Secret Things and Highland Flings

by Tracy Corbett

  ‘Still, you’re here now.’ Gilly handed Louisa a mug of tea. ‘It’s just a shame Lady Eleanor isn’t around to see it.’

  Actually, it was a blessing. His mother had been the main reason he’d left home aged eighteen. He couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. All his life his parents had banged on about ‘protocol’ and ‘tradition’ and the need for ‘honesty’. They’d beaten him down with draconian rules and restraints, expecting him to behave in a suitable way for someone in his ‘elevated’ position. And yet the whole time they’d been two-faced liars.

  He’d discovered this one night in 2007, when he’d stumbled across their illicit plan to falsify the provenance of a valuable painting. The painting was several hundred years old, but there was significant doubt surrounding its authenticity. So they’d created a set of false documents to make it look like it was an original work by renowned Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli.

  Overhearing their conversation had been shocking and unbelievable. But the tipping point had come when he’d realised they’d managed to pass off one of his replica sketches as an original Albrico Spinelli, too. The sketch had sold ahead of the auction for several thousand pounds, creating a ‘buzz’ around the main painting and increasing its value.

  He hadn’t known which had angered him most: the fact that his mother’s art tutelage and insistence on using genuine sixteenth-century materials hadn’t been about showing an interest in developing her son’s talent but a way of making money, or because they’d gone behind his back and made him complicit in their crime. Suddenly, it all made sense. The reason his mother had made him paint replicas wasn’t for his own benefit but so his parents could flog them and improve the family’s finances.

  A huge argument had followed. His parents’ excuse? That it was a necessary evil to save Rubha Castle from financial ruin. They’d refused to apologise or admit any wrongdoing. Instead, they’d accused him of being selfish for not wanting to help the family. But how could he continue to paint when he knew his works were being created deliberately to defraud people? It wasn’t moral or right, not to mention a contradiction of their holier-than-thou principles. So any loyalty or admiration he might have felt for his parents’ so-called traditional family values had evaporated in that moment.

  He took a swig of tea and dunked a biscuit, something his mother would never have permitted. He no longer cared.

  He was by no means a saint. But even as a teenager he hadn’t been able to reconcile the knowledge that his parents were crooked. So he’d left home the moment he could, not returning for eleven years, even to attend their respective funerals.

  He ate another biscuit.

  The irony was that having fought so hard to lead his own life, ending up alone and abroad at eighteen had scuppered his dreams to become a renowned artist. Instead, he’d drifted from one country to another, fruit picking and bartending, ending up as the ‘drop-out’ his parents had predicted.

  But after years of being estranged, he’d decided it was time to stop punishing his siblings for something that wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know about their parents’ shameful secret, only their charitable work in the community. So they’d never understood why he’d left, or what had kept him away so long. And he still couldn’t tell them. He never would. He’d just have to hope that in time they’d forgive him.

  Louisa yelped, reminding him he was supposed to be playing nurse.

  ‘We need to elevate your foot,’ Gilly said, lifting Louisa’s booted leg with all the tenderness of a caber tosser.

  ‘I can manage, Gilly.’ The pain of a broken leg was clearly testing the bounds of his sister’s normal chirpy demeanour. ‘If you could pass me that pillow.’

  He intervened. It was the brotherly thing to do. He might fall short in all other areas as far as family duty were concerned, but protecting his sister from a well-meaning Gilly was at least within his capabilities. He grabbed the pillow before Gilly could inflict further damage and eased it under Louisa’s foot. She mouthed him a ‘thank you’.

  He touched her cheek, wondering how she’d managed to blossom into such a tender human being when their upbringing had been devoid of any real affection. Neither parent had been the warmest of people, but his mother’s cruel streak had been magnified by the untimely death of their father and the bitterness she held towards her only son. His siblings had taken the brunt of his mother’s meltdown, the knowledge of which only added to his guilt.

  Despite not being close to his parents, he still felt a loss. Loss for not having had an adult relationship with either of them. Loss at being separated from his siblings for so long and loss for carrying a grudge around for eleven years that had slowly eaten away at his belief in the ‘happy ever after’.

  He tucked his hands under Louisa’s arms and eased her upright.

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  She shook her head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’

  He frowned. ‘Get what?’

  He never did find out. His phone rang.

  He left Louisa in Gilly’s care, nicked another biscuit and ducked into the corridor to answer his phone. But when his older sister yelled, ‘Louisa’s had an accident?’ he knew his day wasn’t getting better any time soon.

  He leant against the stone wall and braced himself for a bollocking.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  Sophie sounded pissed off, which was par for the course. If Louisa were a margarita, bursting with colour and flavour, her life garnished with a paper umbrella and bright red cherry, Sophie was the ice in the glass. An antidote to joy.

  ‘How come I got to hear about it from Gilly?’

  ‘Sorry, Soph. There was no phone signal at the hospital.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have gone outside?’ Her voice rose another notch.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave her alone. She was upset.’

  ‘But you don’t mind upsetting me? Cheers, Olly. Some brother you are.’

  He let her rant; he deserved her wrath. And it wasn’t her fault she was bitter – it was the upshot of growing up in a loveless household.

  When he’d returned to the UK, Louisa had welcomed him with an open smile and unadulterated joy at having him home. In contrast, Sophie’s reaction had been to slap his face, call him a bastard and refuse to talk to him for two weeks. He supposed her yelling at him was progress. It was painful, but at least she was talking to him.

  ‘Selfish … arrogant …’

  ‘You’re right, Sophie. I should’ve called you. No excuses.’

  ‘Too bloody right! I’ve been there for her, you haven’t. All through IVF, all through the miscarriages—’

  He dropped his head against the cool stone wall. ‘I know and I’m sorry, but I want to make amends for that.’

  ‘Too effing late!’ This was followed by a series of more expletives.

  Hearing Sophie swearing was like witnessing a Disney princess in a bar fight. She was tall and curvy, with long blonde hair and stunningly beautiful. She looked ‘expensive’, a real upper-class society girl. She was a freelance columnist for various fashion magazines and attended events with the who’s who of London society, where she smiled, charmed and spoke with a plummy accent. It was only behind closed doors that the façade slipped.

  He took another bite of biscuit, waiting until she’d finished ranting.

  It took a while.

  Finally, she said, ‘Is she okay? Do I need to come up there?’

  He swallowed. ‘I don’t think so. Gilly’s here and Harry’s planning to cut short his business trip. He should be back later tonight. And I’m here—’

  ‘Ha! For how long? You’re not exactly Mr Reliable.’

  He smothered a sigh. ‘How many times, Soph? I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’ She mumbled another expletive. ‘And if you are staying, make yourself usefu
l and help us sort out the estate.’

  ‘Can’t we leave it to the solicitors?’

  ‘Which part of we’re running out of money don’t you understand? If we leave it to the solicitors we’ll have nothing left.’

  He pushed away from the wall. ‘But I know nothing about probate. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.’

  ‘I’m not talking about probate. You need to persuade Louisa to sell Rubha Castle.’

  Oh, no. This was one argument he wasn’t getting involved in. ‘You know I can’t do that. Rubha Castle’s Louisa’s home, it’s her livelihood. It’s where she wants to raise a family—’

  ‘We can’t afford to keep both properties. The terms of the will state we’re only allowed to sell one. If we get rid of the Windsor townhouse, it won’t solve our financial problems. Plus, I’ll be out on the streets. At least Louisa has an alternative. Harry’s family own half of Scotland, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Or don’t you care?’

  ‘Of course I do. I just wish there was a way of keeping both.’ He rubbed his forehead, feeling as exasperated as Sophie sounded.

  ‘Well, there isn’t. Rubha Castle costs a fortune to upkeep. It no longer attracts many visitors and Louisa’s insistence on rescuing random animals is adding to the expense. If we sell it now we’ll get a decent return, but if we wait until it crumbles to the ground it’ll be worthless. It doesn’t make good business sense.’

  ‘But Louisa loves it here. She’d be heartbroken to sell. And you know how much she adores those animals.’

  There was a weighted pause. ‘I know.’

  Despite his sister’s determination to sell the castle, he knew she was worried about Louisa and didn’t want to cause her any distress. His youngest sister worked part-time for an animal charity, she’d built a life for herself in Scotland, she’d even married a local laird. She was a sensitive soul who was trying to rid herself of her own childhood demons by making Rubha Castle a ‘happy home’. Olly could understand that.

  And so did Sophie, despite what she claimed.

  ‘I wish there was something we could do.’

  Sophie sighed. ‘Did Louisa tell you her great plan?’

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘To sell Mother’s paintings. She’s sent them to an independent art gallery in Windsor for valuation.’

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The subject of art was a sensitive one.

  ‘I think she’s hoping they’ll sell for a shedload of dosh and solve our problems. I’ve no idea what their value is. The gallery owner asked for any preliminary drawings of the works to be sent over, but neither of us has any idea what those are. Do you?’

  ‘They’re the preparatory drawings an artist sketches before painting the main work.’ He frowned. ‘Why do they need preliminary drawings?’

  ‘Apparently, it helps to evaluate the paintings. Mother never sold anything during her lifetime, so it’s difficult to put a value on the work.’

  Technically, that statement wasn’t true. His mother had sold a painting in 2007 for a whopping 1.7 million quid. But as the world at large, and in particular the French buyer of the painting, believed it to be painted by Italian Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli, Olly wasn’t about to correct that assumption. Especially as he was complicit in the crime – albeit unwittingly. If the truth ever got out about the painting’s real origins, the fallout would be immense. The family’s reputation was shaky enough. There was no way they could withstand the scandal of forged masterpieces, a lawsuit and a criminal investigation.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  Part of him worried that selling his mother’s paintings posthumously might be exposing them to overintense scrutiny. But they didn’t have a choice. And it’s not like she’d forged the Spinelli herself, was it? He had no idea who the real artist was, or how his parents had come into possession of the painting. But the point was, they needed cash, and he wasn’t about to stand back and let four hundred years of family history flush down the loo without a fight … no matter how averse he was to his relatives. His mother had been a bloody good painter. If he was right, her work was valuable. And, more importantly, finite in number. Nothing like a dead painter to inflate the asking price.

  He rubbed his forehead, his mind returning to the present. ‘I think they’re boxed up in the billeting room somewhere. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘By the way, Louisa found another painting hidden among Mother’s collection. It was boxed separately and covered in a dustsheet. It was a painting of a religious bloke reading from a scroll. It wasn’t like her other paintings, but Louisa thought the gallery might as well have it.’

  Olly’s world skidded to an abrupt halt. His heart followed suit, banging into his ribcage, sucking all the oxygen from his brain.

  He must have made a noise, because Sophie said, ‘Olly, what’s wrong? Is it a bad painting?’

  A bad painting?

  On the contrary, it was a bloody phenomenal painting.

  It was the second forged Spinelli.

  Shit!

  Chapter Three

  Later that day …

  Lexi peered through the glass-fronted oven door to check on the development of her cupcakes. Unlike the problems associated with trying to run an art business and avoiding her ex-husband, baking never gave her headaches, inflated her overdraft or cheated on her with a younger woman. Plus, whipping up a batch of naughty treats gave her something to nibble on with her caramel latte. And boy, was she in need of a sugar rush tonight.

  She removed her oven gloves and reset the timer.

  Her sister appeared in the kitchen having selected The Five Satins ‘In the Still of the Night’ on their recently acquired jukebox, complete with crackling speakers and flashing disco lights.

  ‘So, what’s eating you?’ Tasha fixed Lexi with a frown. She was wearing her black mesh bodice dress with buckled sky-high stiletto boots, rendering her a good inch taller than her twin – even with Lexi in four-inch heels.

  ‘Who says there’s anything wrong? Maybe I’m fine. Maybe I’m so relaxed I’m—’

  ‘Baking.’ Tasha nicked one of the chocolate orange truffles cooling on the wire cake rack.

  ‘I bake all the time.’

  ‘Yeah, but you only bake large quantities of coronary-inducing confectionery when your stress levels are through the roof. You’re very predictable.’

  ‘Predictable?’ Lexi slumped against the sink. ‘That’s highly depressing.’

  Tasha licked the chocolate-coated truffle. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Lexi sighed. ‘What’s there to say? I’m a thirty-two-year-old predictable woman who put her trust in a cheating gambler. I’m beyond help.’

  ‘This is true.’

  Lexi glared at her twin. ‘Thanks.’

  Tasha gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Trusting someone isn’t a flaw. You had a bad experience and got burnt. Shit happens. But you’ll get over it. Time heals and all that crap.’

  Lexi rolled her eyes. ‘You should be a marriage guidance counsellor.’

  ‘It’s a gift, I know.’

  ‘Right at this moment it doesn’t feel like I’ll get over it. I no longer trust myself, let alone anyone else. My judgement is clearly abysmal.’

  ‘Only when it comes to men. In everything else you have impeccable taste.’ Tasha pointed to their latest acquisition. ‘Like that coffee table.’

  ‘Liar. You said it was a piece of crap.’

  ‘The mosaic tiling converted me. I couldn’t see how a fifteen-quid reject from eBay would complement your other eclectic pieces. I was wrong.’

  ‘Eclectic? Careful, Tasha, that almost sounded like a compliment.’

  Tasha folded her arms. ‘I say it as I see it. This place needed a makeover, I was just too lazy to do anything about it.’

  Which wasn’t true. Her sister’s desire for change had nothing to do with needing a makeover.

  They’d inherited the three-storey town
house when their grandmother had died ten years ago. It was situated within a stone’s throw of Windsor Castle, nestled in the cobbled side streets along with the other quaint shops and eateries. Their grandmother had run Elsie’s Teas & Treats for nearly forty years and she’d been a key figure in their lives growing up. She’d encouraged their individuality, wanting them to be independent, self-sufficient and resourceful women.

  When she’d died, she’d gifted them the building in the hope they’d fulfil their desire of running their own businesses, which they had. They’d divided the space into two areas, with two flats above: one for sharing, the other for renting out. Below, they’d opened Tainted Love Tattoos and Ryan Fine Arts: two contrasting businesses, linked by a shared love of art.

  The set-up had worked perfectly. As twins, they’d always been close, despite their differing personalities. In fact, most people didn’t even register they were identical. It was amazing how changing your hair colour and throwing in a few tattoos could mask the obvious. Lexi’s preference for lightening her hair and wearing colourful retro clothing contrasted with Tasha’s ebony hair and penchant for body art and metal piercings. But underneath the camouflage, they shared the same DNA. More than that, they were best friends. There was no one on the planet Lexi felt closer to than Tasha.

  When she’d married Marcus and moved out of their shared flat, it had been a wrench leaving Tasha, but at least working next door had ensured their close bond remained. And when her marriage had broken down, it was Tasha who’d been there for her, insisting she move back into the flat. It was just like old times, the pair of them living together and being the emotional support they both needed.

  Lexi watched her sister wipe chocolate from her black nail-polished fingers. ‘Thanks again for letting me move back in, Tash. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Luckily, you’ll never have to find out. Besides, you were having a meltdown. It was my duty as your loving sister to rescue you.’