The Chase. Vanessa Fewings
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by it. Trust is an ill-fated pursuit.
Although Clara believed in true love and had no doubt found it, I questioned whether I was ever going to experience it again.
Clara tutted. “He doesn’t deserve one more second of you.”
I leaned in and hugged her. I’d tell Clara about my risqué adventure once I’d gotten control over this flush that threatened to rise each time I thought of him. I imagined over the course of the evening one of the many artists here or even sculptors would spot the infamous Mr. Wilder and try to persuade him to pose for them.
Naked. Preferably.
I treated myself to that thought.
“So what do you think?”
My attention snapped to Clara.
“They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?” she added as she looked around.
“This is more than I expected.” Using a pillar for a shield, I looked for Tobias in the crowd. “Can’t get over it.”
“They’re wooing you for the other paintings.” She turned to look at me.
“It does look like it, doesn’t it?”
“You never talk about them?” she said.
“They’re all I have left of Dad.”
She rubbed my back, knowing well enough not to push me. “He’d be so proud of you.”
The black marble tile almost clashed with the pink marbled pillars lining the room either side. Along those pristine cream-colored walls hung the finest eighteenth-century Italian paintings, which were apparently on loan from the Vatican.
Suppressing my melancholy, I vowed to enjoy tonight.
The Otillie was one of my favorite places to visit and easily one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, with a unique collection of both modern and ancient art.
Despite such grandeur, it was also famed for showcasing new and up-and-coming artists before anyone else had discovered them. Like the young painter Liza Blake, who stood alone in a corner looking a little forlorn. She’d been easy to spot with her blue hair, and her boho chic dress looked cute on her, those round rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Artists were always so interesting, their perspectives so profound, and I admired their tenacity for following their hearts and sharing their emotional power. Perhaps it was the only way to find ours, through their vision of just what we were capable of.
“Let’s go say hello to Liza.” Excitement flushed my cheeks that I was here again.
I took in the other guests, a handful of well-known socialites, some I recognized from past events, the avid art collectors circling The Otillie’s rising new talent and ready to invest in their promising careers.
“Look who’s here,” whispered Clara. “Your favorite person.”
I almost coughed up my drink.
A well-worn face and yet strangely handsome in a highly bred kind of way. The Right Honorable Lord Nigel Turner stood out in the crowd with his high cheekbones and overly refined nose. His tweed jacket with that perfect bow tie made him seem extra quirky and yet moneyed. His chin rose with an air of superiority as he perused the other guests. Nigel was apparently related to “the Turner,” or so he told us. He worked at The London Times as their senior art critic and wielded the kind of power that could make or break an artist’s career.
I’d crushed on him back when Lady Zara Leighton had a nice ring to it. Right before I’d actually met him.
We made our way over to Liza, and she smiled with relief when she saw us. I got her talking about her favorite subject, modern art, and she soon relaxed as she chatted away about the latest piece she was working on.
Together we mingled with the other guests, sipping champagne and popping back way too many caviar hors d’oeuvres.
Clara arched an amused brow when I reached for another flute from a passing waiter’s tray. I’d never tolerated booze well, very often getting tipsy on merely one glass. Still, this night was the first real evening I was letting myself go in what felt like ages, and I soon found myself having fun. With Clara’s mischievous insights into the other guests, she had me and Liza struggling to keep our laughter down.
Nigel nudged up against Clara. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
“Thank you.” She offered him a polite smile.
“You didn’t bring your camera?” he asked.
“Taking the night off. The staff get nervous when they see a photographer taking photos of their priceless paintings. Something about copyright.”
His overly critical gaze found me. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
Those difficult few months were behind me now and for the first time tonight I’d felt that wedge of pain in my heart lifting. I swallowed my grief with a sip of champagne and broke Turner’s gaze, hoping he’d talk to Liza.
“I hear a rumor you’re hiding away more paintings?” he said.
I shook my head, not wanting to go there.
“One step at a time,” Clara whispered.
Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Your skills could be put to good use.”
“Excuse me?”
“That fire at your father’s home?” he said.
“I don’t remember much.” Other than the bitter taste of ash.
“She was ten,” snapped Clara. “For goodness’ sake.”
“Interesting that Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc has turned up in Venice?” he went on. “Have you heard?”
My throat tightened. “That’s impossible.”
“And yet.” He smirked.
A wave of panic circled my stomach.
Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.
I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.
Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”
Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”
“Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”
I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.
Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”
“I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.
Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”
“What’s left of it,” he muttered.
I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.
“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”
“Of course it’s not,” I said.
“It’s