Knowing Emory watched from his perch, Keira crafted a veneer she hoped would read as professional, relaxed, and completely detached from anything but speeding this business along. The driver opened her door and she stepped out, riding boots to the stone ground. She flipped the hood of her yellow rain jacket over her head, protecting her neck from the chill of the mist.
“You’re late,” Emory called out with a hand cupped around his mouth, then checked his watch. “It’s Sunday.”
“Is it?” Keira rolled her shoulders in a shrug as she pulled the strap of her leather messenger bag up from the backseat. “You told me to email when I arrived at the airport, so I did.”
“I thought we agreed on Saturday.”
“You said Saturday. I didn’t say anything except that you might wish to find a seat in another pub.”
Emory trotted down the stairs with rain dotting the shoulders of his heather-blue ringer tee. He could have been coming down a flight in his own home for how natural the greeting was, like they weren’t virtual strangers but old friends.
Once under the canopy, he slipped a tip into the driver’s hand, then reached for the suitcase the man set out on the cobblestones. “Well, you’re here now. Dublin’s loss is our gain, right?”
“There’s no need—” Keira reached out politely, but enough that her hand caught near his on the handle at the same time.
“I don’t mind.”
“But I’m not staying.”
Emory flashed a look that read every bit of Then why the suitcase?, his hand still gripping leather in a brush against hers. He released it without a breath and stepped back with hands that drifted into his jeans pockets, then tipped his head toward the looming structure behind them. “I think you’ll find we have an extra room, or fifty, at our disposal.”
“It’s not that. It’s just, I’m already booked at a flat in town.”
What Keira wanted to say, but didn’t, was that there was no way she was going into that maze of Pemberley-esque rooms alone with him. If he was able to read her at all, he could have guessed why: she didn’t trust him.
And she wouldn’t be fooled by a packaged smile again.
Keira flitted her glance up to the immaculate spread of stone and glass, trying her best to show only marginal interest. But the sky had settled into the familiar English temperament of gray and blue layers of clouds that hung low and a steady rain that made the senses come alive. The rich aromas of earth and autumn were loosed by it, and the glow inside manor windows bespoke a welcome so inviting, Keira was fast becoming overpowered by the invitation to explore its world—despite the presence of a rain-soaked Mr. Scott in its midst.
“And yet . . . you still want to stay on.” Emory smiled, a curious tip at the corners of his mouth that said he’d read the silence accurately. She’d been taken in. Either by the majesty of the manor itself or the lure of what could be inside it, he had her number.
“It’s your choice, Miss Foley. In town or here. If you really want to go back, it’s not too far a walk from the village up to the manor. We’ll pay the driver and cover your expenses for the flat. But just so you know, the rest of the team is already here. You won’t have to entertain anyone on your own.” He paused, she was certain for effect. “If, in fact, that’s what’s worrying you.”
“I’m not worried.” Keira ignored the cleverness that was too easy for him. “What team? You didn’t say anything about that in Dublin.”
He tipped his brow in challenge. “Come in and find out.”
* * *
Instead of the sound of their shoes hitting the black-and-white marble floor in a vast empty space, the faint melody of “As Time Goes By” floated through the foyer as Emory led Keira out of the weather. She pulled off the hood of her rain jacket, listening as water drops trickled down to the floor.
“Do I hear music?”
Emory shook his head once he’d closed the outer door and fiddled with a security system on the wall. She peeked down the hall.
They have a security system but empty rooms?
Baritone notes careened off high-coffered ceilings to the checked marble floor, like the rich tones had every bit of business to invade the interior with their velvet rendition of Casablanca’s famous song.
“Not again . . .”
“The music’s a problem?” Keira couldn’t see it as that, not when the notes were inclined to drift so effortlessly.
“Not the music; it’s Ben. You can’t tell him anything. He’s our historical adviser and is vintage to a fault. It’s charming to start—and he says not a bad in with the ladies—but if I have to hear ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ once more, it’ll be too soon for a lifetime. At least we make a game of hiding his fedora, and then he agrees to buy dinner because he refuses to go out unless he looks like Sinatra’s twin.”
Keira extended the handle of her suitcase and set it to roll as he started through the entry hall.
“You said Ben is your historical adviser?”
“He is.”
“Of what? And why the attempt at making this place a second Fort Knox?”
Keira’s heart skipped over her question as the music swelled, and they passed through to an empty hall lined with burgundy-and-gold damask wallpaper, gleaming hardwood, floor-to-ceiling windows with whitewashed shutters opened to the rainy landscape . . . The glow of crystal chandeliers stretched out before them, and an oversize marble fireplace stood smack-dab in the center of it all, with gold and orange flames dancing.
She paused, feet frozen in place.
Emory slowed beside her, looking down the same hallowed view as she—sconces aglow and view stretching for what seemed like acres in front of them.
“I know. Feels like you’re lost in a scene from The Shining, right?”
“Something like that. Only more royal and slightly less terrifying.”
“We should hope.” Emory began rolling her suitcase before she could this time and tipped his head down the hall, leading again so she’d follow. “This way.”
They walked, the sound of big band music growing.
Emory led them past the sparking fireplace along a span of windows dotted with rain. “So, the security around art—you must be used to that. I’ve been told you were part of a field team that handled the restoration of salons at Versailles. Is that true?”
“I’d say more of a glorified assistant who made the café and crepe runs. But yes, security is a necessary evil, isn’t it?”
“You used the contacts from that job to secure a position on a team that restored paintings at Wentworth Woodhouse in South Yorkshire. You worked in curatorial at Buckingham Palace for a summer stint. Should I add ‘master of persuasion’ to your list of skills?”
“Maybe I didn’t have to persuade anyone. Maybe my education speaks for itself.”
He shook his head. “Right. Sorry. I tripped into that one. But what I was trying to say is you don’t have the royal connections by family, but you’ve been on the inside of some of the art world’s crown jewels. I’d still like to know whether it’s true or just internet rumor that you once attended a royal ball at Chatsworth House. All that, and yet you’ve never been here?”
“It’s not as glamorous as all that. In truth, a friend and I talked our way in a back entrance at Chatsworth and were very nearly thrown in the Tower of London as a result. And I wasn’t even aware here existed. If this is a private family estate, it’s been hidden well from the outside world.”
“Forgotten more like, until the owner decided to air out some rooms and found a heck of a wrench had been tossed in one of them.”
“Well, my last job was curatorial in a Manhattan gallery and you plucked me out of a Dublin pub, so it’s safe to say I’m not here to put on airs about my résumé at present.” Keira slid a sideways glance at him. “You may have named a few things I’d have to put on it if I wanted to update it. But my father and brothers didn’t feel the need to check my experience when they decided I could fill a pint glas
s and ring up a sale.”
“Big of you to say so.” He nodded and led her to the end of the hall. “Here we are.”
Tarps were spread where dust and buckets and piles of brick lay bare the entrance to a room, its polished wood doorway cracked with age. Emory held out his arm, inviting her to step through in front of him.
“What’s all this?” Keira edged around the brick, careful that her boots wouldn’t brush against the mounds of work in progress as she went inside.
“Ground zero for the restoration efforts.”
The room lay long and shadowed, with corners enveloped in musty books and rows of wood shelves, and an iron ladder system that stood dusted over like flour had been tossed in the air. The ceilings were high—so lofty she felt they’d stepped under the vaults of a grand cathedral—with a painted surface that hinted at glorious hues they might uncover with a good restoration. And affixed to the wall at the far end of the room stood something obscured by brick . . . A wall of weathered wood? Standing on scaffolding, a young man in worn flannel and black-rimmed glasses removed its brick shield at a snail’s pace, so close his nose almost touched the mortar.
A small crew bustled about beneath him, connecting wires to cameras and hanging lights in draped corners. Emory shouted out, gathering attention. Someone flipped the switch on a cell phone, deadening Ben’s beloved big band tunes.
“Everyone—this is Keira Foley. She’s joining up with us.”
“Brilliant! Boss here said we should have been lookin’ for ye yesterday.” A young woman left a laptop on an antique sideboard and stepped forward, sprightly in size with chopped ebony hair, a deep lavender decorating the wavy tips, a bright smile, and an accent full of Irish moxie.
She stuck out a hand, which Keira accepted. “An’ Emory wouldn’ dare let on how worried he was when ye didn’ show. Must have checked that expensive watch of his every few minutes for the last twenty-four hours. Way to keep him in suspense. Ye ought to try that tactic durin’ contract negotiations.”
Emory cleared his throat over the woman’s blunt delivery. “Ah, so this is Maggie Jane Mitchell, our project manager on-site. Basically, she makes sure the world keeps turning while we’re working.”
“An’ she’s a wicked social media maven, don’ be forgettin’.”
“Right. She’s recording restoration efforts. And we may tease her about being named after a famous American authoress, but M. J. suits her just fine. And being from Irish stock, she doesn’t pull any punches, as you can tell—though she hasn’t quite learned the art of English subtlety. But we’re working on that.”
“Ha. That from the loud subtleties of an American.” M. J. gave him a mock squint as Emory moved out of earshot, over to another member of the crew who was inspecting the setup of monitors and cameras in the corner.
“Nice to have another gal in the mix to give these gents the what-for. If everythin’ Boss here’s told us about ye is true, ’tis an honor to work wit’ ye.”
An honor?
She cast her gaze over to Emory. What had he said about her? More than that—what did he know?
“Thanks . . .” Keira looked from their leader to the controlled chaos around them. Stacks of books. Library shelves with an iron ladder system. A skeleton crew of guys setting up filming equipment and untangling wires at their feet. “But what’s this all about? He didn’t set me up—just tossed some euros my way and told me where to show up.”
M. J. smiled and leaned in on a whisper. “Not surprisin’. Ye’ll learn that Boss Man o’er there keeps his cards close to the vest. All o’ ’em.”
“Keira? The rest of the crew’s over here,” Emory shouted and waved her over, then pointed out the guys with noses buried in technology, camera equipment, and to-go coffee cups. “This is Eli with the Red Sox cap—our videographer. And Ben is our historical archaeologist by the scaffolding—that’s fancy talk for the guy who tries to dismantle a brick wall with a toothbrush without taking the entire house down with him.”
“It’s nice to meet everyone, but . . .” Keira paused after shaking the hands they’d stretched out in greeting, taking in the sight of production plans taking over the manor. “Am I here for some sort of art consult or a reality show?”
M. J. tossed a sideways glance over to Emory. “So ye didn’ think to warn her?”
Emory shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “How could I? Would’ve ruined the surprise.”
M. J. turned back to Keira. “Well, welcome aboard. Yer in for a treat. We’ll flick on the lights an’ roll film as soon as Carter pops in. Then ye’ll see.”
“See what?”
“What all this lot is for. Our guest of honor.”
Keira didn’t even have time to assess what they were looking at, let alone to know why a crew was mixing with the likes of Emory Scott. “Is Carter another member of the crew here?”
Emory shook his head. “Not likely. He thinks we art-lovers are all a little crazy. But Carter Wilmont—also teased as our Viscount Huxley—is the owner of the estate.”
“An’ yer best chap from prep school, don’ be forgettin’.”
“More partner in crime. He gives us free rein around here because we do all the work. So he indulges our whims to research musty old books and bricks, while he pops in every now and then to write checks and make sure we don’t burn the place down.” Emory shrugged. “Keeps us honest.”
“Honest enough to tell me what’s going on here, Mr. Scott?”
Emory glanced at M. J. and the crew, who’d heard her question and stood smiling with a shade of half knowing upon their faces.
“We need you to authenticate a painting. Simple as that. You tell us the who, what, and when behind it, then I can hand over the rest of your fee.”
“Alright. You have my attention.” Keira slipped the leather strap of her messenger bag over her head and set it on the floor at her feet. She looked around, finding only books, shelves, and shadows dominating the walls. “What painting?”
“Why wait? Carter’s late and this isn’t his show anyway. It’s hers.” Emory stepped over to connect an extension cord into a portable outlet. “Miss Foley . . . meet Victoria.” He stooped to flip the switch, and the room exploded in light and color and spines lining bookshelves all the way back to the scaffolding. One last spotlight flicked on and then, under the glow of soft white light . . .
Queen Victoria.
The immaculate portrait of the queen had her royal shoulders bared, hair unbound in a rich brunette coil over her collarbone, and a subtle longing in the eyes that seemed to invite the room to delve into their cerulean depths. She hung surrounded by book spines and aged shelves, tucked in the corner so she was nearly hidden by the skeletal frame of an iron rolling ladder.
Keira abandoned her bags and stalked forward, aching to touch fingertips to canvas—though she never would do such a thing.
She stepped up until she was a breath away, inspecting the paint strokes. Barely visible but breathtaking at the same time. Hues had faded from years of existing unseen in the dark, with color clearly not what it once had been. But Victoria stared out, steady, with a presence so regal Keira’s legs weakened because even a whisper that the portrait had once been in the presence of a queen was enough to warrant reverence.
“That is . . . Queen Victoria . . .” Keira breathed out on a ragged whisper before she could stop herself. Her skin prickled the length of her limbs as she collected her thoughts. “This isn’t a Winterhalter, is it?”
“We don’t know. That’s why we need you.” Emory had shouldered her leather satchel and rolled her travel suitcase along, then stopped it on the hardwood next to her boots. He stepped around the iron ladder into her line of sight and casually leaned an elbow against the metal tine as he looked at Victoria alongside her. “So it’s back to town then?”
Keira shook her head, still transfixed by Victoria’s regal domination of the immense room. “Not on your life. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me wha
t in the world is going on.”
A smile—free and knowing—covered Emory’s profile as he, too, took in the image of the queen. “Like I said, Foley, welcome to the team.”
Five
September 30, 1944
Parham Hill Estate
Framlingham, England
Men might say—even believe—they could go about unnoticed, but it was almost never true.
As the officers had moved into nearly every square inch of the manor’s ground floor, the library at Parham Hill turned into Amelia’s last remaining sanctuary. It had become an odd sort of companion out of volumes with cracked spines, pages yellowed with age, and faded rectangles on the wallpaper where her late husband’s heirloom paintings had once hung.
Books were would-be fablers and old friends—the copy of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens she’d pressed between her palms being one. The rust-red cover of the Arthur Rackham–illustrated version, with its gold-lettered title, showed wear, having become well loved and much faded since its 1906 printing.
“Mrs. Woods?”
Captain Stevens’s voice stirred Amelia back to life, her hands jolting so she almost dropped the book. She swept her index finger against the row of her bottom lashes, tidying her face, then slid the book back in its glass case in the sideboard. She clicked the door closed.
“Yes, Captain.” She turned, expecting him to engage her in conversation right away. Instead, he was enthralled. Speechless. Standing with hands pocketed in the center of the library, a veil of astonishment drawn over his features as he looked up to the ceiling.
It had to be the first time he’d seen it.
Amelia wished she, too, could walk into the Parham Hill library for the very first time all over again. With soaring timber-vault ceilings . . . Two-story, rounded-corner bookshelves in polished rosewood and an iron ladder system that spanned the length of the room . . . Crown molding outlined in gold that never seemed to fade . . . An oversize mantel and soaring brick fireplace . . . The Rococo scenes of English country life splashed in rich blues, golds, and greens across the ceiling . . .
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