Page 56 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

“Well, shit,” Elizabeth exclaims, snapping me out of my moment of contemplation as Nina bounds off to look at another painting.

“What?”

“This is a Basilia Hallward painting,” she says, pointing to the signature scrawled onto the corner of the canvas.

“Should I know that name?” I ask, looking between her and the painting, and back again.

“Dorian owns some of her paintings, too. He had them on display in his lobby.”

“I hadn’t really noticed,” I admit. Well, I had noticed the paintings, but I didn’t really pay them much attention once Dorian had entered the room looking disarmingly handsome.

Elizabeth leans in, reading from the small white placard situated next to the painting.

Basilia Hallward (1702-1728) Untitled, 1727. This work is one of several pieces donated to Scottsdale Gallery by the Grayhaven Estate. It is rumoured that Basilia’s short life was one filled with emotional instability until her tragic death in 1728. Little else is known about Basilia, but her work is certainly as inspiring as many of her peers during that period.

“Do you think it was Dorian who donated these paintings?” Elizabeth asks.

“He could just be a collector,” I reply with a shrug. “Why?”

“It’s odd.”

“It’s not unusual to collect art, Elizabeth.”

She frowns. “Don’t you remember what he said?”

“Something about them not being a Monet, which clearly they aren’t.”

“No, Edie. He said Basilia was an old acquaintance of his.”

I flick my gaze back to the placard. “You must’ve misheard. She died in 1728, Elizabeth.”

“Yes, that would be impossible…” Her voice trails off as she pulls out her phone, typing something. “Well, shit,” she says a moment later, shoving her phone at me.

“What?”

“This is a website about the Grayhaven Estate. Look at this.”

Taking the phone from her, I scan the last line of the paragraph she’s pointing to. “The Grayhaven Estate is owned by Dorian Crow, a local businessman and the last living member of the Gray family.”

“And?” I question, handing her the phone back. “So what, he’s rich. I already figured that out.”

“No, that’s not what I was pointing to,” she says, enlarging an image on the screen, and then handing the phone back to me. “Look at the picture.”

I heave out a sigh, my gaze falling to a painting of a couple standing beneath a rose-covered pergola, my attention immediately drawn to the man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Dorian. My heart stills in my chest because beneath the painting is a small caption that reads: “Basilia Hallward and her husband Dorian Gray, m:1720.”

It takes me a moment to recover, but when I do, I shake my head and laugh. “The genes must be strong in his family. Dorian looks like his relative, that’s all.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little bit weird?” Elizabeth asks.

I lift a brow, handing her back her phone. “Next, you’ll be telling me he’s immortal or something.”

She meets my gaze, then suddenly bursts out laughing. “I could use a drink. Shall we go get some lunch and talk some more about how you’re not getting involved with an estate owning criminal, who has questionable taste in women?”

“Oy, I’m a catch, I’ll have you know,” I retort, shoving her on the arm.

“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about Sybil.”

“And here I was thinking you’re a woman’s woman.”