Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
It’s mesmerizing.
“Hello?” Lee snaps his fingers inches from my face. “Babe, you in there?”
I gesture at the painting. “She’s sort of captivating, right?”
Staring at her, he makes a face like he’s stepped in something. “It’s a sad white girl.”
“I don’t know. I like her.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t kink-shame.”
The registry says little about the painting itself. Oil on canvas. Not even a date. By the hair and dress, I’d guess World War II era, but I can’t be sure. It’s perfect for further research, however.
“Hi there,” I say, approaching the woman in the blue pantsuit. She looks up from her clipboard. “May I be of assistance?”
“I hope so. I have questions about one of the paintings.”
“Oh, lovely. Let’s see if I can answer them.”
She introduces herself as Sophie and offers that pearly-white smile again. She’s gorgeous, I realize. Her brown hair is arranged in an elegant chignon, and she has warm hazel eyes and cheekbones I’d kill for.
“Do you work for the Tulleys?” I ask as we fall into step with each other. “Or are you just organizing the sale for them?”
“I work for the duke’s eldest son. Benjamin,” Sophie clarifies, as if I should know this information. “I’m his executive assistant.” She laughs dryly. “My duties range from attending to business matters to running his entire household.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Sometimes,” she relents.
I lead her back to the painting of the dark-haired girl. “This one. Can you tell me anything more about it other than what’s on the registry?”
Sophie studies the painting, pursing her lips. Then she flips through the pages on her clipboard, stopping to read.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing in here about it. A lot of these pieces belonged to Lawrence Tulley, the duke’s grandfather, who wasn’t diligent about cataloguing his collection. If you’re hoping this has any value of significance, I’m afraid it doesn’t. The valuable pieces are either being retained by the family or sold to museums.”
“No, it’s not the value I’m interested in. It’s the history.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” Sophie says before walking off to speak to one of the sale attendants.
I turn back to the painting and check the price. One hundred pounds.
Fuck it. I’m splurging. Dad’s going to have some questions when he gets the credit card bill, but my total haul isn’t so extravagant. Besides, this is an academic pursuit. He’ll understand.
For the drive to Jamie’s estate, the mystery woman rides on the seat next to me. I begin to wonder how, presumably, a Tulley family member gets put out with the old bedsheets and ill-advised fad wardrobe. What relegates a person to a yard sale folding table? At some point, she meant enough to someone to have her portrait painted. When did that change, and why? What betrayal or tragedy befalls a family already so entangled in scandal and strife to prompt the wholesale disposal of this woman?
“You better keep that thing in your room.” Peering over his shoulder from the front seat, Lee scowls at the painting. “I don’t like its eyes.”
“Uh-oh, mate. She’s heard you,” Jamie warns, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as he drives. “Better keep your door locked while you’re sleeping, Abbs.”
“It’s a painting, not a cursed doll,” I grumble at them. “Unless I wake up tomorrow with gray hair, I’m sure it’s harmless.”
Lee faces the front. “That’s what it wants you to think.”
We approach a set of iron gates, then proceed through a tunnel of trees that opens to a long gravel driveway that rounds a fountain in front of a palatial Elizabethan manor. Tall windows reflect acres of manicured lawns as Jamie pulls up to the front door.
“Stop it,” I blurt out, staring through the passenger window.
“We have stopped,” he says, puzzling over me.
“You just, like, live here? Like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”
He smiles, at least a little charmed by my astonishment. “No, I live two doors down from your bedroom. My family lives here. Occasionally.”
“Occasionally,” I repeat as we get out of the car.
“There’s the flat in London and summer home on the continent,” he says with a British upper-crust poshness that has Lee rolling his eyes. “This here is nearly a relic. Kent Manor has been in the family since the Napoleonic Wars. The story goes our ancestor had some quarrel with the patriarch of the previous occupants. During the wars, the man lost three heirs to the fighting, a brother to sickness, and the aging patriarch himself was robbed and stabbed to death in London.”
I look at Lee. “And you’re worried about a painting?”
“In the end,” Jamie continues, somewhat smug, “Kent offered to keep the man’s widow comfortable until her death in exchange for assuming the responsibilities of the manor.”
“How generous,” I say, grinning.
He smirks. “Wasn’t it.” With his expensive sunglasses reflecting the sunlight, he leans against the side of his Jaguar. “We do get the occasional special guest. Elton John stayed here once.”