“There must be something I can do.”
“Edith.” Marianne’s tone became sharper. “Think about Father. Even his reputation would suffer, and what will you and Mother do when his patients don’t want to see him because his daughter posed naked for an artist?”
“I’ll do everything to prevent a scandal.” She sounded scared to her own ears, but she wanted to reassure Marianne a little. Surely, something could be done to avoid a catastrophe. “Listen, I’ll go to the gallery and find out who bought the painting. Then I’ll convince the buyer to give the painting to me or…something else. I’ll work to get the painting from the buyer. I’ll do anything to get it back. I promise.”
“I’ll come with you.” Marianne patted her pocket. “I have enough money to bribe the whole lot of attendants at the gallery.”
Edith had to admit that,without Marianne, she wouldn’t have had a hard time dealing with the staff at the gallery. The attendant was adamant about the fact a client’s privacy was paramount. The gallery would never, ever, under any conditions, reveal a client’s name. He threatened to send for the police if Edith insisted.
Marianne kept talking though. “You must understand. We’re two ladies in need of assistance, and you aren’t behaving in a very chivalrous fashion.”
The attendant was flustered. “My lady, you must understand. I have my orders, and our clients are exclusive ones.”
“This is a matter of life or death,” Edith said. “Do you want someone’s death on your conscience? You must believe us when we say it’s of utmost importance that we find the person who bought the painting.”
The man fiddled with his collar. “Please, my ladies, my job is at risk.”
“We won’t tell anyone you helped us.” Marianne handed him a few banknotes.
Dash it. Edith would need to repay her sister, not only for today’s bribe. “Please,” she said.
The attendant gazed around before pocketing the money. “I’ll leave the register open and unattended on the counter for a few minutes. If you take a peek at the list of buyers in the left column, it won’t be my doing.”
The moment he stepped away from the counter, Edith grabbed the register. The titles of the paintings were in alphabetical order. Astrea… Astrea… there she was. Sold for five hundred pounds and bought by…
“Oh no.” Edith grabbed the counter for support.
Earl of Ravenscroft. Not him. Anyone but him.
Marianne read the column as well. “That’s good news,” she said. “He’s a good friend, isn’t he? You’ll have only to ask him to have the painting back, or even better, to destroy it. Goodness, I’m so relieved.”
No, Edith wasn’t.
