Knight's Curse Read Free Page B

said, thickening the British accent I hadn’t completely lost. I had to conceal my real name. Chalice would be way too conspicuous, let alone identifying. I was a thief, after all. “I have an appointment with Mr. Grandville.”
    “Are you the antiques appraiser?” Short and Stocky asked, his drawl Southern and his tone chillier than a frozen daiquiri. Must be the butler. He glanced over my head as if expecting someone else.
    “I’m alone,” I assured him, handing him my card and nodding toward the foyer behind him. “And yes, I’m the antiques appraiser. May I come in?”
    The man dipped his head and opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow enough room for me to pass.
    He peered down at the card, eyes narrowed with suspicion as he glanced from me to the card and back again. “I’ll fetch Mr. Grandville.”
    “Thank you.” I stood at the center of the round foyer and surveyed my garish surroundings.
    Noticing my interest, the butler said, “I apologize for the decor.” He sniffed, his gaze wandering to the walls. “The decorator is a relative of Mr. Grandville. A bored, delusional old aunt who thought she could decorate a house filled with rare antiques. The woman has no taste.”
    I nodded in agreement.
    “Wait here, please,” the pudgy man said, then turned on his heel to go in search of his employer.
    I continued my survey of the foyer. Nineteenth-century European oil paintings hung beside bad imitations of Hieronymus Bosch. Hideous. African masks were mounted on walls of flocked wallpaper, the pink-rose designs a horrifying contrast to the fanged mouths of baboonlike effigies. The room looked like an exaggeration of a Victorian tag sale.
    I shuddered. This wasn’t my thing. My taste was far less eclectic. I was an art historian who appreciated the cultural richness of period art in all mediums and forms from all over the world. But I knew enough about antiques to pose as an appraiser, my ruse for getting inside this house.
    The object I was to swipe wasn’t nearly as offensive as what I was used to. Gruesome as it was, the mummified hand of the martyred Saint Geraldine from the Crusades of the eleventh century had the power to reclaim memories from the womb. An odd power, and not particularly appealing, yet the Vyantara were desperate to add this freakish item to their collection.
    “Ms. Malone!” A cheerful, gray-haired man in his late sixties, tastefully dressed in a casual blue sweater over herringbone trousers, bounded into the foyer and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Douglas Grandville, at your service.”
    I extended my hand, which he shook vigorously, covering it in a two-handed grasp. I tried not to wince from his rough touch. The way he was pumping my arm you’d think I was some long-lost relative he hadn’t seen in years. What was he so happy about? Probably to know he’d finally be getting this crap out of his house.
    “My uncle Malcolm, may he rest in peace, was a pack rat. He liked to overindulge in his little, uh, treasures.” Douglas waved a hand at the obscenities around us before gesturing toward a closed set of double doors. “There’s more.”
    I felt my smile wobble. “More?”
    He grimaced and nodded. “I’m afraid so. But the day is young so you have plenty of time to go through my uncle’s collection. Could be a diamond or two in the rough, eh?”
    The grumpy butler joined us, his eyes brightening when Douglas mentioned the word diamond. Well, well. Suspicious and greedy. I might use that to my advantage.
    Douglas steered me through the doors into a den complete with wingback leather chairs, dark cherrywood furniture and large animal heads that leered from the wall above the fireplace. I felt sure I’d seen this exact same setting in at least a half dozen films from the forties. “Can I get you anything? Soft drink? Iced tea?”
    I turned around slowly, taking in Malcolm’s treasures as nausea crept around the pit of my