Page 67 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

My eyebrows lift. “I hadn’t considered that he might not.”

“I’m guessing that Isabel is Sebastian’s oldest child, right?”

“I think so.”

“I was just wondering why Adam didn’t mention the paintings while we were looking at the letters. It would have been the perfect opportunity, while Isabel was absent. But if he doesn’t know… maybe Sebastian told her about them because she was the eldest. And he impressed on her the importance of keeping them secret to protect the family.”

“It would be why they’ve hung on to the letters for so long,” she says. “His ancestors must have been too afraid topublish them all because someone would have picked up on the existence of the paintings. They gave all but the October one to Rudolph Hemingway for his book, but kept that one secret.”

“I wonder why that letter isn’t locked away, rather than kept with the rest?”

She shrugs. “The cabinet’s locked. The public doesn’t have access to them, and if they do take them out and show anyone, it would be easy for them to keep that one aside. But if Adam didn’t know, it would explain why Isabel was so upset when she saw us looking at them.”

We stop walking and turn as a voice rings across the lawn. Adam is announcing that a band is setting up where the string quartet was, and he encourages everyone to enjoy the music and take to the floor to dance.

“I wonder if Sebastian is somewhere watching this,” Hallie says. “What was he like?”

I think about the elderly gentleman I met at the conference. “Very like Adam. Shorter than me, but tallish, with silver hair thinning on top. Straight backed, though, and refined, you know? Very old school—he carried a cane.”

She laughs. “Really?”

“Yeah. He was an old-fashioned gentleman.”

“A bit like you.” She smiles.

“Yeah, right,” I scoff.

But she says, “I’m serious. I haven’t met your father, but I imagine you’re very like him. You and Joel aren’t alike at all. He’s boyish and irreverent and scruffy. But you’re always well turned out. You dress smartly, you’re always clean shaven, your hair is neat. You’re quiet and well-spoken and in control. I would call you a gentleman without a second thought.”

“I’m flattered,” I say softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “This is where you say I’m a lady, by the way.”

“I would, but I have evidence to the contrary.”

Her eyes widen. “Fraser!”

I bend so my mouth is close to her ear. “The last thing I’m interested in is you being ladylike in bed, Hallie.”

Her face flushes, and she’s still pink when Wiremu comes over to introduce us to the head of the children’s charity that the proceeds from the ball is going to today.

The lawn is soon cleared, and before long the band starts playing, mostly popular dance songs that people of all ages will know—Michael Jackson, ABBA, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Bee Gees.

The sun is sinking slowly toward the horizon, and, like Hallie’s cheeks, the sky is filled with a faint blush. It won’t be dark for a few hours yet, but members of staff are lighting citronella candles around the lawn to keep insects at bay.

The champagne continues to flow, along with other wines and cocktails from the temporary bar set up in the marquee, and conversation and laughter filter across the lawn with the music.

Hallie is talking to Wiremu’s daughter and her girlfriend, and I assume they’re discussing archaeology. Then I hear Indiana Jones’s name mentioned, so clearly the conversation has moved on.

“Someone call for an archaeologist?” I ask, walking up to her and resting my hand on her waist.

“We were just wondering whether you have the hat and… you know… the whip to match,” Wiremu’s daughter says mischievously.

Hallie turns scarlet. I swear she’s spent most of our time in Tauranga the color of a tomato.

I chuckle. “That would be telling.” I grin at Hallie. “Fancy a dance?”

“Sure.” She gives the two women a last conspiratorial smile, then follows me to the area put aside for dancing.

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