The carriage came to a stop just outside the brick opera house. Stragglers like us hurried up the wide stairway to catch the opera before it started.
Mr. Winston helped Liza down, then me.
Then he reached inside the carriage and tucked my painting under his arm, hidden within his coat.
ChapterTwelve
Mr. Winston hurried us inside the opera house, seeming as cool and collected as any other guest. But he hid his plan literally up his sleeve.
“May I help you to your seats?” an attendant asked as Mr. Winston handed him our tickets.
“No, thank you,” he answered with a bow. Liza and I followed closely behind, arm in arm.
“Mr. Winston,” I said through my teeth. I flicked my eyes knowingly to where he had hidden my painting.
He winked, then stole around a corner and stopped short. “Now that we trust one another. Here is the plan.” He looked between us. “We are going to swap your painting for one already hanging on the walls of the opera house.”
“We’rewhat?” My voice rose an octave, and Mr. Winston’s gloved hand rose as though to shush me.
Liza’s jaw had completely unhinged. “Have you lost your mind?”
Mr. Winston continued as though the question were irrelevant. “First, we must find a watercolor of similar size. I brought a few tools to help us unbend the nails in the frame backing. No one will be able to tell yours is not the original where that is concerned.”
Liza stared at her cousin. “Uncle is right. Something might truly be wrong with your head.”
An older woman and her escort rounded the corner. She wore an ostrich feather as long as my arm. “Pardon,” she said as her eyes washed over the three of us huddled together.
“Good evening,” Mr. Winston said with a bow of his head.
“This is not mere madness,” I whispered to Liza. “This is offensive. Criminal. Criminally offensive.”
Mr. Winston adjusted his coat all too casually. “Miss Newbury, do take a breath, or you will end up a complication.”
He started walking down the hall, leaving Liza and me no choice but to hurry after him. “Luckily, your watercolor is of average size.” His head moved with the passing artwork. Some were canvas that had been fitted for their frames. Others were varying sizes and mediums within various frames.
I clutched tightly to Liza’s arm, glancing over my shoulder for anyone following us.
When I turned back, Mr. Winston had unrolled my painting and was holding it up against a similarly sized frame hung on the wall. “Just a hair too big. But we can keep this one in mind if all else fails.”
“Rosalind,” Liza begged.
“Me? He isyourcousin!”
She reared back, throwing her hands in the air. “You promised you’d handle him, and he is in earnest. What am I to do? How didanyonethink me capable of keeping either of you two in order?”
My eyes flicked to Mr. Winston, who was measuring my painting against another a few paces ahead. “Mr. Winston, put that away at once!” My mind was catching up with my feet.
He furrowed his brow. “How else will we determine a decent fit?”
His eyes moved fast from one frame to the next every few paces, his attention split in two directions.
A couple rounded the corner ahead, moving toward us. “Now,” I seethed. “Put it awaynow.”
Mr. Winston’s eyes flashed to mine, confused, then he heard the couple’s voices.
His back turned to them, he carefully rolled up my picture. “You are upset.”
“This is too reckless,” I said, holding out my hand. “You’ll be caught, and Liza will never recover from the shame. Give the painting back to me. I shall find another way.”
