The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  M. J. glanced around, seeming to absorb the sights in the sparkling flat while she talked. “Well, call me a fish because whatever that man is sellin’, I’m in line to buy—hook, line, an’ sinker.”

  Keira could see why. A gal would have to be dead and buried not to have her heart stirred by the view around them. It looked like New Year’s Eve at Buckingham Palace there was so much glitz and glitter.

  Carter’s flat was a little lap of luxury tucked back in a court off Kensington High Street, on the edge of Edwardes Square and London’s famed Holland Park—three stories of stately rooms with a perfectly manicured garden terrace on each floor. All pristine white wainscoting and herringbone hardwood, polished to an impressive sheen, and lofty arched windows that beckoned guests to pause and view stars twinkling in the London sky. It was gilded chaos with tuxedos and trust funds floating around, and they’d found themselves plopped down in the marvelous center of it all.

  “Remember, M. J.—work. That’s what we came to London to do. Not to fall in love with Carter Wilmont and his . . .” Keira looked up to the cathedral-height ceiling for the right words.

  “Absolutely brilliant life?”

  When she didn’t agree, M. J. leaned in and shrugged her shoulder up against Keira’s in a light bump. “Snap out o’ it! Forget about Victoria, will ye? Keira, she’s tucked in tight at Kensington Palace. An’ here we are in designer duds at a party wit’ actual royals. Between this gown from Harrods an’ your little gold number from that vintage shop in Notting Hill, I’d say we more than fit the part. Quite a turnaround from a Dublin pub or a stodgy old manor in the Suffolk countryside, yeah? We’re more than within our bounds to enjoy the fruits o’ Carter’s generosity for one evenin’ at least.”

  “Just one evening?” Keira whispered, wishing that was all it would amount to.

  Carter had food catered last minute and a chef on loan from The Savoy. She didn’t even know that was possible. A string quartet played in the space between the reception room and French doors open to the terrace. Crystal champagne flutes caught the light as guests moved about, their glasses reflecting like diamonds on parade. Harvest bouquets of black calla lilies, lavender, and soft mossy greenery covered fireplace mantels, and vanilla candles perfumed the air with sweetness. Every person here seemed to be wearing what would have amounted to Keira’s yearly salary at Jack Foley’s pub, and without batting an eyelash, they’d do it again tomorrow.

  An absolutely brilliant life . . .

  That’s what it was all right. Until it wasn’t.

  Keira had been bit by it before—the intoxicating lure of the way the other half lived. And as M. J.’s eyes sparkled and she chatted on, giggling like a schoolgirl invited to dine with the queen, Keira’s old wounds battled not to reopen.

  How was it she’d tried to cut and run, hiding away in Dublin to lick her wounds after she’d been left in pieces, and all the while she’d been pulled through a door that would dare tempt her back? She’d have rather stayed on the straight and narrow than explore any further into this world.

  M. J. looped her arm around Keira’s elbow, sighing into her side. “Who is Carter Wilmont? Maybe he’s 007 an’ the tux is just a clever ruse to throw off all the hoity-toities. But how in the world is he still single? That’s the real question.”

  Keira rolled her eyes, a smile taking over. “You really want to be a Bond girl?”

  “’Course not. But maybe our other boss is the real mystery man to ye?” It was M. J.’s turn to wink. “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen the way ye look at him.”

  “Emory?”

  A knowing smile curved M. J.’s mouth. “Yeah. Emory. A real-life Simon Dermott if ever there was one.”

  “Maggie Jane . . . don’t make something out of nothing. We’re talking about your potential love life—not mine.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, in How to Steal a Million even Peter O’Toole didn’t do cagey an’ coy as well as our Mr. Scott does, unless I catch him starin’ at ye.”

  “What in the world does that mean?”

  “Nothin’—just that I’m allowed to notice a thing or two,” she teased, eyes sparkling. “At least ye know where ye stand wit’ Carter. Ye can’ tell me yer not watchin’ the same magic spell cover everyone around us that I am. Ye may be immune to the viscount, but I’d say the rest o’ us are duly smitten.”

  “Watching, maybe. But participating? No. I’m no Audrey Hepburn. And if you remember the film correctly, she took out a pistol and shot the chap in the arm at their first meeting. Doesn’t bode well for a lasting relationship.”

  “Don’ say that too soon. Ye know how it worked out between them. An’ Parham Hill does have a heap o’ closets . . .”

  “None of which I’m eager to step into with anyone, thank you very much. I’m here for the painting and the paycheck—in that order. But if you’re inclined, I give you my blessing. My extreme caution where our viscount’s charm is concerned, but I suppose a blessing nonetheless.”

  M. J. exhaled as Carter smiled at something, and Keira watched as another guest crossed paths with their charismatic employer.

  A woman in her fifties approached in a gown of soft black gauze frosted over by a multistrand string of pearls at her nape, with a perfect chignon of chocolate peppered with gray. She greeted him with an elegant kiss on the cheek and a stalwart air. Truly, had they been dropped down into another era, Keira might have suspected Coco Chanel herself had arrived to mingle in Carter’s world.

  They talked for a few moments, the pair of them, until he whispered something, the woman’s glance shot up, and they both stared over—at them. In a breath Coco’s face changed from bearing a regal air to holding a suspicion that had no place in such affable surroundings. She nodded, pursing her poppy-red lips before Carter offered his arm. The woman accepted, hooking her elbow around his as he wove them through the crowd.

  “For the love of all ’tis holy—look out.” M. J. nudged Keira’s side as she smoothed the wavy ebony hair at her nape with a quick flip of the palm. “He’s comin’ over.”

  On closer inspection, the woman was even more regal than she appeared across a crowded room.

  Carter led the fashion icon to stop in front of them. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you, if I may. This is Miss Maggie Jane Mitchell, our jack-of-all-trades at Parham Hill. She keeps us caffeinated, among other things like managing our world at the estate. And this is Keira Foley—our resident art historian.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you both. Working at that old manor our Carter has finally inherited? He is being secretive though—will not share a bit about what you’re doing as far out as East Suffolk. It does set one to wonder.” She turned to Keira, those red lips curling in a soft smile, her eyes seeming familiar somehow, revealing shades of sympathy in their depths. “But I hadn’t expected to meet you, Miss Foley, so this is a pleasure. I believe you may know my son—quite well, in fact.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes . . .” She pressed her lips into a deeply creased smile—as poised and polished as could be before laying down the hammer. “I am Marion Montgomery.”

  Keira glanced up at Carter, who stood by, a sudden statue in a pristine tuxedo. He didn’t explain how he knew her former fiancé’s mother. Didn’t speak at all, in fact, just stood and waited with hands buried in the trouser pockets of his tailored suit.

  Then the humor shot back to his lips, a grin light and feathery, and he turned to M. J. “Care for a turn about the room?”

  Her eyes lit up like a firecracker, sparkling as she looked to Keira, then to the center of the crowded room. “But no one’s dancin’.”

  Carter shrugged. “Never stopped me before. You know, I once danced down the Champs-Élysées in a snowfall, from the Arc de Triomphe all the way to the Grand Palais, without losing my footing once. I believe we can successfully cross the length of this room and give the rest of these guests something to gawk over. Want to give it a go?”

  “Right.” She handed him her cha
mpagne glass. “Lead the way.”

  He set hers alongside his, discarding them on the fireplace mantel. M. J. tossed Keira an elated look, just biting the edge of her bottom lip as Carter led her away.

  “It’s a pleasure. Are you sure?” Keira asked Marion when the couple was finally out of earshot, making sure she held back from pumping venom into her words. She wouldn’t go back to past hurts, nor would she allow them to own her present.

  “A manner of speaking, my dear.”

  “And no, we haven’t met.” Keira tried to read the woman. “There wasn’t time, was there?”

  “Of course there wasn’t. You know men. Fickle and fast. Do you think we’ve ever met one of my son’s girls?”

  Keira swallowed the bitterness of a snap-back reply.

  She’d unwittingly become one in a long line of impressionable gallery interns—young and stupid young ladies, the searching-for-something, easily-drawn-in kind—who thought themselves special in the eyes of the high-society prize that was Alton Montgomery.

  “That’s not the way he explained it when he was down on one knee.”

  “Alton’s father and I would have stepped in while he was in New York had we known how far things had gone. But we were out of the country at the time. If we’d have known before our son made such a rash decision, it would have saved you a lot of hurt in the end.”

  “You mean had you known Alton proposed to me you’d have stopped a grown man from showing how shallow his character truly is? It was me or the money, and he chose what he loved more.”

  Marion sighed with an acquiescence that said she knew Keira had fallen for her son’s promises. And what Keira had thought was something real and exciting and completely fairy tale–esque instead became the cautionary tale of her life.

  “My dear, it never would have worked.” She stared back, not with cold indifference exactly, but with what Keira could only read as something she ardently believed was true. Money was the way the world worked, and it blotted out human emotion every time. “You know as well as I that Alton’s position carries . . . certain expectations when it comes to marriage.”

  “I thought love had some bearing on the conversation.”

  Marion bristled under a sleek smile, fingertipping her pearls. “If only that were true.”

  “Oh, I know what you mean. I’m a working-class girl from an O’Connell Street pub—not a pedigree that works in rooms like this, is it? But I was researching for my dissertation and it took me to an internship at a Manhattan gallery, where I met the boss’s son. Your son. And after a whirlwind few months of five-star restaurants and Broadway shows that ended with a Tiffany ring on a very important finger, I woke up one day to a pink slip and a fiancé who refused to answer my calls. No explanation—no job, no marriage, and certainly no love. Just ghosted out of a future with the man I thought actually cared for me.

  “I had to meet his assistant in Central Park and hand over that little blue Tiffany’s box because he couldn’t muster the gumption to do it himself. So if you’ll forgive me, I have no interest in raking it over. It’s done and believe me, I’m better off.”

  The night was a bust. Keira turned to leave only to feel Marion’s fingertips graze her elbow, a soft, pleading request to stay.

  “Miss Foley, I had no intention of raking anything over. I am sorry, but now that we are both here, I must speak with you on another matter.”

  “What matter? There’s nothing else to say.”

  “Oh, but there is. For Carter.”

  Keira glanced up, saw Carter keeping an eye on them as he twirled the impervious M. J. around in circles in his reception room. No help there. He was aptly employed, and apparently very happy to be occupied instead of enduring a well-meaning scolding from her former fiancé’s mother.

  “Look, Mrs. Montgomery. If you’re implying that there’s something between Carter and M. J., I don’t see how that’s any of your business. They’re adults. While I will do everything I can to caution my friend from making the same mistake I did—”

  “No. Carter’s able to manage his own love life. I mean the Scott boy.”

  A wave of uncertainty washed over Keira.

  Had she heard that right? How in the world could this be about Emory?

  “Who—Emory Scott?”

  “Carter says he’s hired that young man to manage the restoration efforts at his estate. It seems the two of you have become . . . friends in recent weeks. Is this true?”

  Friends?

  It was difficult not to think of drinking coffee while watching the sun rise over Parham Hill’s meadows and taking walks through the pasture to the beekeeper’s cottage—of doing any work at all in the last weeks without Emory at her side. It was all innocent, at least in her mind. But something familiar had settled in, for those were things friends did. And the memory of the times she’d spent with him was something she’d carried all the way to London. Maybe hadn’t realized it was still with her until that very moment.

  “I suppose so,” she whispered.

  “Miss Foley, let me be frank. The Wilmonts and the Montgomerys have been close for many years. I consider it a duty to Carter’s mother to check on her son anytime he is putting himself in a situation, let’s say, that is less than acceptable. Since his father’s sudden passing, Adelaide Wilmont has become more anxious about settling her son’s future.”

  “Sudden?”

  “A heart attack. Leading mergers and acquisitions one day, gone the next. And Carter has to pick up the pieces and run with all of it. An association with Emory Scott is not advisable if Carter is to take his father’s place in their business affairs.”

  Marion ran manicured nails over the rim of her cocktail glass. She cleared her throat, whatever spell that held her all of a sudden broken.

  “Mrs. Montgomery, I don’t understand . . .”

  “I would like you to convince Mr. Scott to leave the Wilmonts alone.”

  “You want me to convince Emory to walk away from Parham Hill?”

  “Exactly. Carter won’t listen—he’s much more equipped in the charm department, bless him. But that boy is as hardheaded as his father was. I know you must be aware by now that this is a small world. The art. The parties. Look around this room and it’s the same list of players whether it’s London, Paris, or New York, just with a few new wives and a bit more Botox. But since the fallout of the theft at the Farbton and then the funeral . . . Emory has had little by way of explanation for his actions. It’s as if the day his fiancée died, he did too. And no one has seen him since, until he reemerged at Parham Hill and begged Carter for a job. Rather suspect, don’t you agree, for Carter to hire an art thief to manage an inheritance of potentially priceless fine art?”

  The revelations felt like fire in Keira’s veins.

  A fiancée . . . and a funeral?

  The room felt steaming hot all of a sudden, the garden terrace and its fresh air looking altogether too inviting a place for Keira to run. She breathed deep, shock traveling her limbs. The lines on Marion’s face suddenly took on a starkness that didn’t match the elegance of everything else about her persona.

  “He didn’t tell you then.”

  “No. He didn’t. But then, we’re not . . .” Keira paused, started again. “Emory doesn’t talk about his personal life. He’s only interested in business—which he’s quite dedicated to, by the way. I’ve never seen anything in his character that warrants judgment like this.”

  “No? Wait.” Marion’s smile was easy, slithering through her elegant image. “Emory Scott has many secrets. I’d tread very carefully if I were you. Regardless, if as Carter says you and Mr. Scott have formed an attachment, I must ask if you’d agree to sway him from any further association with the Wilmonts.”

  The last thing Keira imagined when she’d carted Victoria off to London was that she’d spend an evening in the company of her former fiancé’s mother. And instead of giving Marion Montgomery an earful about the vices of her despicable son, she felt a
deep sorrow over Emory’s loss that triggered something completely different than anger.

  It gave the scything battle she’d witnessed at the steps of the beekeeper’s cottage some measure of sense when it hadn’t any before.

  She needed to know why.

  “What makes you believe I would step in at all? It’s really none of my business. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t walk out this door and leave you wondering what might have happened had your son not been such a coward and you stayed on my good side.”

  Marion’s eyes twinkled in the flicker of candlelight, the slight glimmer of authenticity trying to sneak through her polished veneer. She lingered on the spread of The Savoy’s best—caviar and buttered toast, strawberries and wheels of brie, scores of canapés and rows of crystal champagne flutes with pink sugared rims—all lined atop a long olive wood island in the kitchen.

  “Would you care for something to eat, Miss Foley?”

  The prospect of eating with this woman felt like it could have been a last meal with a boa constrictor. But Keira studied Marion Montgomery. What had she tucked up her Chanel sleeve? Alton was gone—that was over and done with. Keira would not revisit the last year in her heart. But to have the opportunity to dig deeper into what Emory wouldn’t say . . . The woman was offering veiled information, but still something that intrigued her.

  That Keira wouldn’t walk away from.

  “Dinner? Yeah, I think I would.”

  Seventeen

  December 24, 1944

  Parham Hill Estate

  Framlingham, England

  Amelia sat on the library’s lone settee, staring through the glass door of the cabinet to the spine of the prized Peter Pan of Kensington Garden volume that had been a gift from Arthur their first Christmas together.

  A fire danced in the hearth, radiating its golden glow into the vast room as rain clapped the roof in a steady downpour. She could hear it over the crackling and popping of fresh logs—a depressing drudge of water. It had the nerve to rain on Christmas Eve! Shaking the sides of the manor with wind and stinging ice pellets that would turn into knives against the windows. And where there jolly well should have been bright, fluffy snowflakes drifting about the sky, instead they had puddles of water, and mud, and a dour forecast to contend with on such a spirited day.