Page 108 of Flirting with Forever

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Peter flung open the door and hit the switch for the light. In two strides he was at the desk. But his hopes sank as he flipped to the back of the sketchbook. The letter from Anthony Van Dyck was gone.

Forty-nine

“I don’t know what you mean,” Cam said.

Peter gazed at her in the light of the museum’s entryway, looking so beautiful and so worried, “I mean, try not to worry.”

He kissed her forehead, which felt as soft as a summer breeze, and slipped the coat off her shoulders. “Go talk to your master. The gala doesn’t start for half an hour. I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out.”

“But how…?”

“Have faith.”

“Faith, huh?”

“And self-confidence, aye?”

She nodded uncertainly, and he kissed her again before pushing her gently on her way. As he watched her climb the long staircase, he thought that though he’d seen more than one queen crowned in glory at the head of a court, he’d never seen anything to match this Cenerentola, with her breathtaking fall of flame-kissed curls. If she lost a slipper as she rose higher and higher, he would not have batted an eye.

When she disappeared, he turned to a guard. “Where might I find a woman named Anastasia? I need to speak to her. ’Tis a matter of great import.”

Fifty

“This is a disaster, Cam.” Lamont Packard stood at the window, gazing out at the rolling hills of Schenley Park, fists stuffed deep in the pockets of his tuxedo’s trousers.

“But it doesn’t make sense. The painting passed every review, including mine.”

He turned, sighed, and lowered himself onto the edge of his desk. “Experts make mistakes all the time. You know what happened to Andromeda Chained to a Rock.”

She did. The painting owned by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, supposedly by Van Dyck, had been attributed to him and then de-attributed so many times she didn’t think anyone believed what the title card read anymore, including the staff.

“But that was different,” she said. “That painting had a very sketchy provenance. Ball bought this one from an earl whose family had forgotten it had been stowed in their cellar for the last two hundred years. For God’s sake, they still have the bill of sale for eighteen guineas, eight shillings from when the first earl bought it from Van Dyck’s agent right after Van Dyck’s death. Can you let me see the letter?”

Ball shrugged, reached across his desk, and handed her a fragile sheath of vellum.

Her heart sunk. The writing was Van Dyck’s. She’d seen it enough times on paintings and letters to recognize his distinctive script anywhere.

“It’s Van Dyck’s.”

Packard nodded. “The paper fits the period as well.”

She unfolded the note carefully. It appeared to be a page torn out of a diary.

I have made the Decision to close my Studio for a fortnight. Until the Fevre which rages in the city passes, I will take no more commissions. ’Tis a bitter potion, to be Sure, but my Luck this year has been Strong and, with the recent Commissions from His Majesty, I can easilee manage the pause in Income. To pass the Tyme, I have given my Apprentices leave to practice under my Watchful Eye. One, Albertus, a most skilled man of Mantua, has taken the opportunity to attempt a Portrait of his dear wyfe, Sarah. Albertus’s lady will be pleased. Albertus’s ability to compose a Van Dyck countenance is most pronounced, and the ladye is more comely than even I could render, tho Albertus adds a Lamb and shepherds hook in a fit of Metaphore that is a distraction to my eye. The ladye beres a Strong resemblance to the new bride of Baron Milton, which pleased Albertus when I tolde him, tho why I could not say. Albertus shall have the painting when—

The entry ended. Cam flipped the page over, but the other side was blank.

Ball tapped his finger. “‘Albertus shall have the painting when…’”

“‘I die’?” Cam said, seeing exactly where goddamn Van Dyck was heading.

“‘…he finishes’?” Ball suggested. “It almost doesn’t matter, because instead of Albertus giving it to his lady—”

“He keeps it until Van Dyck can no longer disclaim it and then sells it to Van Dyck’s agent as a real Van Dyck.”

“Who then turns around and sells it to Baron Milton.”