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“You aren’t leaving?” Burgess fell into step with him.
Alan veered around a sofa, focused on the door.
“You can’t leave.” Burgess jogged to catch up.
“I have a pressing engagement.” Alan frowned at the half-truth. But pressing engagement was a more socially expedient explanation than unannounced visit to a duke with intent to blackmail.
“No one’s on time for those.” Burgess was undeterred. “Syme will be here any minute. Stay long enough to reel off a few of the clues that convinced you. For God and country. And for Henley, who’ll put it in the papers.”
Alan grunted. And the door opened. Disclosing not Syme, but . . .
“Dear God, a doublet!” Burgess called out with sufficient volume to draw all eyes to the new arrival. Kate Holroyd paused on the threshold, grinning. She was, as ever, equal to the attention. And most definitely dressed in a doublet. It was deep purple, and she’d paired it with black knee breeches and hose. She winked and gave an exaggerated bow. Alan saw in a flash who stood behind her. Compared to Holroyd, this woman faded into the background. She wore a plain brown dress. She had hair of an indeterminate shade, a round, sweet face. An unassuming presence. If you didn’t overlook her entirely, you might think her ordinary.
His extraordinary, impossible love.
He stopped dead and stared.
Her face was too expressive. Staring wouldn’t help him solve its mystery. He needed to hear her voice, feel her touch.
He didn’t glance back at Burgess. The painting studio winked out. Everything winked out but Nina.
He went to her.
“May I have a word?” he asked, his voice low.
At her nod, he led the way to a small library. She entered ahead of him, and after he pulled the door shut, he leaned against it. She turned and looked at him, fingers playing nervously over the chain of her chatelaine purse. He realized she was travel worn—skirt rumpled, wisps of hair escaping her chignon—and weary. The shadows beneath her eyes attested to a wakeful night, much like the one he’d spent himself.
He pushed off the door. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“You weren’t at your house.”
He tipped his head. “I take it Holroyd was at my house. Doing what?”
“She’d called to collect you for this party. She thought you were driving together.”
“Driving together.” He walked forward, forcing himself to stop before he closed the distance between them completely. “Perhaps she sent a note I didn’t open.” The corner of his mouth kicked up, a minor effort. “It happens. As you know, I don’t have a secretary.”
The light was dim, but Nina flushed. “You should go to an agency.”
She looked fatigued, but she sounded spirited as ever.
“You spoke with Mr. Craddock?” He assumed a businesslike demeanor. “I haven’t yet spoken with my brother. I tried him at home, twice. I even visited that bastion of feudal thinking he calls a club.” He gave a slight grimace. “I was about to return to Park Lane when you arrived.” He paused. “You won’t leave London empty-handed.”
“That’s not . . .” Her hand closed convulsively on her chatelaine. “I brought something for you.” She dug inside the purse. The notebook she extracted was unfamiliar. She held it as though it were fragile.
“I used it as a ledger.” She stared down at it, then thrust it toward him. He tucked his cane beneath his arm and took it, thumbing it open. He recognized her neat handwriting. Rows of phrases, names, numbers. Calculations. He turned a page, then another.
“Bust of a Man in a Plumed Beret,” he read. “Rembrandt. Sleaford. Twenty-five.” He looked at her.
“Twenty-five pounds,” she said. “That’s what we got from Sleaford. The debits are on the left, for materials and the like. The final tallies are at the bottom of each page.”
“Portrait of a Knight of Malta with a Rosary.” He frowned. “This went to Edward Whitcombe.”
“Do you know him? You can tell him, then, that Titian didn’t paint it.” She laced her fingers together.
Alan kept turning pages. There. The titles of the paintings Syme had acquired for the South Kensington Museum.
This notebook proved they were forgeries.
