Trouble and Treasure (#1, Trouble and Treasure Series) (5 page)

The family had been wrong.

Old Great-Uncle Stanton had an attic full of
treasure.

My great-aunt, Imelda Stanton, the executrix
of Great-Uncle Stanton's will, dealt with the treasure, leaving me
to deal with the dregs. Great-Uncle's Stanton's will had already
gone to probate, all gifts given, and the residue of his belongings
were to be sold and split up between the principle beneficiaries
named in his will. So old Imelda had been quick in getting the
goods removed and sold off. But the dregs? Oh, the dregs had been
mine to deal with.

And that was why I was in this current
predicament.

But I had a plan, and that plan was to
continue running.

Sebastian Shaw

It was over for tonight, and maybe it was
over in general. Despite the fact I would do anything for those
globes, my hands were tied, literally. I hadn’t ingratiated myself
with my comrades in arms. At the second suggestion I run after
Maratova, the boys he’d left behind had got mad, complaining I was
drawing attention to them before they’d checked the house for
contacts. So they’d done the first thing they could think of:
pistol whipped me, tied my hands behind my back with cable, and
gaffer taped my mouth. It was genuine military
hospitality.

Though we were meant to be on the same team,
technically, I didn't begrudge them; they wanted those globes as
much as I did, maybe more. Heck, you could bet that every single
well-informed, well-armed guy out there wanted the same thing.

You couldn't calculate how much they would
be worth, and it would be a world full of fun finding out. Treasure
hunting, was the grand pappy of fun.

I hadn't grown-up wanting to be a treasure
hunter. I hadn't seen Indiana Jones as a kid and thought “that
right there, that's the job for me.” Nope, I fell into
it.

Despite the thrills, spills, maps, and gold
– treasure hunting also had its down side, and Maratova, boy was he
a down side.

By the time Maratova came back to the manor,
I was sure Amanda would be dragged in by his side, a shaking
puddle, tears streaking down her face, feet bloody from running
through the forest, and body a bundle of bruises from tripping in
every ditch from here to town.

My expectations were wrong.

Amanda Stanton

As I ran, careful to avoid the trees and
scrubby undergrowth, I realized I needed something to run towards.
The more I heard the frenzied sound of pursuit, the more I realized
I couldn’t carry through with my original plan and run for the old
country road and into town; they would catch me the moment I hit
open ground.

I couldn’t hope to outrun them – I needed a
place to hide.

So I veered off, remembering that down an
old glade was a storm pipe. It wasn't massive, not like in Jurassic
Park; it couldn't fit a van in there or anything, but it was big
enough for me to crawl through on my hands and knees.

I reached it, managed to fit inside, hands
shaking, body convulsing, heart a roar in my ears. And there I
waited.

For those short moments, or minutes, or
hours – for I’d lost track of time – I’d never felt so much fear in
my life. It was like some horror film where I waited alone, my
attackers descending upon me from all sides, my escape routes
blocked, my advantage lost, and my life probably to follow.

As I rode out the fear, hands so sweaty as
they pressed against the dirt and leaves underneath me that I would
have to bathe for a week to get the marks out, the sound of pursuit
passed.

Somehow I’d managed to get away. That or my
attackers were of the particular cruel variety and were standing
outside of the pipe ready to catch me in a sack, or however it is
you kidnap maidens in distress these days.

Eventually, I realized I was indeed
alone.

I stood there, back pressed against the
storm drain, mouth open without the ability to close it, for god
knows how long. I was still waiting for every criminal in the
country to round the corner or jump out of the trees, all shouting
that they wanted to see my goods, antiques, or old and valuable
items.

When the attackers didn’t come and I
realized how cold I was, I urged myself to move. One step after the
next, I gathered speed until my bloodied feet sprinted along the
forest floor once more.

I had to be careful. I didn’t want to flee
from the forest only to find a major road; in my mind every
satellite in the country, every machine that could fly, and every
guy who’d never listened to his mother and had become a murderous
thug, were all trained or milling about on those open roads, ready
to catch me the moment I nipped out from the forest. So I decided I
had to keep to the forest as long as I could, or at least keep out
of sight.

The section of woods I was in led behind
several of the old country manors in the district, and I realized,
teeth chattering with the cold, that if I kept to the path and
tried to navigate from the lay of the land, I could head to old
Elizabeth Brown's house. Elizabeth had been a good friend of my
great-uncle, a woman of considerable eccentricity herself, but with
better taste and less used tins of baked beans in the pantry. When
I’d been a child I’d visited my great-uncle on many occasions, and
had grown to know Elizabeth and remembered her fondly. Since I’d
been at my great-uncle's manor dealing with the estate, I’d been to
Elizabeth's several times for tea, and she’d always said to pop in
whenever I was around.

I was about to take her up on her
invitation. I hoped I wouldn't be bringing along a truckload of
mercenaries and bad guys to the tea table though.

Somehow I kept my footing as I navigated in
the dark. Though it was a full moon, it was hard for the silvery
light to penetrate the thick canopy above. I managed to make my
way, as quietly as I could, as carefully as I dared. I soon
realized I was at the back of Elizabeth's property.

As I climbed the hill that led to the back
of Elizabeth's well-appointed manor, hot tears began to streak down
my face. Though I’d been through everything a woman shouldn’t have
to go through in her pajamas in one night, I hadn't cried before,
or at least not like this. Now the tears came, flowing, collecting
along my chin and streaking down my throat, making the top of my
pajamas wet. I couldn't stop them, not that I wanted to try.

Just like that – in a bedraggled, damp,
shaking, tear-and-mud streaked fashion – I knocked wildly on the
back door of Elizabeth's house.

It was some time before she came to the
door, and during all of it wild flights of paranoia wheeled around
my mind. I wondered whether every bad guy from my manor had somehow
gotten here first and was about to play a wicked game of Red Riding
Hood with me: dressing up in Elizabeth's hideous floral pajamas and
slippers with curlers in their hair and a gun tucked behind their
hot-water bottle. Or, you know, dashing out with a gun in hand and
a balaclava on their head.

When Elizabeth opened the door, I lost it. I
crumpled to my knees, tears so fast it must have looked as if I'd
stood under a waterfall.

Elizabeth didn’t shrink from me; despite her
eccentricities, she was a level-headed woman. The first thing she
did was pick me up, looking me up and down for signs of injury as
she ushered me inside, closing the door and locking it firmly
behind her.

She pulled out a seat from the kitchen
bench, manhandled me into it, stood at the other side of the bench
and looked at me directly, a kindly but serious look on her
face.

“
Well then, girl, you better tell me what's
going on.”

It was some time before I could speak, and
I wiped wildly at my wet and dirty cheeks with the sleeves of my
pajamas, doing nothing but mixing the muck around. I gave a heavy
sigh. “You aren’t going to believe any of this, but my house... I,
there were mercenaries in my house. There was a robber at my door.
There was a helicopter on my lawn... there was a lawyer in my
kitchen,” for some reason I chose to end on the most benign
point.

Elizabeth didn’t burst into laughter, and
nor did she call the local hospital to get them to send down a
psychiatric assessment squad. She walked over to the kitchen door
and pulled down the blind that looked out at her backyard.

“
I see,” she said, voice even. “Sounds as
if you've had an adventure.” She offered a wan smile and headed
directly to the kettle opposite and turned it on. She pulled two
brightly colored mugs from one of her cupboards and set them
down.

I sat perched on the edge of the kitchen
stool, clutching the fine silk cushion as I tried not to fall off,
the sheer fright of the night catching up with me.

Had I been robbed, or nearly robbed, by
criminals, burglars, and soldiers? Or was this all a dream?

“
I think you'll need two sugars in your
tea,” Elizabeth said as she tipped the sugar jar into my mug,
“Perhaps three.”

“
I...” I had no idea how to make any sense
of it all.

“
The first thing you need to do,” Elizabeth
sat the tea down in front of me, turned the handle towards me, and
waited with a stern look until I reached for it and clutched it to
my chest, “Is to drink tea. The next thing to do is to take several
deep and long breaths, have a sugary cookie, and tell me what
happened – from the beginning.”

“
Shouldn't...” I hesitated, “I don't know,
call the police?”

Elizabeth waved a hand at me. “Darling,
you never call the police until you have called a lawyer first.
Trust me, you'll be safe here tonight, and I'll call my lawyer in
the morning. No, you must get all this off your chest,” Elizabeth
gesticulated and took a deep breath like an enthusiastic drama
teacher, “Then you need to have a shower, and then you are going to
go straight to bed.”

I narrowed my eyes, tasting a welcoming sip
of tea. I thought calling the police was a better idea… but what if
it wasn’t? Those men from the helicopter had looked official. I’d
seen enough movies to know the police weren't always the good guys.
I knew it sounded paranoid; I didn't care in my current state. I
was so full of adrenaline and suppressed fear that the only thing I
wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.
No matter how old you are, there's always safety in a blanket.

Maybe Elizabeth was right; maybe a lawyer
would know what to do. At least then there would be more people
involved in this, whatever this was. Having a lawyer onside surely
couldn't hurt.

At the thought of how much trouble I was in,
I shuddered, sucked in a hearty draft of my tea, and tried not to
cry.

Elizabeth waited until I could speak,
handing me a tissue.

I didn’t question whether sitting in her
kitchen was safe. My pursuers could still be after me. Yet I felt
safe. Or, more likely, so strung out I couldn't think straight.

I spilled the beans. I told Elizabeth all
about finding those globes in my great-uncle's attic. I even told
her all about the treasure up there with them. Elizabeth, bless her
eccentric soul, barely shrugged at the mention of treasure two
houses down. The only comment she could muster was it must have
been colorful. As if color was the most interesting fact about a
hoard of gold, diamonds, and pearls.

I continued to tell Elizabeth that Imelda
had left me the task of selling off the dregs of Alfred’s
collection. In a stroke of what I now labeled idiocy, I’d googled
the spotting globe. It hadn’t taken long to realize they could go
for a tidy sum. I’d played with the idea of snapping some photos
and putting it up for auction on eBay, but that’s when I realized I
still had the contact for the auction house my great-aunt often
used.

I’d enthusiastically arranged to see the
head of the auction house. The poor man, realizing who my
great-aunt was, had thought that I was going to sell something
fantastically expensive. When I brought the globe to him with a
stupid grin on my face, he’d been disappointed. He agreed to the
auction anyway, possibly out of allegiance to my great-aunt.

And that there had been the worst mistake of
my life. I should have stayed at my old great-uncle's manor,
clearing out his estate, spending my nights tucked in the library,
a small fire in the hearth as I read through my great-uncle's
exciting journals. But oh no, I’d put that globe up for sale. I
even went to the auction in person, where I made my greatest
mistake of all.

I didn’t bat an eyelid when the auctioneer
called me, a spike of excitement in his voice. There was
considerable interest in my item; a record number of people ringing
ahead to ensure there would be space at the auction and that the
item hadn’t already been sold.

I did bat an eyelid when the bidding shot
through the roof. The asking price was a touch over £100. In the
space of precisely one minute that sum rose to £200,000. People
were clamoring so much they were standing, some on top of their
seats as they shouted to be heard, their hands waving up in wide
arcs as they drew the price higher and higher.

I stood off to the side of the room. When
the price reached £15 million, I staggered. Others in the audience
were still willing to bid, some rising to their feet in anger as
the auction hammer went down.

It seemed there’d be a riot.

Before I could run from the room in shock,
I was approached by a man in a fine cream linen suit. He must have
known I was the owner, because he bypassed the auctioneer, large
brown eyes locking on mine, a large smile spreading his lips. “I
will offer you £50 million for the item.”

£50 million? Though I came from a well-off
family and I had a trust fund, this was insane.