“His collection?”
“Most of it gone.”
“A house fire?”
“You read about that too?” I lowered my voice. “It’s heartbreaking to be honest.”
“Zara, I’m so sorry. It must be hard trying to earn your reputation back.”
I swallowed hard. “Are you referring to those dreadful rumors?” He looked apologetic. “You know my dad was vindicated, right? Those lies were disproven?”
“No one told you?”
My back stiffened. “About what?”
“Walter William Ouless’sSt. Joan of Arc.”
“That went, too, I’m afraid.”
“Your dad reported it destroyed?”
“Yes. He was devastated.” Then I remembered that awful conversation with Nigel at The Otillie and a shudder ran up my spine.
Andrew steadied his gaze on me. “We are talking about theSt. Joan of Arc? Painted by Walter William Ouless?”
I shook my head. “Horrible rumor that it’s still out there somewhere.”
Andrew visibly paled.
I rested my hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Zara, yourJoan of Arcis here. The painting arrived at Christie’s last night.”
My mouth felt so dry my tongue wedged to the roof of my mouth.
14
My head spun with the revelation. My reputation would be compromised, my fledging career dashed on the rocks of the art world before I’d even had the chance to make my mark in the only vocation I’d ever known.
My father was a good man. A kind man. A man of principle and ethics. So why was this happening to me? How could a painting that my father had told me had been destroyed, be here?
“We’ve yet to authenticate it.” Andrew’s voice sounded far off.
“I’m sorry?” My focus returned to his hand resting on the doorknob.
“St. Joanhasn’t undergone any forensic tests yet. Just a visual by one of our analysts.”
I swallowed past this lump in my throat. “Their conclusion?”
“Rudimentary.”
His expression revealed they believed it was real.
He also looked regretful for even mentioning the painting was here. Andrew hadn’t accounted for dealing with a woman whose life was about to fall apart.
“Sure you want to do this?”
I gave a wary nod. It was too late to take a step back and think this through.