Page 88 of The Maid's Secret

“Meaning?” I ask.

“You can auction the egg,” says Brown.

“If I sell it, will the threats disappear?” I ask.

“It’s hard to say,” Brown replies as he massages his chiseled jawline.

“I can’t see why they wouldn’t,” says Beagle.

“Plus, you’ll be a multimillionaire. You can hire a private security detail to protect you for the rest of your life,” Brown reasons.

The very thought sounds horrific. “All I want is for my life to return to normal, to marry Juan in peace and get back to our simple, happy existence.”

“Do not underestimate the power of money. With money, anything’s possible,” says Beagle as he smooths his dark curls.

“This has been helpful,” Stark says as she stands. “If you think of anything else that might help this investigation, call me right away.”

“Certainly,” says Brown, standing and assuming his full height.

We are about to make our way out of the office when a painting by the exit catches my eye.

“Who is that?” I ask as I stare at the remarkable portrait of a man in uniform awash in a purple backdrop, his face almost glowing, his eyes meeting mine as if he’s about to step off the canvas and proffer a ring for kissing.

“Ah,” says Beagle. “That’s my grandfather, the late Baron Beagle.”

“He looks just like you,” Angela replies.

“The spitting image,” I say. Underneath his portrait, written in oil, is a line in Latin—“Ars longa, vita brevis,”I say, reading it out loud.

“Art is long, life is short,” says Beagle. “My grandfather was a true connoisseur, an aficionado of priceless pieces. He taught me everything I know about art. I miss him terribly,” says Beagle, as he snatches his pocket square from his indigo jacket and wipes his watery eyes.

“He passed about a year ago,” Brown explains as he puts aconsoling arm around his grieving husband. “We’re far from over it. We both loved that man dearly.”

“I’m sure you did,” I say. “Have you considered doing an episode in his honor onHidden Treasures? Your fans would love to hear your family’s backstory.”

“My grandfather wouldn’t have liked that,” says Beagle. “He suffered several losses over his career, and he worked hard to claw his way back to success. He didn’t like the spotlight.”

“Proving that the progeny doesn’t always match the blood,” Brown quips as he playfully nudges his husband’s arm. “Am I right, Thomas?”

They both laugh.

“We’ll leave you now,” says Stark.

“Thank you for your help,” I say.

“Think about it, Molly. Consider selling the egg,” says Brown. “Life is short, but art is long.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say as Baron Beagle’s eagle eyes follow me out of the room.

—

Chapter 26

Dear Molly,

Faith is a wonderful thing. And being a believer is a virtue, provided what you believe in is the truth rather than lies. When faith is used for good, it can move mountains, but when it fuels injustice, it’s a terrorizing force. Be careful what you believe in, Molly. And listen when your instincts speak.

When Penelope told me what Algernon had done to her, there was no question in my mind—I believed her. In my heart of hearts, I knew that man was capable of terrible things, and yet I’d ignored everything and everyone who’d tried to warn me. How I managed to deceive myself for as long as I did, I do not know, but when I heard Penelope, my foolish delusions evaporated along with any girlish dreams I’d had about marrying a prince of a man.

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