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ONE
London
29th June
CHARITY galas.
Bloody horrific if you ask me, and a perfectly accurate descriptor for them. Since I was about to give up my evening for one, I could call it whatever I liked.
The annual Mallerton Society bun fight would surely be no different, so I imagined surviving the next couple of hours would be mission number one for me. Well, I did have a little entertainment to look forward to near the end of the evening and that was about the only redeeming part.
I pulled into the National Gallery, queued for valet service, and checked my mobile for the details.
There it was. I read it twice and attempted to memorize who, what, and where. Maria will be wearing an emerald green gown. Victorian Gallery 9:00 p.m. Terms per contract. We wish you both a very pleasant evening.
The escort service I used was one that didn’t have a name and you never talked to anyone by voice. Everything was transacted by text. Simple. Efficient. Anonymous. No strings attached to get all tangled into a cocked-up mess, and when the date was over everyone went home satisfied.
The less time I had to think about what I was really doing, the better. I wasn’t proud of my behavior, but the reasons were justified in my mind. I was just exploiting what was offered in order to get by.
Betrayal does that to a man.
By the time I made my way inside and found the venue, I was pleasantly surprised to see I’d missed the dinner. The polite conversation required at these kind of events was sheer torture for me, and I often wondered how on earth that I, out of all of the eligible men in England, could have ended up inheriting a directorship on the board of the National Gallery. There couldn’t possibly be a worse choice than me. I knew next to nothing about paintings, and possessed no inclination to begin learning about them, either. Being Lord Rothvale in the twenty-first century was a pretentious millstone around my neck. Having patrons address me as “my lord” and bowing upon introduction made my skin crawl.
I was left having to fake it.
I did that a lot.
The pretense grew very tiresome to me because my whole life had been turned upside down by lies. Hung, drawn and quartered by the media. Yeah, pretty much. At least, it sure felt like it at the time. Now I was rather more numb than anything. My Bombay Sapphire worked wonders.
False…counterfeit…sham.
Where in the bloody hell had they set the bar up in this place?
I wandered a bit, trying to appear focused on the exhibit and praying nobody recognized me for fifteen minutes. Hell, I’d be happy with five, if I could grab even that.
The landscape changed for a pleasant turn when I spotted the lovely Brynne Bennett presenting a painting of a woman with a book. It looked like it could be a Mallerton in the midst of the conservation process. It was being repaired or preserved so it could last another hundred years or so without losing its colours and clarity of image. Yes, I’d managed to absorb a few bits of knowledge about what needed to happen to old paintings by default. I’d much rather enjoy the view of the stunning conservator giving the presentation of the art, though.
Brynne was very easy to look at, but she was also very taken. By none other than my obsessively protective cousin. Ethan runs a security business so I give him credit for the protective part. He has excellent taste in women. I give him that, too.
“Enjoying the show?” I wasn’t surprised when Ethan’s voice came from behind at my shoulder. I should have known he’d be within striking distance of his beloved.
“Probably more like wondering when in the hell I might be able to escape the show,” I answered. “I was just thinking about you, cousin.”
“Really.” he drawled.
“Indeed. Think of the devil and he appears as if by magic.”
“Glad you could make it tonight,” he said sarcastically. “We’ve been wondering when you’d finally grace us with your presence. Brynne wants to introduce you to her friend.” He looked around as if he were searching the crowd for someone.
“Brynne looks very busy right now.” I glanced over at his girlfriend admiringly. “Maybe later, I need a drink.”
Ethan’s jaw hardened. “Look, Ivan, there was a pseudo threat delivered to my office today. I’m not horribly concerned but I want you frontloaded
on the details.” He handed me an envelope of photos.
Ethan and I had done this plenty of times before so it wasn’t anything new. Eight-by-ten black and white photographs of Brynne and me chatting at Gladstone’s, where I’d met the two of them for lunch a few weeks back. Me kissing her on the cheeks, as I put her in the car. Me leaning in to speak to the both of them, and waving them off. Me on the street after Ethan had pulled the car away. Me waiting on the street for my own car to come ’round from valet.
I grunted at the photos as I ran through them a second time, flipping over the pictures one by one.
Nothing written.
Until the last one: “Never attempt to murder a man who is committing suicide” scrawled on the back.
Marvelous. Another fan sending me love notes. I’d forgotten how fucked in the head some of them were. Here was my reminder.
I’d seen this kind of thing throughout my career. It had to be taken seriously of course, but more often than not, it was some lunatic fringe who had an axe to grind on the back of a notable they perceived to have caused offense to them personally, and with cruel intent. Sports figures especially suffered this kind of crap. I had offended a ton of people in my time and had the gold medals to prove it. Even though I was retired from the sport, I was still hounded by the media continually. The hounding had grown especially fierce with what had recently happened in my private life. The upcoming Olympic Games being hosted in my home country didn’t help either. It put me back on the radar and the timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d be announcing men’s archery for the BBC in less than a month.
“Another super fan come to pay his respects,” I said dismissively. The real truth was I counted my blessings having Ethan as blood family. That alone would have earned his protection regardless, but I certainly kept him busy. After a minute, I handed the whole lot of ridiculousness back to him as if it didn’t matter. The honest part of me knew it didn’t really. I was past the point of getting worked up over tedious shit, and far too used to this brand of attention to get really upset. I was realistic enough to know this wouldn’t be the last time I received a threat. They arrived as regular as estate taxes. “Thanks, E, for looking out. I’m sure it’ll all blow over when the Olympics are but a memory.”
He nodded slowly, his jaw tight as he glanced over at his girl once more who was skillfully presenting conservation technique to a rapt audience.
I looked at the drink in his hand and decided that getting one for myself was a bigger priority now than it had been earlier. And two G & Ts was a far more accurate estimate than just the one if I wanted to feel even a little better.
“At least I can hope, true?” I acted like I didn’t care about the threat.
“It’s all any of us can do, mate.” E clapped me on the back with one hand.
“I need to have something along the lines of what you’re having.” I waved off and left for the bar, in a worse mood than I’d been a few moments ago.
If that was even possible.
WEARING a new dress is always fun, and I loved how this one felt against my skin. Halter neck with a floaty skirt. Brynne’s Aunt Marie had taken us both to a fabulous shop in Knightsbridge that sold vintage gowns. The emerald floral silk moved so well as I walked, I couldn’t help but be impressed with the superior artistry. It definitely paid to buy quality. I’d bought the gown specifically for tonight’s occasion and figured it was wise to invest in something I could wear to other formal events I’d be required to attend through the university. And the party was as beautiful as ever. The Annual Mallerton Society Gala for the Arts in honor of Romanticist painter, Sir Tristan Mallerton, was something I’d attended four years running. I knew his birthday as well as I knew the birthdays of my own family. June 29th. I ought to know. His work was the basis for my master’s in Art History at University of London. Inspiration in the form of a painting handed down through the generations of my family, and that I had loved my whole life. It was a minor work of Mallerton’s, but it would belong to me one day, and had sparked the seed of interest for my studies and hopefully my life’s work.
I knew every catalogued painting Mallerton had done, and had seen a good portion of them. The National Gallery had custody of the largest collection of his work on display in Britain, but it was a safe bet there were plenty of unknowns in private homes and in storage that had never seen the light of day. Mallerton had been a prolific painter during his lifetime. Most of those pieces were in the hands of people who had no idea what they owned, and sadly, no interest in finding out either. Occasionally, a painting would come onto the market from a private collection and go to auction though. And it was my job to have it evaluated and entered into the database.
I stopped at an equestrian portrait that I counted among my top five favorites out of all of his work. It was a happy painting, and every time I saw it I wanted to smile. Mallerton had executed it perfectly, the moment preserved in time for all to enjoy.
The subject was a young bride with long dark hair seated on a magnificent pale horse adorned with garlands and ribbons and bells throughout his tack. Even though she wasn’t smiling at all like a person would today when posing for a picture, the expression of joy captured so exquisitely in her expression made you a believer. There was no doubt this girl was a happy bride. It was titled simply, Mrs. Gravelle, and always made me wonder what Mr. Gravelle was like. He’d won a beautiful bride that’s for sure, and I dearly hoped he’d loved her as he should have.
