Secret Things and Highland Flings

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Secret Things and Highland Flings Page 10

by Tracy Corbett


  Of course, now he knew why.

  He’d never been close to his mother. She wasn’t affectionate or loving and she’d lacked the ability to laugh at herself. He’d rarely seen her smile and she’d never played games or did anything daft. But he’d admired her. She was a talented artist.

  She was also a stickler for the rules. A staunch disciplinarian who’d instilled in her children the difference between right and wrong. He’d been so desperate for her approval that he’d spend ages perfecting a replica Botticelli or Caravaggio in the hope it would make her happy. It rarely did. It was only when he was alone in his bedroom that he’d experiment with his sketches and let his imagination wander.

  But everything had changed the night he’d discovered his parents had sold one of his sketches and falsified documents. Knowing they’d deliberately defrauded someone had killed any interest in painting. Even when his father had issued an ultimatum – ‘Help the family, or leave home’ – he hadn’t been able to override his objections to their dishonesty. Was it any wonder his love of art had abruptly ended?

  But his sudden departure from their lives at eighteen had not only quashed his own desire to paint, but also his mother’s. By all accounts, she’d drifted into a state of mourning, resolutely refusing all attempts to be drawn out of her depression. Did he feel responsible for her grief? No. She’d made her bed. Did he feel guilty for running away and hurting his sisters? Hell, yes. How he was supposed to reconcile that, he didn’t know.

  A cough from the doorway startled him. He turned to see Lexi standing there. She was pissed off. He knew this because she was scowling. Her hands were on her hips and she looked primed for battle. She also looked as hot as hell. Her blonde hair was loosely tied up and she was wearing a vintage navy pinafore dress with a blue-and-white striped top underneath.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, trying to win her over with a smile. ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘Where’s my car?’ She clearly wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

  ‘Parked outside.’

  Her gaze narrowed. ‘Is it damaged?’

  ‘Of course not. I promised to take care of it and I did.’ He dug out the keys from his jeans pocket. ‘Thanks for letting me use it. I’m really grateful. Louisa is, too. We got back late last night.’

  ‘I know.’ She walked over and snatched the keys from him. ‘It’s bad enough that you took my car, but you were gone for three days.’

  ‘Sorry about that, but they kept Louisa in for monitoring. I couldn’t leave her.’ He tried for an apologetic smile. ‘I should’ve asked Gilly to let you know so you wouldn’t worry.’ He decided to chance his luck. ‘I would’ve let you know myself, but I didn’t have your number. You know, maybe we should exchange numbers—’

  ‘I understand why you didn’t want to leave your sister, but that doesn’t explain why you took my car again this morning.’

  ‘Ah, so you do believe she’s my sister?’

  Her cheeks turned pink. ‘Stop changing the subject. I want to know why you took my car without permission.’

  ‘I had good reason.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. No doubt you were tailing someone else.’

  ‘I wasn’t tailing anyone.’

  ‘But you did run off with my car.’

  ‘So I could get it cleaned.’

  That shut her up. ‘Cleaned?’

  ‘I’ve been sleeping in it for the last three nights. It was a bit whiffy.’

  Her cute nose turned up in disdain. ‘Delightful.’

  ‘Trust me, it wasn’t. I had it washed and valeted this morning. And I filled it up with fuel. I also got you this as a thank you.’ He handed her a small ribbon-tied box. ‘Homemade chocolates from Nanny’s café. I know you like sweet things.’

  There was a drawn-out moment where he could sense she was torn between rejecting his offering and scoffing the lot in one go. Eventually, she took the box.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He was rewarded by a sarcastic glare. ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Mrs Jennings has been looking after me. I’m very impressed with the quality of the artwork on display.’

  Her eyes flickered down to the box. He tugged on the ribbon and untied the bow. ‘Talking of artwork, where’s the painting you brought back with you?’

  ‘You mean the Spinelli?’

  He could tell by her expression she was testing him. He forced a laugh. ‘Spinelli? If only, eh? Are you going to try the chocolates?’

  Her eyes didn’t leave his. ‘You know who Albrico Spinelli is?’

  ‘Sure. He was a Renaissance artist. I know nothing about art myself, but my mother was a fan. She liked to collect copies of the greats.’ He shrugged, hoping she couldn’t sense he was bluffing.

  ‘And you think this particular painting is a copy?’

  He swallowed. ‘I know it is. I remember my mother talking about it. It’s not valuable.’

  ‘And yet you travelled all the way to Windsor to retrieve it when it was sent to my gallery by mistake.’ It was an innocent enough remark, aided by her wide blue eyes and pink lips. But he wasn’t daft. She knew exactly what she was doing. ‘I’m still trying to understand why you did that.’

  She wasn’t the only one. ‘It was my mother’s favourite painting,’ he lied. ‘Since she died the painting has become more meaningful. Especially for Louisa. She’d be devastated if it disappeared.’

  ‘But she’s the one who sent it to me.’

  Good point. ‘Yeah, but not knowingly. It’s a pregnancy thing. She gets forgetful.’ He moved closer to the doorway. ‘I figured I’d be a decent brother and fetch it for her before she realised it was missing. You know, to save her any unnecessary suffering.’

  She didn’t look convinced. ‘Then why did she sound so confused when I phoned her? She didn’t even know what painting I was talking about.’

  ‘Like I said, pregnancy brain.’ He gestured to the door. ‘So, if you could go and get it, that’d be great.’

  ‘I’d prefer to give it to Louisa in person. Especially as it holds such sentimental value for her.’

  Damn. ‘Right. Yeah, sure.’ He swallowed, his brain trying to come up with a contingency plan. He didn’t want Louisa involved. She might get suspicious.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  She lifted the lid off the chocolates and popped one in her mouth. He watched her expression switch to pure bliss.

  ‘There is, actually. Who’s Dazed & Confused?’

  He went from staring at her mouth to jolting. He hadn’t heard that phrase for over eleven years. His hands suddenly felt clammy. It took all of his willpower not to react. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I found a box of preliminary drawings in the billeting room. I’d very much like to talk to the artist about their work. Chocolate?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He was too rattled to eat. ‘Why? They’re not worth anything.’

  She frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘They’re crap.’

  She licked chocolate from her fingers. ‘For someone with no knowledge of art you seem very quick to make assumptions. The work isn’t crap, it’s astonishingly good. But you’re right in that it has no value.’

  ‘Because it’s crap.’

  ‘Because they’re only preliminary works.’ She ate another chocolate. ‘Goodness, these are delicious. Are you sure you don’t want one?’

  He shook his head. ‘If they have no value, what does it matter who the artist is?’

  ‘Because I’d like to know if there are any finished pieces. If they exist, they could be highly valuable. Assuming they’re of the same quality.’

  It wasn’t often he found himself dumbstruck. Now was one of those occasions. She liked his work? Was she serious?

  She licked her lips, sending him into a trance. ‘So, who do the sketches belong to?’ Her pink lipstick was speckled with icing sugar. ‘I’m assuming it’s not your mother. I
s it another family member?’

  He was mesmerised by her mouth. ‘Sorry … what?’

  ‘The name of the artist. What’s their name?’

  He willed his brain to come up with an answer. Any answer. Just so long as it wasn’t the truth. His gaze settled on a framed family photo on the mantlepiece. ‘Err … Tom.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘My cousin.’

  ‘Can I have his contact details?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because … because he’s a recluse. He’s not good with people,’ he added, like she wouldn’t know what recluse meant. ‘He definitely wouldn’t want his work exhibited or sold.’

  She sighed. ‘That’s a shame. I’d like to approach him anyway. He’s a most extraordinary talent. I’ve rarely seen copies so unique yet accessible. They’ll appeal to both purist collectors and those looking for a fresh take on the classics.’

  She thought he was that good? No one had ever thought he was that good, especially not his mother. But then she’d never been interested in his style of painting. She was a traditionalist. Her son’s ‘insane’ sketches weren’t to her taste. More to the point, they were unlikely to make them any money. Or so she’d thought.

  ‘Perhaps you could pass on my details and ask if he’d contact me. I’d really like to talk to him.’

  Gilly appeared in the doorway. ‘Och, here you are. Lunch is ready in the kitchen.’ She looked disapprovingly at the box of chocolates. ‘I see you’ve met his lordship.’

  Lexi looked confused. ‘Lordship?’

  Gilly nodded. ‘Master Oliver.’

  A beat passed before realisation dawned.

  ‘You’re kidding me? Him?’

  Gilly’s eyes grew wide. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Of course not, Gilly.’ He smiled at his housekeeper. ‘Ms Ryan has a few trust issues, that’s all. I did try to tell her who I was, but for some reason she wouldn’t believe me.’ He opened his arms in a ‘can you believe it’ way.

  Gilly’s expression confirmed that she could. Traitor.

  Lexi glared at him. ‘You never said you were a … I don’t even know what you are.’

  ‘Earl,’ Gilly added unhelpfully. ‘Although I’ve called him a few other names over the years.’

  ‘An earl?’ Lexi shook her head in disbelief. ‘Heaven help the aristocracy.’

  He frowned. He wasn’t that bad. ‘Maybe now you’ll stop questioning my motives and accept that I’m an honest and trustworthy guy.’

  Gilly snorted but stopped laughing when he glared at her. ‘Apologies, your lordship,’ Gilly said. ‘May I suggest Ms Ryan joins me in the kitchen for luncheon before it gets cold.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He tried not to sound grumpy.

  ‘Will your lordship be joining us?’ Gilly stifled a laugh.

  He wanted to throttle his housekeeper. ‘Funnily enough, no. Enjoy your luncheon,’ he said, glaring daggers at Gilly. What with Gilly’s teasing and Lexi looking at him like he were the devil incarnate, he wanted them both gone.

  Thankfully, they took the hint and left, shutting the door behind them.

  He returned to the paintings he’d acquired and yanked off the remaining section of frame, taking his annoyance out on the splintered wood. He still didn’t have the Spinelli. And now he’d complicated matters by telling Lexi his cousin was Dazed & Confused. Why had he done that? He should have said the sketches were the work of an unknown artist. Instead, he’d piqued her curiosity and that was the last thing he needed.

  He carried a canvas over to the easel. Maybe if he’d been thinking clearer he wouldn’t have panicked and blurted out another lie. But he’d been distracted by her questions about the Spinelli. The woman was too damned nosey. Now, he had to deal with her suspicions about Dazed & Confused as well as the fake Spinelli. Supposing she researched Spinelli’s history and discovered the sale of his preliminary sketch back in 2007? She might put two and two together and realise it was the same artist. His lies were in danger of unravelling.

  He was about to clean the canvas, when he heard a thump from the corridor.

  Now what?

  He went over to find Louisa reversing towards him in her wheelchair. He reached out to stop her. ‘What are you doing? You’ll tip.’

  She swivelled to face him. ‘I was trying to reverse through the door. I didn’t want to disturb you.’ She strained to see past him into the room. ‘Are you painting again?’ Her face broke into a smile when she saw the second-hand canvases. ‘Oh, my God, you are. Can I see?’

  Three decades spent trying to deter his sister from prying into his business had taught him not to bother. He might not have been home for eleven years, but that hadn’t stopped her insisting on monthly FaceTime sessions. Her determination to keep in touch had been relentless. In hindsight, he was grateful. He probably wouldn’t have come home otherwise.

  Resigning himself to a grilling, he wheeled her in. ‘There’s nothing to see yet.’

  ‘But this is a start, right? You’re actually going to paint again?’ She looked up at him, hope in her tired expression.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can I watch? I don’t want to put you off, but I need a distraction.’

  He wheeled her over to the window. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not really.’ She wouldn’t make eye contact.

  ‘Is it your leg? You’re not feeling sick again, are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s just …’ She paused before answering. ‘I’m tired and bored of being pregnant.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Please don’t tell Harry.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. But why don’t you want him to know?’

  She sighed. ‘Because I should be grateful. Having a baby is all I ever wanted and if it weren’t for the IVF I still wouldn’t be having one. So I shouldn’t complain, right? I should be joyous and glowing, instead of cranky and miserable. Tell me I’m awful?’

  He crouched down to look at her face. ‘Louisa, you’re not awful.’

  ‘Then why do I feel so low? I don’t understand why I’m not happy.’

  Her miserable expression broke his heart. Louisa was normally the happiest soul he knew, which was a miracle in itself. They’d all reacted differently to their cold upbringing. Sophie had become self-sufficient, never relying on others and never outwardly showing any pain or weakness. Whereas Louisa had never stopped trying to win their parents’ approval. She’d craved the closeness of family, only to be wounded anew with each rejection.

  In Harry, she’d found the happiness and love she deserved. He was a true gent, who’d given her a fairy-tale wedding and the promise of lifelong love. Even their mother had approved of the match, until she’d discovered her daughter had a problem conceiving and then her criticisms had returned. But thanks to the miracles of science, Louisa’s happy ending was in sight.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘You’re probably feeling low because of everything that’s happened recently. Mother dying, problems with probate, arguing with Sophie, breaking your leg. And then I show up and cause more grief. That’s a lot to deal with.’

  ‘But I’m glad you’re home.’

  ‘I am, too, but it’s still ruffled feathers.’ He watched her rub her bump. ‘I don’t know much about pregnancy, but I’m guessing your hormones are all over the place. Being grumpy and tearful is probably normal. I think it’s nature’s way of letting you know it’s time for the little blighter to make an entrance.’

  She smiled. ‘When did you get so wise?’

  ‘No idea.’ He got up and went over to the easel. ‘I still think you should tell Harry how you feel. He’ll understand.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t. He’s so excited. It’ll ruin it for him.’

  He lifted his grandfather’s portrait off the wall and propped it next to the easel. ‘It won’t ruin it, but it might stop him worrying so much. He’s not stupid. He knows something’s wrong. He asked me about it when we were playing cards at the hospital
.’

  ‘He did?’ She looked mortified. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you were probably fed up of arguing with Sophie over the future of Rubha Castle.’

  ‘Did he believe you?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he? It’s the truth.’

  ‘I am fed up of arguing.’

  ‘But it’s not the whole story, is it?’ He soaked a cloth in white spirit. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry about Sophie. She’s promised to quit hassling you until after the baby’s born.’

  ‘Big of her.’

  ‘She’s worried about you.’ He squeezed out the excess fluid.

  ‘If she was that worried she wouldn’t be badgering me to sell my home.’ She went quiet for a moment, lost in her thoughts.

  He returned to cleaning the canvas.

  A moment later, she said, ‘Is that what you’re going to paint? It’s not your normal style.’

  ‘I don’t have a style. I haven’t painted for years.’

  ‘I mean the stuff you used to paint when you were younger, the deranged copies.’

  He poured white spirit into an empty jam jar. ‘That was kids’ stuff.’ He rubbed at a few greasy marks on the canvas. ‘I thought I’d try being a grown up for once. Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling me? Stop wandering the planet and settle down.’

  ‘I’ve never said that.’ She sounded hurt. ‘And those paintings were far from kids’ stuff. They were highly disturbing.’

  He laughed. ‘A glowing endorsement. Thank you.’

  ‘They were also unique, inventive and highly evocative.’

  He looked over and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stuck out her chin, daring him to contradict her. ‘They were the exact words Mother used to describe your work. And whatever else she lacked, knowledge of art wasn’t one of them.’

  He was surprised to hear his mother had said that. She’d certainly never praised him to his face. Finding fault and criticising seemed to be her favoured method of communication.

  ‘It was just a shame she didn’t praise your other qualities. Maybe if she had, you wouldn’t have run off.’ She angled herself so she could look out of the window.

 

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