The Hogarth Conspiracy (5 page)

Oliver was in love with Sonia. He had
always
been in love with her. For all the oppressive duty of his inheritance, his love for his wife had always been calm, steady, graceful. Staring up at the bedroom window, Oliver let himself imagine Sonia's nightly routine, the silly vanity of products that promised a reversal of experience, a wicked rubbing out of the marionette lines around the mouth he had watched develop over years, along with the slight lengthening of the earlobes, the hardly discernible pigmentation under the eyes that darkened in summer. The measured, minute infractions of her beauty that to him were beautiful in themselves.

In a few minutes he would enter the house and act normally. Just as he had withheld the gravity of his illness from his wife, he would withhold the theft of the Hogarth. It was his only comfort to know that by keeping her in ignorance he could retain a pretense of normal life for a little longer. Before exposure. Or worse, if he failed—before disgrace.

The royal bastard, the offspring of Polly Gunnell and the Prince of Wales, had been a rumor in the art world since Hogarth's day. But it was nothing substantial, merely gossip to be shrugged off as just another salacious tidbit. To the general public it was one of the many romantic storylines about the English royalty, but Oliver knew otherwise. The royal bastard
had
existed. And had survived. In fact, his descendant was now living and working in Europe, blissfully unaware of his parentage.

Only a handful of people at the time of his birth and subsequently had ever known the secret of the royal bastard, and all of them had been loyal servants of the Crown—especially the opportunistic Sir Nathaniel Overton, admired and feared in equal measure. Overton's hold over the Georgian court had been legendary, his means ruthless, his protection of the royal family absolute. Although thinking that some of his ancestor's methods were suspect, Oliver recognized that Overton had been perfectly placed when the scandal broke. Acting quickly, he had forced Hogarth to remove the image of the Prince of Wales from his painting, and any mention of a bastard child had been ruthlessly suppressed. To all intents and purposes, Polly Gunnell and her child had simply disappeared, and the only proof of any liaison between the prince and the prostitute was the painting and the ring. The ring was safe, but the painting. Bernie Freeland claimed, was now in his possession.

The question of who had stolen the painting—and how—played relentlessly in Oliver's mind. But then it was surpassed by another, even more unwelcome, notion. If Bernie Freeland
did
have the Hogarth, how much did he know about its history? Was the lusty Australian just smug at the thought of owning such a prize, or was it the value of the painting that mattered? Perhaps there was more to it. Could Freeland possibly know the story
behind
the picture? And if he did, was he clever enough to keep quiet? Was he discreet? Honorable?

A whirlpool of questions flooded Oliver's thoughts: Could he get to Freeland before anyone else did? Could he regain the Hogarth before other factions intervened, factions Freeland would neither anticipate nor be able to control? Could he save the painting
and
the Australian, or would Bernie Freeland turn out to be a blundering fool? Would the man prove brave or reckless? If threatened, would he run? Or would he fight to protect knowledge that others had died for?

In short, did a loudmouthed man who ran with whores and couldn't hold his liquor know the secret? Know of the blood that marred the English throne?

Dear God,
Oliver prayed,
let him be ignorant and stupid. Let him be a fool who knew nothing—and thus would live.

Six

F
LINGING HER CASE ONTO HER BED IN THE AIRPORT HOTEL AT
Heathrow, Marian Miller flopped down beside it, staring at the light over her head. It was a godsend—if you believed in God—but it was fucking lucky anyway, and that was a fact. She touched her stomach with the index finger of her left hand, then jabbed it into her flesh. What a mess! What a bloody mess! Getting pregnant; what a fucking screw-up that was, she cursed. Well, she knew that she had to get rid of it, but until the Freeland trip, she had been short on cash. She'd recently spent her savings buying and furnishing a new apartment, and it would normally take at least a couple of weeks to raise enough to pay for a discreet abortion in a private clinic.

Of course, if Mrs. Fleet happened to find out first—which she well might, as Marian's checkup was due with the obnoxious Dr. Fountain—there would be hell to pay. Every one of Mrs. Fleet's girls was warned never to get pregnant, but Marian had always been told that she was infertile, rendered sterile by one too many abortions in her teens. However, now that her hormones had pulled this peevish, inconvenient little stunt, it appeared that the condition had been temporary,

Luckily, she had a way out. Her little jaunt on Bernie Freeland's jet had made her a pile of welcome—and quick—money. Enough to get her sorted out within twenty-four hours—if she tipped Dr. Fountain a bit of cash on the side for arranging it.

Putting in a call to Mrs. Fleet, Marian Miller got straight down to business.

“You won't believe what I just heard on Bernie Freeland's jet.”

Mrs. Fleet was all glacial poise. “Is that you, Marian?”

“Yeah, it's me—with some news which is worth real money. And don't say you're not interested; you're always interested. I'll sell you the information.”

“Really?”

Confident, Marian crossed her legs as she sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her left foot. For the last two years she had been selling information to her madam, passing on tips and gossip that could be useful later or news about a painting that would be vital to interested parties. It didn't happen often because her johns were mostly discreet, but some liked to talk, to brag, and Marian listened. And passed it all on, which had made her indispensable to Mrs. Fleet. In fact, over time, Marian had created a lucrative little niche for herself as the perfect spy, an adept sexual quisling.

“It's worth good money.”

“You expect me to buy blind?”

“I've never let you down before,” said Marian, “and this one's big, very big. Worth a couple of thousand, at least.”

“So what
is
this great piece of news?”

“It's about a famous painting.”

“What about it?”

“Pay me first,” Marian pushed her. “Put a couple of thousand in my account today and I'll tell you.”

Surprised, Mrs. Fleet took a moment to reply. “You can have the money, Marian, if what you tell me is worth it, but pay you before you tell me? Never.”

“I need the money today!”

“Why the rush? You're not short of funds, are you?” Mrs. Fleet probed. “Not getting a liking for cocaine again, I hope. I don't use girls who take drugs—”

“I'm not on drugs.”

“So what d'you want the money for?”

“Look, Mrs. Fleet,” she replied sharply. “I work hard for you. I make good money for you, and I pass on interesting information to you, but I don't have to tell you what I spend my fucking money on.”

“Very well. But why'd you want the money today? Why can't you tell me the news before I pay you?” She paused and then, sounding amused, said, “Oh, dear, you don't trust me, do you? You think I'll take the information and refuse to pay.”

Irritated, Marian spoke before thinking. “I could go somewhere else.”

“Now that
would
be stupid,” Mrs. Fleet replied, nettled. “I thought we had a good relationship, Marian. You don't want to go threatening me, do you?”

Marian caught the chill in her tone and backed down.

“Okay, Mrs. Fleet; Bernie Freeland's got hold of a Hogarth. The one which shows the Prince of Wales with his whore.”

“That was destroyed a long time ago.”

“No. He's got it. He told Oliver Peters on the jet.”

“Sir Oliver Peters? He was a passenger?” She sounded surprised.

“Bernie offered him a lift. He was uncomfortable the whole journey, the stuffed shirt. Anyway, someone spiked Bernie's drink for a laugh—”

“You?”

“Nah, I think it was Annette. She loves practical jokes,” Marian said, hurrying on. “Anyway, Bernie panicked, thought he was dying, and whispered something to Oliver Peters about having this painting—only it wasn't such a whisper, if you get what I mean.”

“So other people could have heard what he said?”

“Yeah,” Marian agreed. “They could have. And some
were
acting a bit twitchy afterward. But we were coming in to land, so no one could do anything.”

“Who else was on that flight besides you girls and Peters?”

“Kit Wilkes.”

“And?”

“Lim Chang.”

“Odd bunch,” Mrs. Fleet said thoughtfully. “So we have three of the biggest dealers in the art world. Wilkes representing Russia, Lim Chang representing Asia, and Oliver Peters representing the UK. It's almost like the United Nations.” She paused, considering what she had just heard. “So
if
the other passengers overheard what Bernie said, they could already be passing the information on to their contacts?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So why should I pay you if it might be common knowledge within hours?”

“It might. But then again, it might not,” Marian replied briskly. “It could just be Sir Oliver Peters who heard, and me, of course. We could be the only two who know.”

“You could, yes.”

“And if it's
not
common knowledge, it gives you a head start, doesn't it? I reckon my tip-off's worth a couple of thousand, don't you?”

There was a long silence before Mrs. Fleet spoke again.

“As it happens, I've got a meeting near the airport this evening. I'll come by around eight, Marian … with your money. Will cash do?”

“Fine.”

“I've also got a new client for you at the hotel later tonight.”

“Name?”

“Sergei Ivanovitch,” Mrs. Fleet replied, adding, “I don't have to tell you to keep this Hogarth information to yourself, do I?”

“I won't say a word.”

“Good girl. No point letting the world in on our little secret, is there?”

Seven

F
OR MANY,
V
ICTOR
B
ALLAM PERSONIFIED LUCK.
L
UCKY IN HIS ABILITY
and his business acumen. Fortunate in his good looks, his brain, and his quick wits, he was neither showy nor arrogant and was not verbally cruel. He knew he was fortunate and never took his luck for granted, a trait that earned him friends even in the bullpen of the London art world. So it was obvious that Victor would fall in love with a woman of beauty and intelligence. She was a svelte Norwegian law student, and with such a consort Victor's rise continued unabated, a glossy future predicted, even confirmed.

Always careful not to antagonize people, Victor managed to navigate the sales and auctions with skill and had opened his own gallery on Dover Street at the age of thirty. For an uncommon man, he had the common touch. And bobbing in a suffocating soup of egos, he remained naturally humble. Without resorting to dirty tricks, sleazy deals, or baited gossip, Victor Ballam—an uncrowned potentate, an impassioned counsel for the wronged—was respected and admired for his fairness and circumspection. He spoke out about the grubbier side of the art world and had become a media pet. He was blessed in his work and in his personal life.

No one had expected him to lose it all.

No one expected him to spend three years, four months, and five days in prison. It should have been six years, but Victor Ballam got time off for good behavior, enabling him to return to his old life more quickly. But the old life had packed up and moved on, emigrated to some moral high ground without leaving a forwarding address. Alarmed by its association with a proven fraudster, colleagues from Ballam's previous existence had taken offense, and all but some loose change of them had disowned him.