his right, and the first wraith of suspicion writhed deep in his brain.
He stepped closer and peered at the painting’s surface.
Surely not—it can’t be.
His heart sank as his instincts pricked ever more strongly.
Never in his life had he been so thankful for the facility, learned at his mother’s knee, to conceal all emotion behind an impassive mask.
His gaze devouring the painting, he slowly reached up and removed it from the wall.
Holding the frame, he walked to the window on his right, the one admitting the strongest light. Halting before the pane, he angled the painting first one way, then the other, but he couldn’t see well enough to be certain of what he thought he was seeing.
Ensuring his features revealed nothing of his inner turmoil, he glanced at Ellie. “The light here is too poor for me to work with. Is there any room in the house with strong, even light?”
Ellie searched his face, but could read absolutely nothing in his professionally uninformative expression. “Natural light?” When he nodded, she mentally reviewed the possibilities; in this season, most rooms in the house suffered from poor light, but one might do. “How about the conservatory?”
He thought, then nodded. “That might work well.”
“Of all the rooms in the house, it has the best natural light.” She started for the door. “I’ll take you there.”
Carrying the frame, he followed. As she led him along the corridor and around to the side stairs, she noticed his gaze constantly dipping to dwell on the painting.
Poor light or not, he was being drawn into his study of the canvas, becoming absorbed with the painting, just as he had with the documents.
The bottom of the side stairs lay only a few yards from the short corridor that led to the glass-walled conservatory. She opened the door and led the way inside.
Shaped like the nave of a church, the conservatory extended outward from the end of the central wing. Hip-high redbrick walls ran away from the house, eventually angling inward to form a half-hexagonal end. Above the walls, panes of glass set in lead frames soared upward, then inward, to meet along the roof’s leaded spine. Green-and-white tiles covered the floor, laid in a chequerboard pattern.
Walking down the room, she spoke over her shoulder. “My father built the conservatory for my mother—it was his wedding gift to her. During winter, the room’s heated by hot water from a boiler in the cellar that circulates through pipes in the walls and floor.”
“I see.”
He sounded distracted, literally absentminded.
She smiled to herself and halted in the sparsely furnished area toward the end of the room. During the colder months, the ferns and palms that, in summer, were sited all around the conservatory were gathered in the room’s center, away from the chilled windows.
She turned to Godfrey as he halted a yard away; predictably, his gaze remained locked on the painting. “Will you need anything more by way of furniture in addition to what’s already here?”
Godfrey raised his head, stared at Ellie as he replayed her words, then glanced around. There were two round white-painted wrought iron tables and eight matching chairs, deeply cushioned, arranged around the room’s perimeter. He looked past Ellie to the end of the room where strong, steady light—not just direct light from the sky but also light reflected off the snow—poured in through the glass panes. “No.” He glanced around again. “In fact, this will be perfect. The fewer visual distractions, the better.”
The painting claimed his attention again.
Ellie shifted. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it.”
He nodded, but she didn’t walk away. He realized and, still holding his mask firmly in place, looked at her.
She smiled gently, as if amused. “How long do you think your examination will take?”
He looked down at the canvas. After a moment, he said, “Given what this is, I’ll need to be thorough.”
Exceedingly thorough.
“So.” She tipped her head and waited for him to look at her again. “Does that mean hours?”
He couldn’t hold back a disbelieving grunt. “Hours certainly. Possibly days.”
“Oh. I see.” She studied him for an instant, then said, “I’ll let Papa know. I’ll send Wally to summon you for meals.”
He nodded noncommittally, but he wasn’t going to be eating with the family until he sorted this out.
His attention once more drawn—mesmerized—by the painting in his hands, he listened as Ellie walked away. He heard the door open and click shut—waited until he was certain she wouldn’t, for some reason, return.
Then and only then did he allow his rigid