some time and considerable skill to negotiate that price with the new owner and the auctioneer before bringing his prize back to London this morning, and his first priority had been to talk to Hebe Johnson.

      Undoubtedly the woman in the portrait.

      And, at the time of the painting, Andrew Southern’s lover.

      Something she seemed to be denying most strongly!

      Hebe moved forward as if in a dream, her hand moving up to touch the painting, her fingers stopping only centimetres away from the canvas, trembling slightly. Her breathing was shallow.

      ‘Who is she?’ she repeated emotionally.

      Nick stepped forward. ‘For God’s sake, Hebe, it’s you—’

      ‘It isn’t me!’ She turned to look at him, able to feel the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat. ‘Look at it again, Nick,’ she told him shakily, pleadingly, turning to look at the painting, a gut-wrenching pain in her chest as she did so.

      ‘Of course it’s you—’

      ‘No,’ she cut in quietly again. ‘She has a birthmark, Nick. Look. There.’ She pointed to the rose-shaped birthmark on the swell of one creamy breast, visible above the low neckline of the deep blue dress. ‘And look here.’ She pulled aside the open neck of her cream blouse, revealing her own creamy breast.

      Completely bare of that rose-shaped birthmark…

      Whoever the woman in the portrait was it most certainly wasn’t Hebe.

      She knew it wasn’t.

      But if it wasn’t her, who—?

      No, it couldn’t be!

      Could it…?

      And that was when everything went dark…