The Art of Deception

out a frustrated breath. “Pay attention, Adam. Harriet’s furious about Stuart selling the painting, but until she studies the contracts there’s no way to know how binding the sale is. It doesn’t look good, and we can’t take a chance on having the painting tested—my father’s painting, that is. If the procedure were sophisticated enough, it might prove that the painting’s not sixteenth-century.”

    “Harriet’s aware that a forgery’s hanging in her gallery?”
    “An emulation, Adam.”
    “And are there any other…emulations in the Merrick Gallery?”
    She gave him a long, cool look. “I’m trying not to be annoyed. All of Harriet’s paintings are authentic, as is her half of the Titian.”
    “Why didn’t she replace it herself?”
    “Because,” Kirby began and checked her watch. Time was slipping away from her. “Not only would it have been difficult for her to disappear from the party early as we did, but it would’ve been awkward altogether. The night watchman could report to Stuart that she came to the gallery in the middle of the night carrying a package. He might put two and two together. Yes, even he might add it up.”
    “So what’ll the night watchman have to say about Kirby Fairchild coming into the gallery in the middle of the night?”
    “He won’t see us.” Her smile was quick and very, very smug.
    “Us?”
    “Since you’re here.” She smiled at him again, and meant it. “I’ve told you everything, and being a gentleman you’ll help me make the switch. We’ll have to work quickly. If we’re caught, we’ll just brazen it out. You won’t have to do anything, I’ll handle it.”
    “You’ll handle it.” He nodded at the drifting clouds. “We can all sleep easy now. One condition.” He stopped her before she could speak. “When we’re done, if we’re not in jail or hospitalized, I want to know it all. If we are in jail, I’ll murder you as slowly as possible.”

    “That’s two conditions,” she muttered. “But all right.”
    They watched each other a moment, one wondering how much would have to be divulged, one wondering how much could be learned. Both found the deceit unpleasant.
    “Let’s get it done.” Adam gestured for her to go first.
    Kirby walked across the grass and went directly to the main door. From the deep pocket of her cloak, she drew out keys.
    “These two switch off the main alarm,” she explained as she turned keys in a series of locks. “And these unbolt the door.” She smiled at the faint click of tumblers. Turning, she studied Adam, standing behind her in his elegant dinner suit. “I’m so glad we dressed for it.”
    “Seems right to dress formally when you’re breaking into a distinguished institution.”
    “True.” Kirby dropped the keys back in her pocket. “And we do make a rather stunning couple. The Titian hangs in the west room on the second floor. The watchman has a little room in the back, here on the main floor. I assume he drinks black coffee laced with rum and reads pornographic magazines. I would. He’s supposed to make rounds hourly, though there’s no way to be certain he’s diligent.”
    “And what time does he make them, if he does?”
    “On the hour—which gives us twenty minutes.” She glanced at her watch and shrugged. “That’s adequate, though if you hadn’t pressed me for details we’d’ve had more time. Don’t scowl,” she added. She pressed her finger to her lips and slipped through the door.
    From out of the depths of her pocket came a flashlight. They followed the narrow beam over the carpet. Together they moved up the staircase.
    Obviously she knew the gallery well. Without hesitation, she moved through the dark, turning on the second floor and marching down the corridor without breaking rhythm. Her cape swirled out as she pivoted into a room. In silence she played her light over paintings until it stopped on the copy of the Titian that had hung in Adam’s room.
    “There,” Kirby whispered as the light shone on the sunset hair Titian had immortalized. The light was too poor for Adam to be certain of the quality, but he promised himself he’d examine it minutes later.
    “It’s not possible to tell them apart—not even an expert.” She knew what he was thinking. “Harriet’s a respected authority, and she couldn’t. I’m not sure the tests wouldn’t bear it out as authentic. Papa has a way of treating the paints.” She moved closer so that her light illuminated