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He allowed himself a single, cool, mockingly superior smile. Then, with some effort, dragged himself away. He left Annis standing there, fuming, and walked towards Ray Verney. As he did so, he could feel her eyes boring into his back.

What a sharp-tongued, evil-minded . . . what a beautiful, clever, interesting woman . . .

CHAPTER
THREE

Second-year student, Frederica Delacroix pushed open one of the two heavy wooden doors of the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art and found herself in a tiny space with egg-shell blue walls and two other doors facing her, giving way to a black-and-white tiled hall. She paused in the entrance foyer as she noticed that a new exhibit had gone up; the work of a photographer.

She sprinted up the concrete stairs to the second floor and glanced into the studio to see whether anybody was about. Nobody was. It was only nine-thirty in the morning, and most of her fellow artists were late risers. She carried on up to the third and top floor, where her small ‘workspace', shared with three others, waited for her.

Frederica uncovered her easel and, with a rubber band, gathered her tightly-curled, long auburn hair off her face and into a rather becoming pony tail. She reached for her smock, which smelt of linseed oil, as her deep velvet brown eyes assessed her work-in-progress. She looked taller than her five feet eight, possibly because she had that particular kind of slender build that made her seem willowy. At only twenty, she carried herself with the confidence of a much older woman,
but
a smattering of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose like impudent childish memories. Men found the combination irresistible. Not that she ever noticed male appreciation.

From the age of five, her ambition had been to break through the male-dominated world of painting to become a respected, noted artist. She, therefore, had little time or inclination to pursue such feminine things as trendy hairstyles, fashionable clothes, make-up or men. It would have annoyed many women to see how she wore the old canvas smock as if it were a designer original. Her skin, the fair, creamy pale colour of camellias, didn't need cosmetics. Her hair, a Titian cascade of rich auburn which had never felt a hairdresser's scissors, would have made an advertising mogul drool.

But Frederica had eyes only for her latest canvas.

It was a depiction of a semi-detached house on a council estate, poverty-stricken and lived-in. The bumper of an old car was in the foreground. A satellite dish was on the wall of the next door house. A cat slept on the roof of the porch. Nearing completion, even a novice could tell that it was extremely well-painted. The cat was black-and-white, and Frederica was just in the process of giving it whiskers. It was so real that anyone looking at the painting could almost hear it purr out loud. The
liquidity
of the bones, the upturned chin, were so . . . feline. It was an hour before Frederica finally stepped back, looking at her work, wondering if it really was good, or if she was only fooling herself. She removed the smock, glancing at her watch as she did so.

It was Friday, and she had no tutorials until the following Monday, so she left, trotting lightly back down the stairs. In the Hall, a first-year student stopped, his eyes lighting up. Tim Gregson was good-looking—and he knew it. All dark hair, grey eyes and flashing grin. ‘Hello there, gorgeous.'

Frederica gave him a good-humoured, if slightly jaded, smile.

‘Fancy coming with me to check out that new Jazz club?' he asked, leaning as close to her as he could get without being obvious about it.

Frederica took a hasty step back. ‘No thanks. Busy.' She quickly cast about for something to take his mind off his libido. ‘How are Prelims going?' she asked softly, and watched his face tighten in apprehension.

The three-year Bachelor of Fine Arts course at the Ruskin was divided into distinct stages—the first year being the hardest, for it was then that every student had to pass exams in no fewer than six disciplines—Painting, Drawing, Print-making, Sculpture, Human Anatomy and Art History. In the second year, students chose one or two areas to concentrate
on.
The third year was then taken up with building a body of work for the Final Degree Show.

Tim Gregson gulped nosily as he contemplated exams. ‘Oh, all right I think. It's the Drawing I'm worried about. Sculpture is more my line.'

Frederica nodded, not without sympathy, and managed to slip away. If she'd been paying more attention to the notice board she would have noted the imminent arrival of a Visiting Fellow—the eminent art expert and gallery owner, Lorcan Greene. But she didn't see it, however, and instead strolled back to St Bede's.

Situated just off St Giles, St Bede's was a large college, with three big student residences. As she made her way to her pleasant room in Walton, overlooking the Fellows' Garden with its impressive silver birches, she began to smile. Life was looking good. She was on her way. She had all but waltzed through her Prelims, and had no doubt about her choice of future discipline. Her Tutor was in complete agreement with her—Frederica Delacroix had been born to paint. She was one of those students Tutors lived for—an obvious, stunning talent.

Frederica packed a small overnight case, and as it was a fine day, she decided to walk to the train station. Her home was a small village in Gloucestershire on the edge of the
Cotswolds,
and it was prime landscape-painting country. The train was on time and the journey was relatively short. When she alighted, carrying her case with careless ease, it was barely one o'clock.

As she walked up a narrow lane frothing with cow parsley, she noticed with pleasure that the swallows had arrived. Rainbow House, the Delacroix family home for centuries, was on the very outskirts of Cross Keys, and was a sturdy, square, no-nonsense country gentleman's residence; her heart lifted when she turned the last bend in the narrow country lane and saw it. Her mother, a keen gardener, kept the square, walled garden in immaculate, colourful, condition and her solicitor father, was the last in a long line of Delacroixs.

One day, she knew, she would marry and have a family of her own. So far, though, she hadn't even had a lover. Still, there was plenty of time for all that.

She walked through the gate that lead to the west side of the house, glancing up at the dormer windows on the second floor as she did so. She coveted that corner room—a lot of windows, a lot of natural light, as it got both morning and afternoon sunlight. It would make a perfect artist's studio. Now that her father was finally convinced she was going to be a painter, it wouldn't take much to persuade him to convert the room for her.

‘Frederica! Darling! I didn't know you were
coming
home for the weekend!' The voice came from a big clump of beautifully scented white peonies. Closer inspection revealed Donna Delacroix, Frederica's mother, on her hands and knees, pulling up some recalcitrant groundsel.

‘I did tell you,' Frederica said mildly with a fond smile. Her mother's memory had nothing on a sieve!

‘Oh, yes, I suppose you did,' Donna stood and hugged her daughter. ‘Do you want some lunch?'

‘Hmm, yes please,' Frederica said, following her mother into the cool, terracotta-tiled farmhouse kitchen. She ran up to her room to unpack and wash, and when she came back down, the kettle was boiling merrily.

Donna was a small, neat, utterly English country lady, who worked in a charity shop two days a week, was a member of her local Women's Institute and took pride in her home and garden—opening both to the public in the summer, to raise money for charity.

Her mother rushed off after lunch to join one of her friends in a baking marathon for the forthcoming village fête, so Frederica had the whole afternoon to herself, spending some of it in the small but well-stocked library, and the rest of it walking in the bluebell woods at the furthest boundary of her father's small plot of land. When she returned, the church clock was just striking five. Surprisingly, her father's
car
was already parked in the driveway.

James Delacroix was sitting in his favourite chair, smoking his pipe when Frederica whirled in to his study.

‘Freddy!' He regarded his only child with affection, expecting, and receiving, an embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

‘Dad.' Frederica stood back, her head cocked to one side. ‘You're home early.'

James coughed. ‘Er . . . yes. Your mother is out, isn't she?' Frederica suspected that he already knew the answer. She smiled. ‘Yes, she is.'

James grunted, looked at his pipe, looked at his daughter, coughed again, and stuck the pipe in his mouth. ‘How's school?' he mumbled around it.

He always insisted on referring to her studies at Oxford as ‘being at school'. He'd never really approved of her choice of career, but when she'd won a place at the prestigious Ruskin, he'd become resigned to his fate of having an artist for a daughter. Not that Frederica could blame him for having doubts. Despite being only very vaguely related to the great nineteenth-century French artist, Eugène Delacroix, several members of her family had, in the past, tried their hands at painting—with only one or two having met with even modest success.

In the Victorian era, an ancestor had begun collecting paintings, and his descendants had
caught
the bug, the result being that Rainbow House now possessed some very fine paintings, some mediocre ones—and some that made Frederica cringe with embarrassment! In addition, scattered amongst these paintings were Delacroix family originals, most of which were quite dreadful.

So when his only daughter had announced, at the age of six, that she was going to be a famous artist, it was hardly surprising that James Delacroix had hoped she'd grow out of it. But she hadn't. Now, with her Tutor's recent endorsements still echoing in his ears, James Delacroix was hoping that Freddy's artistic expertise could come in downright useful.

‘Da . . . a . . . ad,' Frederica said, stringing his name out cautiously. ‘Is something wrong?' She knew that sheepish look on his face only too well.

James sighed. ‘Come with me,' he said, leading her to the Blue Salon, which appeared much as it always had: good, solid country furniture, fine but faded velvet curtains, and the usual Rainbow House mix of paintings—the good, the bad and the ugly. Frederica immediately noticed the gap on the wall, and quickly pointed it out.

James blushed, making Frederica stare at him in amazement. ‘Dad?' she said, her voice sounding sharper than she'd intended.

James sighed. ‘It's the Forbes-Wright.'

Frederica's
eyes widened. Forbes-Wright was a local artist, who had died in 1882. He'd recently begun to become quite collectable—quite rightly, in her opinion. The painting was of the old Mill House, right here in Cross Keys village. A pretty little painting, complete with a pair of inquisitive swans and some quite exquisitely painted willow trees.

‘I've told your mother it's being cleaned. We've got the Society of Art Appreciation coming this August,' James Delacroix mumbled unhappily. Frederica nodded absently.

‘But it isn't,' James continued unhappily. As his daughter turned questioningly to look at him, he added helpfully, ‘Being cleaned, I mean. I sold it.' He said the last three words in a rush, as if expecting a storm.

Frederica was too surprised to be angry. It was an unspoken rule that the family works of art were never,
ever
sold! James blushed again. ‘I had to do it, Freddy. It was the kitchen roof. So much expense, all at once. I had no choice.'

It took Frederica only a few seconds to sort out this garbled explanation. Last winter, due to a leaking roof, the kitchen had required a completely new ceiling. No doubt it had been expensive.

She shrugged, a little sadly. She'd been fond of the painting. ‘Never mind Dad,' she said softly. ‘It obviously couldn't be helped.' Then she turned sharply. ‘Wait a minute . . . you told
Mum
that it was being cleaned?'

James nodded.

‘But, when she learns the truth . . . ?'

‘She'll hit the roof,' James supplied, in classic under-statement.

Donna was not at all artistically minded, but was very,
very
protective of the Delacroix's reputation as collectors.

‘But she'll find out!' Frederica gasped, dismayed. ‘Who did you sell it to?'

‘A man called Horace King. He's a recluse, lives up in Cumbria. He's rumoured to have a vast collection, but nobody's ever seen it. He won't even admit he's got the Forbes-Wright. So there's no reason for your mother ever to know. Is there?' James smiled beguilingly.

Frederica stared at the blank space on the wall. Then at her father's anxious eyes. ‘But don't you think she might begin to wonder, when it doesn't come back from the cleaners?' she asked wryly.

James stared down at his feet, and his scuffed, leather shoes and coughed. ‘Well, Freddy . . .' he began, looking at his daughter pleadingly, ‘I rather hoped you might do a copy of it for me.'

CHAPTER
FOUR

Frederica gaped at her father, her jaw falling open. ‘What?' she squeaked. ‘You want me to do
what
. . . ?'

Her father flushed at the sight of her incredulous face, hung his head, and coughed again. ‘Really, Freddy, it's not as if we'd be doing something illegal, is it? We're only going to have a reproduction made to hang on our own walls, for personal viewing. And, naturally, we won't be claiming the Forbes-Wright to be authentic.'

Frederica shot him a grim look. ‘But, Dad, I can't produce a copy, just like that!'

‘Can't you?' James Delacroix asked innocently. ‘I thought your Tutor said that you could paint. I mean, really paint.'

Frederica, seeing the stubborn look on her father's usually placid face, took a deep, deep, breath. ‘Dad, it's not a question of
can
I do it, it's a question of
should
I do it,' she told him firmly. ‘And the answer has to be no!'