Chapter 23
1643words
"Lyra!" Professor Harlow waved from across the room, her silver hair piled atop her head in its usual elegant disarray. She wore a vibrant emerald caftan that made her stand out among the sea of conservative attire.
I made my way toward her, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "Professor, you look wonderful."
"As do you, dear." She studied me over her reading glasses. "There's something different about you. A certain... glow."
Heat crept up my neck. "Just excited about the authentication project."
"Mmm." Her knowing smile suggested she didn't believe me for a second. "And how is the dashing Mr. Blackwood?"
"Felix is—" I began, then spotted him entering the reception hall.
He paused in the doorway, commanding attention without effort in his perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His eyes found mine immediately, a private smile passing between us before he was intercepted by the Dean.
"—right there," I finished.
Professor Harlow followed my gaze, her eyebrows rising. "I see. Well, that explains the glow."
"It's not—" I started to protest, then sighed. "It's complicated."
"The best things usually are." She patted my arm. "Now, tell me about this authentication project. Rumor has it you've found discrepancies in some high-profile acquisitions."
I shifted into professional mode, explaining our findings on the triptych without naming names. Professor Harlow listened intently, her sharp mind catching implications I didn't state explicitly.
"Synthetic pigments in a supposed Renaissance work?" She frowned. "That's not just sloppy authentication—that's deliberate fraud."
"Exactly." I lowered my voice. "And not an isolated case."
"Who's the collector?" When I hesitated, she waved a hand. "Never mind. The art world is small—I can guess."
Before she could press further, Felix appeared at my side, his hand brushing lightly against my lower back.
"Professor Harlow," he greeted her warmly. "Thank you for recommending Ms. Winters. Her work has been invaluable."
"I imagine it has," she replied with a twinkle in her eye that made me want to disappear into my champagne glass.
Felix turned to me. "I need to steal Lyra for a moment. Dean Whitmore is eager to discuss the foundation's new conservation initiative."
As he guided me across the room, his lips brushed my ear. "Alexander just arrived. Alone."
I glanced toward the entrance where Alexander stood chatting with a group of trustees, golden hair catching the light, smile dazzling as always. A cold knot formed in my chest at the sight of him—not the longing I'd once felt, but pure determination.
"Perfect timing," I murmured. "I have the documentation ready."
After our revelation-filled dinner three nights ago, Felix and I had formulated a plan. Tonight was the first step—confronting Alexander with evidence of the forgeries in a public setting where he couldn't react too strongly.
Dean Whitmore greeted us effusively, clearly delighted to have two Blackwoods at his reception. "Felix! And Ms. Winters! I was just telling the trustees about your remarkable authentication techniques."
I smiled politely as introductions were made, all the while aware of Alexander watching us from across the room. When the Dean was called away to greet new arrivals, Felix nodded subtly in his cousin's direction.
"Ready?"
I squared my shoulders. "Ready."
We approached Alexander, who greeted Felix with a backslap that seemed friendly to observers but carried an undercurrent of tension I could now recognize.
"Cousin! Stealing the spotlight as usual." Alexander's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And Ms. Winters. Lovelier each time I see you."
"Alexander," I acknowledged coolly. "I've been meaning to discuss something with you. About the Madonna in your collection."
His smile faltered slightly. "Oh? What about it?"
"Perhaps somewhere more private?" Felix suggested, gesturing toward a quiet alcove away from the main reception.
Alexander hesitated, then nodded. "Of course."
In the alcove, partially concealed by a large potted palm, I removed a folder from my clutch. "I've completed my analysis of the pigments in your Madonna."
"I wasn't aware you'd taken samples," Alexander said, a hint of steel entering his voice.
"During the viewing at your home," I explained smoothly. "Standard procedure for the authentication project."
I opened the folder, revealing color spectroscopy printouts and chemical analysis reports. "The blue pigment contains synthetic compounds that weren't available until the mid-20th century."
Alexander's face remained impassive, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. "Meaning?"
"Meaning it's a forgery," Felix said bluntly. "As is the triptych I purchased at the auction. From the same source, I believe."
"That's a serious accusation." Alexander's voice dropped dangerously low. "One that could damage reputations—including yours, Ms. Winters, if you're wrong."
"I'm not wrong." I met his gaze steadily. "The science is conclusive."
"Science can be misinterpreted." Alexander's charm vanished, replaced by cold calculation—the real Alexander emerging from behind his mask. "Especially by those with... personal agendas."
"What agenda would that be?" Felix asked, stepping slightly closer to me.
Alexander's eyes flicked between us, noting the protective gesture. "I wonder. Perhaps Ms. Winters' sudden interest in my collection has less to do with professional curiosity and more to do with... other motivations."
"The only motivation is truth," I said, keeping my voice level despite the anger pulsing through my veins. "These paintings were sold to you as Renaissance originals. They're not. The question is whether you knew that when you bought them."
A flash of something—surprise? respect?—crossed Alexander's face before his mask slipped back into place. "Claude Rousseau provided extensive documentation on provenance. If there's been fraud, he's responsible."
"Convenient," Felix remarked. "Especially since those documents were mysteriously stolen."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you implying, cousin?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts." Felix's tone was conversational, but his posture was tense. "Fact one: You purchased multiple forgeries through Claude Rousseau. Fact two: The provenance documents disappeared shortly after questions were raised about authenticity. Fact three: You've been unusually interested in Ms. Winters' authentication techniques."
Alexander's laugh held no humor. "Paranoia doesn't suit you, Felix. My interest in Ms. Winters is hardly professional."
The way he looked at me—possessive, calculating—made my skin crawl. I'd once mistaken that look for genuine attraction.
"I've scheduled a meeting with the Art Fraud Division next week," I said, changing tactics. "They're very interested in the synthetic pigments used in these forgeries. Apparently, they match samples from other suspected Rousseau fakes."
Alexander's composure slipped for a fraction of a second—enough to confirm we'd hit a nerve. "You've gone to the authorities?"
"Not yet," Felix interjected smoothly. "Currently, this is still an internal foundation matter. We thought you deserved the courtesy of being informed first."
The implied threat hung in the air between us. Alexander recovered quickly, his charming smile returning like a weapon unsheathed.
"I appreciate the courtesy," he said. "Though I'm disappointed by your lack of family loyalty, Felix."
"Loyalty works both ways," Felix replied evenly.
Alexander turned to me, his blue eyes cold despite his smile. "Ms. Winters, I hope you understand what you're doing. Art authentication is subjective at best. Making accusations against respected dealers like Claude Rousseau could end your career before it truly begins."
The threat was thinly veiled. In my previous life, it would have intimidated me. Now, it only hardened my resolve.
"Fortunately, science isn't subjective," I replied. "And I stand by my findings."
Alexander studied me for a long moment, reassessing. "You're either very confident or very foolish."
"Just thorough," I said, closing the folder. "The full report will be available to the Art Fraud Division. And to you, of course, should you wish to pursue legal action against Rousseau."
"How considerate." Alexander's smile turned sharp. "I'll be sure to review it carefully. With my lawyers."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Felix? Vivienne is hosting a gallery opening next Friday. Her new photography exhibition. You should come." His gaze slid to me. "Both of you. I'm sure she'd love to continue your... conversation from the auction."
After he walked away, Felix exhaled slowly. "That went exactly as expected."
"He's rattled," I agreed. "But not enough to make a mistake yet."
"He will." Felix's hand found mine, squeezing briefly. "The trap is set. Now we wait for him to step into it."
We rejoined the reception, maintaining professional distance despite the new intimacy between us. Throughout the evening, I felt Alexander watching us, his gaze calculating. He left early, phone pressed to his ear—calling Vivienne, no doubt, to warn her.
As the reception wound down, Professor Harlow cornered me near the coat check. "Whatever you're involved in, be careful," she said, her usual breezy manner replaced by genuine concern. "Alexander Blackwood doesn't lose gracefully."
"I know exactly what he's capable of," I assured her.
"Do you?" She glanced toward Felix, who was saying goodbyes to the Dean. "And what about his cousin? Are you sure you know what you're doing there?"
The question caught me off guard. "Felix is different."
"Perhaps." She patted my arm. "Just remember, dear—Blackwood men cast long shadows. Make sure you're not standing in one when it falls."
Her warning followed me out into the cool night air where Felix waited beside his car. As he opened the door for me, his expression softened in a way it did only when we were alone.
"You were brilliant in there," he said. "Alexander didn't know what hit him."
"This is just the beginning," I replied, sliding into the passenger seat. "He'll talk to Vivienne tonight. They'll start covering their tracks."
Felix joined me in the car, his profile sharp against the city lights as he pulled into traffic. "That's what we want. People make mistakes when they panic."
"And when they do," I said, determination hardening my voice, "we'll be ready."
