sweet of you.”
“Not really.” He shoved a hand through his hair as he surveyed the piles of debris left over from former lives. “If it keeps her occupied she won’t start nagging me to marry again.”
Annie had watched grimly as he’d courted and dated his calculating and phony second wife. She wasn’t sure she could stand to go through that again. “I suppose she’s desperate for grandchildren.”
“Yes, though you have to wonder why. Is it really necessary to carry the curse through to another generation?” His crooked smile made her smile, too. Of course his mother wanted grandchildren to spoil and fuss over. Though she wasn’t likely to ever get any, if Sinclair’s taste in women was anything to go by. She’d never met his first wife, but Diana Lakeland wasn’t the type to risk her figure on a pregnancy. She’d married Sinclair for the wealth and prestige that made him one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, then grown tired of him when he didn’t want to jet around the world attending parties every night.
If only he could see he was wasted on those spoiled princesses. She couldn’t tell him that, though. It was part of her job to be friendly, even intimate. But she also had to know where to draw the line between professional and personal, and never cross it.
She moved away from the basket of rope—more than enough to hang yourself with—and lifted a small wooden box from a high shelf. She opened the lid and found a cache of what looked like hairpins. Expensive ones, carved from tortoiseshell and bone. She wondered what Drummond damsel had tucked them into her tresses. “This does feel like looking for a needle in a haystack. Though it’s an interesting haystack. Who did the cup belong to?”
“The Drummonds come from the Scottish Highlands. Gaylord Drummond was a gambler and drinker, who lost the family estate in a wager in 1712. His three sons, left penniless and landless, set out for America to seek their fortune. The brothers went their separate ways after their ship docked, and apparently they split up a metal chalice of some sort, each of them taking a piece. They intended to reunite the cup once they’d all made their fortunes. One of them settled here on Long Island, and built a farm where we sit today.”
“I suppose that explains why you have such a large piece of prime waterfront real estate.” The original farmhouse had been expanded over the years into a magnificent shingle-style “cottage” with bold gables and wide verandas. The old potato fields had been transformed into pristine lawn and lush orchards of apple, pear and peach trees. Once a sleepy village, Dog Harbor was now surrounded by the suburban sprawl of New York City. One ancestor had sold a field to a post-war developer to build tract housing. Sinclair’s father had bought it back at great expense—houses and all—and turned it back into an emerald sward of grass. The cool water of the Long Island Sound lapped against a neat pebble beach about three hundred feet from the house.
Sinclair laughed. “Yes. The old homestead has matured into an excellent investment.”
“What I don’t understand is … how do you break up a cup?” It seemed hard enough to find a whole cup in this mess, let alone a piece of one.
“My mother says it was specially constructed to be taken apart and then put back together. She suspects it’s an old communion chalice that was constructed like that so it could be hidden, maybe from Viking invaders or Protestant reformers, depending on how old it really is. The story of the cup has passed down from generation to generation, though no one knows what happened to the pieces. My mom says she’s tracked down the descendants of the three brothers, and contacted each of them about her quest.”
“I think it’s exciting. And a nice opportunity to reunite the family.”
Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve never heard much good about the other Drummonds. We’re all surly sorts who keep to ourselves.” He raised a dark brow.
“You’re not surly.” She immediately regretted her pointless comment. The last thing she needed was for him to know she was smitten with him. “Well, not all the time, anyway.” Now she was blushing. She hurried to a darker corner of the attic and pulled at a drawer. “Where do the others live?”
“One brother became a privateer raiding the East Coast and the Caribbean.”
“A pirate?”
Sinclair nodded. “So the legend goes. His ancestors are still down there—or one of them, anyway—living on an island off the Florida coast. Since Jack Drummond’s a professional treasure hunter I hardly think he’ll help us find the cup.”
“He might be interested in the family angle.”
“I doubt it. The third Drummond brother got rich up in Canada, then went back to Scotland and bought back the family estate. His descendant lives there now. My mother hasn’t been able to even get James Drummond to reply to her emails. She’s tireless, however, so I’m sure she’ll get through to him eventually, once she has her strength back.” He lifted a box down from the top of an old armoire. “There aren’t a lot of Drummond descendants out there. They don’t seem to have had many children and a lot have died young over the years. Makes you wonder if the curse is real.”
Was Sinclair cursed? If anything, he seemed to live a charmed life, dividing his time between his Manhattan penthouse and his other fabulous houses. She saw him for only a few weekends of each year, and maybe a couple of weeks in the summer. Just enough time to gaze dreamily at him but not enough to know his secrets. Did he have secrets? Passions and longings?
She tried to shake the thought from her mind. His inner life was none of her business.
“Some of this stuff really shouldn’t be moldering away up here.” Annie lifted a porcelain serving platter from its perch underneath another coil of rope. “I bet you could take this on Antiques Roadshow.”
Sinclair chuckled. “And have them tell you someone bought it at Woolworth’s in the 1950s.” He stood over a big wood trunk, larger and obviously older than the steamer trunks piled high in several places. The inside appeared to be filled with folded clothing.
“Wow, look at that lace.” Annie moved beside him, trying to ignore his rich masculine scent. She reached into the trunk and fondled the snowy cotton. “It doesn’t look like it’s ever been worn.” She lifted the garment, which unfolded in a single soft movement, revealing itself as a delicate nightgown or petticoat. “Who did this belong to?”
“I have no idea. I confess to only ever rifling through the boxes with firearms and other guy stuff in them.” Again his mischievous grin made her heart quicken. “I never touched the girlie stuff.”
“Would you look at that.” Setting the petticoat aside, she peered into the large wooden chest to examine a richly worked bodice of green satin with red-and-gold edging. The needlework was exquisite and the material shone as if it had been woven yesterday. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Sinclair pulled the garment from the trunk and held it up. Low-cut at the neck and with a tiny waist, the dress was an extravagant ball gown.
“It’s stunning. And that blue one underneath it looks spectacular.” She reached in and fondled a striking peacock-blue silk garment with tiny pearl bead accents. “These should be in a museum.” It seemed a crime to leave them unseen in the dusty attic even a minute longer. “Let’s bring them down into the house and hang them properly.”
“If you like.” Sinclair looked skeptical. Of course he probably only cared about finding the cup. “Sure,
