“I was about to look for a key when you terrified me into hiding,” she snapped.
He looked back at her. “Under the bed, by the way, is a terrible place to hide. What if he’d been heading for sleep? You’d have been stuck under there all night.”
She raised a brow. “You’re simply jealous that you wouldn’t have fit under the bed.”
A smile flashed at the irritated insult, and Lily loathed the warmth that coursed through her at the knowledge that she’d made him laugh.
She didn’t care about making him laugh.
He’d turned away, at any rate. With a firm tug, he tore the door from the jamb, as though the lock were made of paper and glue, and the warmth was replaced with shock as she stared at the demolished doorway. “Tell me, Your Grace, do houses in Scotland have doors?”
He did not hesitate. “Rarely.”
She should not find him amusing. “Now Derek will realize we were here.”
“You do not think he will notice when the painting is gone?” Alec said, as though it were that simple.
It occurred to Lily that it probably should be that simple. That she’d been willing to enter the room and take the painting, and Derek would have known when he returned that someone had done it. But for some reason, the splintered wood, the proof that it had been Alec who was here—it struck her. He’d followed her from the house, all the way here, and inside to ensure her safety, and once he’d heard her plans for the evening, he hadn’t forced her to leave them. Instead, he’d offered to help. In his own way.
By removing the door that had been her final barrier to success.
Somehow, despite being an enormous, overbearing, entirely difficult man, he’d also been tremendously kind.
He set the door to the side and retrieved the candle from the bedside table, lifting it into the darkness of the studio beyond.
Which was when the candle became a glowing reminder of what he would find within.
“Wait!” Lily cried as she tore past him into the darkness, putting her back to the room, placing herself squarely between his light and the paintings beyond. “No.” She extended her hand. “Give it to me.”
He clearly thought she was mad. “We don’t have time for this, Lillian.”
She shook her head. “You’re not coming in.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I won’t have you seeing it.”
“Seeing what?” She cut him a look. “Oh.”
“Precisely,” she said. “Oh.”
“I won’t look,” he said, advancing, pressing her back into the room.
“You’re correct,” she replied, forcing herself to stop moving. To stand her ground. “You won’t look. Because you won’t see it.”
He looked to the ceiling. “Lillian. We haven’t any time for this.”
She beckoned to the candle. “Then give me the candle.”
He relinquished the light. “There. Can you find the damn thing and let’s go?”
“First, promise you won’t look.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“That may well be the case. But it’s my reputation that requires protecting.”
“I’ve been trying to protect you! From the start!” he argued.
“And you may finish by promising to avert your eyes from anything you see that might be scandalous.”
“It’s a painting, Lillian. It was made to be seen.”
Sadness flared, along with frustration and the shame that she loathed so much. He was not wrong. How could she not have expected it to be seen? But somehow, the idea that he might see it . . . it changed everything. “I didn’t intend it to be seen.”
He was silent for a long time, and she wished for more light, so she could see his eyes when he said, finally, “Fine.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
“The rest.”
He sighed. “I promise I won’t look.”
“Turn your back.”
“Lillian.”
She held her ground. “You wish to be my guardian? Guard. Watch the door.”
He hesitated for the barest of moments before releasing a long breath of exasperated air and turning from her. “Just get the damn thing.”
She nodded. “Excellent,” she said, turning to begin her search.
There was only one problem, she realized as she lifted the candle and redirected her attention to the room she’d known so well.
It, too, was empty.
Everything was gone. The paintings that had lined the walls, the low settee where she’d posed for days, the easel Derek had furiously, painstakingly worked over as the sun flooded the room, making dust dance in the air between them. It was all gone.
She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, everything that had to do with Derek Hawkins was fleeting, as though he only existed when in the presence of others.
Perhaps that was true of the painting, as well.
Perhaps it only existed when viewed by all London.
She laughed, high-pitched and panicked, and Alec turned. “What?” That’s when he noticed the room. “Where is everything?”
She shook her head. “Gone.”
“Gone where?”
She turned to him. “I don’t know. It was here.” She pointed to the wall where windows received brilliant southern light throughout the day. “The painting was right there.”
He scowled. “You posed here?”
She ignored the question, instead repeating one of his earlier ones. “Where is everything?” She giggled, the sound high and unsettling and panicked. “Where did it go?”
Alec crossed to her. “Lily,” he said quietly, “we’ll find it. There are a finite amount of places where he could have hidden it.”
“There are a hundred places,” she said. “A thousand.” Frustration grew, tightening in her chest. “This is not a Scottish keep, Alec. It is London.” She paused. Looked at him. “Do you believe in fate?”
“No.”
She smiled, small and sad. “I do. This was my only chance. My opportunity to save myself. Perhaps, though . . . perhaps my disgrace is fated.”
“It’s not.”
She didn’t reply, turning back to the room to whisper to the empty walls, “I wanted to find it.”