Having grabbed an overnight bag, he’d given Louisa the lame excuse of ‘needing to see Sophie urgently’ as explanation for leaving her and bolted from the castle. Her tearful concerns that he wouldn’t return had nearly been his undoing. Thankfully, Harry had arrived back from his business trip and the distraction of being reunited with her husband had diverted Louisa’s attentions, allowing Olly to escape.
Although how he planned to deal with the problem in hand, he didn’t know. But he had bigger things to worry about. Like where he was going to sleep tonight.
He hadn’t realised Sophie was staying with friends in Central London. So not only was his lie already unravelling, but he also had no place to stay. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a key?
He could have called Sophie and begged her to return. But then he’d have to explain why he was in Windsor, and Sophie was a lot more astute than Louisa and harder to fob off. It was better she didn’t know.
Besides, she wouldn’t thank him for ruining her social life. She was probably partying at some swanky venue with one of the numerous men she dated but that no one ever met. Sophie kept her family and friends separate. Having done the same, he could hardly complain.
It was late afternoon by the time he walked up the hill to where Windsor Castle sat proudly overlooking the town centre. It was a far cry from the rustic and remote Rubha Castle – the epitome of a royal residence, with its manicured lawns and troops of guards wearing impressive red coats and busby hats, proudly protecting the crown. Hordes of tourists mingled outside, snapping photos and trying to get the unresponsive guards to smile.
He checked his directions and walked past the statue of Queen Victoria. He found himself in the old medieval area of the town, the lanes narrow and cobbled. The crooked houses either side dated back to the 1600s, but they’d all been converted into souvenir shops, cafés and taverns. But it was the dwellings ahead that drew his attention.
Tainted Love Tattoos looked classy and discerning, with a neon sign that glowed in the window advertising ‘Room to Let’. Handy.
Of course, the place of real interest was next door: Ryan Fine Arts.
Now he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. If it were any other painting he’d simply walk in there, introduce himself, explain that there’d been a mix-up and ask for the painting to be returned. But it wasn’t any old painting.
According to the website, the owner of Ryan Fine Arts had a degree in the history of art. There was no way she wouldn’t recognise a Spinelli. The Cursed Man had been missing for nearly three hundred years, so if it suddenly turned up now it would be a huge deal. News that the family who’d sold The Sacrificial Woman were found to be in possession of its sister painting would hit the headlines. Especially if that painting turned out to be fake. The French buyer of the first painting would probably sue, the Wentworth family would lose both properties, his parents would be labelled crooks, his siblings shamed and four hundred years of family history would be wiped out.
The secret he’d spent the last decade running away from would be exposed.
There was no way he could let that happen. He had to get that painting back without raising suspicion. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know.
He decided a little reconnaissance was required before formulating a plan. He needed time to think.
The front of the gallery was mostly glass, displaying a few works in the window. Good-quality pieces, mounted against a soft white background, indicating the owner knew their stuff. Of course, it was a classy joint. When Louisa had searched for a gallery to take their mother’s collection, she’d done her research. She wouldn’t have proceeded unless she was confident the curator was professional and a genuine art-lover. Which was great as far as selling their mother’s legitimate paintings was concerned, but bad news when trying to outsmart an expert.
Had the owner discovered the painting yet? And if she had, would she be fooled into thinking it was real, or would she simply assume it was a copy? Any decent curator would carry out a series of checks before making an assumption. It would take a while to scrutinise the materials used in the work, especially a sixteenth-century piece. They’d need to analyse the canvas and formulate a paper trail back to the artist. His mother had been thorough and had managed to fool the experts back in 2007, but whether her efforts would dupe current testing methods remained to be seen.
He noticed a side alley next to the art gallery. It led to a service area at the rear of the property. It was empty apart from a row of refuse and recycling bins. The large industrial doors leading to what looked like the gallery’s storage facility were ajar. The lights were on, indicating someone was working inside.
His heart rate increased. The painting might still be in its crate. Undiscovered. Supposing he could sneak inside and remove the painting without anyone ever knowing he’d been there? There’d be no need for elaborate explanations or lying.
So why did he feel so nervous? He normally enjoyed bending the rules. He’d spent his entire life fighting conformity, deliberately pushing boundaries, mostly to annoy his parents. Not exactly original behaviour. He didn’t need Freud to analyse his reasoning. But contemplating stealing a painting was hardly the same as boyish mischief.
But then he reminded himself the painting was already his. His family’s, at least. He was merely retrieving lost property. He wasn’t trying to con anyone, or cause anyone suffering. This was a mop-up job. A necessity to keep his family scandal-free, solvent and out of jail. All valid reasons intended to make the task easier, justify his actions and ease the guilt of deception. It wasn’t working.
He decided to take a closer look.
Dumping his rucksack behind one of the bins, he crept up to the doors. It was quiet inside. The rational voice in his head told him he was crazy for even contemplating entering, but the desire to retrieve the painting overrode logic. With a pounding heart, he checked the coast was clear and went inside.
The space was painted white. It was also chilly. He couldn’t see any unopened crates, but the walls contained rows of racking, so he went over. He discovered numerous quality copies of the classics. At least, he assumed they were copies. Botticelli, Raphael, Rubens, even Shouping and Cézanne. He liked the mix. It was unpredictable, random. But there were no signs of his mother’s paintings.
He spotted a smaller painting displayed on an easel. He read the card pinned to the wooden frame: Woman at the Window, circa 1510–1530, Italian, North. He peered closer. It was bloody good, the brushwork exquisite …
‘Stay where you are.’ The sound of a woman’s voice made him jerk forwards, knocking the painting off the easel. ‘Don’t you dare move another muscle.’
Shit. He’d been sprung.
He turned slowly, opening his arms in a suitably submissive gesture.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see, but it wasn’t the gallery owner brandishing a Stanley knife. He recognised her from the website. In her photo she’d looked serious and businesslike. She certainly hadn’t been wearing a Fifties-style circle skirt with a cherry-patterned blouse and bright red lips. Far from looking old-fashioned, she looked like something out of one of Sophie’s style magazines.
She walked towards him, shaking her mass of pale blonde hair away from her face. ‘Wh … what do you want with that painting?’
‘What painting?’ He hadn’t found it yet. And then he realised she was talking about the Woman at the Window.
Her eyes darted nervously between him and the canvas on the floor. ‘Don’t play dumb. Who sent you?’ She edged closer, her hand visibly trembling. ‘My ex-husband?’
Ex-husband?
He bent