Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

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СКАЧАТЬ no. This was one argument he wasn’t getting involved in. ‘You know I can’t do that. Rubha Castle’s Louisa’s home, it’s her livelihood. It’s where she wants to raise a family—’

      ‘We can’t afford to keep both properties. The terms of the will state we’re only allowed to sell one. If we get rid of the Windsor townhouse, it won’t solve our financial problems. Plus, I’ll be out on the streets. At least Louisa has an alternative. Harry’s family own half of Scotland, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Or don’t you care?’

      ‘Of course I do. I just wish there was a way of keeping both.’ He rubbed his forehead, feeling as exasperated as Sophie sounded.

      ‘Well, there isn’t. Rubha Castle costs a fortune to upkeep. It no longer attracts many visitors and Louisa’s insistence on rescuing random animals is adding to the expense. If we sell it now we’ll get a decent return, but if we wait until it crumbles to the ground it’ll be worthless. It doesn’t make good business sense.’

      ‘But Louisa loves it here. She’d be heartbroken to sell. And you know how much she adores those animals.’

      There was a weighted pause. ‘I know.’

      Despite his sister’s determination to sell the castle, he knew she was worried about Louisa and didn’t want to cause her any distress. His youngest sister worked part-time for an animal charity, she’d built a life for herself in Scotland, she’d even married a local laird. She was a sensitive soul who was trying to rid herself of her own childhood demons by making Rubha Castle a ‘happy home’. Olly could understand that.

      And so did Sophie, despite what she claimed.

      ‘I wish there was something we could do.’

      Sophie sighed. ‘Did Louisa tell you her great plan?’

      ‘What plan?’

      ‘To sell Mother’s paintings. She’s sent them to an independent art gallery in Windsor for valuation.’

      He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The subject of art was a sensitive one.

      ‘I think she’s hoping they’ll sell for a shedload of dosh and solve our problems. I’ve no idea what their value is. The gallery owner asked for any preliminary drawings of the works to be sent over, but neither of us has any idea what those are. Do you?’

      ‘They’re the preparatory drawings an artist sketches before painting the main work.’ He frowned. ‘Why do they need preliminary drawings?’

      ‘Apparently, it helps to evaluate the paintings. Mother never sold anything during her lifetime, so it’s difficult to put a value on the work.’

      Technically, that statement wasn’t true. His mother had sold a painting in 2007 for a whopping 1.7 million quid. But as the world at large, and in particular the French buyer of the painting, believed it to be painted by Italian Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli, Olly wasn’t about to correct that assumption. Especially as he was complicit in the crime – albeit unwittingly. If the truth ever got out about the painting’s real origins, the fallout would be immense. The family’s reputation was shaky enough. There was no way they could withstand the scandal of forged masterpieces, a lawsuit and a criminal investigation.

      He shuddered at the thought.

      Part of him worried that selling his mother’s paintings posthumously might be exposing them to overintense scrutiny. But they didn’t have a choice. And it’s not like she’d forged the Spinelli herself, was it? He had no idea who the real artist was, or how his parents had come into possession of the painting. But the point was, they needed cash, and he wasn’t about to stand back and let four hundred years of family history flush down the loo without a fight … no matter how averse he was to his relatives. His mother had been a bloody good painter. If he was right, her work was valuable. And, more importantly, finite in number. Nothing like a dead painter to inflate the asking price.

      He rubbed his forehead, his mind returning to the present. ‘I think they’re boxed up in the billeting room somewhere. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find.’

      ‘By the way, Louisa found another painting hidden among Mother’s collection. It was boxed separately and covered in a dustsheet. It was a painting of a religious bloke reading from a scroll. It wasn’t like her other paintings, but Louisa thought the gallery might as well have it.’

      Olly’s world skidded to an abrupt halt. His heart followed suit, banging into his ribcage, sucking all the oxygen from his brain.

      He must have made a noise, because Sophie said, ‘Olly, what’s wrong? Is it a bad painting?’

      A bad painting?

      On the contrary, it was a bloody phenomenal painting.

      It was the second forged Spinelli.

      Shit!

       Chapter Three

      Later that day …

      Lexi peered through the glass-fronted oven door to check on the development of her cupcakes. Unlike the problems associated with trying to run an art business and avoiding her ex-husband, baking never gave her headaches, inflated her overdraft or cheated on her with a younger woman. Plus, whipping up a batch of naughty treats gave her something to nibble on with her caramel latte. And boy, was she in need of a sugar rush tonight.

      She removed her oven gloves and reset the timer.

      Her sister appeared in the kitchen having selected The Five Satins ‘In the Still of the Night’ on their recently acquired jukebox, complete with crackling speakers and flashing disco lights.

      ‘So, what’s eating you?’ Tasha fixed Lexi with a frown. She was wearing her black mesh bodice dress with buckled sky-high stiletto boots, rendering her a good inch taller than her twin – even with Lexi in four-inch heels.

      ‘Who says there’s anything wrong? Maybe I’m fine. Maybe I’m so relaxed I’m—’

      ‘Baking.’ Tasha nicked one of the chocolate orange truffles cooling on the wire cake rack.

      ‘I bake all the time.’

      ‘Yeah, but you only bake large quantities of coronary-inducing confectionery when your stress levels are through the roof. You’re very predictable.’

      ‘Predictable?’ Lexi slumped against the sink. ‘That’s highly depressing.’

      Tasha licked the chocolate-coated truffle. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

      Lexi sighed. ‘What’s there to say? I’m a thirty-two-year-old predictable woman who put her trust in a cheating gambler. I’m beyond help.’

      ‘This is true.’

      Lexi glared at her twin. ‘Thanks.’

      Tasha gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Trusting someone isn’t a flaw. You had a bad experience and got burnt. Shit happens. But you’ll get over it. Time heals and all that crap.’

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