took in the other guests, a handful of well-known socialites, some I recognized from past events, the avid art collectors circling The Otillie’s rising new talent and ready to invest in their promising careers.
“Look who’s here,” whispered Clara. “Your favorite person.”
I almost coughed up my drink.
A well-worn face and yet strangely handsome in a highly bred kind of way. The Right Honorable Lord Nigel Turner stood out in the crowd with his high cheekbones and overly refined nose. His tweed jacket with that perfect bow tie made him seem extra quirky and yet moneyed. His chin rose with an air of superiority as he perused the other guests. Nigel was apparently related to “the Turner,” or so he told us. He worked at The London Times as their senior art critic and wielded the kind of power that could make or break an artist’s career.
I’d crushed on him back when Lady Zara Leighton had a nice ring to it. Right before I’d actually met him.
We made our way over to Liza, and she smiled with relief when she saw us. I got her talking about her favorite subject, modern art, and she soon relaxed as she chatted away about the latest piece she was working on.
Together we mingled with the other guests, sipping champagne and popping back way too many caviar hors d’oeuvres.
Clara arched an amused brow when I reached for another flute from a passing waiter’s tray. I’d never tolerated booze well, very often getting tipsy on merely one glass. Still, this night was the first real evening I was letting myself go in what felt like ages, and I soon found myself having fun. With Clara’s mischievous insights into the other guests, she had me and Liza struggling to keep our laughter down.
Nigel nudged up against Clara. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
“Thank you.” She offered him a polite smile.
“You didn’t bring your camera?” he asked.
“Taking the night off. The staff get nervous when they see a photographer taking photos of their priceless paintings. Something about copyright.”
His overly critical gaze found me. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
Those difficult few months were behind me now and for the first time tonight I’d felt that wedge of pain in my heart lifting. I swallowed my grief with a sip of champagne and broke Turner’s gaze, hoping he’d talk to Liza.
“I hear a rumor you’re hiding away more paintings?” he said.
I shook my head, not wanting to go there.
“One step at a time,” Clara whispered.
Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Your skills could be put to good use.”
“Excuse me?”
“That fire at your father’s home?” he said.
“I don’t remember much.” Other than the bitter taste of ash.
“She was ten,” snapped Clara. “For goodness’ sake.”
“Interesting that Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc has turned up in Venice?” he went on. “Have you heard?”
My throat tightened. “That’s impossible.”
“And yet.” He smirked.
A wave of panic circled my stomach.
Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.
I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.
Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”
Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”
“Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”
I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.
Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”
“I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.
Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”
“What’s left of it,” he muttered.
I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.
“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”
“Of course it’s not,” I said.
“It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.
My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.
“Are you sure?” asked Clara.
“That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.
Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”
Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?
“Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”
“Yes.” No.
I want to forget.
The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.
Black spots flashed across my vision—
Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.
Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.
“Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.
“My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters
