The Girl with the Emerald Ring: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 12)

by Elise Noble

  The curse of Emerald had struck again.

  “Lost? I’d say that’s unlikely. You didn’t trust your middleman?”

  Alaric motioned at Emmy to hang back. Whatever happened, he needed to resolve the situation quickly so she could get to a hospital. Broken noses could be nothing or a whole heap of trouble.

  “My what?”

  “Your middleman. The girl who picked up the painting.”

  “Picked up? What?”

  “The painting.” Alaric said the words slowly. “At the grocery store.”

  Stafford-Lyons looked genuinely confused. A world-class actress, or denser than the bronze statue she’d tried to sell him last night? Back then, he hadn’t realised just how involved she was in Pemberton’s scheme, and he didn’t want to admit how close he’d come to buying the damn thing. Judd always said he was a sucker for a pretty smile.

  Guilty as charged.

  But Alaric wouldn’t let that impact on work. Not when Emerald and his ruined reputation were at stake.

  “Nobody picked up a painting. My car got stolen out of the car park, and I realised it must’ve been the girl who walked into me in the store, and I was going to call the police, but I left my phone in the car, and then I remembered I could track the phone with an app, so I called a taxi. Well, I didn’t call the taxi, a homeless man did, and—”

  Alaric turned to the guy behind the wheel. “You’re a cab driver?”

  “Yes, we are lost.”

  “Cut the bullshit, okay?”

  This was so messed up. Could Stafford-Lyons genuinely have been that unlucky?

  “You’ve got a painting with you?” Alaric asked her.

  “In the boot of my car? Yes, a Heath Robert gouache on paper.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “I put it in there myself.”

  “I meant, are you certain it’s a Heath Robert?”

  “Well, yes. It’s a gift for a friend of Hugo’s. Hugo Pemberton,” she added. “He owns the gallery where I work.”

  “I know who Hugo Pemberton is.” Could Alaric have made yet another Emerald-related fuck-up? It was entirely possible. So many times, the universe had tried to tell him that the masterpiece was lost for good, but he just couldn’t take the damn hint. “You saw the painting?”

  “The colours are stunning. Robert captured the sunrise over the Serengeti perfectly, and the trees… Uh, you don’t care about that, do you?”

  “When did you see the painting?”

  “Last week, when Hugo had it on display in his workroom. At the time, I didn’t realise it was intended as a gift, but Hugo’s always been generous with his friends.”

  “You didn’t see it today?”

  “Hugo packed it ready to travel. You can’t just throw a piece like that into a frame and hope for the best.” She checked her watch. “And I need to deliver it to Richmond. I’m already late.”

  Alaric revised his earlier assessment. He’d put money on the fact that Stafford-Lyons wasn’t lying, and she didn’t come across as stupid either. More naïve. No matter, letting her drive off into the sunset with a questionable package clearly wasn’t an option.

  “How long have you worked for Pemberton?”

  “Five months.” Correct. “But why all these questions? Who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator. A client hired me to search for a missing painting.”

  After decades of practice, lies rolled off Alaric’s tongue with ease. Especially ones that weren’t too far from the truth.

  “Well, I don’t have your painting. Whoever told you I did was wrong.”

  How confident was he that Red After Dark was in the back of Stafford-Lyons’s car? Alessandra had her own agenda, but Alaric was ninety-five percent certain she wouldn’t have called him with a bogus tip. How would it benefit her if he went after Pemberton? The answer: it wouldn’t. She’d only been at the gallery because the drug-peddling asshole whose inner circle she’d worked her way into had wanted to buy a gift for his mother, and for the past five years, she’d worked narcotics, not property theft. Of course, she could have made a mistake. She wasn’t an art expert.

  And even if Alessandra had identified the painting correctly, Pemberton could have been lying when he told her it would be picked up today. That ninety-five percent chance dropped below fifty-fifty once all the variables were taken into account. Bad odds. Worse was the fact that Alaric had been outed. There would be no more skulking around the Pemberton gallery, no more covert visits while posing as a customer. He’d have to send Judd or Ravi or possibly Naz, and they had enough of their own shit to deal with without embarking on a wild goose chase after a painting more elusive than any ghost.

  Or he could take a chance. All or nothing.

  Maybe it would work out and maybe it wouldn’t, but what did he have to lose?

  One thing was for sure—they couldn’t hang around. As well as Emmy needing medical attention, they had a teenager trussed up like a bondage victim, and…what the fuck? A guy stumbled through the front door of the farmhouse wearing only a pair of boxers. Emmy leapt from the car and went after him before Alaric could blink, but Stafford-Lyons’s eyes bugged out of her head.

  “Who on earth is that?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “Have I wandered into an alternate universe? Today’s been the most disastrous day of my life, and if you’d met my family or my ex-husband, you’d know that was a big deal.”

  And Alaric was about to make it worse. She was right—there was a man waiting for the painting in her trunk, and he wouldn’t wait forever. They only had a tiny window of time in which to act.

  “I know all about bad days, believe me. And the painting you have in your car isn’t the one you think it is.”

  If you’re confident, they’ll believe you, Alaric’s old mentor at the CIA had told him. And most of the time, the advice worked, today included.

  “No, you’re wrong,” Stafford-Lyons said, but she hesitated first. She wasn’t sure. “Hugo told me it was the Heath Robert.”

  “Then Hugo was lying.”

  If it turned out not to be the case, Alaric would apologise profusely, but he had to know.

  “Why? Why would he do that? My family’s known him for years, and he’s got an impeccable reputation.”

  “The best criminals often do.”

  She gasped. “Hugo’s not a criminal!”

  “If he’s got you driving a million bucks’ worth of stolen art around under false pretences, he’s hardly a pillar of the community.”

  “The Robert isn’t stolen, nor is it worth a million dollars. Heath himself brought half a dozen paintings into the gallery a fortnight ago, and they go for around ten thousand each. I made him coffee. Quarter of a teaspoon of sugar, no more, no less,” she mimicked. “And just a splash of cream.”

  “If the painting in your trunk’s a Heath Robert, I’ll buy you dinner.” What the hell was Alaric saying? Dinner? That hesitant smile Blondie wore when she got nervous was fucking with his mind. “Any restaurant you want.”

  “Are you crazy? Why would I want to eat dinner with you when you’ve practically kidnapped me?”

  Alaric spread his arms wide. “I’m not keeping you here.”

  “Your girlfriend has blocked my car in. And Rafiq’s.”

  The taxi driver was still sitting in his vehicle. Probably had the meter running.

  “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a colleague.” Sort of.

  A glance towards the house revealed no sign of Emmy. Still, he hadn’t heard any screams, and he couldn’t see her letting her guard down twice in one day.

  “You’re missing the point I was trying to make.”

  “And you’re missing mine. I’ve told you there’s a stolen painting in your car. The moment you leave this property, you’ll be aiding and abetting a crime.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll p
rove it.”

  She produced a key from her pocket, then nearly broke an ankle when she tripped over a clump of grass. On a scale of zero to how-the-hell-can-she-walk, those pumps rated off the chart, but Alaric wasn’t complaining. He did the gentlemanly thing and caught her, chuckling to himself when she pushed him away. Yeah, her instincts were on the money. Damaged goods, baby.

  He waved a hand. “After you.”

  Stafford-Lyons managed to get the trunk open, and a sickly aroma wafted out. Cotton candy mixed with synthetic flowers and…pineapple? He wrinkled his nose before he caught himself, and of course, she noticed.

  “It was an accident. I didn’t realise how hot the car was, and a can of body spray exploded in the boot. I’m kind of used to the smell now.”

  “That’s global warming for you. Hottest May on record, so I hear.”

  Alaric didn’t miss the way her hands shook. This broad was way, way out of her comfort zone. Probably she didn’t leave the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea very often. Pemberton had packaged the painting well, which was only to be expected, and Stafford-Lyons cursed when one of her false nails broke as she tried to pick the tape apart.

  “Allow me.”

  Alaric never went anywhere without a knife, but she gasped again when she saw the blade. This girl definitely led a sheltered life.

  “Don’t worry, I carry this for craft projects only.” It was Emmy she needed to watch out for. “I promise I’ll be careful with the painting.”

  If she’d looked closely, she might have noticed his hands trembling too. Eight damn years. Would he be a step closer to Emerald after today? Or a step farther away?

  He pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, then carefully removed the outer layer of brown paper to reveal a wooden box underneath. Once he’d pried it open, he found a bubble-wrapped frame nestled among styrofoam peanuts. Under the bubble wrap was a thick poly bag, and beneath that, layers of glassine tissue. It reminded him of birthday parties as a kid. Pass the fucking parcel.

  But today? Today, the victory was Alaric’s. Even before he peeled away the glassine, he saw the distinctive moody hues of Red After Dark peeping through. Serengeti sunrise my ass. Still, he didn’t quite believe his eyes until he’d revealed the full painting, a masterpiece he’d never seen in the flesh before. Angry, textured brushstrokes, pain on paper as the artist captured the beauty of the woman who’d broken his heart. The love of his life. He’d died by suicide soon afterwards, a tortured soul gone too soon.

  The work was as pristine as the day it’d been painted, and Alaric had to give Pemberton credit for doing an excellent job with the restoration. Too bad the fucker was crooked.

  “Guess we won’t be going to dinner now,” Alaric said.

  Which was strangely disappointing.

  “This…this isn’t Dawn Over the Plain,” Stafford-Lyons whispered.

  “No, it’s Red After Dark, stolen eight years ago…”

  “From the Becker Museum. I know.” Her voice registered horror. “Unless…unless it’s a copy?” She reached out, then caught herself. “Do you have more gloves?”

  “In my pants pocket.”

  He leaned to give her access, and she hesitated for a moment before she fished around for them. Alaric carefully turned the painting over, unable to look away. There it was. The hidden secret few had ever seen. Before Edwin Bateson ended his life, he’d written an ode to his lost love, his muse, on the back of the canvas, poured his heart out in slanted script.

  My darling,

  Absent your smile, my heart grows cold,

  Your fair virtues I mourn.

  Without your touch, I wish not to grow old.

  To see another dawn.

  No more tomorrows, grace lost to a thief,

  And sorrow’s distant eye,

  Watches a love, now turned to grief.

  Each night alone I lie.

  Between the poem and the exquisite workmanship, there was little doubt the painting was the real deal, but Alaric allowed Stafford-Lyons to take a look too. She had an art degree, right? Which meant she most likely knew as much about provenance as he did, perhaps even more. His knowledge came from lessons at the Bureau, a course at a museum or two, and a desire to learn once he realised he genuinely liked the subject.

  While Stafford-Lyons studied the Bateson painting, Alaric called up Red After Dark’s entry on the National Stolen Art File and zoomed in on key areas. Every detail matched.

  And the expert’s verdict?

  “If it’s not the original, it’s an excellent copy.”

  “Does Pemberton paint from scratch?”

  “Surely you can’t think…? No, he doesn’t paint from scratch. I’ve only ever seen him work on restorations, and he spends ridiculous hours in the studio. All night sometimes.”

  “Which means he could easily work on the illegal side of his business after dark.”

  “I just can’t believe Hugo’s a thief.”

  “You’re holding a stolen masterpiece in your hands.”

  “Maybe he didn’t realise?”

  For fuck’s sake. “It’s his job to realise. And if he’s so innocent, why did he tell you it was a Heath Robert?”

  “I… I…”

  Movement to the right caught Alaric’s eye, and Emmy strode out of the old house. Oddly enough, she didn’t look happy. She paused on the way to toss her leather jacket through the open window of the Aston Martin, leaving her white T-shirt complete with its scarlet Rorschach in full view. Stafford-Lyons’s eyes widened as Emmy stopped a few feet away.

  “Houston, we have a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “The house is full of stoned teenagers, and they’re starting to wake up. It’s like the zombie fucking apocalypse in there, except they’re hunting for weed rather than fresh meat. Seems the one who made a bid for freedom belongs to the bitch in the barn.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “Brother.”

  “Uh, are you okay?” Stafford-Lyons asked. “You have a little…” She motioned to her nose.

  “No, I’m not fucking okay. I should be sitting in a conference room drinking bad coffee, but instead, I’m chasing your accomplice all over the countryside.”

  “She’s not an accomplice,” Alaric explained. “The kid stole the car.”

  “Seriously? Nobody’s that unlucky.”

  “Told you that painting’s cursed.”

  “Dude, I’m beginning to believe you.” Emmy nodded past them to where Red After Dark sat in the trunk of the Ford. “Is that what we’re looking for?”

  “Sure seems like it.”

  “An elaborate suicide note,” she murmured, leaning forward for a closer inspection.

  Alaric quickly pulled her back before her blood made Red After Dark even redder.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  He handed her a handkerchief. “Use this for your nose first.”

  “Oh, ta.” The white cotton quickly turned crimson. “So, now what? This whole operation’s been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but it’s not over yet.”

  No, it wasn’t. They may have recovered a stolen painting, but it wasn’t the one Alaric wanted. For eight years, he’d been focused on Emerald. Only Emerald. Any other successes along the way were incidental, although he couldn’t deny the reward money for the two Rembrandts and the Vermeer he’d recovered had been a nice bonus. Emmy was injured, plus they had a flaky gallery assistant and an all-too-crafty car thief to deal with. Not to mention a bunch of stoners. “Clusterfuck” didn’t even begin to cover it.

  But they couldn’t quit. The next link in the chain was waiting in Richmond for Stafford-Lyons to deliver the painting, and the question was, should they let her? Should they turn Red After Dark over to the authorities, or instead use it as bait for Emerald?

  There was only one decision Alaric could make.

  CHAPTER 11 - BETHANY

  A MONTH AGO, I’d gone for a long ride on Chaucer, a jaunt along little
bridleways bursting with spring wildflowers—blackberry blossom, cow parsley, foxgloves, late snowdrops, and bluebells—the two of us trotting along in the dappled sunlight with just a few rabbits for company. I’d taken a picnic and eaten it by a stream while Chaucer nibbled on the long grass beside me, and that day, I’d dared to hope that the worst was behind me. The divorce papers were signed, I had my new job, and nothing could possibly beat the horror of finding my husband in bed with another woman.

  I’d been wrong.

  The one man I’d still trusted had lied to me, and not only that, Hugo was involved in some nefarious scheme I didn’t understand. Red After Dark stared up at me, taunting me with its malevolent beauty. Every brushstroke screamed emotion. No fake could make a person feel in the way that painting did.

  The dizzying revelation that my time at the Pemberton gallery was over hit me like a runaway Clydesdale. The American was right—I’d be complicit in illegal activity if I set foot over the threshold again. Although the mere thought of returning was laughable—once we’d handed Red After Dark over to the police, I’d be fired on the spot anyway. Would Hugo be arrested? Possibly, but he’d most likely wriggle out of any charges by pleading ignorance—mud rarely stuck to men with old money and influence. I’d seen it a hundred times over… A friend of my father’s having assault charges dropped right after a party the judge attended. Piers’s brother’s drink-driving case getting thrown out on a technicality. Everyone siding with my ex-husband during our divorce despite the fact that he’d cheated.

  And it wasn’t over yet.

  “I’ll make a statement to the police,” I said, desperately trying not to sniffle. I had enough cash in the bank to cover another month’s worth of expenses, but no more.

  “That won’t—” the American started, but he didn’t finish because the blood-covered blonde took off running.

  What the…? A girl bound with black tape was hop-shuffling towards the woods at the rear of the property, a loose handcuff dangling from one wrist. Was that…? Bloody hell. That was the girl who took my car!