The letter arrived on thick ivory paper, sealed in black wax stamped with a crest she didn't recognize — two lions flanking a bleeding rose. Eva Moreau turned it over in her hands twice before breaking the seal. No return address. No stamp, just her name in elegant handwriting, as if the sender knew exactly who she was and how far she'd fallen.
Miss Moreau,
You are invited to Wrenmoor Manor to assess and restore a private art collection damaged in a house fire. Transportation will be provided. Compensation: £200,000 for one month of residence. Completion bonus upon final evaluation. Your discretion is expected. Silence, assured.
— Signed L.
It was signed L. There was a phone number beginning with the country code 44, which she recognised was the UK. The letter, by way of PS, requested she contact the sender's solicitor, Leonard Sax, at the number provided for verification and confirmation details.
She noted the obscure address on the top left and upon doing a quick internet search, found it to be an aristocratic residence deep in the English countryside. She was baffled. Was this some sort of ill-timed prank?
Seven days later, she found herself standing at the gates of Wrenmoor Manor — a sprawling stone manor hidden among twenty acres of mist-covered hills and forest, its silhouette rising like a fortress from another time. The air smelled like wood smoke, damp earth and something colder beneath it all. The iron gates creaked open and a black car drove her up the gravel driveway, past centuries-old trees and a vast ornamental garden that had grown wild since its last pruning.
Eva hadn't even seen his face when she said yes. She had seen photographs — old magazine covers, charity event reviews, grainy shots from a charmed life he no longer lived. But the man standing before her was no longer the same gregarious, flamboyant playboy. He appeared older, distinguished and yet subdued.
He was taller than she expected, broad shoulders and strong physique. Something an art critic might notice, like a sculpture carved in quiet defiance. He adorned a dark moss green wool suit, a black wool tie and polished dark brown brogues. Black cufflinks peeked from the peppery blue-grey cuffs of his shirt. Very British, she thought.
His eyes, deep brown, complemented the careful groom of his black hair, touched lightly with silver at the temples. He had striking dark features — perhaps a remnant of Welsh and Scottish ancestry, or perhaps a hint of Mediterranean? He observed her briefly, taking her in without a hint of surprise. Then without a word, he crossed the drawing room and poured two glasses of scotch. One he placed on the end table beside her hand. The other, he lifted to his lips.
"I appreciate your discretion, Miss Moreau," he said finally, his voice low and measured. "Tell me, what made you accept my offer?"
"Honestly… money," she replied. "I need the work," she responded as she retrieved the tumbler of scotch from the end table and took a sip.
Lucien didn't respond to her answer, not with words at least. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes. Amusement maybe… or recognition? He turned from the drawing room and gestured for her to follow. "Come, let me show you the property. This way."
Eva rose, taking a generous gulp of the scotch before placing the glass back on the end table and following Lucien. They moved through a series of wide corridors, the silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps against the stone and wood floors. The manor was vast. Cold in places, warm in others, as if time itself had gathered in corners and refused to leave. If these walls could talk, Eva thought, what stories would they tell?
She took in the high ceilings, coffered in dark wood, the walls lined with oil portraits that hadn't seen dust in decades, gilded mirrors, worn Persian runners beneath their steps and chandeliers that trembled faintly in the draft.
"Wrenmoor Manor was built in 1827," Lucien said without looking back. "My mother inherited it from her grandfather. She lived here alone for the last fourteen years."
"You didn't grow up here?"
He shook his head. "No. My childhood home was up the road at Hatton."
Eva didn't press. They passed a tall door reinforced with iron and sealed by a biometric lock, out of place in a house so steeped in history. It looked more suited to a museum vault than a country manor. Lucien caught her glance.
"That's the gallery, where the artwork is stored. You'll begin there tomorrow. I want you to see the damage in the right light… morning light."
He continued on, leading her into a vast conservatory at the back of the house. The glass panes, though aged, offered a hazy view of a terraced garden, now overtaken by ivy, foxglove, and bramble. Marble statues lined the overgrown paths, their faces worn smooth by time, their eyes blind with moss.
"My mother kept this as a sanctuary," Lucien murmured. "She believed beauty belonged to the living. I never argued. She had a way of winning arguments even after she stopped speaking."
Eva paused beside a cracked fountain, its bowl filled with rainwater and leaves. At its center stood an angel, its wings scorched, one arm broken at the elbow.
"She sounds formidable," Eva said softly.
"She was."
For a moment, silence returned, heavy now, as if the manor itself was listening. Lucien turned to face her. "There's one more room I'd like you to see."
"She was my great-grandmother. That portrait was one of my mother's most prized possessions."
Eva couldn't take her eyes off it. "She looks like me."
"Yes," he said. "Exactly like you."
She turned to him. "Did you know that before I arrived?"
Lucien didn't answer. Not directly. "You'll find fresh linen in the wardrobe and your schedule for tomorrow is on the desk," he said. "Dinner is at eight. You're not obligated to attend." And then he was gone.
The door had clicked softly behind him, but the silence it left behind felt deep. Eva stood alone in the centre of the suite long after Lucien had gone. She turned slowly in the stillness, her eyes drifting once again to the portrait above the bed. Her double stared down at her, brushstrokes frozen in time. There was no nameplate, no date, just a face that resembled hers, exuding a soft, warm innocence.
Kicking off her shoes, Eva's gaze returned to the portrait again and again, her likeness and yet… not. The woman's eyes held something timeless. Not fear. Not pain, but something else — like resignation or longing.
Eva exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed, savouring the sensation of the warm Persian rug beneath her bare feet. The room was cosy, toasty warm and inviting. The large Queen Anne bed was draped in fine silk, the panels tied back to each post with tasselled cords. She ran her fingers across the rich fabrics, admiring the contrast of the deep mahogany frame and the ivory sheen of the sheets.
Drawn to explore further, she opened the adjoining door to the private bathroom and paused. A large, freestanding claw-foot bathtub, retrofitted with polished brass fittings, stood gleaming beneath a frosted window. "Sexy," she whispered with a wry smile.
Without hesitation, she turned the tap, letting the water run hot. Steam began to curl into the air almost immediately. The room was quiet, just the sound of the gentle splash of water rising in the basin. Then, in silence, she began to undress. One piece at a time, her clothes fell to the floor, forgotten, unceremonious. She dipped her toes into the tub, sighing at the perfect heat, then slid down slowly until the water wrapped around her like a warm blanket. It was the first time all day she had allowed herself to let go.