by Maxine Barry
James sighed. ‘It’s the Forbes-Wright.’
Frederica’s eyes widened. Forbes-Wright was a local artist, who had died in 1882. He’d recently begun to become quite collectable—quite rightly, in her opinion. The painting was of the old Mill House, right here in Cross Keys village. A pretty little painting, complete with a pair of inquisitive swans and some quite exquisitely painted willow trees.
‘I’ve told your mother it’s being cleaned. We’ve got the Society of Art Appreciation coming this August,’ James Delacroix mumbled unhappily. Frederica nodded absently.
‘But it isn’t,’ James continued unhappily. As his daughter turned questioningly to look at him, he added helpfully, ‘Being cleaned, I mean. I sold it.’ He said the last three words in a rush, as if expecting a storm.
Frederica was too surprised to be angry. It was an unspoken rule that the family works of art were never, ever sold! James blushed again. ‘I had to do it, Freddy. It was the kitchen roof. So much expense, all at once. I had no choice.’
It took Frederica only a few seconds to sort out this garbled explanation. Last winter, due to a leaking roof, the kitchen had required a completely new ceiling. No doubt it had been expensive.
She shrugged, a little sadly. She’d been fond of the painting. ‘Never mind Dad,’ she said softly. ‘It obviously couldn’t be helped.’ Then she turned sharply. ‘Wait a minute . . . you told Mum that it was being cleaned?’
James nodded.
‘But, when she learns the truth . . . ?’
‘She’ll hit the roof,’ James supplied, in classic under-statement.
Donna was not at all artistically minded, but was very, very protective of the Delacroix’s reputation as collectors.
‘But she’ll find out!’ Frederica gasped, dismayed. ‘Who did you sell it to?’
‘A man called Horace King. He’s a recluse, lives up in Cumbria. He’s rumoured to have a vast collection, but nobody’s ever seen it. He won’t even admit he’s got the Forbes-Wright. So there’s no reason for your mother ever to know. Is there?’ James smiled beguilingly.
Frederica stared at the blank space on the wall. Then at her father’s anxious eyes. ‘But don’t you think she might begin to wonder, when it doesn’t come back from the cleaners?’ she asked wryly.
James stared down at his feet, and his scuffed, leather shoes and coughed. ‘Well, Freddy . . .’ he began, looking at his daughter pleadingly, ‘I rather hoped you might do a copy of it for me.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Frederica gaped at her father, her jaw falling open. ‘What?’ she squeaked. ‘You want me to do what . . . ?’
Her father flushed at the sight of her incredulous face, hung his head, and coughed again. ‘Really, Freddy, it’s not as if we’d be doing something illegal, is it? We’re only going to have a reproduction made to hang on our own walls, for personal viewing. And, naturally, we won’t be claiming the Forbes-Wright to be authentic.’
Frederica shot him a grim look. ‘But, Dad, I can’t produce a copy, just like that!’
‘Can’t you?’ James Delacroix asked innocently. ‘I thought your Tutor said that you could paint. I mean, really paint.’
Frederica, seeing the stubborn look on her father’s usually placid face, took a deep, deep, breath. ‘Dad, it’s not a question of can I do it, it’s a question of should I do it,’ she told him firmly. ‘And the answer has to be no!’
‘But Freddy,’ James wheedled. ‘So long as we don’t intend to sell the painting on, then where’s the harm?’
Frederica shook her head. ‘It’s not as if I can just get a canvas and start painting “The Old Mill and Swans”,’ she pointed out prosaically. ‘I’d need good photographs of it . . .’
‘Ah, I’ve already thought about that,’ James walked to a bureau and extracted several actual-size photographs of the Forbes-Wright painting. ‘I had photographs taken when we changed insurance companies. Remember?’ he prompted.
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘And there’s this,’ James reached for a big, coffee-table sized book. In it was yet another picture of ‘The Old Mill and Swans’ by Forbes-Wright, together with a neatly printed history of the painting. Forbes-Wright, who’d lived in Gloucestershire all his life, had painted the picture at the age of twenty-eight. He was a fast painter—with a charming free-style brushstroke that was quite distinctive.
That would make it easier to capture, wouldn’t it? If she could just get the movement right . . . Frederica shook her head vigorously.
‘Dad, it’s not possible. I would need a canvas of the same age, for a start. And modern paints just wouldn’t be the same. You’re asking the impossible!’ But it was such a fantastic idea. The thought of even trying was . . . seductive.
‘If you think it’s too much for you . . .’ James said, with a casual and cunning shrug. His daughter’s dark eyes flashed. Then she smiled, and wagged an admonishing forger at him.
‘Oh no you don’t. You go and try your reverse psychology on someone else. I’m not doing it! Besides,’ she carried on, with the air of someone pulling a rabbit from the hat, ‘a good oil painting can take anything from six months to three years to dry completely. So supposing that I did make a perfect copy, not even I could wave a magic wand and dry it out in time.’
James’s smiled slyly. ‘Your mother wouldn’t know it was wet though, would she? I mean, who goes around touching paint to see if it’s dry?’
Did he never give up? ‘NO!’ she said firmly.
James Delacroix sighed. ‘So it looks as if I’m going to have to face the music after all. Your mother will kill me,’ he added pathetically.
‘You couldn’t display it when you have visitors, in case any of them spot that it’s a fake,’ Frederica heard herself saying. And could have kicked herself.
‘Hmm,’ James murmured. ‘Your mother does tend to linger over the William Blake and Henri Rousseau. She might not notice the Forbes-Wright was missing,’ he agreed.
‘You could say there was a chip in the frame or . . . damn it, Dad, now you’ve got me at it! I can’t forge the painting, and that’s that,’ she stated emphatically.
James sighed from the depths of his slippers. ‘Well, that’s that then,’ but Frederica wasn’t fooled. By the time she took the train back to Oxford on Monday morning, James had yet to admit his sins to his wife. But if he thought his daughter would change her mind, he had another think coming!
* * *
When Frederica’s Tutor finally left for the Ashmolean Museum Print Room, she quickly descended to the library beside the admin offices, which consisted of just six rows of grey metal shelves. She easily found a book on Tom Keating, the famous art faker, and was leaning against the wall, deeply into it, when she heard vague murmurings from the office. It sounded as though quite a crowd was gathering. But she ignored the buzz of conversation and concentrated on the fascinating world of art forgery. Keating had been a prince amongst forgers, and one of his tips was to paint at the same speed as the original artist. He’d also gone to extraordinary lengths to eliminate all personal habits when working, thus leaving no tell-tale signs for experts to identify.
It was nearly noon by the time she put the book thoughtfully away, and returned to her own workspace, barely acknowledging the distracted greetings of her fellow students.
As she approached her own little cubbyhole, she felt a small trickle of excitement climb up her spine. Keating had made it all seem so feasible. Her latest canvas was finished, so the timing couldn’t be better—she could at least attempt it, couldn’t she? After all, what kind of daughter wouldn’t at least try to help her father? And if she couldn’t manage it . . . No! It was crazy.
Frederica was staring blankly at her painting when she became aware of a sudden shadow falling over her shoulder. She spun round, expecting to see a fellow student and instead came face to face with . . . Him!
For a second, all she could think . . . all she could feel . . . was an overwhelming male presenc
e. Then her dazzled brain began to take in specifics. He was tall, a veritable blonde Adonis of a man. His smoky green-hazel eyes the colour of moss agate. He seemed to dominate the room with his powerful aura. Leaving him in a vacuum where nothing could reach him. Except . . . her?
Frederica blinked, totally stunned. She was not used to men affecting her like this. So far, she’d never had a lover, not so much from lack of opportunity, or even out of conscious choice, but because she’d never met a man who made her heart beat even just a little bit faster. Now, suddenly, her heart was hammering! She snatched a breath, but the air didn’t seem to reach her lungs. She put a hand out against the wall to steady herself.
Lorcan Greene saw the young student go suddenly pale. Noticed her sway slightly. Alarmed, he quickly reached out a hand to steady her. As his hand curled around the top of her arm, eyes the colour of bitter chocolate, with the velvety depths of pansies, looked up at him. And he felt a curious numbness shoot from his fingers, travel up his arm and lodge in his chest. Then, in an instant it was gone. And in its place was warmth. A growing, persistent tide of warmth, flooding over him. And then he was looking at her closely. Studying her as he would a fine painting.
He noticed her hair first—and was reminded of a canvas by Titian—a mass of tightly-curled ringlets cascading to her shoulders. If it hadn’t been caught up in a ponytail on the top of her head, he was sure that it would fall to the middle of her back. He wanted to run his hands through it, and the very thought made his fingers twitch.
Quickly he withdrew his hand from her arm. She was slender as a reed, beneath that smock, he gauged, and had a complexion of peaches and cream. A beautiful and very young English Rose, he thought a trifle grimly. For she was much, much too young for him. He smiled, more at himself and his foolish thoughts than at her. ‘Hello,’ he said quietly.
He saw her eyes widen. They had the darkest, most velvety depths and he had to force himself to look away from her, moving behind her to stare at the finished canvas. He sighed softly. ‘Ah, a painter, I see,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been in the company of printmakers, sculptors and photographers all morning. I’m glad to meet someone at last who shares my own particular passion.’
Frederica blinked again. ‘What . . . ?’ she mumbled. ‘Passion?’
His voice was a curious mixture of rough and smooth. She managed to drag in another breath, and her head slowly began to clear. Although she was no expert on men’s tailoring, she realised that the lightweight cream summer jacket, over a deep, dark green shirt he was wearing was expensive. He was well-groomed and smelt of expensive cologne. Everything about him screamed masculinity. He was utterly different from any man she’d ever known. Neither a country gentleman, like her father, nor an arty bohemian, like her fellow students. He was . . . different. And so utterly, utterly potent. Once again, air was hard to come by. She cleared her throat. Eclectic student body or not, if this man was a student, she was Bo Peep. He looked somewhere in his thirties, and probably ate girls like her for breakfast.
‘Painting,’ he said.
Frederica blinked yet again. ‘Sorry?’
‘You have a passion for painting I see,’ Lorcan repeated himself patiently. The beautiful young student had obviously been so deeply in thought that she was having trouble concentrating. He wondered what she’d been thinking about so intently. Some boyfriend, he supposed. And, surprisingly, the thought gave him a small, sharp, twist of pain.
‘That is your canvas, isn’t it?’ he asked, nodding to the painting behind her. Better not to linger on visions of a long-haired Lothario running his dirty fingers through that glorious cascade of hair.
Lorcan gave himself a mental shake. She was far too young for him, and it was clearly ridiculous for him to be feeling jealous.
Frederica, too, pulled herself together. ‘Oh, yes. “Post-Millennium Home”.’ She cast her eyes over the canvas, a twinge of doubt making her frown. Was it really any good?
Lorcan moved closer, his eyes moving over the canvas, every inch the art expert now. Modern acrylic paints, of course. Good size canvas. Good balance of colour. Perfect perception. It really was very well done. Surprisingly good, in fact. Although he’d come to the Ruskin to keep his eyes peeled on behalf of his good friend Inspector Braine, he hadn’t realistically expected to find this amount of talent amongst the students.
He’d been prepared for all the modem approaches of course, like the sculptor who made such intriguing use of plastic bags. What he hadn’t expected, though, was to come across a painting like this one. This was no chocolate-box decoration. His eyes sharpened on the detail—the trees were superbly done. Really, quite superbly done. The cat was good too. The composition spot on. ‘Why have you put the car bumper in? And the satellite dish?’ he murmured. ‘Especially when your composition is almost Victorian in content?’
Frederica hadn’t a clue who he was. She knew that he’d stopped her heart at first sight. She knew that his closeness was generating in her a sexual arousal no other man had ever stirred in her before. She knew he was totally, utterly, out of her league. And when he turned those stunning eyes on her again, she had enormous difficulty in concentrating on his words.
After only one quick glance, he’d gone straight to the heart of her painting. A Tutor then, obviously someone new. There was no way she could have failed to notice him walking around.
‘Oh, that,’ she said, her voice coming out in a slightly husky croak. She swallowed, noticing the way his eyes darted to her mouth. ‘It seems to me that the post-millennium needs as honest an eye to paint it as any other period in our history. So I’ve included cars, milk bottles, dustbins, telephone poles, road signs and all the other trappings of modern life. But I still paint truth. Because this is a home. Not just a house. Real people live in it. And somebody feeds the cat,’ she said finally, with a rather defiant smile.
Lorcan understood at once what she meant. Her approach was different—clear and honest—and he felt a different tingle beginning to sweep through his bloodstream now. This had nothing to do with her exquisite hair and to-die-for eyes, this was purely professional. Lorcan knew when he stumbled upon fresh, raw talent. So far, The Greene Gallery had never sponsored an artist exclusively before now. Perhaps it was time to start doing so . . . ?
Frederica found her breath catching as he bent closer to the painting. Somehow, for some reason, his opinion of it mattered to her more than anything else in the world.
‘And you can paint,’ he muttered to himself.
Frederica, blushing with pleasure at his endorsement, set about uncovering her other finished canvases—a dirty double-decker bus unloading its passengers and a grey and grim local primary school with a series of cheerful traffic cones in front of it. Lorcan realised she’d captured the essence of Pop Art, together with a unique ability to paint reality in a classical style. The mix shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Through her canvases, he found himself living in modern Britain. But the talent of the artist was from a different, much earlier century. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, gratified, ‘you can definitely paint.’
Nervously, she uncovered one canvas that was as close to abstract as she’d ever come—a massive red combine, harvesting a field of over-ripe wheat. White-blotches of seagulls streaked across the sky while green hedges wilted in the dry August heat. When she’d painted that canvas during last year’s heatwave, the countryside had been suffering from a bad drought. She could almost taste the dust now, as she had then. Although he hadn’t seen the original scene, Lorcan could taste the dust too. ‘Is this for sale?’ he found himself asking.
Frederica shook her head. ‘Not until after my Final Degree Show. My Tutor wants me to include it.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Lorcan said, and reached into his inside jacket pocket. He drew out a small, plain white card, and watched as she reached for it gingerly. Her fingers brushed against his as she took it, and a giddying rush of desire shot through her, turning her pale skin even paler, and causing the sm
attering of freckles to stand out in stark relief across the bridge of her nose.
Lorcan found himself staring at them. Freckles, for pity’s sake. She was still a schoolgirl! And then his eyes fell to her T-shirt, and he could make out the mature curve of her breast.
Frederica took the card. GREENE GALLERY. She knew it at once—everyone in the art world knew that it was one of the top London galleries, with a growing reputation. In the bottom right-hand corner was a phone number. In the middle of the card was a single name, in bold, black letters: LORCAN GREENE.
Frederica blinked and looked up at him. ‘You’re Lorcan Greene . . . ?’ she gasped.
Lorcan smiled. ‘You didn’t you see the announcement of my arrival on the notice board?’
She shook her head. Then she remembered the noise from the office earlier, and realised that it must have been the welcome reception for him.
‘I’m here for the rest of the term, and the summer vacation,’ he explained. ‘On a Visiting Fellowship.’
‘Oh,’ she said flatly. What else could she say? Just looking at him made her feel tongue-tied. This man bought and sold Van Goghs. He hopped on planes and flew to New York, Paris, Rome, the way she caught the number seven bus to and from St. Bede’s. He dated famous actresses. He was in the papers regularly, giving evidence at . . . Frederica paled even further.
Art fraud cases.
This man was a notorious catcher of forgers! ‘You’re the one who detects big-time forgeries,’ she said, with just a tinge of panic in her voice.
Lorcan looked down at her, biting back an unexpected feeling of regret. He couldn’t be mistaking the signals—that shortness of breath, the flushed cheeks, those melting brown eyes. Lorcan was too much a man not to know when a woman wanted him.
But he was not in Oxford for romance. And definitely not with someone so young. But, hell, she was making it difficult!
He smiled, a shade more arrogantly than he’d meant to, and reminded himself why he was there. ‘That’s right,’ he said, his voice rich with confidence. ‘I catch the fakers.’
