The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  The ghost of his touch lingered at Elizabeth’s temple in maddening fashion as she hurried across the meadow, the great spires of the manor house looming large before her.

  Nothing minimized the great loss she’d endured. And nothing he could do would ever make it right. But for the first time, she felt the anger and bitterness that had been companions the past ten years dare to consider a gentle thaw. The viscount had just given permission to do two very opposite things: to call him by name and, without his knowledge, to lay the path for his own downfall.

  Time would tell which the better choice might be.

  Thirteen

  Present day

  Framlingham

  East Suffolk County, England

  “Got your text, Dr. Foley. What’s the verdict?”

  Keira peeked over the tortoise rim of her glasses as Carter breezed into Parham Hill’s Rose Room. She eased up from her stool in the space behind the easel and horde of standing lights she’d semicircled in a safe environment around Victoria.

  “Viscount. Nice of you to remember we’re here. And I told you when we met that I’d not completed my doctoral studies.”

  “Close enough. What do we have?”

  After days of absence, no response to repeated texts or emails, and a relaxed saunter with a to-go cup of coffee in hand, Carter Wilmont gave a pretty accurate sense of the man Emory described as his friend by slipping back into their world without warning, first thing in the morning.

  “I sent you messages with all that. Days ago.”

  “Right. My secretary said I should ‘return the art doctor’s calls already!’ or she would promptly quit her post, which she’s been threatening to do for the last five years.” He leaned in, his cologne refusing to let her focus. “Until I send her a Burberry handbag as a Christmas bonus and we start the cycle over again. This is a down month apparently.”

  Keira squashed a laugh by biting her bottom lip. “Beatrice? Yes. Lovely woman.”

  “You’ve spoken to her?”

  “A few times. Trying to procure a response from her employer. While she thinks the world of you, she is a bit . . . miffed, shall we say, at what she claims is your classic lack of follow-through on any matter that concerns another human. I think those were her words.”

  “Blessed woman. She’d scold a tree trunk given the chance.”

  “And yet she invited me to spend my Christmas holidays with her family when employment with you does in fact fall through. What in the world should I make of that cautionary tale?”

  “Whatever you’d like. Just don’t tell me you’ve found out the painting’s botched. This beauty’s going to Sotheby’s in the new year, and she needs to make waves when she does. That’s why I’m counting on you. Emory said you moved into the pink room because of all the windows. So here I am. Give me the goods.”

  “The pink room?”

  He gazed around in a slow survey, the corner of his mouth inching up in distaste before he took a sip from his cup. Keira could imagine that despite the stunning sunrise from the wall of windows and the glorious Victorian touches about the room, the space would no doubt be the very first Carter Wilmont would gut when he set out to remodel the manor for a more modern world.

  “Pink—my word. Not his. Listen, I had to skive off before I stop in at the office today, so I’m not overly concerned with the color of an outdated room, or offending my darling old secretary. Emory says you’re bound for London. I came to find out if that’s true.” Carter stopped beside her stool and leaned in, the crisp shirtsleeve of his shoulder nudging hers as he squinted at the painting. “So what am I looking at besides a dishy highness in old duds?”

  “Well, for starters, this is not a Winterhalter.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “As much as we can be. Yes.”

  “Classic. So that diminishes its value considerably.” Carter backed up to expand his view, as if that eased the blow of bad news.

  “I know this is a disappointment, but it may not be over.”

  “I believe I slept through art history class in prep school, so I haven’t the first clue what that means.” He flashed a heart-stopper of a grin. “Tell me you’ve got something else or I’ll be forced to pay you for your charms alone.”

  “Well, this painting certainly has the hallmark of a Winterhalter—rich contrasts of light and shade, a royal setting and lavish textures—the gauze of Victoria’s gown and the flower petals at her bodice show that, and here—” She pointed to the curve of Victoria’s neck with her gloved pinky. “See this? Up to the chin? These lines are noticeably softened while the lines of her face, even in the same light, are quite sharp and deeply contrasted. It’s like the artist wants us to look right at her, but while she’s fully focused away on something—or someone—else. And given the fact that Winterhalter did paint an almost identical sitting with her hair unbound and the intense longing of her look ‘off-camera,’ it gives every indication this should be his work.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “No—for a big reason. Winterhalter was known not to make preliminary sketches of his work, but this artist did. That’s what puzzles me.”

  Carter straightened, the concern seemingly hitting him now. He crossed his arms over his chest and rested a pensive palm against his chin.

  “Then the obvious questions are, whose is it, and what might it be worth?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  “Emory said something about Winterhalter having a studio of apprentices who worked under him, to mass-produce his paintings. Real twenty-first-century guy to have the foresight into a booming industry. Maybe this is one of those copies.”

  “Highly unlikely. He did that later in his career, as his work became more well known. And this portrait is intimate—a birthday gift the queen herself commissioned Winterhalter to paint for her husband. It’s said Prince Albert was so moved and found it so private a gift that he closed it up in his personal office and wouldn’t allow it to be viewed by others—even though it was his favorite portrait of her. Kind of sweet, actually. But he’d never have agreed for it to be mass-produced.”

  “So the people behind these paintings actually had a heart beating underneath all that taffeta?”

  “You may be closer than you realize. If this work isn’t his, then we need to know what’s under the surface, so I had a portable X-ray machine brought in.”

  “You found something.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. We did. And it’s big.” Keira stood, peeling off her gloves as she went for her cell phone on the mantel. She flipped through her photos until she found it—the sketch image detail from the X-ray analysis—and held it out to him. “Here.”

  Carter held up the phone, then with doubt pinning his brows in toward the bridge of his nose looked back at her. “You’re serious.”

  “Completely.”

  “This is what you’re so excited about? A bee?”

  “Not just a bee. A honeybee—the same variety as on this estate. And this one’s remarkably detailed, like the artist was as interested in sketching it as the preliminary portrait itself. And look where it is—in the same spot over Victoria’s right shoulder but buried under the paint as if it would never be seen. I have to wonder if you have any additional information about your family legacy at this estate, because I believe the artist had a connection here.”

  He shrugged, noncommittal about the estate’s legacy. “I know enough to be dangerous in the right circles. There was a viscount in the late nineteenth century who thought it a clever idea to get the honey business started on the estate. They’ve had honey production ever since, though it’s not thrived for years. Kind of a nuisance now, actually. I keep swatting at the mad things. Other than that, there’s a story of an heir who was killed in one of the wars. I don’t know much else.”

  “Is there a local historian? There must be some records of its history, being so close to Framlingham Castle.”

  “This place was always a thorn in the
side of my father’s family. An old summer estate I remember coming to as a boy, but with a hefty price tag to maintain. It didn’t seem worth delving into its history if I was never going to inherit.”

  “But you did inherit.”

  “Seems I did, yeah. My father never did anything with it, and now I’m stuck with the grand headache of it all. I have to recoup something for the trouble.”

  Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Keira turned to find Emory in the doorway, two empty mugs in hand.

  It had become their unspoken ritual of sorts, coffee in the Rose Room as the sun came up. But no clean mugs meant Emory had gone off to fetch them, and Carter had unknowingly broken into the solitude of their private world. He slowed at seeing the two of them, his smile fading back to professional courtesy in a blink.

  “Found a couple.” Emory gave a quick nod to his friend. “Carter—welcome back. Didn’t know you were joining us or I’d have brought another.”

  “I’ve my own, thanks.” Carter held up his to-go cup.

  “Ben will be glad you’ve resurfaced. The brick’s come down fast, and he’s got something to show off in the library—just a boarded-up wall, but he’s hopeful about what may potentially be behind it. They’re also doubling-down efforts on searching the attics for anything they might find to connect to the library.”

  “What could connect to the library up there? I’d wager it’s only musty old trunks and broken-down furniture.”

  “Even so, he’d like to loop you in, that is, if Miss Foley is about finished here.”

  “Foley here’s been telling me that our painting could be worthless because of some bee drawing underneath the paint.”

  “Worthless?” Emory set the mugs on the makeshift coffee counter and tidied up the bar with his back to them. “Is that so?”

  “Not worthless. Not yet,” Keira corrected, trying to infuse something positive back into the conversation. “Just different than we expected. There’s a small sketch behind the portrait . . . just above the queen’s right shoulder.”

  Emory stopped and turned, then smiled.

  At her.

  Yes, they knew the secret.

  Carter picked up on the temperature change and fired back, “What?” ping-ponging his glance between them.

  “What Miss Foley is trying to tell us is she believes it’s the artist’s signature.”

  “A bee is a signature.”

  Keira nodded. “In the original, Winterhalter’s signature is just over the queen’s shoulder. Whoever this artist is, they signed in the exact same spot—only they did it with a sketch.” Her heart fluttered, and she grabbed up her phone again, then flipped through images to the photos of the original painting’s borders.

  “Here. After we compared the borders of this painting to the original, we found they’re different, of course, but too similar to be discounted completely. But there are also too many inconsistencies in the overall composition to judge it as a replica—shading, paint strokes, even the variation in color. The paintings are close but intentionally altered so they can’t be mistaken as by the same artist. So instead of a replication, it appears we may have something rarer.”

  A shiver ran through Keira, exhilaration at what could be in front of them. “I believe the portraits were likely painted by two different artists, but at the same time. If one sat in the presence of the queen, it’s very likely they both did. Together.”

  “So what you’re saying is, we should go to London.”

  “Um . . . the painting should go, yes.” Keira cleared her throat, sweeping her unruly blonde waves behind her ear while she thought of how to pivot from the assumption that he’d go to London with her.

  “You’ve made plans? What about your contract?”

  “Not yet. But I can arrange for a chemical analysis the day after tomorrow. If everything goes as we hope, then we should know a lot more after that. But yes, someone should study the paintings together if possible, side by side.”

  The reasons why weren’t clear even to her, but something inside prompted Keira to look at Emory. “What do you think?” She willed him to say something.

  “Em? He won’t set foot in London. Not for a million quid, eh?” Carter slapped Emory on the shoulder. “But we’ll go. I’ve a company helicopter. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours, and we could catch dinner and head over to Mayfair for a show after.”

  Alarm bells began ringing as Emory remained silent next to her. She wasn’t disinterested in Carter—she had a pulse after all—but caution kept whispering inside in a “Watch it—you’ve been burned before, Keira” kind of way.

  “I’m not certain I’d have time for all that, what with transporting Victoria safely and the tests we have to run. I’d have to stay with her the whole time.”

  “How long does it take to eat? Minutes.”

  “Well, I’ll just see what M. J.’s up to then. Maybe she can go with us. An extra set of eyes to help out from a historical perspective?” Keira offered, turning back to the card table she was using to stack her things. She looked to Victoria, her only ally in the moment, and even her gaze was fixed on the other side of the room.

  No help there.

  “Whatever the doctor orders, right, Em?”

  Keira turned back, ready to blast Carter with his own brand of cheek. Only he didn’t seem to be talking to her. And he wasn’t smiling. He stared at Emory, the tiniest flicker of challenge growing in his eyes.

  “I’m the gaffer here so I don’t mind making it a London party. We can stay at my flat a few days—the group of us. That is, if you decide Kensington isn’t as dodgy as it used to be, Emory. Call Beatrice. You two know how to get this set up, I trust. Kensington W8 address. Good enough?”

  The room could have lit like touch paper. Neither man moved. Nor spoke, but she wagered they might have rather talked it out with their fists in each other’s faces. And Keira hadn’t a clue as to why.

  “Yes. Of course,” she cut in. “I’ll make a few calls today.”

  “Brilliant. I’ll just drop in to hear Ben’s tales from the library and then meet you back here tomorrow. We take our queen to the palace and celebrate our good fortune with a Sotheby’s auction soon after.”

  Carter winked on a gentle turn that said he was cultured and practiced, and mostly innocent in what he was asking. But Keira was no fool. There was something not completely up front about him, and whatever it was couldn’t be completely hidden by charm and a perfect smile.

  He left just as quickly as he’d popped in, his footsteps echoing off the high ceiling of the Rose Room as he breezed out.

  “He comes and goes with ease.”

  Emory nodded. “As he pleases, yes.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I go to London?”

  “Why would I? It’s your job. He’s paying you. He’s paying us both, actually. We’re at his beck and call.”

  “My job, maybe. But I get the sense that you have some apprehension about Carter and me working together on this. Is there something you’re not telling me about the two of you? You’re supposed to be friends, but if I gave looks like that to mine, I’d be shopping alone for the rest of my days.”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  So there was something.

  Why was it you could feel the elephant when it lumbered into a room, but no one wanted to comment when it stepped all over their toes?

  In some odd way, Keira and Emory had found an unspoken rhythm in the days they’d worked together and had just fallen into it. Coffee together in the mornings. Discovery and work through the afternoons. Crew dinners at night and starting again the next day. They’d been elbow to elbow since she walked through the manor’s front door. But every time Carter stepped in, he upended the balance.

  Instead of elaborating, Emory pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his front jeans pocket. “So, I found what you asked for. Victoria penned a journal entry on 13 July 1843. It was one that was left out when Princess Beatrice sifted through the queen’
s journals after her death. Had to do some digging, but you were right. The queen mentions the portrait and how Winterhalter came to Buckingham Palace to paint it. To quote her, ‘I find that I’m quite exhilarated to sit for the “secret picture” again tomorrow. Winterhalter has said he’ll bring his little bee back for the occasion.’ And in another journal entry from 2 January 1873, Victoria referred to it as ‘my darling Albert’s favorite picture, though I am gratified to have sent a copy home with her as the artist.’”

  “So the ‘little bee’ is a woman? I must admit, I’m gratified too.” Keira took the paper from him when he’d finished reading and scanned the words herself.

  With this, they were one step closer. Whoever the artist was, and whatever her connection was to Victoria and the manor, and perhaps a pivotal place in history—they may have the opportunity to find all the answers.

  Emory must have seen the excitement bubble to the surface, because when Keira looked up, she saw he’d been watching the emotions play out on her face all along.

  “Emory, this is amazing. Truly. After all you’ve done, don’t you . . . don’t you want to go with us? To see what happens?”

  He shook his head. His hands made their usual drift to his jeans pockets. “Victoria’s got enough friends without me tagging along.”

  “You don’t care for London?” She pulled at any straws that might reveal something about the rivalry dynamic between the two men.

  “I don’t care for a lot of places these days. Must be getting cantankerous in my old age,” he said, his voice laden with something heavy, though a smile still made its way onto the fringes of the last word. “Well, I’ll just see myself out.”

  Emory walked to the end of the coffee bar, where he’d laid his laptop and book on the windowsill. He picked them up and headed for the back doors.

  Keira stepped forward before she could stop herself. “Wait—no coffee this morning?”

  “Not today. I have a few things to do. But I’ll see you when you get back. Alright? I’ll learn what I can about the history of the estate, and we’ll compare notes when you turn up again.”