Page 6 of A Death in Cornwall

“Is that his name?”

“He’s quite lovely. He always adds little hearts to my foam.”

“I wonder why.”

Chiara accepted the compliment with a demure smile. It had been twenty years since their first encounter, and yet Gabriel remained hopelessly in the thrall of his wife’s astonishing beauty—her sculptural nose and jawline, her riotous dark hair with its highlights of auburn and chestnut, the caramel-colored eyes that he had never succeeded in rendering accurately on canvas. Her body was his favorite subject matter, and his sketchbook was filled with nudes, many executed without the consent of his slumbering model. He hoped to explore the material further before tonight’s gathering at the Courtauld. Chiara was amenable to the idea but had insisted on a long walk first, followed by a proper lunch.

She slowed to a stop outside an Oscar de la Renta boutique. “I think I’ll let you buy me that delicious little pantsuit.”

“What’s wrong with the one you packed?”

“The Armani?” She shrugged. “I’m in the mood for something new. After all, I have a feeling my husband is going to be the center of attention tonight, and I want to make a good impression.”

“You could wear a burlap sack, and you’ll still be the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Gabriel followed her into the boutique, and fifteen minutes later, bags in hand, they went out again. Chiara held his arm as they rounded the gentle curve of Carlos Place.

“Do you remember the last time we went for a walk in London?” she asked suddenly. “It was the day you spotted that suicide bomber headed for Covent Garden.”

“Let’s hope Amelia doesn’t somehow find out about my role in that one.”

“Or the incident at Downing Street,” said Chiara.

“What about that business outside Westminster Abbey?”

“The ambassador’s daughter? Your name got into the newspapers, as I recall. Your picture, too.”

Gabriel sighed. “Maybe you should check the ARTnews website again.”

“You do it. I can’t bear to look.”

Gabriel drew his phone from his coat pocket.

“Well?” asked Chiara after a moment.

“It seems my fears about Amelia March being an ambitious and enterprising reporter were well founded.”

“What did she discover?”

“That I am regarded as one of the two or three best art restorers in the world.”

“Who else does she mention?”

“Dianne Modestini and David Bull.”

“Rarefied company.”

“Yes,” agreed Gabriel, and slipped the phone into his pocket. “I guess she likes me, after all.”

“Of course she does, darling.” Chiara smiled. “Who doesn’t?”

***

They had lunch at Socca, a pricey bistro in South Audley Street, and walked back to the Dorchester through a sudden burst of brilliant winter sunlight. Upstairs in their suite, their lovemaking was unhurried, excruciatingly so. Exhausted, Gabriel toppled into a dreamless sleep and woke to find Chiara standing at the foot of the bed in her new suit, a strand of pearls around her neck.

“You’d better hurry,” she said. “The car will be here in a few minutes.”

He swung his feet to the floor and went into the bathroom to shower. His labors before the mirror were perfunctory. No miracle creams or ointments, just a subtle rearrangement of his hair, which was longer than he had worn it in many years. Afterward he dressed in a Brioni single-breasted suit and a regimental necktie. His accessories were limited to a wedding band, a timepiece by Patek Philippe, and a pistol by Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta.

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