Page 14 of When You're Lost

He stared at the name for a few beats.“Could she be more predictable?”he said under his breath, considering ignoring the call.Then, with a resigned shrug, he swiped to answer.

“Good evening, Fontaine,” he said, injecting a note of polite indifference into his tone.

“Edmund,” she snapped.“Don’t you dare pretend courtesy with me.You’ve gone and bought that Poe portrait from my grandfather’s estate, haven’t you?I just found out.”

He stifled a smile.“I might have, yes.Why does that concern you?”

Her response came in a furious rush, “Because you took advantage of our family’s misfortune, that’s why!That painting was worth far more than you paid.Grandfather must be rolling in his grave.”

Edmund took a long sip of the Amontillado, savoring the taste, letting the silence linger before he spoke.“Well, I can’t be blamed if others fail to recognize an item’s true value at auction, Fontaine.If you want to be angry, direct it at those who handled your grandfather’s estate sale.I simply appeared with my checkbook at the right moment.”

“You’re despicable,” she hissed, voice trembling with fury.“I know you made sure you were one of the only bidders!You prey on people when they’re vulnerable.That painting was part of our family’s heritage—Grandfather’s pride.And you stole it for a pittance.”

He tapped the side of his glass."Your grandfather's pride led him into debt if memory serves.Careless business decisions, substantial losses… these things tend to land precious heirlooms in the open market.I merely seized an opportunity."

Fontaine’s voice quaked, edging on heartbreak.“You’ll get what’s coming to you, Edmund Garner.One day, you’ll regret how you’ve profited from other people’s hardships.”

At that, Edmund let out a dry chuckle.“So you believe in karma, is that it?I’m touched by your concern.But truly, if it’s any consolation, I’m looking at the portrait right now—quite a handsome piece, especially at such a bargain price.”

She began shouting, though her exact words were half lost to his ear when he pulled the phone away.He pressed the button to end the call.For a moment, his phone glowed in the dim light before he set it back on the side table.

He couldn’t resist a short laugh.“People do love to moralize when they lose out on a deal.”Finishing his Amontillado in one swig, he placed the glass beside the phone.He studied Poe’s painted face again, then spoke lightly.“And now to bed.I’ve had enough drama for the night, haven’t I, Mr.Poe?”

He rose, stretching.The room around him was tastefully decorated: thick velvet drapes in a deep green, a plush rug that swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and the gentle glow of the fireplace that cast dancing shadows across the furniture.Softly, he headed for the hallway when a sudden knock shattered the hush.

He halted, brow furrowing.“What now?”Another knock echoed through the door.“Bremner!”he called, impatience creeping into his voice.“What is it?I told you no disturbances tonight.Very well—come in!”

The door inched open, revealing his butler, Bremner, who looked apologetic.Bremner was a tall, thin man well past his sixties, with neatly combed silvery hair and a slight stoop in his posture.He wore a perfectly pressed black suit and white gloves that had once been fashionable among old aristocratic households.His face bore an expression of mild worry.

“Sir,” the butler began with a slight bow.“I’m sorry to interrupt.There’s a visitor here to see you.”

“At this hour?”Edmund demanded, glancing at the antique clock on the mantel which read nearly midnight.“Did you bother to ask this person why he thought a call so late was acceptable?”

Bremner inclined his head.“Yes, sir.He was insistent.An elderly gentleman, quite stooped and coughing.He apologized for the late intrusion and said he was a friend of Lord Maguire’s.He claimed Lord Maguire told him you’d be the best man to speak to regarding a potential purchase—a rare Stanley Spencer painting, soon to be authenticated.”

That piqued Edmund’s interest at once.His annoyance at the hour began to give way to excitement.“A Stanley Spencer?If it’s genuine, that’s no trivial prospect.”He rubbed his chin.“And he specifically asked for me?”

“Indeed, sir.He said that if anyone had the resources—or the will—to buy such a piece, it’d be Mr.Edmund Garner.He is currently waiting in your business study.”

Edmund flicked a look at the empty glass on the table, then back at Bremner.“All right.This changes things.”He straightened his jacket, his mind already racing about the possibility of acquiring another gem for his collection.“But at this hour?”He thought for a moment.The man must be desperate.That might mean a chance for a bargain.

Bremner cleared his throat delicately.“He did seem… anxious, sir.Unwell, too.I offered him some water, but he declined.”

Edmund waved a dismissive hand.“He’s either truly ill or playing the sympathy card.No matter.”He walked over to the mantel, the glow of the fire casting his shadow across Poe’s portrait.“I suppose that’s all, then.You can retire for the night, Bremner.I’ll handle this.”

“Sir, are you sure?”Bremner asked, concern flickering in his eyes.“I mean, if the gentleman is unwell—”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with an elderly invalid,” Edmund said curtly.“And I’d rather not have staff hovering about.If he’s come this late, it’s likely he wants the matter kept private.So off to bed with you.”

Bremner gave a slight bow.“Yes, sir.Good night, Mr.Garner.”He backed out, closing the door softly behind him.

Alone again, Edmund glanced once more at Poe’s calm, painted expression.“Strange night, indeed,” he mumbled, crossing the threshold into the corridor.The soft glow of wall sconces guided him toward the far end, where a wide door with polished brass handles led to his business study—the room he used for more clandestine negotiations.

He paused outside the door, recalling quickly the times he'd secured lucrative deals in that very study with unsuspecting sellers who thought they were outsmarting him.Usually, he was the one who walked away victorious.A smile spread over his lips.

He opened the door to find the space gently lit by a single brass lamp on the wide oak desk.The drapes were drawn, shutting out the night.A large Persian rug covered the floor, and a small fireplace stood unlit on one side, leaving the room a bit cool.

In the center of the room sat a high-backed chair, facing away from the door.The old man occupied it.He wore a scuffed overcoat pulled tight around narrow shoulders.Beside him, a plain wooden walking stick leaned, testament to frailty.Edmund cleared his throat.

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