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The assignment is moving exactly as it should. That matters more than it probably should. I have spent the better part of the week waiting for some complication I failed to anticipate, but nothing has surfaced. The work is controlled, the process is clear, and so far London has remained exactly what I intended it to be.

Professional.

I close my laptop shortly after five and gather my notes. Tonight, for the first time since arriving, I am stepping outside the archive and back into the London art world.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Blaire

By six that evening, I am back in my hotel suite fastening a diamond earring into my left ear while the last of the daylight stretches across the windows.

I changed twice before settling on the black dress now fitted over my body. It is simple, sleeveless and cut close without being inappropriate for the room I am walking into. I leave my hair down, add heels and a small black clutch, then check the time before ordering the car downstairs.

Harrington & Vale is less than fifteen minutes from the hotel, tucked behind an elegant stone frontage in Mayfair that gives almost no indication of how much money changes hands inside it.

The reception is already underway when I arrive.

The main gallery has been opened across several connected rooms for the evening, with modern works displayed beneath focused lighting and smaller collection pieces positioned in glass cases along the walls. Champagne moves through the room on silver trays. Servers circulate with small hors d'oeuvres while low music plays beneath the steady hum of conversation. High-top tables are scattered near the edges of the gallery, but almost everyone is standing, moving between the art and one another.

This is familiar territory.

Within ten minutes, I am talking with Julian Mercer near the entrance to the second gallery.

“I’m glad you came,” Julian says after greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. “Helena said you were only in London briefly.”

“Two weeks, ideally,” I reply.

“Then I’m even happier I caught you,” Julian says.

“There are several people here you should know before you disappear back to California.”

“I’m beginning to think that was the real reason for the invitation.”

“It was at least forty percent of the reason,” Julian says with a smile.

I laugh softly. “I appreciate the honesty.”

Julian introduces me to a collector from Zurich and an advisor who runs a private acquisitions firm in Paris. From there, the evening begins moving on its own.

I talk about a postwar collection I recently helped restructure in San Francisco. I discuss a museum loan with a curator I have met twice before at fairs in New York. A private dealer asks whether I am still handling contemporary acquisitions on the West Coast, and I tell him that my work has broadened considerably over the past few years. Nobody asks anything I do not know how to answer.

A little later, I recognize Rebecca Sloan near one of the paintings in the central gallery. We crossed paths several times when I lived in London, although we never worked directly together.

Rebecca spots me almost immediately.

“Blaire Wilson,” she says as she approaches.

“I thought that was you.”

“It’s been a while,” I reply as we exchange a quick embrace.

“You vanished to California.”

“I relocated,” I say.

Rebecca smiles. “That sounds much more respectable.”

“It was also more accurate.”