“You’ve always been clever at riddles, my sweet.”
“Now, Papa.”
“Just business.” He gave her a quick, hearty smile as he wondered just how much he’d have to tell her.
“Let’s be specific, shall we?” She moved so that only the table separated them. “And don’t give me that blank, foolish look. It won’t work.” Bending over, she stared directly into his eyes. “I heard quite a bit while I was outside. Tell me the rest.”
“Eavesdropping.” He made a disapproving tsk-tsk. “Rude.”
“I come by it honestly. Now tell me or I’ll annihilate your hawk.” Sweeping up her arm, she held her palm three inches above his clay.
“Vicious brat.” With his bony fingers, he grabbed her wrist, each knowing who’d win if it came down to it. He gave a windy sigh. “All right.”
With a nod, Kirby removed her hand then folded her arms under her breasts. The habitual gesture had him sighing again.
“Stuart came to me with a little proposition some time ago. You know, of course, he hasn’t a cent to his name, no matter what he pretends.”
“Yes, I know he wanted to marry me for my money.” No one but her father would’ve detected the slight tightening in her voice.
“I didn’t bring that up to hurt you.” His hand reached for hers in the bond that had been formed when she’d taken her first breath.
“I know, Papa.” She squeezed his hand, then stuck both of hers in the pockets of her robe. “My pride suffered. It has to happen now and again, I suppose. But I don’t care for humiliation,” she said with sudden fierceness. “I don’t care for it one bloody bit.” With a toss of her head, she looked down at him. “The rest.”
“Well.” Fairchild puffed out his cheeks, then blew out the breath. “Among his other faults, Stuart’s greedy. He needed a large sum of money, and didn’t see why he had to work for it. He decided to help himself to the Rembrandt self-portrait from Harriet’s gallery.”
“He stole it?” Kirby’s eyes grew huge. “Great buckets of bedbugs! I wouldn’t have given him credit for that much nerve.”
“He thought himself clever.” Rising, Fairchild walked to the little sink in the corner to wash off his hands. “Harriet was going on her safari, and there’d be no one to question the disappearance for several weeks. Stuart’s a bit dictatorial with the staff at the gallery.”
“It’s such a treat to flog underlings.”
“In any case—” lovingly, Fairchild draped his hawk for the night “—he came to me with an offer—a rather paltry offer, too—if I’d do the forgery for the Rembrandt’s replacement.”
She hadn’t thought he could do anything to surprise her. Certainly nothing to hurt her. “Papa, it’s Harriet’s Rembrandt,” she said in shock.
“Now, Kirby, you know I’m fond of Harriet. Very fond.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Our Stuart has a very small brain. He handed over the Rembrandt when I said I needed it to do the copy.” Fairchild shook his head. “There wasn’t any challenge to it, Kirby. Hardly any fun at all.”
“Pity,” she said dryly and dropped into a chair.
“Then I told him I didn’t need the original any longer, and gave him the copy instead. He never suspected.” Fairchild linked his hands behind his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I wish you’d seen it. It was superlative. It was one of Rembrandt’s later works, you know. Rough textures, such luminous depth—”
“Papa!” Kirby interrupted what would’ve become a lecture.
“Oh, yes, yes.” With an effort, Fairchild controlled himself. “I told him it’d take just a little more time to complete the copy and treat it for the illusion of age. He bought it. Gullibility,” Fairchild added and clucked his tongue. “It’s been almost three weeks, and he just got around to having the painting tested. I made certain it wouldn’t stand up to the most basic of tests, of course.”
“Of course,” Kirby murmured.
“Now he has to leave the copy in the gallery. And I have the original.”
She gave herself a moment to absorb all he’d told her. It didn’t make any difference in how she felt. Furious. “Why, Papa? Why did you do this! It isn’t like all the others. It’s Harriet.”
“Now, Kirby, don’t lose control. You’ve such a nasty temper.” He did his best to look small and helpless. “I’m much too old to cope with it. Remember my blood pressure.”
“Blood pressure be hanged.” She glared up at him with fury surging into her eyes. “Don’t think you’re going to get around me with that. Old?” she tossed back. “You’re still your youngest child.”
“I feel a spell coming on,” he said, inspired by Kirby’s own warning two days before. He pressed a trembling hand to his heart and staggered. “I’ll end up a useless heap of cold spaghetti. Ah, the paintings I might have done. The world’s losing a genius.”
Clenching her fists, Kirby beat them on his worktable. Tools bounced and clattered while she let out a long wail. Protective, Fairchild placed his hands around his hawk and waited for the crisis to pass. At length, she slumped back in the chair, breathless.
“You used to do better than that,” he observed. “I think you’re mellowing.”
“Papa.” Kirby clamped her teeth to keep from grinding them. “I know I’ll be forced to beat you about the head and ears, then I’ll be arrested for patricide. You know I’ve a terror of closed-in places. I’d go mad in prison. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“Kirby, have I ever given you cause for one moment’s worry?”
“Don’t force me into a recital, Papa, it’s after midnight. What have you done with the Rembrandt?”
“Done with it?” He frowned and fiddled with the cover of his hawk. “What do you mean, done with it?”
“Where is it?” she asked, carefully spacing the words. “You can’t leave a painting like that lying around the house, particularly when you’ve chosen to have company.”
“Company? Oh, you mean Adam. Fine boy. I’m fond of him already.” His eyebrows wiggled twice. “You seem to be finding him agreeable.”
Kirby narrowed her eyes. “Leave Adam out of this.”
“Dear, dear, dear.” Fairchild grinned lavishly. “And I thought you’d brought him up.”
“Where is the Rembrandt?” All claim to patience disintegrated. Briefly, she considered banging her head on the table, but she’d given up that particular ploy at ten.
“Safe and secure, my sweet.” Fairchild’s voice was calm and pleased. “Safe and secure.”
“Here? In the house?”
“Of course.” He gave her an astonished look. “You don’t think I’d keep it anywhere else?”
“Where?”
“You don’t need to know everything.” With a flourish, he whipped off his painting smock and tossed it over a chair. “Just content yourself that it’s safe, hidden with appropriate respect and affection.”
“Papa.”
“Kirby.” He smiled—a gentle father’s smile. “A child must trust her parent, must abide by the wisdom of his years. You do trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,