Behind the Veil

by Kathryn Nolan

  Sven flanked her, staring down each guest with a snarl. I ignored him like he was a misbehaving dog.

  “Not as ravishing as you, Victoria,” Henry said smoothly. “What an honor to be here in your magnificent home.”

  “I do hope you enjoy the inside,” she crooned, aware of the many eyes on her. “Once I’ve finished greeting everyone, I must snag the both of you right away. I have something to show you that will knock your socks off.”

  It could truly be anything: a favorite painting, an old book, an interesting architectural detail.

  But my breath caught at the possibility—and Victoria heard it. She squeezed my hand brightly.

  “I love your enthusiasm, Delilah.”

  “I’m so looking forward to what you’re going to show us,” I said—and didn’t even have to fake the sincerity of that statement.

  “Good. Go get yourself a drink before I find you.” The doors behind her opened into the great room—a fire roared in the fireplace, over which antique swords were displayed. A black bear rug dominated the space, mouth open and teeth snarling.

  “It’s no Reichenbach Falls,” she said quietly—so quietly I thought I’d imagined it. “But I believe you’ll still be enthralled. Welcome to the most magnificent mansion in all of Philadelphia.”

  36

  Henry

  A towering display of glasses bubbled with a champagne waterfall between trees draped in wispy fabric. Four crystal chandeliers dangled from a white ceiling engraved with flowers—dotted with tiny twinkle-light stars. The small stage held a string quartet. Glamorous-looking waitstaff flitted about with trays of finger food.

  “I can’t believe this,” Delilah said, staring up at the ceiling and through the crowd. “This is…”

  “Incredible,” I finished.

  She squeezed my hand, and I held it, linking our fingers together. In all honesty, my fake wife was the incredible one—a statuesque beauty in a stunning white gown, her blue eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them before. The shape of her thighs appeared in my mind—the illicit black lace, the scalloped fabric, the flexing muscle. It was everything Delilah embodied: danger and desire; delicate lace and precise strength.

  And I wanted to take it off with my teeth.

  “Let’s get a drink and pretend to be impressed with these portraits,” Delilah said. She picked up two glasses from a passing waiter and led us to a wall of heavy-looking, gilded paintings.

  “I don’t think I have to pretend,” I remarked. Before us hung a four-foot-tall portrait of our target, lit with glowing lights. Victoria appeared to be twenty years younger in it but still distinguished. “You don’t want to call too much attention to yourself,” I said. “Just a little something to let your guests know whose house you’re in.”

  Delilah was grinning. “I’d love it even more if she’d had herself painted as royalty.” She indicated the five portraits of European royalty hanging to her left. “Why do you think she has these?”

  “It was certainly common for Tudor homes to showcase the royal family. She’s probably aiming for authenticity.”

  “And who is this?” She was gazing up at a man dressed in white fur, holding a blue scepter.

  Christian VII of Denmark, read the inscription.

  “King of Denmark,” I said. “I remember him because he reportedly used to ask to be tied down and flogged.”

  Delilah arched a graceful brow. “Interesting.”

  The shape of two more bodyguards appeared at separate corners of the room. And then Victoria—making her way through the crowd toward us. I tugged Delilah close.

  “You see the guards?”

  “I can take ’em,” she said without a trace of humor.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I agreed. “And our target is coming.”

  “There you are,” Victoria exclaimed. “Come, come. We have collections to see. Oh, and you remember Sven, right?” We nodded at the man Freya had described as a “psychopath.” “And this is his brother, Hans.” A second guard appeared at Victoria’s shoulder. “They’re here temporarily for some interesting projects I’m working on.”

  Delilah’s body was tense as we followed Victoria through the crowd, stopping every few feet to greet guests and receive their effusive compliments. The great room opened into a hallway with blood-red carpets and mahogany walls. Each cozy room opened into another, like Russian nesting dolls, until I was almost dizzy with it.

  “I had this house built in 1995, and it took absolute ages. It’s not easy to find contractors who will commit to a full Tudor revival.” We passed an expansive library that had my fingers itching to pull on the spines and flip through the pages.

  “And you know, there were issues along the way. The papers made it out to be like some kind of Winchester house, stairwells leading to nowhere, that kind of thing. But it was nothing of the sort. Many of these pieces were flown in exclusively from Europe.” Victoria nodded at me, tapping her fingers along a wall of paintings as we passed. “Henry, I knew you would appreciate my attention to authenticity. We can’t live our lives with fakes, you know.”

  “Certainly not,” I said, passing what might have been an original Monet.

  “And this,” Victoria said, “is my private collections room. Try not to swoon, Henry.”

  With a nod from her, Sven pushed open a heavy-looking door into a cavernous room. It felt like an actual museum: glass cases and soft lighting and displays of books, crumbling vases, an old shield and an ancient map.

  The gravity of this moment was only surpassed by its surrealism. After weeks of lying to Victoria Whitney to gain her trust, we were standing in her room of antiques. And probably mere feet away from a stolen book worth millions of dollars.

  But the quiet intensity of this room also sent a bolt of longing through me; for those early days in libraries before I was made brutally aware of this shady underbelly. My eyes caught the shape of books I hadn’t seen in quite some time—a sense of wonder infused my limbs, even as the stakes of this case tightened around us like a vise.

  “This is…a professional honor,” I managed to say.

  “My husband’s idea of Disneyland,” Delilah said. I could tell she was assessing the room, taking in the displays.

  What if the Copernicus was here? Somewhere in this room?

  The next case displayed a single sheet of paper. I moved toward it with a shocking, painful recognition, every fine detail about this case converging into this one moment. Bernard and Victoria’s whirlwind romance might have ended years ago, but the reason they still saw each other now was for something else entirely.

  “Is this what I think it is?” The hard edge of my voice echoed in the quiet room. I could feel Delilah turning to me, responding to my tone.

  “Oh, is that my Newton?” Victoria inquired, as nonchalantly as one might ask to pass the salt.

  “Page seventeen,” I said, muscles beginning to tremble. “How specific.”

  It was the page I’d told Abe I’d discovered to be missing from the McMasters Library six months ago. Newton’s handwritten notes were in the margins.

  Fucking page seventeen.

  “Yes, well, Bernard thought I would enjoy it. Notice the pencil markings.”

  I’d analyzed and indexed those markings myself, years earlier, working alongside Bernard.

  “May I ask how he came upon just the single page?”

  Victoria stiffened, patting at the jewels around her neck. “I think everyone in this room is aware of where he got it.”

  “It’s lovely,” Delilah said, placing a hand on my back. We were the Thornhills, we bought stolen books and missing pages and pilfered antiques. Henry Thornhill shouldn’t have had to ask. “Henry’s a massive Newton fan.”

  “It’s why I’m so stunned that Bernard”—I paused, flashed her my most winning smile— “was able to find this for you.”

  “Was it a gift?” Delilah asked, in a slightly teasing tone.

  Victoria touched her hair. “Why, yes,
yes it was.”

  Delilah’s finger was on her silver bracelet. Take pictures. In my shock, I’d forgotten the reason we were here, but Victoria was watching me like a hawk. A pleasant hawk, but I still felt a bit like prey.

  Sven and Hans cleared their throats, and Victoria shot them a withering look. “My guards are reminding me it’s not ideal for us to be down here so long. Come along, I need to show you my newest acquisition.”

  Delilah threw me a look of apprehension mixed with curiosity. There was an orange door Victoria pushed open, beckoning us with a crook of her finger. Delilah reached down and linked our fingers together. My ears roared with the sound of my own heartbeat.

  It couldn’t be this easy—could it? Victoria, yanking away a velvet cloth like a magician’s assistant, revealing what we’d been searching for?

  A light illuminated a glass case, which shone in the middle of the room. I noted the temperature controls on the side of the walls, the special lighting.

  This was the room of an archivist.

  Victoria giggled shyly, beckoning us closer. A low grunt from behind me indicated that Sven and Hans were steps away. I hitched up my sleeve, uncovering my watch.

  “I told you I like to own works by geniuses,” Victoria said to me. “Which is why I purchased Shakespeare’s First Folio.”

  My pulse jolted painfully. My stomach dropped. There, in the glass case, was William Shakespeare’s First Folio, a compilation of his plays printed in 1623. It was one of the rarest books in the entire world.

  And it wasn’t the fucking Copernicus.

  I forgot to be enamored—forget to be awed by the sheer magnitude of the text, the history, the greatness. Delilah was squeezing my hand like her life depended on it. I brought her wrist to my lips, kissed her there.

  “I’ll take your silence for surprise,” Victoria mused.

  “That would be accurate,” Delilah murmured.

  “Henry? Any thoughts on this purchase?” She’d emphasized the word purchase.

  Despair knifed through me. “There are 750 copies of this book left in the entire world,” I said robotically. “I’ve never seen one in person.”

  Which was a lie—I’d worked on it with a team of conservationists years ago at Oxford. It had been one of the biggest professional accomplishments of my entire life. But I couldn’t dredge up that feeling in the wake of such bitter disappointment. “Where did you buy it from?”

  A letter of authenticity was framed near the book.

  “The Antiquarian Book Festival in New York City one month ago,” she said proudly. “I was the highest bidder—by a long shot, of course.”

  I had a distant memory of reading about the purchase in the paper—I hadn’t known at the time the way Victoria Whitney would intersect my life.

  “A smart purchase. It will bode well for you in the future.” I had no idea if I even sounded sincere. “If you need advice on conserving it, I’d be happy to provide a consult. Pro bono, of course.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Victoria said. “And let me tell you. I’ve had to hire these men to protect me these past few weeks.” She leaned in and said with absolutely no irony, “Thieves are everywhere. A lot of people would do a lot of bad things to get their hands on this book.”

  Exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders. Deep down, I’d imagined us as victorious this evening, against all odds—even in the face of Abe’s fear we’d never find the Copernicus. Every other outcome felt impossible with her by my side.

  “You can’t trust people these days.” Delilah shook her head. Real sadness was etched into her voice. But she placed her hand on the case anyway. “Knowing you is a privilege, Victoria.”

  “Thank you,” I remembered to add. “What an honor.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Victoria lay a bejeweled hand on both of our arms. “If we weren’t in the middle of my party, I’d show you so much more of my collection. But I’ve been looking forward to showing this to an expert like yourself for weeks now.”

  Delilah wrapped her arms around my waist, and I settled my lips into her hair—and whether this moment of comfort was real or feigned, I honestly could not say. But it was reassuring to inhale her scent.

  “Getting to know you has been such a treat. You should be proud of the life you’ve built together,” Victoria said a little wistfully.

  “You’ll find it too,” Delilah said in a low voice. A sea of complex emotions moved across Victoria’s face, some reference to their cloisters conversation I wasn’t privy to. But I was having a difficult time empathizing with the heiress in front of me. Even without the Copernicus, Victoria was still a thief. A thief that also got to own a First Folio.

  “Hans and Sven are giving me stern looks,” Victoria said playfully. “Let’s go before I ignore my other guests for longer than is polite.”

  We followed both men—and I noticed for the first time the guns holstered at their hips. The journey back to the party, through the confusing maze of Tudor-style rooms, felt even more surreal the second time. We passed through the library again and back out to the party.

  “My hostess duties await. Do find me later?” Before we could respond, Victoria fluttered her fingers and moved seamlessly back into her adoring crowd.

  I wondered if that was the last time we would see Victoria Whitney. It was wholly anticlimactic.

  “Fancy a drink?” Delilah said. “Or ten?”

  I smiled grimly. “Let’s go find a quiet corner in the great room where no one can hear us.” We walked past the library again, and my mind blazed with Bernard’s voice: she built secret hallways to hide her favorites.

  “What?” Delilah asked. “Do you see someone in there?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Drinks, then we talk.”

  But as we moved through the crowd, that nagging sensation wouldn’t go away. Even as Delilah grabbed two drinks and yanked us toward a corner with less of a crowd. She clinked our glasses together with a morbid look.

  Secret hallways.

  “Wait.” I grabbed her wrist, stilling her. “We might need those fast reflexes of yours.”

  “For what? We’re going home. I took pictures of most of the items in her collection. If any stick—”

  “Page seventeen. Bernard stole that from the McMasters Library.”

  A waiter strolled past, and Delilah plopped her drink on his tray, pulling me even farther into the corner. She made a show of snuggling into my chest, bringing our faces close. “Bernard’s still selling things to her.”

  “He was,” I said. “First, that photo is incriminating evidence, so that alone is a good enough reason for us to have been here tonight. But second”—I dipped my mouth to her ear—“I still think she has it.”

  Copernicus? she mouthed.

  I nodded.

  Delilah let out an angry exhale. “Victoria’s a thief but she’s not our thief. It’s not that we didn’t get eyes on it. She never had it to begin with. Whatever ‘gut instinct’ I had about her was absolutely, positively wrong.” She was already shutting down on me. I could see it. “She admitted she’d hired the security for the Folio. The ‘new acquisition’ she was mysteriously referring to the night we met her was the Folio, not the Copernicus. And I have no idea why she was being so dismissive about the Copernicus exhibit, but technically she does know it’s been stolen.”

  “Victoria told us her guards were hired for the Folio,” I said, tugging her even closer. “But we overheard her at the gala. Demanding something to be moved. Tonight. That Folio didn’t look like it was being prepped to be moved, did it?”

  “I think I sent this entire agency on a wild goose chase based on a few strange coincidences and a bunch of assumptions,” Delilah argued. Defeat carved lines around her mouth. “What did Francisco say that night? Oh, our reputation would be ruined.”

  “Delilah.”

  She glowered at the ground. I tilted her chin up, brushed her hair from her forehead. “I had plenty of evidence that Bernard was comm
itting crimes and I didn’t do anything about it, because I didn’t trust myself. People like Bernard, people like Victoria, move through this world with an audacity that boggles my mind. They believe they are owed anything they desire, just because they want it. They’re like schoolyard bullies, taking someone else’s toys because they can.”

  “I thought you believed Bernard and Victoria were passionate about antiques.”

  “I believe that they are,” I continued. “But I also believe they get a sick satisfaction from knowing things have been stolen. If Victoria can buy a First Folio, she can legally buy a third edition of On the Revolution of Heavenly Spheres the next time it comes up for auction at Christie’s. But she chose to take a first edition from a museum exhibit because she could.”

  That got her attention.

  “Tell me about those senses,” I said gently. “The deception you sensed the night we met her. It was strong enough to lead us here.”

  She held my gaze. “They’ve been blaring like a fucking foghorn.”

  I knew it.

  A familiar gleam came into Delilah’s eyes—a charge, a thrill, the hunter I’d follow anywhere. And it made me so happy to see I kissed her cheek.

  Her fingers went up to the spot. “What was that for?” Her lips curved up.

  “I hate seeing you look defeated,” I said simply.

  “Well, I hate seeing you look defeated too,” she said. “When I saw the look on your face when Victoria was prattling on about that Shakespeare book, I wanted to kick Sven and Hans on your behalf.”

  “You’re a true romantic, Delilah Barrett.”

  The responding hopefulness and humor in her eyes almost had me blurting the words that had existed on the tip of my tongue from the moment we’d stepped into the limo: what happens between us after tonight?

  “I still think—” She blew out a breath, like she was mulling something over. “I still think the smartest thing to do is to go home. Send those pictures off right away.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  Her fingers gripped my lapels so tightly I feared they would rip in two. The effort it was taking for her to restrain herself was obvious.