He went over to help turn the wheelchair. ‘According to Sophie, I don’t have any other qualities.’
‘Rubbish. You’re no saint, but deep down we both know we can trust you.’
He flinched. He’d been deceiving them for eleven years.
‘Even as a kid you always owned up to everything. It’s why you ended up in so much trouble.’ She rolled her head to look at him. ‘Do you remember the time you set fire to the garden?’
He did remember. He also remembered the hiding he’d received afterwards.
‘You screamed the place down because you thought Roger Rabbit was about to get barbequed.’
‘Those flames were perilously close to the pet enclosure.’ Even now she looked traumatised by the memory. ‘Father was given a roasting by the fire officer and told to install better discipline in his kids. Sophie almost got the blame because she’d burnt her hand trying to put out the flames. But you went running in there yelling it was you, refusing to let her take responsibility.’
But his sister didn’t know the whole story. She wouldn’t be laughing if she did. And maybe if he’d known the horror of being made to scrub bird droppings from the north tower he might not have been so willing to own up. ‘That just means I don’t like people taking the crap for my mistakes.’
‘Everyone always thought you were the black sheep of the family, but you were no worse than us two. You just used to admit to everything. We didn’t. Did you know I spilt a whole bottle of Mother’s perfume over her bed and let Mrs Jennings take the blame?’
He looked at his angelic sister. ‘You rebel.’
‘I know. But you never tried to hide it. I once heard Mother say to Aunty Carolyn, only ever ask Oliver his opinion if you’re prepared to hear the truth. I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.’
He went back to the painting. ‘I don’t think she did, either.’
‘She was really proud of you, you know.’
He mixed up a basecoat and began stabbing the brush into the canvas. ‘Now who’s fibbing.’
‘She was, honestly. I’m not dumb, Olly. I know something happened all those years ago to make you run away. Don’t worry, I won’t ask what it was. You would’ve told me by now if you’d wanted me to know.’
He couldn’t look at her. It was better she didn’t know. Better no one knew, which was why he went to such an effort to keep his parents’ secret.
‘I know Mother felt rotten about it. She might’ve been angry and bitter, but she knew she was in the wrong. I asked her about it once, what had happened to make you leave. Do you know what she said?’
He kept his focus on the brush, forcing it across the canvas. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
‘She said, the trouble with Oliver is that he’s essentially honest. It’s why he’s such an extraordinary artist. When he paints, only the truth emerges.’
His hand froze mid-stroke, clumping the paint.
‘I had no idea what she was on about, but you do, don’t you, Olly?’ She waited for him to look at her. ‘You know exactly what she meant.’ She succumbed to a huge yawn.
Balancing the brush on the jar, he went over and draped a discarded throw over her. ‘Try to get some rest.’
She glanced up at him. ‘You’re not going to disappear on me again, are you?’
Guilt knocked him sideways, as it always did when reminded of running out on his siblings. He kissed her cheek. ‘And miss getting to be an uncle? No way.’
She rubbed her tummy. ‘If it’s a boy, we’re calling him Oliver.’
He hadn’t seen that coming. He knew he should probably say something, but for the life of him he had no idea what.
She yawned again. ‘Wake me up when Harry gets home.’
He returned to the canvas. The brown mottled background floated in front of him. Is that why he’d stopped painting? Because he was scared of what it might reveal?
He stared down at the brush in his hand covered in paint, like a murder weapon dripping with the blood of his crime. Perhaps his mother had understood him a hell of a lot more than he’d given her credit for.
It was a highly disturbing thought.
Chapter Nine
Thursday 7th June
Lexi needed a break from concentrating. She got up from the Chippendale gaming table and walked around the room, taking a moment to savour her surroundings. For the past three days, she’d been cataloguing archive boxes in the billeting room, but today she’d decided to switch to studying the artwork displayed in the grand banqueting hall. It was nice to have a change of scenery.
The room was stunning. Lights from the chandelier merged with pockets of sunlight bleeding through the stained-glass windows, making the whole room glow. The ceiling and panelling were carved from thick wood, designed in baronial gothic style, and the floor was covered in a large tapestry rug. As with the billeting room, the central focus was a carved stone fireplace, depicting a hunting scene and a coat of arms.
But the artwork was the real star of the show. Huge portraits hugged the walls, encased in gilt-gold frames. Family members sat alongside works by Henry Raeburn and James Guthrie. She wasn’t an expert on Scottish painters, so it had been fun to research their work. In among the portraits were landscapes by Horatio McCulloch and William McTaggart and a beautiful still life by Anne Redpath. It was quite a compilation. Not only valuable, but also impressive, showing the family had an astute eye when it came to adding to their collection.
She stopped by the portrait of a grand fellow wearing a kilt. He was dressed in the full regalia: sporran, garters, sash and stockings. He had a proud look about him, despite balancing his weight on a walking stick. The plaque below said: Henry Charles Wentworth 1947–2015, Earl of Horsley.
‘Except you’re not, are you?’ She studied his superior expression. ‘Your son is.’
She shook her head, still reeling from the news that the blue-eyed art thief was a flipping earl. He didn’t look like an earl. He wore scruffy jeans and T-shirts. His hair was a mess of honey-blond waves and he rode a Vespa.
However she imagined an earl might look, he wasn’t it. But it was more than that. There was nothing stuffy about Olly. He certainly looked nothing like his father. He’d inherited his mother’s good looks, just as his sisters had. Not that outward appearances were what made a person attractive. It was what lay hidden beneath that mattered. And Oliver Wentworth’s character was highly questionable.
Louisa appeared in the doorway, struggling to manoeuvre her wheelchair through the gap. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘Not at all. I was just admiring your father’s portrait.’ She went over to help.
‘Grumpy sod, wasn’t he?’
Lexi laughed. ‘Distinguished might be a better description.’
‘I guess he was that, too.’
Lexi held the door open so Louisa could wheel into the room. ‘I notice there’s no signature. Did your mother paint it?’
‘Not that one. She’d stopped painting long before he had that one commissioned.’
That might explain why she couldn’t find any Eleanor Wentworth paintings post 2007. ‘What made her stop painting?’
Louisa paused before answering. ‘She had her heart broken.’
It was an odd answer. The father hadn’t died until 2015. Maybe he’d had an affair? Or a long-term illness? The art historian in her wanted to delve deeper, but she could tell from Louisa’s body language that further questioning wouldn’t be welcomed.
‘Your mother’s collection isn’t extensive, but it’s impressive.’
Louisa sighed. ‘She certainly had a talent for painting.’
Lexi sensed there was more to that remark, but it wasn’t her place to pry.
‘How are you getting on with the cataloguing?’
‘Good, thanks. It’s a fascinating place. It must be quite an experience living here?’
‘Tell me about it.’ Louisa rolled her eyes. ‘Medieval castles weren’t designed for wheelchair
access. I’m confined to the main rooms for the next few weeks. Until I can get rid of this damned thing.’ She pointed downwards.
Was she referring to the baby or the orthopaedic boot? She’d broken her leg falling over a Shetland pony, apparently. Not surreal at all.
As if realising what she’d said, Louisa flinched. ‘I’m excited about the baby, of course.’ Somehow her tone didn’t match her words.
Lexi decided to change topic. ‘I know we spoke about displaying your mother’s collection at the gallery in Windsor, but I can’t help feeling Rubha Castle would be a better setting.’
‘Here?’ Louisa seemed surprised.
‘It would make a stunning backdrop for the pieces. Especially as they all appear to have been painted in the castle or grounds.’ She gestured to the other esteemed paintings lining the walls. ‘And with such an impressive collection, I think an exhibition here would drum up a lot of interest.’
Louisa considered this. ‘I guess that makes sense. But we’re very remote up here. Would enough people come?’
‘I’d hope so. Especially as the castle isn’t normally open to the public. But I take your point. Maybe we could do both? Use the exhibition to create local interest and then display any unsold paintings at the gallery in Windsor.’
‘When were you thinking? I’m not exactly in a fit state to play host at the moment.’
‘You wouldn’t have to do anything,’ Lexi assured her. ‘I’d oversee the event. I’m going to be up here for a few weeks, so it makes sense to have the exhibition during my stay. It’ll reduce costs, for one thing.’
Louisa nodded. ‘I’m sure Mrs Jennings would provide refreshments and I could ask Olly to help, too? My brother’s a born salesman. He could charm anyone into buying anything.’ She laughed.
Lexi kept her thoughts to herself on that topic. ‘I’ll draw up a plan for your approval.’
‘I’ll talk to Sophie and Olly and make sure they’re okay with it. I’m sure they will be.’ She hesitated. ‘You know, perhaps we could sell off a few other paintings, too. Not the Scottish masters, of course – Mother would turn in her grave – but maybe some of the other works. It would be good to generate some extra income.’
She sounded embarrassed, as though voicing the issue of money was terribly scandalous. It was the opening Lexi had been waiting for. ‘Well, now you come to mention it, there is a painting that might be worth selling.’
Louisa’s expression grew hopeful.
‘It’s the painting that was sent to my gallery by mistake.’
Louisa’s face fell. ‘Oh.’
Undeterred, Lexi went over to the table and unclipped the wooden case housing the Spinelli. She’d kept the painting hidden in her room, waiting until Olly wasn’t around. He’d disappeared early this morning on his Vespa, so she knew it was safe to test out her theory. A theory that had taken a surprising twist when she’d researched sale records for Albrico Spinelli and discovered the seller of its sister painting was sold at auction in 2007 by Henry Wentworth. A coincidence? No flipping way.
She carried the painting over and balanced it on a chair. She turned to Louisa, waiting for her to look at the painting. It was time to find out whether Olly was the honest trustworthy guy he claimed to be, or whether he was the no-good, lying art thief she suspected him to be.
Louisa looked at the painting. ‘Is that it?’
‘You don’t recognise it?’
Louisa shook her head. ‘Should I?’
According to Olly, yes, she should. All that rubbish he’d spouted about the painting being his mother’s favourite and it having ‘sentimental value’ was a load of bull. Louisa had never seen the painting before.
It was official. Oliver Wentworth, the Earl of Horsley, his lordship, was a big, fat, cheating, no-good liar.
Lexi kept her expression neutral. ‘Do you know why your brother was so keen to get it back?’
Louisa’s cheeks coloured. ‘Not exactly, but I know it isn’t one of Mother’s. It shouldn’t have been sent to you. I’m sorry for any inconvenience we’ve caused.’
‘Believe me, it’s not an inconvenience.’
Louisa frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
It was time to enlighten her. ‘Have you ever heard of the Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli?’
She shook her head. ‘Art isn’t really my thing.’
‘Well, his paintings are very valuable.’ She perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Rumour has it two of his paintings vanished from the Vatican in the early 1700s. Their whereabouts remained a mystery until 2007, when The Sacrificial Woman was sold at auction for nearly two million pounds. Its sister painting, The Cursed Man, has never materialised.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘Until now.’
Louisa’s eyes grew wide. ‘You mean?’ She pointed at the painting.
Lexi nodded. ‘It could be a copy, but my gut tells me it’s the original painting.’
‘Oh, my goodness. But … but how? I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I at the moment. I’d need to research the provenance to know how it ended up here. But here it is.’ She smiled. ‘Quite something, huh?’
Louisa looked stunned. ‘If it’s genuine, how much would it be worth? As much as the first painting?’
‘If not more.’
‘Oh, goodness.’ Her hands went to her cheeks. ‘We wouldn’t have to sell the castle.’ And then she realised what she’d said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that aloud.’
‘It’s okay, I won’t breathe a word. Discretion is part of my job.’
It didn’t take a genius to work out money was an issue. Lexi had carried out enough valuations in her time to know that people rarely sold off family heirlooms unless they had to. She couldn’t imagine it was cheap to run a castle.
Louisa’s expression switched from embarrassment to confusion. ‘I wonder why my brother didn’t tell me the painting might be valuable? He made it sound like it was worthless. And he knows how much we need the money.’
Lexi chose her response carefully. It wouldn’t be professional of her to badmouth the brother. However much she suspected he was up to no good. She was already playing a dangerous game by going behind his back. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to get your hopes up. He told me he doesn’t think the painting’s genuine. He believes it to be a fake.’
Her face fell. ‘Oh, well, he’d know better than anyone.’
Why was that? she wondered. Oliver Wentworth claimed to know nothing about art. But perhaps he was lying about that, too? Either way, she’d rather distrust Olly and allow Louisa to improve the family’s fortunes than let his lordship pull off a scam. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘Why don’t I send the painting to a colleague of mine who specialises in works by Albrico Spinelli? That way, we’ll know what we’re dealing with. If it turns out to be fake, then no harm’s been done and no one needs to know. But if it proves to be genuine, then you’ll have the pleasure of surprising your brother with the good news.’
Her face brightened. ‘Oh, I like that idea. I’d hate for my brother to think I’m doubting him. This way he doesn’t need to know.’
‘Exactly.’ And then her phone rang. ‘Excuse me, Louisa. It’s my sister.’
‘I’ll give you some privacy.’
‘Please don’t leave on my account. The signal isn’t great down here. I’ll take it outside.’
She went through the main entrance and into the inner courtyard, greeted by a gust of wind that immediately messed up her hair. Holding her hair away from her face, she answered the call.
‘Hey, Tash. How’s it going?’
‘Not great.’
‘No luck persuading Marcus to pay off the official receiver?’
‘Worse.’
How could it be worse?
‘Didn’t you manage to track him down?’ Not that she was surprised. Marcus had been at the gallery when the investigator had shown up. He would have gone to ground by now. He
was probably back in Spain with Cindy.
‘Worse than that.’
‘Don’t leave me hanging. What’s happened?’
‘Scumbag Marcus has been inside the gallery.’
‘What?’ Lexi slumped against the iron railings. ‘How do you know?’
‘He left a note.’
Her stomach dipped. ‘A note?’
‘I was lying in bed last night when I heard a noise downstairs. The bastard must’ve heard me, but by the time I got down he’d gone. There were no signs of a break-in, but then I saw his note on the counter.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Now we’re even.’
Oh, hell. She swallowed. ‘Was anything taken?’
‘Nothing of value, not that I could see.’
Well, that was something.
‘Just your copy of the Woman at the Window.’
Shit! Her legs went from under her and she slid to the ground.
‘Why on earth he took that, I don’t know. It’s a copy, right? A good copy, but you have far more valuable paintings on display. He’s probably messing with your head. The bastard knows you love that painting and that’s why he took it.’
Tasha didn’t know the half of it.
‘And what does he mean by, now we’re even?’
She couldn’t answer. Her throat had constricted.
‘Lexi …? Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ she managed, forcing her mouth to work.
‘Don’t worry, okay? I’ve arranged for the locks to be changed first thing tomorrow. Sod the expense. I’m paying for it. It’s my fault he got in.’
‘It’s not your fault, Tasha.’
‘Yes, it is. I’m the one who persuaded you to go to Scotland. I said I’d look after the place and I didn’t. But you don’t need to worry, he’s not getting in again.’
It didn’t matter. It was too late. The only thing of value she owned had been nicked. How the hell was she going to pay off the official receiver now? Marcus obviously hadn’t believed her when she’d told him it was a copy. Somehow, he’d still known it was the original. Damn him.
What the hell was she going to do? ‘I’d better come home.’
‘Why? There’s nothing you can do here. Stay in Scotland and leave this to me. I’ll track down Marcus if it’s the last thing I do. He’s not getting away with this. He’s the one who should be paying off the insurance debt, not you. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
Secret Things and Highland Flings Page 11
