Once we arrived at the gallery, we accepted flutes of champagne.
Kipp took a sip, and his face smoothed of all expression, something he’d learned living with Marcus Llewellyn. He looked around for someone to take his flute. “I know you’ve been looking forward to this, Hyde, but if the photos aren’t any better than this champagne—”
“Mr. Wyndham.” Julian Paget, the owner of the gallery, came bustling up to us. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He looked around, excitement lighting his face as he spotted a couple of men standing before a monochromatic photograph. “Let me introduce you to my best photographer.”
We strolled over to join the pair in time to hear the taller of the two snarl, “That isn’t for sale, Henry. I don’t know what you were thinking to even assume—”
“Maybe because you hide it
