happened?’ she asked, her curiosity whetted by the mention of woe.
Adam smiled without mirth. ‘I went to a party in London the night before last. I was on my way to the train yesterday, nursing a hangover, when I spotted a sign across the road, advertising a sale the following day.’
Adam had promptly dropped the arm he’d raised to flag down a taxi, fished an old cricket hat from his overnight bag and crammed it on, then dodged swiftly through the London traffic. After loitering a while, pretending to read the headlines outside the newsagent’s next door to the saleroom, he’d pulled the hat down to meet the dark glasses protecting his hangover, and gone inside to wander through the chaotic saleroom, feeling the familiar anticipation as he’d cast an eye over the jumble of uninspiring goods on display. This was the rough end of the market, with some of the lesser lots consisting of prosaic lampshades and kitchen chairs and boxes of miscellaneous china and kitchen utensils. Exactly the kind of hunting ground that Adam Dysart, with the blood of three generations of auctioneers and valuers in his veins, had relished all his life.
But for once he’d been about to admit defeat when he’d spotted a small stack of pictures leaning against the wall at ground level, almost hidden from sight in a corner. He’d cast a quick glance through some small faded watercolours, an antique map with a rash of the brown spots known as foxing, and behind them had found a framed portrait in oil, so blackened with dirt and overpaint it was only just possible to make out the head and shoulders of a girl to one side of the canvas.
The familiar adrenaline rush had raised the hairs on Adam’s neck. He’d turned away at once, forcing himself to go back over every undistinguished lot on offer once again before he returned to Lot 13, when a second glance at the portrait had reinforced the feeling that under the layers of grime and overpaint lay buried treasure.
Adam had gone outside into the noisy street, hangover forgotten, the familiar excitement fizzing through his bloodstream like champagne bubbles. Something about the hair and pose, obscured though they were, hinted at early nineteenth century. And had struck such a chord he wanted the portrait. Badly. In which case there would be no point in going home to Friars Wood. An afternoon in the Courtauld Institute would be a better idea, browsing through the endless green box files in the Witt Library to throw light on his find. If the painting had been photographed it would be there amongst the archives. But even if it hadn’t he could spend a happy hour or two researching other painters of the time to throw light on his mystery lady. Because his she was destined to be, Adam had known beyond all doubt.
Without the artist’s name to go on the afternoon’s search had been difficult. But in the end Adam had felt that his lady might possibly have been painted by William Etty, an Academician known for allegorical subjects, landscapes and portraits, but most celebrated for nudes which looked surprisingly modern to the present-day eye. Elated, Adam had taken a taxi back to Marylebone, bought flowers and wine and returned to Della Tiley’s flat.
After two prolonged blasts on the buzzer, followed by a lengthy wait, the door had opened and an eye had peered at him through it in horrified dismay. ‘Adam?’ gasped Della. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came back to beg a bed for the night.’
‘Who is it?’ called a male voice.
Adam’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, his teeth showing in a tigerish smile. ‘Ah! Bad move on my part, obviously. So sorry to intrude.’ With a mocking bow he held out the flowers. ‘A little token of appreciation for the party. See you around, Della.’
‘Adam—wait!’ She hugged a dressing gown around her and opened the door wider, looking at him in desperate appeal. ‘It’s not what you think.’
But when a large male figure hove into view, draped insecurely in a towel, Adam, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach, shook his head in disgust. ‘Oh, come on, Della. It’s exactly what I think. Hi, Charlie. Still here, I see.’
Charles Hawkins, a friend of Adam’s since student days, swore in voluble anguish, a startling shade of brick-red rising from the low-slung towel to the roots of his hair. ‘We thought you’d gone home—’
‘I have now.’ Adam thrust the flowers at Della, stowed the wine in his hold-all, and took himself back down the stairs into the hot summer evening to find a taxi.
‘And so,’ he said now, smiling wryly at Gabriel. ‘I went off to stay the night with my sister in Hampstead, bid for the picture this morning, caught the first train available, then drove straight round here this afternoon, only to meet rejection once again. But, far worse than any of that, you told me that Harry was ill. Other than snapping up the portrait for a song, not a happy interlude in the life of A. Dysart, Miss Brett.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘WERE you in love with the lady?’ said Gabriel, quite liking the idea of Adam Dysart, betrayed lover.
‘Lust, not love,’ he said bluntly, and shrugged. ‘I’m a sight more cut up about Charlie than Della.’
‘Maybe there was a perfectly logical explanation,’ said Gabriel after a pause. ‘Perhaps he was just taking a shower.’
Adam shook his head. ‘Della had a certain look about her. At the risk of embarrassing you, Miss Brett, it was blatantly obvious that Della had just emerged from a hectic session in bed with Charlie Hawkins.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Which she was perfectly entitled to, of course. But I’m not into sharing in that context.’ His eyes met hers. ‘You think I’m unreasonable?’
‘Not in the least.’
Adam drained his glass and stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, and the sympathetic ear—hope I haven’t bored you rigid.’
‘You haven’t,’ she assured him. It was infinitely pleasing to know that the path of Adam Dysart’s life failed to run smooth at least once in a while.
‘Harry told me you lived in London.’ He looked round at the big, low-ceilinged room. ‘How do you like it out here in the wilds?’
She smiled wryly. ‘I’m used to city traffic outside my window, so I find it a bit quiet in this part of the world.’
‘Isn’t there anyone who could come and keep you company?’
She shook her head. ‘My mother lives in London. She runs an employment agency. And no one else is available. Not at this moment in time, anyway.’
He looked sceptical. ‘But there must be some man in London missing your company right now?’
‘There is someone,’ she admitted. ‘But Jeremy also has a business to run. Besides, he suffers withdrawal symptoms if he’s away from city pavements for long.’
Adam subjected her to a lengthy scrutiny from the mane of fair hair to her feet and back again. ‘If you were mine, Gabriel Brett, I wouldn’t let a little matter of city pavements keep me away.’
She stared at him, startled into silence.
‘This afternoon it was hard to know what you looked like in your working gear, though it was obvious you’d changed a lot since last time we met,’ he went on, enjoying her reaction. ‘But you must have noticed I was totally poleaxed by the vision who opened the door to me tonight.’
Gabriel knew perfectly well that she could hold her own in the looks department
