That Summer: A Novel (21 page)

Only four paintings. “Five now,” said Julia. The mind boggled. “Assuming we can verify it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Nick’s eyes met hers, a brilliant blue-green behind his glasses. “You do realize what this means. If it is genuine, that painting marks a whole different direction for Thorne. Everything anyone thought they knew about this man is going to have to be reevaluated. It’s not exactly headline of
The Times
stuff, but a number of learned academics are going to have their knickers in a twist.”

“If it is genuine,” said Julia. Deep in her heart of hearts, she had no doubt it was. The only question was proving it. In a weak attempt at humor she said, “I think I need more scotch.”

She was joking, but Nick topped up her glass anyway. “It will help if you can find anything to trace the provenance,” he said, sliding the bottle back into its slot in the globe. “Any contemporary reference—or any reason it might have turned up in your house.”

Julia tapped her fingernails against the side of her glass. “There might be a connection.… There’s a portrait in the drawing room of the house that looks just like the woman who’s posing as Iseult in the painting. I’m pretty sure they’re the same person.”

“Not to sound too skeptical”—Nick readjusted his glass—“but what would an artist’s model be doing hanging in the drawing room?”

Julia took another swig of her scotch. “My theory is that she was an artist’s model first and then married into respectability later. That would explain why she made it into the drawing room.”

A wry expression crossed Nick’s face. “That sort of thing has been known to happen a time or two. But why stow the painting away in a wardrobe?”

Julia curled her legs up beneath her. “Maybe her husband wanted to suppress evidence of her former career? That would explain why we found it hidden away.”

She could see Nick trying to find fault with her theory. “It’s an idea,” he said cautiously.

With repeated application of scotch her idea was looking better and better to her. “Admit it,” she said. “It’s a great idea.”

Nick swallowed a grin. “I’ll give you ‘plausible.’ Do you have any idea who the woman in the portrait is?”

Julia shook her head. “An ancestress, presumably. My father thinks I should talk to my cousin Caroline—Natalie’s mother.”

Nick grimaced. “Better you than me.” Remembering himself, he frowned at his scotch. “You didn’t hear me say that. It was the scotch talking.”

Julia bit her lip on a grin. “What else does the scotch have to say?”

Nick regarded the amber liquid in his glass. “Not much more or I won’t be able to drive home. Can I offer you a lift?”

It took Julia a moment to realize it was a dismissal. She glanced quickly at her watch. Oh, hell. How it had been over two hours? No wonder Nick was trying to get rid of her. It was a Monday night. The poor guy was probably dying to get home. Not to mention starving.

Hastily she set down her empty glass and began to struggle her way out of the sagging old sofa. “That’s really sweet of you, but I’ll be fine on the train.”

No one had warned her that the couch was a Venus flytrap. Sagging down in the middle, it resisted her puny efforts to free herself.

“Need a hand?” Grasping her hand, Nick hauled her effortlessly to her feet. Julia landed on her feet with a little bounce. Instead of letting go, he said, “Are you sure about that lift? It sounds like it’s pouring out. And it’s really no bother.”

For the first time, Julia realized that there was rain drumming against the tiny window behind the desk. It was hard to see much through it, narrow and barred, but what she could see looked far too gray for seven o’clock on a summer night.

Julia looked down at her impractical linen dress, her open-toed sandals.

“If you’re sure it’s really no trouble…”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it were.” Nick dropped her hand and began shuffling papers into place, loading a silver laptop and assorted folders into a worn brown leather computer bag. “I’m parked just down the block. You don’t have an umbrella, have you?”

An umbrella? In England? That would have been way too sensible. “I’m afraid not.”

Nick hauled his bag up on his shoulder. “Neither do I.” There was an Indiana Jones–esque glint in his eye. “We’re just going to have to run for it.”

As it turned out, running didn’t do much good. The rain was coming down in sheets. Julia was soaked before Nick had pulled down the grille of the shop, her dress plastered to her body and her hair hanging in long, lank strands around her face.

“Just a little mizzle,” said Nick cheerfully, beeping the car doors open.

Julia stuck her tongue out at him and slid into the passenger seat. “Sorry for dripping all over your upholstery,” she said as he climbed in on the other side.

“Stop apologizing.” Reaching out, he switched on the CD player. Not Handel this time, but vintage Depeche Mode. It seemed to suit the rain running in rivers down the window. Rubbing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, he glanced at Julia, his lips twitching in part amusement, part sympathy. “Do you need the heater?”

Great. She must really look like a drowned rat. Unfairly, the rain had only darkened his fair hair to the color of the scotch they had been drinking and flattened his shirt against a chest that bore out either some sort of sport or a good gym membership. Did hauling antiques around count as weight lifting?

“I’m fine,” said Julia hastily. She lifted her hands, twisting her hair to try to get some of the wet out. It had the unfortunate effect of relocating the trickle of cold water right down her back. It had also, she realized, following Nick’s appreciative gaze, placed various aspects of her anatomy in a rather suggestive position. Julia hastily dropped her hands. “All that booze is keeping me warm.”

“There was a reason the Scots invented the stuff,” said Nick agreeably. The car swung smoothly around a corner, through a maze of tiny streets. “Better than central heating.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Julia. She turned in her seat. While she had a captive antiques expert on hand …

A captive cute antiques dealer. Not that that was the least bit relevant. He was property of Natalie. Or at least Natalie thought he was.

She really shouldn’t have had that third glass of scotch.

“So.” Julia swiped wet hair out of her eyes. “About the painting. I gather establishing provenance is the next step?”

“That would be the major hurdle,” said Nick. “The ideal would be a receipt for the painting, preferably with Thorne’s signature on it.”

“Possible,” said Julia. “Unlikely, but possible. I don’t think my ancestors ever threw anything away.” And she had the trash bags to prove it.

Nick’s eyes were on the road, providing Julia with a view of his profile. “If you like,” he offered, “I can do some digging around on my end, find out if there’s any mention of the painting in other sources, if it was ever exhibited.”

“Really?’ That was unexpectedly generous of him. “Are you sure? That would be great.”

His eyes flicked briefly in her direction. “How often does one get a chance to rearrange the artistic canon?”

“In your profession?” said Julia. “Probably not infrequently.”

“It’s rarer than you’d think,” said Nick. “Whatever the
Daily Mail
may claim, there are a limited number of old masters tucked away in attics—and half of those are fakes.” He dodged neatly around a homicidal cab. “If you tackle your cousin Caroline about the possible family connection, I’ll follow up on Thorne on my end.”

Julia smoothed her wet skirt over her knees. “It’s a deal—although why do I feel like I just got the short end of the stick? Hey. Stop smirking.”

Nick held up one hand. “I didn’t say anything.”

Julia burrowed back into her seat. “Anyway, I like my theory about the mystery model. If you look at the portrait in the drawing room, there’s something incredibly tragic about it.” Julia struggled for the right words. “Yearning. As if she’s trapped and doesn’t know how to get out.”

She caught Nick’s eye in the rearview mirror. He raised a brow at her.

“What? This is what my art history professors used to call reading a painting.” Julia wafted a hand. “You’ll have to take my word on it.

“Do I have to take your word on it,” said Nick drily, pulling up by the sidewalk in front of Aunt Regina’s gate, “or do I get to see the actual portrait?”

Julia hadn’t realized they were already there. The neighborhood looked disorientingly different from the inside of a car, with the rain dripping down the windows around them.

It also hadn’t occurred to her that Nick might want to come in.

Julia turned in her seat. “What about your snooker and takeout?” she asked. The scotch had hold of her tongue. At least, she preferred to blame it on that. “Or did you just offer me a ride home so you can come in and see my paintings?”

She could see the glint of amusement in Nick’s eyes. In the background, the engine idled. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

His voice was velvety and smooth, with just a hint of suppressed humor. It sent ridiculous little tingles down Julia’s spine.

Julia did her best to keep her tone light. “There’s nothing wrong with a little art appreciation.”

“As much as I’d like to see your paintings”—from his voice it was impossible to tell whether he was serious or not—“I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

Well, that showed her.

“Anyway, thanks for the drive,” Julia said quickly, reaching for the door handle. Just a little harmless flirting, that was all. What was it her guy friends at the office used to say?
No harm, no foul.
She flashed a quick, meaningless smile over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. “Enjoy your snooker.”

“Wait.” Nick’s voice stopped her, one leg in, one leg out. “What are you doing on Friday evening?”

Surprise shocked her into honesty. She swung her legs the rest of the way out. “Cleaning the attic?”

Nick leaned over the gearshift, one hand holding her door open. “Can I suggest a counter-proposal?”

After her little art appreciation gaffe, Julia wasn’t taking any chances. “What did you have in mind?” she asked warily.

“Art appreciation,” said Nick blandly.

Julia’s eyes narrowed, but before she could think of a suitable retort Nick went on, “Your place, Friday night. If you provide the paintings, I’ll bring the takeaway curry.” He raised a brow. “Do you prefer rice or naan?”

London, 1849

“Still working away, Thorne?”

Gavin looked up from his painting to find Augustus standing in the doorway of the studio. It was early in the morning, early for Augustus, at any event. The other man looked as though he hadn’t been to bed; he was wearing evening clothes, a top hat in his hand, a white scarf hanging carelessly around his neck.

Gavin reached a paint-spattered hand to massage a sore muscle in his own neck. What day was it? For the past few days he had been painting around the clock, burning precious candles, working like a fury to get Mrs. Grantham’s portrait done before the following Monday.

Mrs. Grantham. Never Imogen. Gavin reminded himself of that with every stroke, trying to exorcise the longing, the crazy yearning.

He had tried to tell himself that that moment in the summerhouse had been an accident, an aberration, but once he’d started thinking of her that way he couldn’t stop. He’d dreamed of her last night, her long, dark hair unbound and streaming around her shoulders. She’d been dressed in nothing but her shift, the tie at the top undone, the fabric sliding down over the curve of her shoulders as she bent over him, her long hair hanging around them both like a veil. “Shh,” she whispered to him, and leaned sweetly forward, her lips warm against his ear, his throat, his chest, and then lower, lower still.

He’d woken up in a sweat, his fingers clutching the sheet in a death grasp, elated, aroused, and horrified all at once.

He pulled on his trousers, yanked on a shirt, lit a candle, and padded through the door to the studio, fighting the waves of light-headedness and headache, as though by finishing the portrait he might put an end to his feelings as well, this horrible, heady mixture of lust and tenderness.

He’d felt desire before, yes, but not like this. That had been carnal, pure, and uncomplicated. This … Gavin didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know himself. He wanted to sit with her by a fire and feel the soft weight of her head in the hollow of his shoulder and rub his cheek against the silk of her hair. He wanted to hold her hand when it was grown old and gnarled, her skin as wrinkled as the peel of an old apple.

He’d been fighting against it for days, fighting it the only way he knew how, with a brush in his hand, but there it was, waking or sleeping: he’d fallen in love with Imogen Grantham.

It was madness. Madness and foolishness. If Grantham had the slightest notion what Gavin was thinking, he could ruin him and the world would account him justified. A word in the ear of Sir Martin Shee and Gavin’s painting would be set in the lowest, darkest corner of the Academy show or, simply, not accepted at all. All his work, all his ambitions, gone for a bit of passing emotion.

That was all it was, he told himself firmly. Passing emotion. And friendship. He owed Imogen—Mrs. Grantham—that. And, as her friend, there was at least one thing he could do for her.

Setting his brush carefully down on the palette, he said to Augustus, “I heard you’ve been calling on Miss Grantham.”

Augustus didn’t like that. He straightened slowly, rising to his full height. “What business is it of yours if I have?”

Gavin shrugged. “Mr. Grantham has been very good to me.”

Augustus looked narrowly at Gavin, pursing his lips suggestively. “Are you sure it is
Mr.
Grantham who’s been good to you?”

“He has been very generous with his collections,” said Gavin stiffly.

Augustus leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “And do those collections include his wife?”

Alarm sliced through the fog of Gavin’s fatigue, turning his body tense with wariness. “I don’t know what you mean.”