The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “Mr. Scott—”

  “You can call me Emory, remember?”

  “Right. Emory. I wonder if there’s one thing at this manor you could show me—just one thing to make a lick of sense to an outsider. I’m intrigued by the library. And if she’s real, Victoria could be like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Keira swallowed hard, not wanting to reveal that this could be the thing she needed to get her career—her entire life—back on track. New York was a disaster. This didn’t have to be if she treaded carefully. “What I don’t understand is why you called me. Or how you even found me, for that matter. I’m on the fringes of the art world, so the fact that you dug up my name is astonishing.”

  He stood before her, arms crossed over his chest. “You want to see something real, huh?”

  “Yeah. I would.”

  After a quick nod, he turned to the back of the ballroom. “Follow me.”

  Emory led them to the row of windows and opened a set of French doors in their center. They emerged onto a stone terrace where Keira could see rolling acreage behind the manor, dotted with rock walls and autumn rain that clung in mist over the fields. The willows held loosely to their leaves as wind and sky embraced its gray mood.

  They walked down steps to a path shadowed by rock walls on both sides that stood at attention over Parham Hill like a great aged guardian of stone. Emory moved with purpose, that was true, but so did she. And Keira was far too direct for her own good—Cormac had told her a hundred times . . . She just couldn’t let things go.

  It was a fault, but she always wanted control.

  Needed it, in fact.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Victoria when we were in Dublin?”

  “And you’d have come by Saturday if I had?”

  Keira shot Emory a pointed look, though he kept face forward to the path ahead of them.

  His profile was strong—he didn’t seem one to flinch easily. But then, that would have been learned. She may have brushed elbows with art royalty in Paris, London, and New York, but Keira had done enough research to know he’d been born into it. Old money bred the same old connections. Being the son of a Wall Street tycoon meant Emory Scott was schooled in how to navigate under high scrutiny and when to jump through the gilded hoops of the art world.

  By all accounts, he played the part well.

  “You stated you’re aware of my dissertation—how I don’t know. But the queen wrote about the portrait she commissioned from Winterhalter in 1843, calling it in her journal ‘the secret picture.’ Even though several were made in miniature, there is a strong inference by some in the art world that the original portrait may have had a twin of equal size.”

  “But if it did, it was never found.”

  “And . . . this one looks remarkably similar to the only one history can authenticate, and that portrait now hangs in Kensington Palace. Knowing that, I don’t care what it would have cost me. Had you said a word about it, I’d have been on the very next plane.”

  “Waiting was my call. I knew if I’d told you about her, you’d have jumped on a plane without blinking an eye. And I wanted you to join us not for her, but for you.”

  “Meaning?”

  He shrugged, buried his hands in his jeans pockets as they walked through the misty rain. “Meaning, I know what it feels like to get socked in the gut and have to keep going.”

  Keira readjusted her gaze out in front of them, the horizon proving safer than having a heart-to-heart with a stranger who owned a remarkable sense of the authentic about him. Better to shrug off the connection and act as if she hadn’t a clue as to what he meant.

  “Everyone gets socked in the gut sometimes. And everyone has to keep going. I’m not special about it.”

  “Maybe not, but when I took a hard look into who would be the best fit for this team, everything in me said you, Keira. You’re not impressed with status or notoriety, yet you’ve got a résumé most in the art world could only dream of. You walked away from curatorial at the Met because you felt a stronger pull to the undiscovered talent you could see hanging in a Midtown gallery. And your own brother unearthed a major historical find at his Wicklow estate, yet you moved into a Dublin flat and were content to bus tables at a pub when you could have come in and told everyone at the National Trust where to go. That says you’re in this field for the sheer love of it, and we need that on our team.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I came for a paycheck.”

  Emory slowed his gait, halting in front of her like he disbelieved the comment as much as she did, even though she was the one who’d voiced it. “And now that you’re here?”

  “If you can answer me one thing, then I’ll consider staying for that paycheck—and for Victoria.”

  The air had settled and a chill blew over the fields, but for some reason Emory didn’t seem cold. He stood before her, waiting, relaxed in his jeans and worn tee like it was the height of a summer’s day.

  “Alright.” He looked down on her, as if he’d been prepared for her to say something like that. “Shoot.”

  “Did you steal the Klimt? An irreplaceable 1908 golden goddess plucked from a wall in your gallery is something I find difficult to overlook.”

  Emory found his humor just then in a boyish smile that bled down over his features. He appeared almost embarrassed about it. He tossed his gaze down at the ground before he kicked a stone on the path with the tip of his boot. “You already see yourself as Victoria’s protector. That’s good. She’s lucky to have you on her side.”

  “I’d be any painting’s protector. If you’ve asked me to come here to authenticate her, I need to know I won’t be implicated in an art theft once I tell you what she is—or how much she’s worth. I won’t allow a repeat of Vienna on my watch.” Keira stared back, meeting him eye to eye. “So, did you steal it?”

  Emory studied her with a softness in his eyes that somehow whispered he’d answer her and that answer would be the truth.

  “No.”

  “You were head of security.”

  “I was head of everything. But I didn’t have anything to do with the theft.”

  She shifted her weight. “Then why . . . ?”

  “You mean why was I shut out? Cut off from my family? And sequestered to an estate hidden in East Suffolk because the one person who won’t abandon a shamed man is the best friend from his youth? I don’t have all the answers, except that even those closest to us can become enemies when you tell a truth they don’t like.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The hint of a smile Emory always seemed to carry with him faded and something heavy replaced it. “It means enough time has passed that the truth doesn’t matter now. Come on—it’s just over the rise.”

  “How could truth not matter?” The concept was foreign to her.

  Truth is everything.

  Had she wanted further explanation, Emory did not intend to give it. He led her across the brook, their boots hitting cobblestones on the bridge and continuing until the path faded to rain-soaked mud and the rock walls broke into a rusted iron gate drifting on an old hinge.

  Keira looked up and saw it close up—the cottage she’d noticed hidden beyond the front gate.

  A tiny path led to stone steps, a moss-green door covered over with a heavy layer of soil and grime, and window frames that had long since lost their panes of glass—only remnants of stained glass in faded evergreen and deep royal peeked out from the corners. It wasn’t small by any stretch, but it was so heartbreakingly tired. The thatched roof had too many holes to count, with mossy tiles that had crashed down to the interior below. Raindrops collected and dripped in a soft cadence from the corners of the eaves, almost as if the cottage were crying over its own woeful state.

  “What is this place?” she breathed out, enchantment reeling her in without fight.

  Emory joined her at the gate. He pushed it with his palm, the iron hinge letting out a grating cry as though it hadn’t been disturbed from its slumber for decades.
At the sound a bird darted out the window and soared out over the meadow in a rustle of chirps and fluttering wings through rain. They watched it fly for a second or two, then turned back.

  “Old beekeeper’s cottage.”

  “There were bees on the estate?”

  He nodded. “There are still. This is a working honey farm, though production has fallen to the owners of the Castle House pub down the road. It’s not really much of a moneymaker now. More local lore than anything. Honey and beeswax candles feed the shops in town—for the castle tourists, what there are.”

  Keira ran her fingertips over the edge of the crumbling rock wall. Lovingly. As if she could relay with a touch that someone still cared about it. “What’s happened here—other than the obvious?”

  “The erosion of time. Best I could learn from the locals, someone was killed inside when a Blitz bombing raid missed an Allied airfield and bombarded the tree line behind. It took out the entire side of the cottage with the damage you see there. And after that, it was never repaired. The owners just seemed to . . . let it go. It was abandoned by the end of the war.”

  Someone was killed . . .

  The manor loomed over them like a great shadow, its grand walls and ballrooms and library seemingly untouched by time. All the while, a two-story beekeeper’s cottage, its little arched windows with tiny shards of glass still poking from the corners and chimneys that looked like they’d once been harbingers of the warmth from inside, had withered with the ghost of it.

  “Why has no one thought to restore it?”

  “Seems like it’s speaking to you the same way it did to me. But eccentric nobles do what they do, so that would be Carter’s call. He has interest in many things, just not a burdensome estate in the East Suffolk countryside. He received the title and land upon his father’s death, and being the son of an investment capitalist, his view of the estate is more in how to be rid of a burden at the most opportune price than to spend any real time unearthing its ancient history. But if you see some worth in restoring it, you might try to convince him. He’s got a heck of a bankbook to work with. It’s probably a lost cause, but you could still try.”

  “If that’s true, then why did you want me to see it?”

  “Because, Keira.” Emory reached out and curled his palm around the top of the gate next to her, his fist clutching iron like he, too, was holding out hope for something. “This place has a story buried somewhere, and I think you can help dig it up.”

  “And why are you so interested in the story of an estate that isn’t yours?”

  The question died between them when a silver convertible tore up from Church Street.

  The car kicked up sprays of mud and swirled fallen leaves from the lane that led from Framlingham. Its soft top was up—a sleek black on a silver bullet of a sports car that whizzed behind the rock wall, then revealed itself to be an Aston Martin when it emerged into the clear. It screeched to a stop under the stone canopy at the manor’s front.

  They watched half a pasture away as a man hopped out and tossed the keys in his hand before shoving them in the pocket of his navy sport blazer and trotting up the stairs.

  “Carter?” she asked, though the answer was clear.

  “Carter.” Emory drew back, as if the magic cast by the cottage had fizzled by the mere reminder of the modern world. “That’d be our viscount. Posh, fast, and late as usual.”

  “Well, let’s go meet him. I have more questions before I agree to anything.”

  “And he’ll be glad to answer them for you. Though I have to admit he seemed a little too eager to have you come on board after he saw an actual photo of you. For the record, I find that highly unprofessional, even if it is warranted.”

  Thank goodness he’d started walking again or else Keira would have had to admit a tiny blush warmed her cheeks. She didn’t know what that was. Maybe wounds left over from the last time easy compliments had been tossed her way? Whatever it was, it left alarm bells ringing in her head.

  The contradiction of reluctant trust-fund kid, would-be art thief, and unexpected gentleman had her considering what kind of game Emory was playing. Or was it a game at all? Was the quiet team leader walking alongside her as innocent as he put on?

  A Klimt was still missing. He’d given no explanation about that.

  That left her on guard.

  “A word of caution?” Emory whispered, looking over at her with a humored brow as they trekked back up the rain-sodden lane. “Don’t fall in love with him.”

  “For a couple of school chaps, it sounds as though you two don’t get on. And you insult me with comments like that, Mr. Scott. I’m a professional. You can’t think that’s the first Aston Martin I’ve ever seen in my line of work. I won’t fall in love with anyone.”

  “You sure about that?”

  She straightened her shoulders and tipped her chin up a notch. “Quite sure.”

  * * *

  Keira fell in love with him.

  Every inch of the six-foot-two, sandy-haired, Kensington-bred Carter Wilmont was as Emory had described. He was posh and perfect in manner, fast in wit, and fashionable at everything in between. And she fell in a New York minute.

  By the time they breezed through the ballroom doors and back into the library, Carter’s persona had managed to overtake the entire space without much effort at all. He’d caught up the crew in chatter by the scaffolding at the brick wall, the young viscount engaging in conversation with evident ease.

  “Emory!” Carter approached them with a gleaming smile ready to greet his friend. He shook his hand, then turned to her. “And you must be Miss Foley?”

  “Keira. Yes.”

  It was the oddest thing, but Keira wished she had a mirror just then. She hadn’t thought to check if her hair was tidy when she and Emory had walked down a blustery autumn lane. And she hadn’t thought about the literary tee, rain jacket, and jeans she’d worn that day until a viscount was suddenly standing in front of her with a tailored blazer, perfect smile, and outstretched hand angling in her direction.

  “Emory said you grew up in London?” Carter asked, a sure grip taking over hers.

  Whether by honed skill or providential talent, he had an uncanny ability to freeze out the rest of the world around them and slip into laser-focused conversation.

  “Uh . . . yes. South London. Brixton.”

  He tipped his head toward M. J., who was working off to the side. “A friend of our Maggie Jane perhaps? Forgive me, but I thought I heard a bit of Ireland in you just now.”

  “We just met, so yes—fast friends. But I’m from Dublin, on my father’s side. I’ve been living back there for the last six months or so.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Carter brought a palm up to his chin. “Well, Emory’s recommendation is enough for me on a bad day, and meeting you makes this a good one. But I’m afraid I’m a bit on the skittish side. Past doings have made me a rather careful chap—for better or worse. So . . . you’ll sign a contract for hire?”

  “Of course.”

  “And a confidentiality agreement? As our art historian in residence, you’ll agree to stay on at the manor while under contract, you won’t leave Framlingham unless it’s cleared with me, and you’ll keep everything you see here in the strictest confidence. No contacts in the art world unless I’m told ahead of time, yes?”

  Keira tossed a glance to Emory’s place by the door. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said, I told you—eccentric.

  “I suppose I’ll sign, if my professional word isn’t enough.”

  “It’s not that at all, Miss Foley. Everyone here has signed. It’s just part of the hiring process. We have checks and balances in place on nearly everything these days. Pesky barristers and such, always trying to ensure the world is buttoned up to their complete satisfaction. The way they see it, wouldn’t want a photo of our queen here popping up on social media before we can time our tips to the media just so, to find the right buyer at auction. That sort of thing. And all headaches avoided un
til we can plan a nice little unveiling at Sotheby’s.”

  Keira drifted her gaze over to Victoria.

  The queen hung there so regal in the glow of lamplight, her eyes gazing out at the span of room like Prince Albert stood behind them. Keira decided that signing a few papers meant little if she was given the freedom to dig into the story of the estate, starting with the masterpiece that hung before her, and maybe ending with the beekeeper’s cottage. By the looks of it, the cottage ached for someone to walk through its door again.

  “If your world must be buttoned up as you say, then I’ll agree. As long as I have free rein to research her the way I see fit.”

  “The rest of the crew is tasked with the structure of the manor, including the library, but you’ll be in charge of authenticating what’s in it, alongside Emory.”

  “Brilliant. I think we’ll get on well enough. But I do have my own way of doing things. Hope that’s not a problem for you, Viscount. When it comes to the art, I call the shots. All of them. And the decisions are mine until the contract says otherwise.”

  Carter nodded, just once, on an electric smile. “Done.”

  “And if I want to discuss further restoration of the estate—the outbuildings and such beyond the manor—what would you say to that?”

  Keira glanced back to Emory, looking for support. But somewhere in the last moments between Carter’s requests and her survey of Victoria, he’d managed to slip away, like a specter gone to haunt another one of the hundred or so rooms at Parham Hill.

  “Mr. Scott walked me around the grounds and . . . ,” Keira began, searching the shadowed corners of the library, even though she had a suspicion she’d not find him among them.

  Carter rolled his eyes heavenward. “Let me guess. The tour started and stopped at the cottage?”

  “Mr. Scott feels it’s important to the story of Parham Hill. And the history of the painting, though I can’t see what connection there could possibly be.”

  “You and me both. Emory’s been pushing me to restore that musty old shed from the moment he stepped onto the grounds, when it has no worth to us at all. Complete waste of time.”