Taken for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure. India Grey
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down over the most expensive view in London. Eight storeys below him cars sailed noiselessly along Park Lane, and above him planes bound for Heathrow studded the indigo sky with flashing points of light, outshining the stars. But Olivier noticed none of this. The image of the painting swam in front of him, superimposed on the glittering cityscape in the polished sheet of glass.
His instinct about the ‘charming amateur painting’ in the saleroom had been correct. Although it was unsigned, its subject matter—Le Manoir St Laurien—and the distinctively painstaking style of the brushwork had left him in no doubt that it had been painted by his father.
But Julien Moreau was no amateur. Had things been different he would have been one of the most important painters of his generation.
Olivier took a gulp of cognac from the glass in his hand, draining half the contents in a single mouthful, and then, steeling himself as if against a blow, he turned to face the picture behind him. The one that had lain hidden beneath the other work.
La Dame de la Croix.
For years he had searched for this painting. His contacts in the art world spread across the globe and encompassed all the major auction houses, galleries and collections, but since he knew that the portrait of Genevieve Delacroix was likely to have been concealed behind one of Julien’s flawed, later attempts, his contacts had been of little help. He had tried to keep an eye on the catalogues of smaller salerooms, but it had been like searching for a needle in a haystack. The odds had been impossibly stacked against him.
And yet he had done it. The painting was here, propped up on a tall steel bar chair in front of him, as fresh and vivid as if the paint was still wet.
Olivier Moreau prided himself on his ability to achieve. He was a man who got what he wanted through a combination of intelligence, focus and ruthlessness, but he knew that none of that was enough to have pulled off today’s coup.
That had been down to luck. Or maybe fate, or some long-overdue divine justice. Karma, some people might call it; after all, it was about time the mighty Lawrences were made to face up to what they’d done, and now the painting was back in his possession he could begin the process of exacting retribution.
He took another mouthful of cognac and let his gaze run speculatively over Genevieve Delacroix’s luscious flesh. Hypothetically, in the long years when he had dreamed of recovering this picture, he had always imagined he would simply reveal it, and the shocking scandal behind it, to the world in the most high-profile and damaging way possible.
But now that didn’t seem enough.
In his work Olivier operated on a principle of ‘absolute return’. His success lay in his ability to exact profit—maximum profit—from every available opportunity, and in this instance fate had very kindly presented him with not one opportunity, but two. La Dame de la Croix and Bella Lawrence had both fallen into his lap on the same day. He wouldn’t be the man he was if he let a chance like that pass without exploiting it to the full.
Fate…justice…karma—it hardly mattered what you called it. In truth they were all just euphemisms for revenge. The Lawrences didn’t know it yet, but it was payback time.
An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
A heart for a heart.
Genevieve Lawrence was standing in the hallway rearranging the flowers that had just been delivered by one of London’s most exclusive florists when Bella came downstairs.
‘Morning,’ Bella said with an apologetic smile, kissing her grandmother’s perfumed cheek.
Genevieve cast an amused glance at her little gold watch. ‘Only just, cherie,’ she said in her voice of silk and silver. It might have been a lifetime since the young Genevieve Delacroix had left France to marry the dashing and distinguished Lord Edward Lawrence, but her accent was still as strong as ever. ‘I take it you slept well?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Bella lied. There was no point in telling Genevieve that sleep had proved so elusive that she’d ended up sitting by the window and sketching in the moonlight. The man from the auction house, whose face was still so vivid in her mind, had proved frustratingly difficult to capture on paper. The sky had been streaked with pink when she’d finally given up trying and crawled back into bed. ‘Is there still lots to do for tonight?’
Pulling a dripping long-stemmed lily from the vase, Genevieve sighed. ‘There does seem to be a lot of last-minute things to attend to. For one thing, these flowers are all wrong. Now I remember why I haven’t entertained like this since your grandfather died.’
Bella made a soft, sympathetic sound. After almost fifty years of marriage, Genevieve had been widowed two years ago. ‘Will it be awful for you, to do it without him?’
‘Awful? Not at all,’ said Genevieve matter-of-factly, looking critically at the arrangement of lilies and white hydrangeas. She didn’t elaborate, and Bella realised with a flicker of surprise how little she knew her grandmother. Up until five months ago she had been nothing but a remote, elegant figure who had always stood silently by Edward Lawrence’s side: coolness and shade to the full-on dazzle of his forceful presence. It was only since Bella had come, at Miles’s insistence, to live in the house in Wilton Square, following the business with Dan Nightingale, that she had begun to see the person behind the impeccable façade. And to like her.
‘It is a shame that your mama and papa cannot be here, though,’ Genevieve continued, adjusting a glossy, tropical-looking leaf. ‘I had a call from your mother this morning to say there has been more trouble overnight and the diplomatic situation is too tense for your papa to leave just now.’
Bella was slightly ashamed at the relief that leapt within her. Used to being the invisible member of the dynamic and high-achieving Lawrence family, she had felt completely smothered by the attention which had been focused on her since the Dan Nightingale thing, and she had been dreading seeing her parents for the first time since it happened. Miles’s stifling concern was quite enough to deal with.
‘They must be very disappointed,’ she said guiltily.
Genevieve gave a little lift of her narrow shoulders. ‘You know the Lawrence men, cherie. Work comes first. But we will manage without them, I dare say. Now—have you decided what you will wear tonight?’
Bella’s eyes lit up. ‘Well…I got this gorgeous little silk smock dress in Portobello Market the other day. It’s bright red with fuchsia-pink flowers around the hem, with kind of pink sequins and gold embroidery on them…’ The words came out in a rush of enthusiasm and her hands fluttered in the air, sketching fluid lines. ‘And it’s short—but not, you know, indecently short, and it’s got this deep scooped neckline and sweet little sleeves…’ The words petered out.
‘It sounds fabulous, cherie.’
‘Yes…’ Subdued again, Bella paused. ‘You know, I think maybe it would be better if I borrowed your black Balenciaga, though.’
Genevieve’s fine eyebrows rose questioningly. ‘Would it be foolish to ask why?’
‘I think that Miles would rather I—I don’t know…I think I should just keep it low key. After all that’s happened…’
Picking at the spiky leaves of a discarded palm leaf, Bella didn’t notice the concerned glance Genevieve cast her; however, she did detect the faint note of reproach in her grandmother’s voice. ‘Bella, ma chère, you cannot spend your life trying to be what your brother wants you to be.’
Bella gave a crooked smile. ‘No, but perhaps I have less chance of messing up that way. After all, I made a huge fuss about being given the chance to be myself and live my own life, and look what happened.’
‘You made a mistake,’ said Genevieve mildly. ‘Is that so bad?’
Bella’s smile faded. The huge, marble-tiled hallway felt suddenly cold. ‘Given that it could have caused a scandal which may have cost Papa and Miles