In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Twenty-Two
Arising at dawn was much easier when Michael had something to look forward to, even if he had spent half the night awake. His thoughts had been swallowed by Patience and how they had kissed in the closet and how ridiculously happy that fact made him. He hadn’t stopped smiling since she had stumbled out of the closet and explained the incident to the customer at his desk. Perhaps he should have been concerned with her ability to lie so convincingly, but he had only been grateful that she had saved him from the man’s scrutiny.
He dressed quickly before heading out the door toward his studio. The sun was still in the process of rising. He had a busy schedule that day, so he needed to arrive at his studio early enough to finish his new portrait of Patience before his scheduled appointments. He had been so close to finishing the day before—until Patience had arrived and thoroughly distracted him.
He couldn’t quite recall how it had started, but he was fairly certain that she had initiated their kiss. He could no longer doubt that she returned his feelings, so he had begun planning when and how he might propose. He hadn’t told his mother or his sisters of his plans yet, though they had questioned many times why he had appeared so jovial the day before. He didn’t blame Patience for not joining them for tea that day. She would have likely been questioned as thoroughly as he had been.
Until an engagement was official between them, it was better that she keep her distance.
He approached his studio, squinting against the sunlight that reflected off the glass.
The broken glass.
His stomach plummeted. He rushed forward, crushing fragments of glass underfoot as he walked to the front door. The window beside it had been shattered. His heart pounded in his throat as he forced his key into the lock, entering the studio. At first glance, everything appeared to still be where he had left it the day before. But then he noticed the closet.
The door was halfway open. Dread climbed his spine as he ran across the room. He immediately walked to the back of the closet, and his worst fear was confirmed. The small compartment where he had hidden his new painting for the exhibition was open and empty.
Someone had stolen his painting of Orpheus and Eurydice—the project he had spent months completing.
He interlocked his fingers on top of his head, taking several deep breaths as he paced the length of the closet. He checked every other hiding place he had established in his studio until hopelessness engulfed him.
It was gone.
He searched the corner where he had placed his new portrait of Patience to dry. It was still there, along with The Monstrous Debutante. The thief must not have seen it, otherwise he surely would have stolen the famous painting instead of the one Michael hadn’t even submitted to the exhibition yet. He tipped his head back with groan. He should have been more careful. He had often left the Orpheus painting uncovered while clients were present. Any of them could have seen the potential in the piece and planned to steal it, as well as any number of people from outside in the street.
A thought made his skin go cold. But how could they have known where he hid it? He hadn’t told anyone where he kept the painting in the compartment at the back of his closet.
Well, he hadn’t told anyone except Patience.
He scowled down at the fragments of glass that had spilled into the inside of his studio. A suspicion entered the dark, dusty corners of his mind, but he shoved it away with both hands.
No.
He knew Patience. He knew she would never do something like that, not anymore at least. That thought made him pause.
Not anymore.
There had been a time, not very long ago, that she had been capable of worse things than she seemed to be capable of now. His chest tightened as doubt continued stirring in his heart. She had told him that she came to London with one purpose—to make Michael regret what he had done to her. She hadn’t been secretive about her desire for revenge when she first met him again at the masquerade.
What if she had never given up on her pursuit?
He squeezed his eyes closed, banishing his concerns. They scratched at his heart, filling him with dread like he had never known before. His lungs refused to expand. His head was light.
What if this had been her intention all along? What if she had become close to his family, pretending to forgive him for the ruin he had caused her, pretending to love him—only to add to her ruse? It would have been a masterful plan, and one executed flawlessly. Michael’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. She had been very interested in the painting. She had wanted to come see it. What if she had only come to his studio the day before in order to discover where he kept it hidden? What if their kiss had also been part of her trick?
That last thought hurt the most. A sense of betrayal wrapped its fingers around his neck, squeezing and shooting pain through every inch of his body.
He stopped himself. The words what and if were dangerous together. They would leave him spiraling into madness if he let them. There were many other explanations that were more reasonable than the horrific ones that played out in his head. There had also been the man that had been in his studio the day before, who had seen them come out from the closet. Patience had told that man about the hidden compartment. Could that man have used the information to steal the painting? The idea sent a thread of relief across his shoulders.
After thinking of a few other possible explanations, Michael managed to expel his suspicions of Patience from his mind, until a witness came forward that afternoon, stating that he had seen the thief fleeing from the scene with Michael’s paintings. Another witness stated the same thing.
The thief hadn’t been a man at all.
It had been a dark-haired woman wearing a blue pelisse with three brass buttons down the back.
Just a few minutes before Patience planned to leave Mary’s house to visit the Cavinders, a knock sounded on her door. She was grateful for the distraction. Her nerves had been jumping and twitching all day at the thought of seeing Michael again. She had almost convinced herself to stay home with Mary, but she had finally gathered the courage to put on her gloves and bonnet and prepare to leave.
She needed to speak to Michael and acknowledge what had happened in the closet and what it meant. She also needed to discover why he had kept the portrait of her as a monster all this time. It had been bothering her ever since she had seen it sitting on that easel, hastily hidden behind a sheet. What if he planned to display it in the exhibition again the next spring? It had earned him so many clients after all. Her stomach tied itself in knots. Would he really betray her like that?
She thought of his kind, gentle eyes and the ardent way he had held her and kissed her the day before. How could he be capable of something so wicked? He did not want to hurt her. There was not a single particle of malice in his entire body, she was sure of it. There must have been a different explanation.
With her thoughts in a distant place, she finally wandered to the door of her bedchamber to discover who had come knocking.
Mary stood in the doorframe. Her ash-brown curls sat high atop her head and her brown eyes blinked up at Patience.
“Good day, Mary.” Patience smiled, surprised to find a mischievous grin on her cousin’s lips. “What is the matter?”
“There is a man who has come calling for you,” Mary said. “A Mr. Cavinder. Why did you not tell me that these Cavinders you visit so often have such a handsome son?”
A breath lodged in Patience’s throat. Giddy elation swept over her body, and she nearly spun in a circle where she stood. Had he come to propose? He had never called upon her at Mary’s house before. She smoothed her hands over her skirt, straightening her posture. Had Mary asked her a question? She could hardly remember.
Her feet carried her down the stairs and straight to the drawing room where Michael awaited her. She made it two steps into the room before she stopped, frowning.
There was something wrong about Michael’s expression. His eyes were heavy, his mouth firm. His entire disposition was unrecognizable as he stared at her from across the room. He watched her with apprehension and dread, as if she might break him to pieces at any moment. He lowered a bow in greeting, far from the friendly gestures she had seen from him recently.
“Michael?” Patience took a step forward, her smile faltering. “What a surprise. I-I was just leaving to your house for tea.” Her voice fell. Why was he staring at her like that? It was not a good stare, not the sort that made her stomach flutter. It was one that made her heart pound with dread.
His eyes were vulnerable, his arms folded. His features were all concentration as he studied her face as if he were trying to solve a puzzle.
“What is the matter?” she blurted, crossing her own arms. She was suddenly self-conscious. When he didn’t answer for several seconds, she walked forward, stopping just a few feet in front of him. She searched his face, her worry expanding.
“I know what you did, Patience, but I want to know why.” His voice was hoarse and broken.
She stepped back, scowling. “What do you mean?”
He rubbed one hand across his brow, shaking his head. “First, tell me where you put the painting. If you return it to me now, I will not hold you responsible. You may leave without punishment of any kind, I promise.”
Patience’s brow furrowed. “What on earth are you speaking of? What painting?”
Michael groaned. “Orpheus and Eurydice.” His eyes flashed with hurt. “Stop pretending. You have done enough of that. I know you stole it. Two witnesses have now confirmed that the thief was you.”
She shook her head. Her stomach twisted, and she felt suddenly ill. “Your painting was stolen? When?”
Vexation crossed his features. “Last night.”
How could he blame her? Did he not realize how she had changed over the last several months? She remembered the monstrous painting that still sat on his easel. Perhaps that was how he had seen her all along—perhaps his opinion had never actually changed. Her heart cracked. “Well, the witnesses are wrong.” A flash of anger shuddered over her body. “It was not me.”
Michael studied her face for a long moment, his own heartbreak evident behind his eyes. He seemed resolved not to believe her. “If this is part of your revenge, then of course you wouldn’t tell me.” His voice was defensive and hard. “Why would you tell me the truth now when you have been lying to me all this time? You have betrayed my trust and my heart.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.
His words fell in the space between them, floating down like dead autumn leaves.
Betrayal sank through her bones. How could Michael not trust her? Her own defenses rose, guarding her heart like an army. They had done it before, so they knew the procedure. Her pain was replaced with anger, and she threw her own accusation at him. “I saw The Monstrous Debutante on your easel yesterday. You had hidden it behind a sheet in an obvious attempt to keep me from seeing it.” She swallowed hard, letting her anger prevail. “Do you plan to display it at the next exhibition again? You might benefit from its popularity a second time.”
Michael’s voice was quiet but firm. “No. I was using it as a reference for the new portrait I was painting for you.”
Her heart stung. “And why should I believe you if you do not believe me?”
“How could two witnesses be mistaken?” Michael let out a long sigh, running a hand over his hair. He wouldn’t look at her. “I did not come here to argue with you, Patience. I came to try to understand.”
“Then understand me when I say that I didn’t steal your painting,” she said, her voice harsh. The walls around her heart creaked with the weight of the tempest that crashed against them.
Michael met her gaze, his own filled with grief. He studied her for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was broken. “You have fooled me once before. I only regret that I was not wise enough to avoid it a second time.”
His words snapped like a whip, despite how quiet and broken they were. She was proud of herself for waiting to cry until after he exited the room. Her defenses came crashing down, shattering on the floor. If there was no way to prove her innocence, then how would he ever believe her? He wouldn’t listen. He seemed to have boarded up the space around his own heart, much like she had done after Hattie had betrayed her. She had finally learned how to tear down her own walls, but she didn’t know how to tear down Michael’s.
If the piece he had been working on for months had just been stolen, then his emotions had already been fragile. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks. He had needed someone to blame, and all the signs had pointed to her. But how on earth had two witnesses claimed to have seen Patience walking away with the painting? It simply didn’t make sense. Was there someone who had framed her? Someone who wished to ruin her life? If that was their wish, then they had succeeded.
She had never known ruin like this.
