Secret Things and Highland Flings

Chapter Four

Wednesday 30th May

Less than two hours after receiving the news that the forged Spinelli had already been packed up and sent to a gallery in Windsor, Olly had boarded the overnight sleeper and was now heading out of London, bound for Berkshire. If he’d had more time he could have formulated a better plan, one that didn’t involve him running out on his injured sister. But he’d been forced into a knee-jerk response.

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 down to retrieve the painting. ‘Listen, I—’

‘I said don’t move!’ She lunged forwards at the same time he held up his hands. He watched in horror as the knife sliced through the arm of his T-shirt and imbedded itself into his right bicep.

As she pulled the knife away, a splatter of red landed on the white tiled flooring.

She screamed.

He wanted to scream himself. The pain was excruciating.

The room began to sway. Flickering lights clouded his vision. He was vaguely aware of a rushing sound in his ears and then he dropped to his knees.

The woman rushed over. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’ She looked frantic, torn between wanting to help him and steering well clear. ‘I need to call the police.’

‘Don’t call the cops,’ he pleaded, the blood from his arm smearing across the white tiled flooring.

She picked up the Woman at the Window and clutched it to her chest. ‘You were trying to steal my painting.’

He staggered to his feet. ‘I wasn’t. I have no interest in that painting.’ Which was entirely true … he was after a different painting. ‘Please don’t call the police.’

She waved the Stanley knife at him. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

He lifted his hands, blood running down his right arm. ‘I’m really sorry if I frightened you.’ He opened his palms. ‘But I’m not here to cause trouble.’

She didn’t look convinced. Her pale complexion had drained of colour. She began to sway. Was she about to faint, too?

‘Are you okay?’

‘Funnily enough, no. A man just broke into my gallery, attacked me and tried to steal one of my paintings. I am far from okay.’

Indignation overrode contrition. ‘Hey, I didn’t attack you. And I didn’t break in – the doors were open. And I’m the one who’s bleeding.’ He pointed at his arm.

‘Well … what did you expect?’ She leant against the wall. ‘You were trespassing. Now get out, or I will call the police. And you can tell whoever sent you I haven’t got it. They’re wasting their time.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Haven’t got what?’

‘Don’t play dumb.’ She tried to sound tough, but her voice shook. ‘I won’t be intimidated. You hear me? You tell Marcus I’m made of sterner stuff.’ Her legs buckled.

‘You’re in shock. Let me help you—’

‘Get away from me.’ She batted his hand away. ‘If you think I’m—’

‘Hey, I was only trying to help.’

‘I don’t need any help from you, thank you.’ She backed over to the stairwell, taking the painting with her. ‘And stay … stay there. You can’t be trusted.’

Things were spiralling out of control.

‘Look, I don’t know why you think I’m after that painting, but I’m not.’

She hugged the painting tighter.

‘My name’s Oliver Wentworth. I’m here because my sister Louisa Musgrove sent you a painting by mistake.’

She froze. ‘Your sister?’

‘The collection from Rubha Castle? She sent you our late mother’s art collection, but another painting was included that shouldn’t have been. I’m here to retrieve it.’

She frowned. ‘And why should I believe you? You could be anyone. A con artist. A fraudster. Show me some ID.’

Why hadn’t he thought to bring ID? ‘I don’t have any formal ID, but I’m telling the truth. I was going to explain, but when I got here the place was empty, so—’

‘You thought you’d walk in and help yourself?’ She looked incredulous.

He shrugged. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Do you make a habit of just taking things? I mean, is there anything else you’d like while you’re here?’ Her tone had morphed into sarcasm. ‘A lift home, perhaps? A couple of paintings on your way out? A cup of tea?’

‘Actually, tea sounds great.’ He took a step back when she glared at him. ‘Loss of blood. You can’t throw me out like this.’

She opened her mouth and then hesitated, as if her mind had changed direction. She looked conflicted. She also looked as cute as hell. But he was smart enough to know mentioning that wouldn’t do him any favours.

A beat later, she went over and closed the external doors. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she said, heading upstairs.

He followed. ‘Is that a yes?’

He took her silence as an affirmative.

The staircase was narrow. When her foot caught on a loose bit of carpet and she stumbled, he reached out to grab her waist. ‘Don’t faint on me, there’s not enough room. And besides—’

‘Let me guess?’ She swung around to face him. ‘You’re the one who’s bleeding?’

He was about to apologise for the umpteenth time, but then noticed the challenge in her expression. The colour had returned to her cheeks and she no longer looked so shaky.

Maybe he needed a different approach. If he couldn’t steal the painting back, maybe he could charm her into giving it to him instead.

He tried for a boyish grin. ‘Technically, I’m the victim here. ABH … use of a lethal weapon.’

Her blue eyes widened. ‘It was self-defence.’

He came up a step. ‘I’d surrendered.’

‘You were trespassing.’

Another step. ‘My hands were up.’

‘You startled me.’

He was eyelevel now, their bodies separated by the painting. ‘You stabbed me.’

After a long-drawn-out pause, where they both stared into each other’s eyes, she turned and hurried up the remaining two flights. ‘Stay by the doorway. I don’t want you bleeding over my carpet.’

Her perfume hung in the air, playing havoc with his ability to think rationally. He had to shake himself out of his trance. Who was playing whom here?

The door at the top of the stairwell opened into a residential dwelling. The space was open-plan and painted soft white with a few period pieces of furniture, including a jukebox. Mark Rothko artwork hung on the walls, providing a splash of colour. It was a mixture of modern and retro, like the owner. A stretch of worktop was decorated with elaborate cupcake stands and boxes of Tupperware.

What he wouldn’t do for a sugary snack. He hadn’t eaten all day.

The woman came back to the stairwell and shoved a handful of kitchen towels at him. ‘Hold that against the wound and sit where I can keep an eye on you.’ She pointed to a barstool and then fetched a first-aid kit, stretching up to reach it from the cupboard above.

His eyes were drawn to her shapely legs and he was hit by another wave of dizziness. Christ, how much blood had he lost?

When she turned back, she caught him staring. ‘Don’t get any funny ideas.’

Before he could reassure her that he wasn’t interested in anything other than getting his painting back, their eyes met and something hit him hard in the solar plexus. He immediately squashed the feeling. He was here to save his family. Not flirt with a cute woman.

Seemingly flustered, she busied herself making tea, using a proper teapot. She carried the bone china cup over to him and placed it on the worktop.

He raised an eyebrow at the cherry blossom design that matched her blouse but refrained from comment.

She opened the lid on her first-aid box. ‘Roll your sleeve up.’

He flinched when he saw a bottle of witch hazel. ‘Will this hurt?’

She tore open an antiseptic swipe. ‘For a burglar you’re not very brave, are you?’

‘I told you, I’m not a burglar.’

‘Oh, that’s right, you’re …?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Remind me again?’

‘Oliver Wentworth. Louisa Musgrove’s brother.’

She laughed. ‘Of course you are.’

He might have enjoyed hearing her laugh if she wasn’t laughing at him. ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Let’s just say, I have my doubts.’

‘Then phone Louisa and ask her.’

‘Oh, I intend to. But for now, stop complaining and let me look at your arm.’

He did as asked, making a mental note to phone Louisa and prewarn her. The wound was smeared with blood, but not as ragged as he’d feared. Her face was so close he could see a few freckles on her nose. She smelt nice. Floral.

‘It might need stitches,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’ll patch you up temporarily, but you’ll need to visit A & E.’

He took a sip of tea. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t read anything into it. I’d do the same for anyone.’

She cleaned the wound and covered it with a dressing. Throughout, he sat perfectly still, his eyes switching between her and the Tupperware on the side. He wasn’t sure which was more enticing.

Eventually, she reached over and handed him the container. ‘Honestly, men and their stomachs.’

He helped himself. ‘These are delicious,’ he said, trying to charm her with a smile.

‘Cake is all that’s on offer.’ She rolled down his sleeve and turned away. ‘Time for you to leave.’

‘You’re right.’ He got off the stool. ‘I have another three break-ins scheduled for tonight.’

She swung around so sharply she knocked the first-aid kit off the counter.

He bent down to retrieve the box. ‘It was a joke.’

She glared at him. ‘Funny guy.’

He placed the first-aid kit on the side. ‘I really am sorry for frightening you. Despite appearances, I’m a very trustworthy person.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Pillar of the community, I’m sure.’ She walked over to the stairwell and held the door open. ‘Just out of interest, what painting was sent here by mistake?’

He avoided eye contact. ‘Nothing special. Just a random painting of an old bloke.’

‘Right. So not valuable, then?’

‘Worthless.’

She nodded. ‘I wonder why you took the trouble to come all this way to retrieve it then. Surely it would’ve been easier simply to phone me and ask for it to be returned.’

He closed his eyes. He was an idiot.

Without another word, she headed downstairs. It didn’t take a genius to work out she’d already discovered the painting.

He followed her down.

‘Not to worry,’ she said, reaching the bottom. ‘I’m heading up to Rubha Castle in the next few days to evaluate the rest of the family’s collection. I’ll happily take the painting with me and return it to the family, if that’s what they wish.’ She held the rear door open for him.

Well, that was something.

‘Thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand in an attempt to repair the damage he’d inflicted on both his reputation and her gallery. ‘I appreciate that.’

She ignored his offer of a truce. ‘No problem.’

‘And thanks for the tea and cake.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘And not calling the pol—’

The door slammed shut in his face.

So much for trying to ‘charm her’. Far from retrieving the painting without arising any suspicion, he’d managed to cast even more doubt over the honesty of his family. And got stabbed in the process. Good one.

To top it all, he was now stranded in Windsor without a place to stay.

Sighing, he collected his rucksack from behind the bins and mulled over his options. His arm was throbbing, he looked a bloody mess and he couldn’t imagine he’d be welcomed at the prestigious Castle Hotel in the high street. And then he remembered the advert in the tattoo parlour’s window. He’d try there. Plus, it meant he could keep an eye on the gallery and ensure the owner did as promised and took The Cursed Man back up to Scotland.

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best he could come up with tonight.

He backtracked to the front of the building. Tainted Love Tattoos had closed for the night, but the lights were still on inside. He cupped his hand and peered through the glass. A woman was sitting at a table. When he tapped on the glass, she looked up. He pointed to the sign hanging in the window.

She stood up. He could see she was wearing a tight black skirt with matching corset, fishnet stockings and a pair of black patent shoes. The heels alone looked capable of causing serious damage. Around her neck she wore a black choker with tiny rubies hanging from one side that looked like droplets of blood from a puncture wound.

Bloody hell. Talk about intimidating.

She walked towards him, her onyx eyes blinking from beneath her Pulp Fiction hairdo. She released the bolts on the door and opened it. For a good few seconds she just looked at him, not saying a word.

Unable to take the silence any longer, he said, ‘I was wondering about a room for the night?’

She didn’t respond.

He pointed to the sign. ‘It says you have a room to let.’

She leant against the doorframe. ‘I know what it says.’

‘Right.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘Do you have a vacancy?’

She eyed him cautiously. ‘You on the run?’

He shook his head.

‘What’s with the arm?’

He followed her gaze. The dressing was already soaked with blood. ‘I fell off my bike.’

Her expression indicated she didn’t believe him. ‘No drugs.’

He frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

She sighed. ‘As in, I don’t want anyone shooting up on my premises. Comprendo?’

He tilted his head to one side. ‘You remind me of someone.’

‘Fascinating. You want a room, or not? Forty quid a night, two fifty per week, seven hundred for the month. Cash. No tenancy agreement. No refunds. Payment upfront.’ She narrowed her gaze. ‘Food not included. Phone off limits. Touch my stuff and you’ll die a slow and painful death.’

He visibly swallowed. ‘Good to know.’

‘We got a deal?’

He scratched his head and then shrugged. ‘Deal.’ He held out his hand.

She ignored him and stepped back to allow him inside. She locked the door behind him. Should he be worried?

‘Sit,’ she said, pointing to a black leather chair that wouldn’t look out of place in a dentist’s surgery.

‘Excuse me …?’

Placing her hands on her hips, she stared at him. ‘You’re contaminating my sterile working environment. I don’t appreciate threats to the safety of my clients’ well-being.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m a softie like that.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I can tell.’ He sat down, fearful of what might happen if he didn’t.

She pulled out a first-aid kit. He was struck by a sense of déjà vu.

‘HIV positive?’

He blinked up at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

She sighed and then repeated very slowly, ‘Are you HIV positive?’

‘Oh, right. Err … no.’

‘Hepatitis B?’

He shook his head.

‘Any other diseases I should know about?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ He tried not to stare at the tattoo on her left breast, a dagger piercing a heart. ‘Shouldn’t we get to know each other a little first?’

She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. ‘I’m not one for small talk.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ He watched her peel away the bloodied dressing applied by his previous first aider. ‘You know what you’re doing?’

She dropped it into a sanitised disposal unit. ‘My job dictates I draw blood. Occupational hazard.’

‘I imagine you’re very good at it.’

She almost smiled. ‘Funny guy.’

The way she’d said ‘funny guy’ gave him another strong sense of déjà vu. There was something oddly familiar about this woman. But if they’d met before, he’d definitely remember. She wasn’t the kind of woman a man forgot.

He looked around the parlour. In contrast to the white gallery next door, this place was jet black. There was a sign on the wall that read: THINK BEFORE YOU INK. It was hung next to the image of a naked woman with a creeping vine entwined around her torso.