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Leaving his bag on the floor and his scarf across the back of his chair, he picked up the candle and left his office. From somewhere outside, a dog howled, the eerie sound filtering through the windows and into the empty landing. There was a muffled bump. Henry stopped, raising the candle and moving it in a slow circle to better see the doorways of the nearby rooms. All the doors were closed. Shaking off his unease, he continued along the landing until he reached the accessions room. A twist of the doorknob confirmed that it was locked.

He turned the key in the keyhole. The bolt slid back with a click that filled the empty space around him. He held perfectly still. Hearing no other sounds, he opened the door and walked inside.

The room looked just as it had when he’d left it. His attempt at clearing some of the straw from the floor was clearly visible, as was the rudimentary path leading from the door to the nearest table. Keeping the candle low enough to watch for anything on the ground that might trip him, he made his way across the room. Shadows of every shape and form surrounded him, but he kept his focus on the items gathered atop the table, scouring the area for the matching idols.

A wooden mask, three rustic bowls, an assortment of spears, and then he spotted them. Four polished wood idols lined up behind a rolled-up rattan mat. Releasing a tense breath, Henry set the idol that had been in his satchel beside its mates and raised the candle above them. The stones embedded in each one gleamed back at him. He had no way of knowing if anything else had been stolen from the room, but this set, at least, was complete once more.

Retracing his footsteps, he exited the room and closed the door. He had just turned the key in the lock when he heard another click, this one coming from farther down the landing. Swinging around, he saw the faint light of an approaching candle coming around the corner. His pulse racing, he blew out his own flame and pressed himself into the shadows of the accessions room doorway right before someone came into view.

Height and wardrobe identified the person as a male. He was moving purposefully, his footsteps brisk and sure. In the darkness, it was impossible to spot any identifying features on his face or the color of his clothing, but a long shadow followed his movement along the tiled floor and accentuated a rectangular object in his arms. Henry strained to see better. Who was it? And what was he doing?

The footsteps slowed near the door to the Montagu room, and Henry heard the jingle of keys. Unless they’d been stolen, being in possession of keys narrowed down the number of suspects considerably. The lock clicked, and the man pushed open the door. Before entering the room, he raised the candle, and for that split second, Henry saw his face, his ostentatious cravat, and the white pinstripes on his jacket.

Leaning his head against the accessions room door, Henry took a couple of deep breaths, attempting to control the anger roiling within him. He did not know what Fernsby was about, but given the current circumstances and the man’s recent activities, he was convinced it was nothing honorable.

Waiting only until Fernsby disappeared inside the room, Henry stepped away from the accessions room doorway. The faint glow coming from Fernsby’s candle guided Henry the short distance to the open door. Pressing himself against the wall, he peered around the doorframe. Fernsby had set the candle on one of the display cases, and by its light, he was removing a canvas from the wall. A glimpse of green and its location in the room was enough to remind Henry of the painting’s details. It was a pastoral scene—one that reminded him of the rolling hills near his property in Shropshire—created by Jacob Hackert.

Fernsby set the painting on the display case next to the candle and picked up the rectangular object beside it. This must have been what he had been carrying earlier. The candlelight picked up the gilded frame of another painting. Fernsby held it aloft, studying it. As far as Henry could tell, the green and brown tones were the same. Exactly the same, in fact.

A gaping pit formed in Henry’s stomach as he watched Fernsby hang the new canvas where the other one had been. Fernsby stepped back to ensure that it was straight, and Henry entered the room.

“Which one is the original, Fernsby?” he asked.

Fernsby pivoted. “Buckland! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Henry said, balling his fists. “Although, perhaps creeping through the museum at night is a routine occurrence for you.”

Fernsby flinched. He was not completely without feeling, then.

“You know nothing about what I do,” he said.

“So I have recently learned,” Henry said. “Why don’t you enlighten me.”

“Spare me the attitude of moral superiority, Buckland. Taking the higher ground is all too easy when there are no obstacles in your way.”

“Do you happen to know anyone whose life is completely without hindrance?”

“Yes,” Fernsby spat. “You.”

Henry’s lifelong struggle with color vision flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. This conversation was not about him; it was about Fernsby. “If you truly believe that, then your knowledge of my life is as limited as mine is of yours.”

Fernsby snorted. “Have you ever had to wonder how to pay your bills? Of course not. You have an inheritance, an income wholly separate from this curator hobby of yours. What of the crushing burden of knowing that you and your passions are nothing more than a disappointment to your family? No. That one is equally foreign to you, isn’t it?

“I am an artist, Buckland. A blasted good one, at that. I spent three years in Paris honing my craft, and do you know who cares? No one. No one but me. I could barely sell one of my paintings for enough money to keep bread on the table. My father was so ashamed of my chosen profession that he cut me off—told me that I must put aside my ridiculous penchant for painting and actually make something of myself. And so here I am.” He waved his arm to encompass the Montagu room. “A curator at the British Museum. Is it enough for my father? No. He will not be happy until I am the director. And is it enough for me? No.” His eyes flashed wildly. “I was born to paint.”

“And so you use your talent to make forgeries,” Henry guessed.

Fernsby smirked contemptuously. “You would be amazed at how many members of the ton have dismissed my original artwork as not worth their time only to unwittingly purchase one for an obscene amount simply because I put another artist’s signature on it.”

If Henry allowed himself to consider the full ramifications of what Fernsby was doing—what he had already done—to the original artists, to those who bought the paintings, and to the museum, he would be unable to contain his fury. Somehow, he must set aside his abhorrence of Fernsby’s actions long enough to think through a means of preventing him from following through with his present and future nefarious activities. “So who is to receive your version of Hackert’s painting?” he asked.

Fernsby laughed. It was a mirthless sound that set Henry’s teeth on edge. “My broker takes care of such details, but even if I knew, I would not tell you. I am not so foolhardy as all that.” He tucked the painting under his arm. “And now, as pleasant as this discussion has been, I think it is time to end it.”

Henry stepped in front of him. “Leave the painting behind.”

“Move out of my way, Buckland.”

“Only after you’ve set down the painting.”