among the Stars

  “It’s a rare book that I put on my keeper shelf. Lady of a Thousand Treasures earns one of those coveted spots. Sandra Byrd’s writing is an absolute piece of art! The plot kept me guessing until the very end. The story, the characters, the intrigue all blend into a delicious read, making this tale one that lives on long after you close the cover. If I had to sum up this story all in one word, it would be satisfying.”

  MICHELLE GRIEP, award-winning author of the Once Upon a Dickens Christmas series

  MIST OF MIDNIGHT

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  “Infusing her story with mystery, tension, and emotion, Byrd strikes a fine balance between the darkness of a Gothic mystery and the sweetness of a captivating love story.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Just the right mix of mystery and romance to keep the reader guessing until the end. Shady characters along with a strong heroine transport the reader to a different time and place. The rich prose will remind readers of Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Mist of Midnight is a subtly haunting, beautifully atmospheric, and decadently romantic story that will find a comfortable home among the best Gothic romances of days gone by.”

  USA TODAY

  “Reminiscent of Victoria Holt, [Mist of Midnight] includes an intriguing mystery that is so ingeniously planned that, upon finishing, readers will spend time flipping back to see how the clues were laid.”

  HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY, Editor’s Choice

  BRIDE OF A DISTANT ISLE

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  “The stunning second novel in Byrd’s Daughters of Hampshire series is captivating and compelling. . . .The intriguing Victorian England settings will appeal to Anglophiles everywhere.”

  RT BOOK REVIEWS, Top Pick

  “Fans of Victoria Holt and Charlotte Brontë will be enthralled by Byrd’s atmospheric storytelling, while those new to the Gothic style will find themselves transported to Hampshire, navigating a murky landscape of greed, desperation, madness, and romance.”

  USA TODAY

  “An absorbing, transportive Victorian romance infused with intriguing details and delicious imagery. Sandra is a master of the historical novel. Engaging to the last page.”

  SUSAN MEISSNER, author of Secrets of a Charmed Life

  A LADY IN DISGUISE

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  “This Victorian inspirational romance features everything fans of the genre expect: a plucky, relatable heroine with a visible Christian faith, a dashing but kind love interest, and a mystery element to foster tension until the dénouement and ‘happy ever after’ epilogue.”

  BOOKLIST

  “Fans of historical Victorian and Gothic romance will feel right at home in these tightly spun, suspenseful pages. Highly recommended!”

  SERENA CHASE, USA Today’s Happy Ever After, author of The Ryn

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Sandra Byrd’s website at www.sandrabyrd.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Lady of a Thousand Treasures

  Copyright © 2018 by Sandra Byrd. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of Victorian woman copyright © Richard Jenkins Photography. All rights reserved.

  Back cover photograph of frame copyright © Zakharov Evgeniy/Adobe Stock. All rights reserved.

  Back cover of Victorian room copyright © Yanukit/Adobe Stock. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Sarah Mason Rische

  Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 52 Village Place, Hinsdale, IL 60521.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Lady of a Thousand Treasures is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-800-323-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Byrd, Sandra, author.

  Title: Lady of a thousand treasures / Sandra Byrd.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2018] | Series: The Victorian ladies series

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018015280| ISBN 9781496426826 (hc) | ISBN 9781496426833 (sc)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3552.Y678 L36 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018015280

  ISBN 978-1-4964-2685-7 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-2684-0 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-2686-4 (Apple)

  Build: 2018-09-20 08:27:18 EPUB 3.0

  For Dr. Alex Naylor

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

&nb
sp; Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  One

  SEPTEMBER 1866

  WATCHFIELD HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

  A threading of voices spooled throughout the expansive chamber wherein we waited, voices so decently quiet as to be murmurs. All present quickened as lightning pierced the ground just outside the wide panel of windows, like a finger pointing deep within the earth. Perhaps it was the good Lord’s way of informing us exactly where the soul of the recently departed had found its final resting place.

  I did not believe Lord Lydney had ascended.

  And yet Lydney had been my father’s friend, patron, and benefactor. Many spoke admiringly of him. Truth be told, he had on occasion been charitable to me. I had once believed he would be my father-in-law.

  That notion had passed.

  I was at Watchfield House, English country estate of Baron Lydney, once more to pay my respects and then leave as quickly as possible, putting the past firmly behind me.

  My gaze shifted to Harry and, against my better judgment, rested upon him. His fair skin and unruly toss of auburn hair were admirably set off by the black he—we all—wore. I averted my gaze before he could catch me staring.

  “A murder of crows.” Marguerite nodded toward a clump of unfriendly men who bobbed their heads at one another as if pecking, stiff in their age and black coats.

  My dearest friend, Marguerite. Although we were nearly of an age, as a widow, she made a suitable chaperone for me whenever one was required, which was not often for a person of my social status. She knew my habit since childhood had been to sort into collectives, especially as a means of regaining control in any situation which forced my anxieties to the surface. It was a custom particularly suited to the daughter of and assistant to a conservator for collectors. I was now a conservator and valuer in my own right. Almost, anyway.

  “A singular of boars.” I feigned a yawn.

  She looked in Harry’s direction. “A rake of mules?” she teased.

  I smiled at the jest but knew she could not truly believe that; she had always been fond of Harry, at least until he’d disappeared. Like each of us, Harry had his faults but was certainly not a rake. He’d ever only shown interest in one woman.

  Me.

  My heart wavered. Till that interest suddenly waned. I allowed myself to look at him once more.

  He stood tall and sturdy among recognizable peers; he carried himself as a man who was confident, as indeed I’d always known him to be—except in the presence of his father. Near the center of their gathering was a woman I did not know. Her hair was as black as our mourning garments; she was beautiful and young. Her jet jewelry flirted with the lamplight. I held my breath as I watched Harry look at her, his gaze and attention steady.

  “An ostentation of peacocks,” I whispered to Marguerite. At that, the group of them turned and looked at me. A flush reached up my neck and I was glad for my high collar. I repented of my whisper. It was one thing to reassure oneself, quite another to be unkind, even if born out of sorrow. “Could they have heard me?”

  Marguerite tucked a loose strand of her blonde hair back into its upswept style and squeezed my elbow in solidarity before shaking her head. “I think they know something that you do not . . . not yet.”

  Now that she mentioned it, I had noticed eyes upon me disconcertingly and unusually all morning. I turned and faced her. “And that you know too?”

  She nodded. “I only overheard a bit of uncertain gossip whilst in the hallway, but I believe you shall find out soon . . . if it’s true.” Marguerite inclined her head toward the dark-haired beauty at the heart of their circle and whispered to me, “She returned with him from Venice.” Then my friend slipped away.

  I caught my breath and turned away lest my countenance betray my dismay and surprise. To steady myself, I walked toward an over-upholstered chair in which an elderly acquaintance appeared to be drowning, to see if he needed a gentle tug back to the surface. As I made my way forward, a man stepped into my path, blocking my progress. He stood confidently, the stance of a man unused to being told no. His jawline was chiseled and the waves of his platinum hair held in place seemingly without pomade. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not place him.

  “The Viscount Audley.” He bowed. “At your service.”

  I did not think it was particularly serviceable to prevent me from walking. “Miss Eleanor Sheffield. I’m certain I do not need your assistance, though I’m grateful for the offer.”

  “Oh, I know your name; we’ve met.” He lowered his voice. “I believe you do need my assistance. You are a woman alone, or soon shall be. That makes you vulnerable, does it not?”

  I shivered at the naked honesty and implied threat of his statement but said nothing. He did not need a further prompt.

  “My help comes as advice: he’ll exploit your goodwill, you know. As he always has, as his father condescended to your father. Their benevolence has never been selfless, has it been, Miss Sheffield? Nor has either proved faithful, at the end.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Audley. I’m sure you mean well. But I don’t know of whom you are speaking.” A pack of lies.

  “I believe that you do.” He looked at Harry, then back at me, and then bowed and returned to the others.

  I did not know what to make of Lord Audley’s comments except to assume that he, too, knew the secret that was apparently not a secret from anyone but me.

  Out of habit, I glanced up at the magnificent mantel clock. Made of French walnut, it was adorned with the three Greek Graces. To my utter surprise, it seemed to indicate the correct time. I looked at my own timepiece; yes, yes, the times were exact. But was the clock’s wood brighter than it had been? I thought so. I stepped closer to it. I could not see the works but could faintly hear them; they purred along. The glass face shone. Our firm’s associate, Mr. Clarkson, had perhaps polished it when he was here some months earlier to care for the collection in my absence.

  I should ask him if he had repaired the works. If so, he was quite a bit more accomplished than would be expected. For that, I was glad.

  I looked around the room, now filled with several dozen men and women, titled and not, the rich collectors who had been the baron’s friends and, some of them, my father’s commissioners. And, of course, Harry.

  He caught me that time. He held my gaze as he had hundreds of times over the course of more than a decade, first as a gangly younger man, then as one who had thickened with muscle and maturity. I held my breath. I would not lie: I had loved both the boy and the man. He smiled. I ducked a slight head bow in his direction before looking away as the tributes began.

  Several in the room spoke well of the late Lord Lydney—their kind accolades seemed genuine, and even the vicar seemed at least neutral where the man had been concerned. However, several others looked at the table when the tributes were offered and did not nod or hum an agreement, and the praise soon tapered off.<
br />
  I prepared to return to my room, but a man touched my arm gently. “Miss Sheffield?”

  I nodded, and he introduced himself. “Sir Matthew Landon. I am the late Lord Lydney’s solicitor. A word, if I may?” His face looked to have once been angular, but it had been gently larded with years of fine living. His hair, the proverbial snow-white, was pulled back in a short queue.

  I followed him to the library. Marguerite trailed discreetly behind, chaperoning. Once we three were in the room, she pretended to browse the many titles on the shelves whilst Sir Matthew led me to the late Lord Lydney’s great desk.

  Harry’s great desk now. All that had been the late Lord Lydney’s was now rightfully Harry’s.

  We sat, Sir Matthew on one side, myself on the other, and then he leaned across the desk. His breath smelled of crushed fennel seed. “I’ll come directly to the point. Lord Lydney has requested that you act as temporary trustee of his collection and then dispose of it at your discretion—according to his stated options, of course. You’ll be well acquainted, better than most, with the vast treasure that is represented by the pieces in his collection. Hundreds of pieces of art and armor. Glass and porcelain. Jewelry. Silver. Furniture. Portraits. Sculpture.”

  A collection, as it was commonly known, consisted of all the treasures a person, or a family over many hundreds of years, had accumulated and assembled. The treasures of the highborn and well-to-do represented riches indeed. More than that, they represented family history, affection, personal interests, and the heart of the house.

  “There are perhaps as many as a thousand pieces overall,” I replied. “We have the inventory.”

  Sir Matthew nodded. “Perhaps a thousand, then. The late Lord Lydney feels certain that you are the best person to ascertain if the collection should remain in situ or be donated.”

  “Doesn’t all this come to his son? As Lord Lydney’s only child? Living child,” I hastily corrected myself.

  “His son has inherited the title, the London house, and the country estate, both of which need considerable repair.” Sir Matthew shrugged. “There was nothing to be done about those bequests, one suspects. The horses are his, via his late mother.”