The sound of a woman’s yelp startled him. He turned to see Tasha Ryan stepping over piles of horse manure. What the hell was she doing here?
She was wearing shiny black leggings that looked like they’d been spray-painted on and a black see-through mesh top, her black bra visible beneath. Hardly country attire.
‘God, that stinks,’ she said, the disgust on her face evident even behind huge sunglasses. Sunlight glinted off the buckles on her stiletto boots, providing the only respite to the onslaught of black. ‘Your sister said I’d find you here.’
He frowned. ‘I thought Louisa was still at the hospital with Harry?’
‘Elder sister,’ she said, stepping onto a dry section of soil.
‘Sophie’s in Scotland?’
‘We bumped into each other on the sleeper train last night.’
‘I bet that was fun for the other passengers, watching you two fight un-refereed.’ He turned off the water tap. ‘Was hair-pulling involved?’
Tasha removed her sunglasses. ‘It was a factor, yes.’
Christ. At least they hadn’t killed each other, that was something.
He wound up the hosepipe. ‘If you’ve come all this way to bollock me, you’re too late. I already know I was a bastard to your sister.’
Her hands went to her hips. ‘Damned straight, you were.’
‘I shouldn’t have stuck the knife in.’
‘No, you shouldn’t have.’
‘She’s had a crap time of it and I was a prick for making her feel even worse.’ He walked over to the animal sheds.
Tasha followed, her heels puncturing the soil. ‘No argument from me.’
‘But I’m also angry with her.’
‘Understandably.’
‘She punished me for lying to her and yet the whole time she was lying, too.’ He picked up a pitchfork.
‘Agreed.’
‘Calling her a hypocrite was justified.’ He opened the shed door housing the alpacas.
‘It was.’
He dug the fork into the bedding. ‘I’m glad we agree.’
She placed her sunglasses on her head. ‘So what’s the problem?’
He stopped shovelling. ‘Excuse me?’
Tasha looked over the top of the stable door. Unlike Lexi’s fascination when she’d been introduced to the animals, Tasha eyed Buddy and Holly with pure disdain. ‘You’ve listed perfectly valid reasons as to why you’re angry with my sister. So why do you look like a man who’s had his heart removed with a blunt spoon?’
‘Poetic.’ He carried the forkful of hay out of the shed.
‘I’m a woman of many talents.’ She wafted her hand in front of her face. ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
He sighed. ‘Why are you here, Tasha?’
‘Because I love my sister.’ She kicked the stable door shut, preventing him from re-entering. ‘And I think you do, too.’
He glared at her, ignoring the twinge in his chest. ‘What does it matter? I’ve blown it. Even if I understand why she lied and forgive her, you think she’ll forgive me after what I did? I can’t even forgive myself.’ He gave up trying to muck out the alpacas and walked over to the lambing sheds.
Tasha followed. ‘Your sister said as much last night.’
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Before or after the hair-pulling?’
‘Before.’ A wry smirk played on her lips. ‘Like you, she asked me why I was coming all the way to Scotland to see you. I told her it was because I was undecided as to whether or not you could be trusted.’
‘You picked the right person to ask.’ He unhooked a bag of feed. ‘I’m sure Sophie didn’t hold back.’
‘She didn’t.’
No surprise there.
‘Do you know what she said?’
‘I can guess.’
‘That she’d trust you with her life.’
He’d guessed wrong.
He turned slowly. ‘Was she drunk?’
‘Not at that point.’ Tasha’s expression turned rueful. ‘Anyway, she told me you were a good man, who had a bloody good reason for lying. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but she defended you with a passion I found quite … alarming.’
She wasn’t the only one. Sophie defending him was a new experience.
He walked along the pens, emptying feed into the troughs.
‘It helped me solve a conundrum.’ Tasha leant against a pillar, her expression unimpressed when she realised it was covered in animal hair. ‘I’m normally a good judge of character and I knew you were full of bullshit the first time I met you.’ She brushed dirt from her arm. ‘All that crap about falling off your bike? I know a stab wound when I see it. And then I discovered you’d broken into my sister’s gallery, followed her to Scotland and wormed your way into her bed.’
Charming. And if only. ‘Your point?’
‘I assumed you were a lowlife, lying scumbag.’ She appeared in front of him. ‘And there was no way I was letting another arsehole ruin my sister’s life.’
‘I hear you, Tasha. I’m a liar. I can’t be trusted. I’m just like Marcus. You didn’t need to come all this way to warn me off. I get the message, okay?’
‘That’s not what I’m doing.’
‘Then what are you doing?’ It was strange to stare into such familiar eyes. For two people who shared identical DNA, they couldn’t be less alike. God, he missed Lexi.
Tasha folded her arms. ‘Despite all the evidence pointing to you being a carbon copy of Marcus, you’re not.’
‘And how do you figure that?’
‘Because Marcus lied to protect himself. You lied to protect others.’
What did it matter? Lexi got hurt either way. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You were willing to risk your own reputation to rescue my sister’s painting. You knew how much it meant to her and even though she was mad with you, you still tried to help her.’
That was before he’d found out she’d stolen twenty-seven thousand pounds. Would it have made a difference if he’d known? He wasn’t sure.
Tasha unfolded her arms. ‘My opinion of you changed when you came up with that crazy scheme to switch the paintings. There was nothing in it for you and yet you were prepared to help her. I began to ask myself why.’
He’d asked himself the same question. ‘And what conclusion did you come to?’
‘Well, apart from the obvious.’ He was subjected to a steely glare. ‘I figured you must be in love with her.’
There was no point denying it. ‘So was Marcus.’
‘But Marcus would never have paid off the official receiver.’
Olly’s stomach dipped. How the hell …?
‘You’re wondering how I know?’ She tilted her head to one side, her black hair sliding away like liquid onyx. ‘I had a meeting with the Insolvency Service this week to discuss a repayment plan. I was hoping to clear the debt and prevent Lexi from having to sell her precious painting. Imagine my surprise when the investigator told me a repayment plan was already in place.’ She stepped closer, unnerving him. ‘And that ten grand had been paid off.’
The tattoo on Tasha’s chest blurred, making it look like the dagger was about to stab him. He realised he’d stopped breathing and sucked in a breath.
‘That’s when I knew I’d misjudged you. Sophie defending you last night was the final piece of the puzzle.’
‘Which is?’
‘You’re bent, but you’re not untrustworthy.’ She held his gaze. ‘And despite everything, I’ve decided that you’re good enough for my sister.’
Wow. He hadn’t expected that. ‘Are you saying I have your approval?’
‘You don’t need it, but you have it anyway. My sister’s free to date whoever she likes.’ She glanced into one of the pens, recoiling from the sight of romping piglets. ‘Maybe I was wrong to interfere with her and Marcus. But I don’t regret it. She deserves a man who’ll adore her, risk everything to keep her safe, and who’ll love her unconditionally.’
She patted his chest. ‘You’re up to the challenge.’ And then her eyes met his. ‘At least, you’d better be.’
He struggled to swallow. ‘I’m far from perfect.’
‘She doesn’t need perfection. She has me for that.’
When she smiled, he couldn’t help laughing. Her face changed completely when she wasn’t scowling. She looked more like Lexi.
‘My sister has an adventurous soul. She’s funny, kind and eccentric. She needs a partner who’ll share her love of art, who’ll travel with her and who’ll laugh with her. If you can accept that she’s flawed, fantastic and enjoy eating her cakes, you’ll probably be idiotically happy together.’
‘This is assuming she’ll forgive me.’
Tasha shrugged. ‘Only one way to find out.’
His head was so full of questions it was hard to formulate a plan.
Tasha sighed dramatically. ‘What are you waiting for? Go!’ She pointed to the door.
He slung the feeding bag into a wheelbarrow and turned to leave, but Tasha caught his arm.
‘Just remember, hurt my sister and—’
‘I’ll die a slow and painful death. Yeah, I get it.’ He rolled his eyes. And then he kissed her cheek. ‘You’re not so tough.’
‘Want to bet?’ She rubbed her cheek in disgust. ‘And take a shower,’ she called after him as he ran off. ‘You stink!’
When he glanced back, she was smiling.
The next hour whipped by in a blur. It was hard to rush when his body was so battered, but somehow he made it back to the castle. He stumbled into the shower, leaving a pile of dirty clothes behind him. Mrs Jennings wouldn’t be happy. He’d make it up to her.
He closed his eyes, letting the water pummel his face. Tasha was right, he didn’t need her approval, but he was bloody glad he had it. She wasn’t someone you wanted offside.
She was also right when she said Lexi had to be able to trust him. And she wouldn’t be able to if he continued to lie to her. It was time to confess about the Spinelli paintings. He needed to explain why he’d lied and hope she understood and didn’t report his family for fraud. Honesty was the best policy … according to his ancestors’ motto, anyway.
The tightness in his chest eased, like his body had been waiting for him to realise what was happening. He didn’t want to walk away from Lexi. He wanted to tell her the truth. About his family, the Spinellis and about the fact that he loved her.
Bloody hell, he was in love?
He slung on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and packed an overnight bag. The pain in his back no longer seemed quite so sore. Funny that. Love proved to be an effective painkiller.
He ran across the inner courtyard and into the main keep, looking for Sophie. She wasn’t in the billeting room or the banqueting hall. He knew she hadn’t gone riding; all the horses were still in the stables. Where was she? Not in the kitchen, or the drawing room.
He climbed the stairs to the private bedchambers and rang her phone. He could hear it ringing down the hallway. The door to her bedroom was ajar.
‘Sophie? You in there?’ He pushed the door open. ‘I’m going to see Lexi in Wind—’ His words died on his lips.
Lying on the huge four-poster bed was his sister Sophie.
Next to her was Tasha Ryan.
They were kissing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wednesday 4th July
Lexi buttoned up her pink cardigan, shivering in her denim pedal pushers and 1960s slingbacks. The heatwave had lulled. The temperature had dropped and it was drizzling with rain, keeping shoppers away. The view from her gallery window was murky and grey. A pretty good description of how she felt about life in general, really. Everything seemed a little dull and overcast at the moment.
Logic dictated she shouldn’t be feeling quite so low. The exhibition at Rubha Castle had been a huge success. All of Eleanor Wentworth’s works had sold, and after expenses and fees, her commission had totalled nearly eighteen thousand pounds. She’d been able to pay several outstanding bills and planned to give the remaining seventeen thousand to the official receiver. It wouldn’t clear all the debt, but hopefully it would delay the removal of goods and allow her time to sell the Woman at the Window.
But that was a worry for another day. Today she was wearing her art historian hat, glad of the distraction. Anything to stop her mind torturing her with thoughts of Olly and her time spent in the Highlands.
Ignoring the pang of longing in her chest, she logged on to The Getty Provenance Index Database and scanned the list of paintings corresponding with those detailed in the Albrico Spinelli catalogue raisonné. She was searching for evidence of a nineteen-inch oil canvas matching the description of The Cursed Man. Over the last week, she’d occupied herself by building up a trail of ownership for the work since its creation in 1593, to see whether or not it could be linked to the painting currently sitting upstairs in her flat.
There was no doubt the painting checked out as far as initial examination went. It matched in style, description and fundamental materials. But unless she could build up a decent provenance to support the forensic evidence supplied by The Courtauld Institute of Art, gaining the stamp of approval that it was an original Albrico Spinelli would be a tough ask.
So far, she’d discovered the painting had been bequeathed to the Vatican following the artist’s death in 1627, where it remained until 1689. The records became a little sketchy after that. The next confirmed listing was in 1771, when the grandson of a former curator of the Vatican sold two Spinellis to a Russian count. But despite checking various sites and catalogues, there was nothing official listed.
However, she’d discovered numerous references to Renaissance works being on display at the home of Count Vachlav of St Petersburg. The Cursed Man wasn’t specifically named, but the Nazis had seized the count’s entire art collection during the Second World War, so her next task had been to check the war records.
She’d discovered two interesting facts. First, during the Second World War a specific Nazi military unit known as the Kunstschutz had been set up to acquire valuable art from those unfortunate souls occupied by the German invasion. Her second discovery was that at the end of the war, the Allies had set up their own team to recover the stolen artefacts and return them to their rightful owners. The Monuments Men had impressively recovered all thirty-three of Count Vachlav’s paintings and delivered them to the central collection point in Munich. Even more fascinating was the discovery that Helena Vachlav, whose daughter, Agata, later married Herbert John Wentworth, had claimed several of the paintings.
Her research had uncovered a direct link between the painting’s alleged time in Russia and the Wentworth family. She still needed to prove the painting owned by Count Vachlav was The Cursed Man, but she was getting closer to a definitive answer.
The missing piece of information lay concealed inside one of two unopened letters lying on the counter next to her. Tempting as it was to rip open the forensic results from The Courtauld Institute as soon as they’d arrived this morning, along with the painting, she’d resisted. The scientific findings might influence her conclusion and lead her to make assumptions about the painting’s provenance. She needed to delay opening the letter until she’d formed a preliminary judgement as to the painting’s authenticity.
The second letter remained unopened for an entirely different reason. It was from the official receiver. Enough said.
Her phone beeped, reminding her she had several new messages. She leant across and switched it off. Despite her phone ringing incessantly over the last few days, none of the calls had been from Olly. Not that he had her number. Knowing Olly, that wouldn’t have stopped him. But the real reason he hadn’t contacted her was because he was furious with her. She’d lied to him. He thought she was a hypocrite. And he was right.
No wonder he never wanted to see her again.
Overcome with sadness, she g
ot up from the counter and went over to the front door. Using the sleeve of her cardigan to rub away condensation, she peered through the glass. The view hadn’t improved. The teashop opposite had packed up for the day, the owner battling with the rain as she carried the tables and chairs inside. Even the tourists had given up and returned to their hotels to dry off. Windsor Castle loomed large in the distance, its grey stone walls ominous in the miserable weather. It was an impressive sight. A permanent reminder of her time spent at Rubha Castle.
She was struck by another pang. She’d foolishly assumed she was immune to further heartache. Nothing could be as bad as the trauma of splitting up with Marcus. But she was wrong. And she didn’t even have Tasha to comfort her. Her sister was currently in Scotland where, unlike her, Tasha’s love life had taken a turn for the better. And good luck to her.
As delighted as she was for Tasha, thoughts of Scotland inevitably led to thinking about Olly and how much she missed him. She was desperate to speak to him. She had so many unanswered questions. Like, why had he tried to rescue her painting from the auction? Why the bloody hell hadn’t he told her he could paint? And why, having finally convinced herself that it was safe to love again, he couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive her?
But she already knew the answer to that one.
It was ironic that having spent so long mistrusting him, it was her own dishonesty that had ruined things between them. What an idiot she’d been.
She turned the sign to Closed, locked the door and switched off the lights. She’d had enough for today. Picking up her phone and the two unopened letters, she then headed upstairs.
She made tea and ate one of the Florentines she’d baked earlier. Not because she was hungry, but because eating sweet treats reminded her of Olly. How sad was that? She’d made them in the hope he might show up and devour them … and her. But that was just wishful thinking.
Secret Things and Highland Flings Page 26
