Breathless, I nodded. “Just for two weeks?”
“I shall retrieve it myself.” He crouched low and went to work.
Liza drew in a breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. I knew she wanted to keep her family safe, but she could not make their choices for them.
“He knows what he is doing,” I told her. “We won’t be caught.”
Her eyes met mine, so full of fear and vulnerability that she would not speak. Her arms wrapped around her middle. “Quickly. Finish this madness before someone sees.” She would not yield completely. But I only needed a few moments more.
“Unfurl your shawls in front of me to hinder the view.” Mr. Winston pulled out a tool from inside his jacket and used it on the back of the frame. My watercolor laid unfurled beside him.
“Shawls. Excellent plan,” Liza muttered with heavy sarcasm, unfurling hers all the same.
“What a happy yellow,” I said, pretending to admire her shawl.
She blinked at my tone. “Are you not at all concerned whatthe dukewould think of you hanging your watercolor in the opera house?”
I’d not considered the duke all day. “We are not yet married. His opinion is irrelevant.”
Mr. Winston cleared his throat—was he laughing?—and kept working. He removed the back of the frame and carefully exposed the original work.
“Excuse me.” A harsh voice carried from down the hall.
Liza’s jaw dropped in tandem with mine, and we spun around. My heart flew into my throat, and we were suddenly as exposed as sheep after a shearing.
“Don’t move,” Mr. Winston said under his breath.
An attendant dressed in red and white rushed forward. “You three. Is that a wall hanging, sir?”
The air shifted as Mr. Winston rose from his spot behind us. What would he do? We were cornered. Caught. Ruined.
Run,my mind yelled, but my limbs were frozen.
“Sir,” the attendant called as he raced toward us. “Sir, you cannot move the wall hangings. The opera house pays a high price for such quality pieces, and I must ask that you kindly refrain from—”
“Forgive me.” Mr. Winston stepped beside me with a cool smile plastered on his face. “So clumsy of me. I tripped and fell against the wall.” He reached back and straightened the frame with a light touch.
My eyes fixated on the watercolor inside.Mywatercolor. Hanging in the opera house. It was beautiful and smooth and somehow fit perfectly inside its new frame.
Mr. Winston watched me as he said, “Thank goodness I did not damage this extraordinary work of art.”
I could not peel my eyes from the sight of my painting, a vulnerable, real piece of me, on display. My insides tingled with excitement, and I could not hold back my smile despite the guilt that nagged at my conscience. My work should not be here. The painting underneath was the one worthy of this spot, but my heavens,look at my painting on the wall.
The attendant frowned and squared his shoulders. Did he notice the painting inside was not the original?
“Shall I call a doctor for you, sir?” he asked, though his voice held no real concern.
A smirk lifted Mr. Winston’s lips. “Not necessary, but I thank you. Ladies, shall we return to our box for the second act?”
Liza stood still, and I could hardly find my voice. I cleared my throat and shook my head to bring my attention back to the moment. “The second act! We cannot miss another moment, can we, Miss Ollerton?”
Still staring at the attendant, she mumbled something incoherent.
The attendant’s gaze flicked to my painting, and, to my utter astonishment, he seemed satisfied, nodded his head, and let us pass.
ChapterThirteen
Dancers moved around the stage in a blur. My eyes watched, but my mind remained fixed on only one thing: My painting was hanging on a wall in the opera house.
