‘Don’t ask.’
Hamish stared at her. ‘You broke in?’
‘Iborrowedthe spare key,’ she said.
‘And you stole the key to the strongbox.’
‘I put it back where I found it.’
‘What if you were caught?’
‘Don’t be dramatic. The only real danger was Marmalade; Hugo was stumbling about, but I think he’d have assumed I was a ghost ... he was at the hiccupping stage of the evening.’
Hamish gave a short, helpless laugh. ‘You’re ...’ He shook his head. ‘You’re unbelievable.’
She grinned. Then flattened the paper between them. ‘Look at this signature. Your mother’s, supposedly. Does thatFlook right to you? It’s not loopy enough. She always loops her Fs like a treble clef.’
He squinted. ‘That’s true.’
‘And theP.’ She tilted the page, frowning. ‘It barely curls. Flora’s letters always look like they are about to bite you. This one sulks.’
He took the page from her carefully, as though it might burn him. ‘You think it’s forged.’
‘And I know why.’ Long ago she’d worked out that Ernest was greedy – but it seemed his greed knew no bounds. ‘I think Ernest wants to remove the protection on the loving cup, flog it, and vanish with the proceeds.’
‘You really think he’d do that?’
‘I do. But complacency stalks the powerful, and when it does, the overlooked underdog can bring them down.’ Christina smiled. ‘Just like Henry VII defeated Richard III.’
There was a pause. Then Hamish looked at her properly. As if something had finally cut through the veil of pewter tankards and Tudor ink ratios.
‘You’ve got your old spark back.’
She raised an eyebrow, teasing. ‘Only mildly terrifying this time.’
But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached across the table and touched her wrist, gently. His fingers were warm and wonderfully ink stained.
‘This,’ he said. ‘This is the Tina I fell in love with. Clever. Relentless. A little terrifying, yes – but only in the best ways.’
She smiled. There was something in his voice she hadn’t heard in a while. Love, offered not as reassurance, but recognition. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Because it clicked, then – not in a grand, cinematic thunderclap, but an internalclicklike an antique clock finally starting after being wound. When she stopped trying to fade, stopped playing it safe – when she was her full, defiant, determined self – people saw her. Not with judgment. With love. Notdespitewho she was. Because of it.
Ernest might have taught her that invisibility was the price of survival – but Hamish, even buried under footnotes and Tudor quirks, had never stopped seeing her. He just needed reminding of who she really was.
And maybe ... so did she.
Her smile broadened. ‘Did you find your miniature portraits?’
He grunted, ‘Ernest did. They’re back in the library where they belong. Tim says they could be from Holbein’s workshop and that would make them worth several hundred grand, especially as they’ve been in the family since they were painted. Impeccable provenance he said. I’ve asked Ernest to warn the insurance company.’
‘How exciting.’ She wished he hadn’t told Ernest.
He hesitated then, then with his gaze holding hers said. ‘Tina ... talk to me. Please, I know you have something you need to tell me.’
She laughed softly. ‘I am talking to you. Look at us – practically civilised.’
But the flicker in his eyes said he’d meant something else entirely, and she didn’t want to confess yet, not while she stillneeded him fighting with her to save the cup. ‘We need to prove this deed is forged.’
Hamish exhaled, brushing his knuckles down her wrist before letting go. ‘There’s only one way to prove this is a fake. We ask the person who’d know.’
