“What’s wrong?” he asked, the words like a shout in the hushed room.
Victoria glanced our way, concerned. I managed a weak smile and tried to temper my annoyance.
Freya and I had been field partners for two years at Codex—I’d forgotten how easily we read each other’s body language.
As Henry stared at me, I tucked a strand of my short hair behind my ear and tapped it. Listen, I mouthed.
“Victoria, how nice to see you this evening,” the man said. Just like that, his name came screeching into my brain: Charles Kearney. I didn’t even have to look at Freya—Codex had had Charles on a short list of potential targets for a year now. He was an oil tycoon with sticky fingers—he kept getting fined by the police for being in possession of stolen art. But every time he blamed the seller, claiming he never knew they’d come into the piece illegally.
“You as well,” she said mildly. A crowd was beginning to gather around her again, and it was obvious she was preening on purpose. “How may I help you, Charles?”
“A fine evening,” he mused again.
“Yes, yes,” she said. Two people jostled into my back, and I tipped forward. Henry grabbed my shoulders, steadying me. This time he didn’t speak, and I shook him off, stepping back.
“I haven’t seen you in a while. In fact, the last time was at the falls, wasn’t it?” Charles asked.
Henry and I both went rigid.
“And which ones would that be, my dear?” Her voice was half-interest, half-threat.
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
“Reichenbach, of course,” Kearney said.
I looked down at the ground—listening, running through scenarios. This didn’t make sense. If Charles had the stolen Bradbury in his possession, why would he assume he was here to meet Victoria Whitney?
There was a long silence—so long I thought Victoria might have wandered off. But when I chanced lifting my head, she was staring at Charles like he was an exotic bird she wanted to kill and mount on her wall.
“We’ll talk about Reichenbach another time,” she said, turning her smile back toward the audience that was gathering.
Behind her hung a painting with an entirely black background and blood-red shapes in the middle. I noticed for the first time her regal accent—something I suspected she picked up at various boarding schools. “It’s all interconnected you see,” she began, as if understanding we’d all been waiting for her to speak. “The violence inherent in this work is the same we would see in some of the Northern Renaissance’s most famous pieces, although they are centuries apart.”
Next to me, a look of recognition moved over Henry’s face. He was staring at Victoria with laser focus.
“Take the infamous Judith Slaying Holofernes,” she continued. “The lines here recall the body of the general, the blood, the sword. There’s a dreadful darkness here, even without human subjects.”
Impressed, I watched Victoria Whitney raise her arm in explanation while gripping her glass of champagne. She wore sophistication like it was going out of style.
“An homage, perhaps?” Charles suggested, not taking the hint.
“That’s certainly what I see,” she said.
Charles was nodding as if he’d won a prize. “It’s nice to see a painter reference Caravaggio in a piece like this.”
A frown slashed across her face. And before she could open her mouth to respond, Henry said, “Not Caravaggio. Gentileschi.”
Victoria turned regally. When her eyes landed on Henry’s tall form, she examined him like a lioness. “Artemisia Gentileschi?”
Henry nodded respectfully. “The greatest female painter of her time. Her painting of Judith and Holofernes is less celebrated than Caravaggio’s. Although I would argue her version is superior.”
Charles was petulant, clearly unused to being interrupted. He opened his mouth, but Victoria cut him off.
“Many critics would say she was a far better painter than her male peers,” she said to Henry.
“Those critics would be correct,” he replied.
I glanced up at Henry—saw him backlit against the lights of the gallery. His suit fit his tremendously tall, broad body like a glove. He had dark-brown skin and close-cropped black curls, and when he let loose that charming smile, I felt the audience sigh in response.
Victoria the Lioness looked like she’d spotted her next meal.
With one last lingering look at my coworker, she readdressed her audience, regaling them with a story about Renaissance painters that was probably only half-accurate. Distracted by Henry, I hadn’t noticed Charles slink off—until Freya was a blur of movement heading out the front doors.
Shit. We usually handled meetings together, and I wasn’t sure how she felt confronting him alone. Maybe if I—
“Hello there.”
When I turned, Victoria Whitney was standing right in front of us. Her silver hair was swept in a low bun, and her lightly lined face was alabaster white. The diamonds in her ears could have paid my rent for a year.
When neither Henry nor I responded, she extended her hand, fingers dripping with rings. “Victoria Whitney. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
“Delilah,” I said quickly, taking her hand before Henry could. I didn’t want him to say his last name. “This is Henry.”
“Good evening,” he said smoothly.
She fluttered her lashes, touched her hair. “You have my attention, Henry,” she said. “I didn’t expect someone to bring up Artemisia Gentileschi in the middle of a modern art exhibit.”
“She’s a favorite.” He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret.
“Mine as well.” She straightened the mink around her shoulders. “I loved how she never shied away from the brutality of the act of decapitation. The blood, the fear, the grotesqueness…” Her light eyes gleamed.
“She was far better than Caravaggio,” he replied.
She regarded first Henry, then me. “I like him,” she purred.
My mind was racing back and forth like a ping-pong ball.
“I like him too,” I finally admitted. Henry was bemused. “What, um…what brings you here this evening?”
The last time Freya and I had gone undercover was months ago—I was rusty.
“I am expected to be here, because it is expected I will purchase one of these pieces of art.”
“And will you?” I asked.
“I could purchase each one ten times over,” she sighed. “But these bring me no joy. Now if an original Artemisia was hanging here, I’d buy it in a heartbeat.”
My scalp prickled again as I raced to put together the pieces: the code, Charles’ presence, Victoria’s prestige.
“It’s a shame then,” I ventured, “that every surviving piece of hers is in a museum somewhere, locked up from the private collectors.”
She eyed me over her champagne, lifting one delicate brow. “It’s the greatest shame, indeed.”
She waved at someone behind me and almost made a move to leave.
“I’m a collector as well,” Henry said. “Rare manuscripts, antique books. My collection pales in comparison to yours, I’m sure.”
Victoria beamed.