Page 11 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Get out, Bristol. Get out now.
But then out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a brightly lit room at the end of a long hallway. The tall double doors were open, and in the center of the room was a table with several pieces of paper on it.The art.
She eyed the hallways and stairs, and there was no sign of anyone coming. She took a few hesitant steps, then a few more, until she was inside the room.
Bristol circled the table, staring at the yellowed paper.Sanguine chalk.Leonardo da Vinci’s preferred choice for sketching. Not a surprising choice for a forgery, but her pulse still raced. If these were forgeries, they were good ones. Excellent forgeries. This was what she had come for, but now the reality was stealing her resolve. Who were these people? These pieces were going to lead to trouble. Big trouble. They should not be there. Da Vincis, all of them. Or very good fakes, but the burn deep in her gut said they were real. Her parents had dragged her to every gallery and museum across the country.
She picked up a sketch of a dragon and a lion, knowing she should have gloves on in case it wasn’t fake. She tested the small piece of paper between her fingers, careful not to touch the chalk. The paper was rag linen like none she had ever handled before, though not as brittle as she had anticipated, and there was no visible foxing, which would be expected on paper so old.
Still.There was something convincing about it. Was it a preliminary sketch for the reproduction she’d seen in countless galleries? Or the final? This sketch alone could be worth millions if it was the real thing.
The hallway was still empty. She could take it and be gone before anyone returned. A thousand dollars in her pocket within the hour, with much more to come. It wasn’t really stealing since they already offered it to her. She unzipped her hoodie. She had a large interior pocket—
“Miss Keats? Are you Bristol Keats?”
Bristol whirled, sucking in a startled breath. She set the art back on the table like she’d been caught in the middle of a heist.
A tall middle-aged man filled the doorway, his brows raised in expectation.
“Yes,” she answered as she sized him up. Was he the mastermind behind this meeting? What did he want in return?
He smiled, his face not unpleasant, a certain ease about it. His long white hair was combed back into a ponytail, and he wore a sharply tailored black suit and a white silk tie. He smacked of polish and money. She wondered what he could possibly want from someone like her.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Startle? Not at all. I heard you coming,” Bristol replied, trying to regain her footing, even though she hadn’t heard him and wondered if everyone in this inn had the footsteps of a damn cat.
He held his hand out. “Eris Dukinnon. I sent you the letter.”
“Multiple letters,” Bristol corrected, as she shook his hand. “Letters you wrote for myaunt. Where is she?”
“I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you so early. She’s napping, but her nurse is trying to rouse her now, so she can come down. It may take a few minutes for her to get dressed. I think I explained her health is fragile, and this was a difficult trip for her. I hope you don’t mind waiting?”
A nurse? The concern on his face rang true. Was she making a frail old woman jump through her hoops? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come early. I had a break from work—”
“It’s not a problem. While we’re waiting, why don’t you peruse the art? You can choose before your aunt comes down.”
“I already looked them over. These are reproductions?”
“Oh no. All originals.”
“OriginalLeonardo da Vinci?” she said, not trying to hide her skepticism.
“That’s right,” he answered, his tone and demeanor remaining buttery smooth.
“Stolen?” she prodded.
He laughed. “Dear heavens, no. Your aunt has had them in her private collection for a very long time. Go ahead, choose one.”
She eyed the drawings. People didn’t just give away da Vincis. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just a gift from your aunt to you. Take your time.”
Just a gift.There was a catch, all right—even if she didn’t know what it was yet.
Mr. Dukinnon’s attention was drawn away to notes he held in his hand. “I have information on each piece. Here, let me find . . .”
While he ruffled through his notes, Bristol circled the table, pretending she was looking at the art. The overbearing heat pressed down on her again, touching her skin, her throat, sliding down her arm to her fingers, like every move she made was being evaluated. Her fingertip grazed the ragged edge of the dragon sketch. She already knew this was the one she wanted.
