Owned By My Dangerous Stepbrother

Chapter Two

Cassian

— ❀ —

The portrait was perfect. That was how I knew it was a fake.

I studied it under the vault’s white lights, a loupe fixed to my eye, while Mr. Lowe hovered at my shoulder and wrung his hands as if I’d asked him to hold a bomb.

“The provenance is flawless,” he said. “Three experts signed off. The buyer has wired the money.”

“Look at the craquelure.”

“A beautiful network.”

“An obedient one.” I lowered the loupe. “Real cracks follow the brushwork. These follow nothing. Someone baked her.”

“Baked?”

“In an oven, Lowe. And the eyes.” I looked at the woman in grey, and she looked back. “Four centuries of masters, and none of them got the eyes right the first time. This one did.”

“A genius, then?”

“Young. Better than anyone has a right to be.”

“Shall I withdraw the sale, sir?”

“And tell the buyer what? That the house he trusts sold him air?” I put the loupe in my pocket. “The sale stands. Sable will be watching to see whether we noticed.”

“And have we?”

“No, Lowe. We haven’t.”

Forty-one forgeries had passed through my father’s house in six years. Every one a masterpiece. Every one traced to a ghost called Victor Sable. Number forty-two stood on the easel, and she had a pulse.

But I wasn’t thinking about Sable.

I was thinking about a girl in a silver mask who had looked at everything in that room except the painting. Who had said no in a voice that shook and refused to bend. Nobody said no to me in that building. Everyone always said yes. The word was the foundation of my life, and she had handed it back like a coat I hadn’t asked for.

“The hostess,” I said. “At the wall. Who booked her?”

Lowe swallowed. “Grayhound. The couriers who deliver for private sales. One of their girls stayed to pour.”

“Silas.”

He had been standing by the vault door so quietly that Lowe flinched. Silas Greer was fifty and built like a locked gate. He had carried me out of a burning house when I was twelve, and in eighteen years he had never asked me for anything.

“Car’s outside,” said Silas.

— ❀ —

Grayhound Couriers operated above a tyre shop in Bermondsey. Its manager, a man called Pell, was sweating through his shirt before I opened my mouth.

“Mr. Hale. Whatever this is, I don’t—”

“The ledger.”

“It’s confidential!”

Silas closed the door. He dragged Pell’s hand, laid it flat on the desk, and bent the little finger back until it broke.

The scream went on a while. I picked up the stapler and waited it out.

“A man came!” Pell was crying now. “Few minutes after the auction! Brown coat. He paid me cash to leave him alone with the ledger for ten minutes. Said if anyone came asking, nothing happened.”

“His face?”

“He wore a mask! I never saw it!”

“Why did he need the ledger?”

“We fixed in a lady who wasn't a staff for the auction, but we never met who brought her. Only that his name is Sable.”

He pushed the ledger across the desk so fast the cover tore.

Silas turned pages with one thick finger. Stopped. Ran his thumb along the spine.

“Page cut out,” he said. “Blade. Clean.”

“Which page?”

“The registration sheet.” Pell was gasping. “Every new staffs signs one. Real name. ID. Address. It was there yesterday.”

“Whose?”

“The girl who poured.”

So someone had walked in after the auction and cut out her name.

“But this one’s still here.” Silas tapped the booking line. Weekend hostess, private sale. I. Marsh. Contact: 07700 900142.

I looked at it for a long time.

So this was all Sable. The lady at the auction must have something to do with the forged painting, that's why he brought her in. And he knew I was coming here. He had set a table, put one plate on it, and waited for me to sit.

I wanted the number anyway.

“Marsh isn’t a real name then,” I said.

“Yes, but the number is.” Silas made one call and listened. “Family plan. Registered to an N. Marren. Peckham.”

“Find out who N. Marren is.”

He held the car door. “You broke a man’s wrist for her,” he said.

“He put his hand on something in my room.”

“She isn’t yours.”

“Everything in that building is mine.” I looked out at the wet grey river. “Including whoever baked that painting.”

Silas said nothing for six streets. Then: “Sable’s careful. This isn’t careful. This is a trail.”

“Or bait.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Neither.”

He drove.

My phone rang as the car turned onto the embankment.

“Cassian. Breakfast tomorrow. Eleven.”

“I’m busy.”

“Not too busy for family.” Julian Hale’s voice had the warm, rich ease he used on widows and heads of state. “I have news. The best kind.”

My father’s news was never the best kind. It was the kind that arrived with paperwork.

The dining room at Ravenscar was bright and glittering and cold, the way it always was. My father sat at the head of the table in a pale grey suit, the picture of a man at peace with himself. Celeste Vandermeer, my fiancée, was already in her chair, polished as the silver. Her smile reached about halfway to her eyes.

“You look tired,” my father said.

“I had a long night.”

“At work?” Celeste asked.

“At work.”

Her smile didn’t move. “I’m getting married,” my father said, as though she hadn’t spoken.

I lifted my coffee. “Congratulations. To whom?”

“Nora Marren. A widow. A remarkable woman.” He smiled. “We met at a hospital benefit. She sat beside me and told me my speech was too long. I’ve known her only a few months, but when you know, you know. She has two children. A boy of twelve, and a daughter, Isla. A restorer, I’m told. Very gifted.”

The cup stopped halfway to my mouth.

N. Marren. Nora. Isla. Restorer.

In my pocket, the photograph of Pell’s ledger felt hot against my thigh. I set the cup down very carefully. Not a drop moved.

My father was watching me. For half a second something sharp and attentive moved behind his genial face. Then it was gone, and he laughed and reached for the toast.

“You’ll adore them. They’re coming to dinner on Friday. Be charming.”

“I’m always charming.”

“You’re always terrifying,” Celeste murmured. “It’s not the same.”

I barely heard her. For two years I had hunted a ghost who forged masterpieces and passed through my family’s house.

It turned out the ghost was about to move in.