“I want you.”

“I know,” she gasped.

To her frustration Adam tore his mouth away, his arms tight as he fought for control. “I didn’t mean to lose it like that,” he muttered into her tumbled hair. “At least, not yet.” Gabriel pulled away a little, her breath tearing through her chest as she stared into his smoldering eyes.

“I told myself I’d wait until you’d finished the restoration.” Adam held her fast when she tried to break free. “No—don’t flash those eyes at me. Not because I thought you’d stop work on it. But because I wanted every trace of the professional removed from our relationship first. I want the woman, Gabriel, not just the skills. Here in my arms, like this.”

Gabriel subsided against his shoulder. “Does this mean you expect to sleep with me?”

A family with a passion for life—and for love.

Welcome to the fourth story in The Dysarts, a wonderful series by bestselling author Catherine George. Gabriel Brett is experienced like her father in restoration of all forms of art. When her father is taken to hospital with a slight heart attack, Gabriel takes over his business in Pennington. Adam Dysart, heir to his family’s fortune, arrogantly demands priority for a painting he urgently wants restored and is both angry and astonished when Gabriel turns him down flat. Adam has forgotten that they were first introduced when they were teenagers, when Gabriel was overweight, with braces on her teeth. Adam was so mortifyingly desperate to get away from her, she has harbored resentment toward him ever since….

Get to know each member of the Dysart family, and share in their trials and joys, their hopes and dreams, as they live their lives with passion—and for love.

Coming in November:

Kate’s story

Restless Nights
Catherine George

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

THE atmosphere in the barn was pungent with various solvents as three people laboured to the accompaniment of music from a portable radio. One was transferring drawings from one water tray to another, another busy at a dry table retouching a print, while the third, some distance away across the barn under a north light, bent over a small oil painting, examining it through a binocular headband equipped with dual magnifiers. The absorption of all three was so intense the noise of a car arriving outside in the lane went unnoticed, as did the long shadow which fell across the June sunlight in the doorway a moment later.

The new arrival peered round the room, urgency in every line of his tall, rangy body. He rapped sharply on the open barn door, but had to knock a second time before one of the absorbed figures at the tables looked up, eyes blinking owlishly until he recognised the dark figure outlined by sunlight.

‘Adam! Sorry, couldn’t see for a minute.’

‘Hi, Eddie. Is Harry—Mr Brett around?’

The effect of the question was startling. Both young men looked in anguished appeal at the third member of the trio, who remained perfectly still for a moment, her back turned. She gestured at one of them to turn off the radio, pushed the headband up over the peak of her baseball cap, replaced it with dark glasses, laid the painting flat, then stripped off cotton gloves worn to protect it and finally turned round to walk to the doorway with a lack of urgency in vivid contrast to the simmering impatience of the man waiting for her.

‘I’m afraid he’s not,’ she informed him coolly.

‘When will he be back?’ he demanded. ‘Look, my name’s Dysart. I’m a regular customer and I need some restoration work on a portrait in a hurry, so it’s vital I get in touch with Harry right away.’

Her eyes narrowed behind the dark, concealing lenses. So this was Adam Dysart grown up. Not the beanpole of a schoolboy she remembered, nor the arty, languid type she had expected him to become, but well over six feet of tanned muscles in disreputable torn jeans and a faded black sweatshirt. ‘Sorry,’ she said curtly. ‘Out of the question.’

He stared at her in frustration. ‘Why not? If he’s away somewhere at least give me his number so I can talk to him—’

‘I can’t do that,’ she snapped. ‘He’s in hospital. He suffered a slight heart attack recently, and the only restoration he’ll be involved in for some time will be with his health.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Adam stared at her in horror. ‘That’s terrible!’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Your painting’s that important?’

‘My concern,’ he returned fiercely, ‘is for Harry. Tell me what hospital he’s in so I can visit him.’

‘No way, Mr Dysart. The last thing he needs is any badgering about work. From anyone.’ She watched with deep satisfaction as he fought a battle with his temper.

‘You’re new,’ said Adam at last. He nodded towards the others, who were pretending not to listen to the exchange. ‘I know Wayne and Eddie, of course. Has Harry taken you on to work for him?’

‘Temporarily, yes.’

His straight brows drew together, his dark eyes bright with appeal as he raked a hand through black curls damp with heat. ‘Look, let’s start again. I’m an old friend of Harry’s and I’m deeply concerned about him. I’d really like to know how he is.’

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’ll be back from the hospital about eight-thirty. If you want, you can ring me up at the house then.’

‘You’re staying here?’

‘I’m living here, Mr Dysart. At least, for the time being. I’m Gabriel Brett.’

‘Gabriel?’ Adam Dysart stared at her in astonishment, then held out his hand, his smile sudden and delighted. ‘It’s so long since we met I didn’t recognise you. Though Lord knows I feel I know you well enough. Harry talks about his brilliant daughter all the time, pleased as punch that you’re following in his footsteps—swears you’re even more skilled than he is.’

‘I’m taking over from him for a while,’ she said, ignoring the compliment. ‘But I’m up to my ears in the work he’s got on hand, so I just can’t help you at the moment. And if you’ll forgive me, Mr Dysart, I really must get on. Goodbye.’ She gave him a cool nod of dismissal, and went back across the barn to the task she’d been involved in before the interruption.

Adam Dysart stared after her in blank, offended disbelief for a moment, then turned on his heel and dived into his car.

Wayne and Eddie glanced across at their boss’s daughter afterwards in trepidation. The slim, boiler-suited figure was rigid with such obvious displeasure they kept to their tasks in total silence until Gabriel took off the binoculars at last and eyed them with resignation.

‘What’s bugging you two?’ she demanded.

Wayne, tall, thin, with fair curly hair kept in place by a towelling sweatband, exchanged a look with dark, stocky Eddie.

‘The thing is, Gabriel, your dad usually drops everything when Adam Dysart comes in with his latest find. Gives him priority.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Just thought you ought to know.’

‘Thank you for sharing that with me, Wayne,’ said Gabriel tartly, ‘but I know all about my father’s arrangement with Dysart’s Auction House. Nevertheless, with Dad in hospital and work piled up here, I refuse to drop everything just because the Dysart crown prince demands immediate attention.’

‘Does your dad know that?’ asked Eddie, backing away in mock terror at the look she gave him.

‘Because of this very arrangement,’ said Gabriel crisply, ‘Dad’s workload got too heavy at times because he couldn’t say no to Adam Dysart. And since Alison left Dad’s had too much on his plate all round, even with you two on hand. No wonder he had a heart attack.’

‘Have you got cold feet about restoring Adam’s painting yourself?’ asked Eddie bravely.

‘I certainly have not!’ Gabriel glared at him. ‘But Mr Dysart will just have to wait his turn, like everyone else.’

‘Dysart’s are holding one of their major auctions soon,’ said Wayne, holding up a print to the array of fluorescent tubes mounted behind his workbench. ‘Fine art and furniture. Adam’s probably found something he’s keen to put in.’

‘Too bad. He’ll just have to take his hot property elsewhere,’ said Gabriel, then sighed impatiently. ‘What now?’

‘You can’t do that, Gabriel, it’ll upset your dad,’ remonstrated Wayne.

‘Not,’ she said menacingly, ‘if no one tells him.’

‘We won’t,’ muttered Eddie. ‘But Adam might.’

‘He doesn’t know which hospital Dad’s in,’ she reminded them.

Wayne shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much detective work. All he has to do is get on the phone to Pennington General.’

It was a thought which occupied Gabriel to the exclusion of all else until she reached the hospital to visit her father that evening. To her relief Harry Brett looked a lot better, his eyes bright with the familiar twinkle which had worried her sick by its absence since the heart attack.

‘Hello, my love, you look rather delicious tonight,’ he said, eyeing her with pleasure.

‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she retorted, depositing some magazines on his bedside table. ‘I took extra special care tonight, to vamp Mr Austin.’ She smiled at the frail, elderly gentleman in the next bed, and won a beam of such delight in response Harry chuckled.

‘Remember we’re invalids, love. Just looking at you is probably rocketing my friend’s blood pressure.’

Gabriel chuckled, pleased that her efforts had not gone unnoticed. Her unruly fair hair had grown out of its London cut, and it had taken time and patience to make it hang smoothly to the shoulders of the cornflower-blue shirt she wore with white cotton trousers. ‘It’s so hot I almost wore shorts, but I chickened out in the end in case I fell foul of Sister.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘How are you? The truth, if you please—not soft soap to console the anxious daughter.’

‘I’m better. Officially better,’ her father assured her. ‘According to the amazingly young consultant I could be home in a few days if I play my cards right.’

Gabriel heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That’s wonderful news, Dad.’ She drew up a chair and sat down, bracing herself. ‘Has anyone rung to enquire about you?’

‘If you mean your mother, no, she hasn’t.’ He waved a hand at the flower arrangement beside him. ‘But she sent that. With a get well card.’

‘No other telephone calls?’

‘Nary a one.’ He frowned. ‘What’s up, pet? Something’s bothering you.’

Gabriel hesitated, then pulled a face. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you in case you got upset, but I’d better own up. I had a visit from Adam Dysart today.’

Harry’s eyes, a deceptively sleepy slate-blue like his daughter’s, lit up. ‘He’s made another find?’

‘Probably.’

‘What do you mean, probably?’

She eyed him defiantly. ‘I didn’t get as far as asking the details. I told him I had too much on and sent him away.’

‘Gabriel!’ Harry Brett stared at her, incensed. ‘What the devil possessed you to do that? The Dysarts are old friends. And, quite apart from that, Adam is one of my best customers since he’s developed the fine art side of the business.’

‘We’ve got a lot of work on hand, Dad.’ She eyed him mutinously. ‘Besides, I didn’t see why I should drop everything just because Adam Dysart snapped his fingers.’

Her father made a visible effort to keep calm. ‘As I recall, most of our work on hand is for private owners with no deadline attached. But Adam’s got an auction coming up soon. If he wants something restored in time for it, Gabriel, we’ll do it.’

Her lips tightened. ‘By “we”, you mean me. I’m surprised you actually trust me to work on something for your precious Adam!’

‘Put your claws away. You know perfectly well you’re even better than your old dad these days.’ He eyed her uneasily, then sighed. ‘This was supposed to be a secret between Adam and me, but in the circumstances it’s best you know.’

‘Know what?’ said Gabriel sharply.

He looked away. ‘A couple of years back I had some bad luck. I’d just taken on more help, bought more equipment, fitted up the vault in the cellar and so on, when a storm did damage to the roof. The house is a listed building, the necessary repair was expensive and my overdraft was at its limit, so I sold some of Lottie’s furniture through Dysart’s.’

Gabriel stared at him in dismay. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ Harry shrugged. ‘So when Adam, who is no fool, asked why I needed to sell family possessions, I told him. And he promptly handed over the sum I needed.’

‘He gave it to you just like that?’

Her father’s chin lifted. ‘No,’ he said with dignity, ‘it was a loan. Which I’ve already repaid, as it happens.’

‘Sorry, Dad,’ said Gabriel with contrition, and he grasped her hand in sudden agitation.

‘So you see why I want you to restore Adam’s painting. Please, Gabriel. Contact him when you get home. Apologise. Nicely.’

‘All right, all right, Dad, I will,’ she said hastily, ‘please don’t get upset. I’ll do whatever you want. Cross my heart.’

He leaned back against the pillows in relief. ‘Good girl.’

‘He may not want me to do work for him anyway,’ she pointed out.

‘Of course he will.’

Gabriel stayed longer with her father than usual, to make sure her mutiny had done him no lasting harm. She drove home through the bright summer evening afterwards, trying, without much success, to get in a suitable frame of mind to keep her promise to apologise to Adam Dysart. Even if it choked her. If anyone else had come along with an urgent request to restore a piece of artwork she would have done so without a second thought, she knew very well. Gabriel ground her teeth. But the moment he’d made himself known the legendary Adam had been on a losing wicket.

Her resentment towards him dated from her teens, when she’d had braces on her teeth and a weight problem, and he’d been the tall, skinny boy her father had invited round one school holiday. Adam Dysart had made it humiliatingly obvious that the moment he set eyes on her he couldn’t wait to escape. Seventeen years later Gabriel was no longer overweight, her teeth would have graced a toothpaste advertisement, and she felt secure in her own attractions. But it was galling to find that, along with all the other advantages showered on him, the adult Adam Dysart possessed just the kind of looks which appealed to her most in a man. Gabriel’s mouth tightened at the reminder that Adam Dysart was one of fortune’s favourites, with a stable family background, a career tailor-made for him from the day he was born, and, as if that wasn’t enough, according to her father the heir to Dysart’s possessed a God-given talent for spotting ‘sleepers’, the valuable art finds which occasionally slipped through auction houses unnoticed or miscatalogued.

Gabriel’s jealousy of Harry Brett’s affection for Adam Dysart had been at its height during the school holidays she’d spent with her father after her parents’ divorce, when he had talked too much, as far as she was concerned, about the boy he’d seen far more often than his daughter.

Removed to London by her mother at the age of thirteen, Gabriel had missed her father badly. Her main consolation had been the discovery that she’d inherited his particular gifts and the same, tunnel-visioned love of his craft, and now, with a Fine Arts degree under her belt, and several years spent in earning a name for herself as a skilled restorer, she was almost as good as Harry Brett. But one look at Adam Dysart had rocketed her back to her teens, reviving the resentment she’d thought dead and buried long ago. And, to cap it all, she was now beholden to him for putting up the money for the roof. Even if her father had repaid the loan.

When Gabriel got back to the house the phone was ringing.

‘Only me,’ said her mother. ‘You sound disappointed, darling.’

‘Relieved, not disappointed. I was expecting one of Dad’s customers.’

‘How is Harry?’

‘Improving. If he behaves he’ll be home next week.’

‘That’s good news. Are you intending to stay on to look after him?’

‘Yes. He’ll have to take it easy for a while, so I mean to be on hand to see that he does.’

‘But I thought Miss Prince still came in to clean and leave the odd meal.’

‘She does, thank goodness. But he needs me to help with the business. At least for a while.’

‘Can’t his assistants do that?’

‘They’re good lads, and they work hard, but they’re still learning. Dad needs someone like me. And I can make sure he behaves himself at the same time.’

Another pause. ‘Look, Gabriel,’ said her mother carefully, ‘if Harry needs professional care for a while, I could quite easily pay for it.’

‘You know Dad wouldn’t stand for that. Don’t worry, Mother. I can cope.’

‘But what about your job?’

‘I had some time owing to me. But in any case I’ve decided to resign, maybe go into business for myself. I’ve got plenty of contacts.’ She sighed. ‘To be honest, since Jake took Trent Restorations over from his father things have been—well, tricky.’

‘You mean he chases you round your workbench?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Men!’ said Laura Brett succinctly. ‘But how will you manage financially? I suppose you’ll be working for love for your father.’

‘Not a bit of it. Dad’s paying me the going rate.’

‘Is he now? Good for Harry. Tell him—tell him I’m glad he’s on the mend.’

Gabriel chatted with her mother for a while longer, and afterwards decided to wait for Adam Dysart’s call before thinking about food. Supper would taste better after she’d eaten the required humble pie. She sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, feeling oppressed by the silence, and wished, not for the first time, that the house her father had inherited from his aunt was less isolated. Part of a working farm in the past, the building was old, and full of beams that creaked ominously as day temperatures gave way to night. Gabriel felt very much alone in a rambling, half-empty house never intended for one single occupant.

A knock on the kitchen door brought her to her feet, startled. Used to her London flat, with an intercom to vet callers, Gabriel wasn’t at all keen to open the door. This was silly, she told herself. It wasn’t even dark yet. The knock came again.

‘Miss Brett—Gabriel,’ called a familiar voice. ‘It’s Adam Dysart.’

Knowing it was useless to pretend she was out when every light in the house was blazing Gabriel went to the door, unlocked it, and faced Adam Dysart for the second time that day. Tall, brimming with self-confidence, and looking a lot more respectable in a dazzling white T-shirt and khakis, he stared at her in stunned silence.

‘Hi,’ he said eventually. ‘I was passing this way, so I thought I’d ask after your father in person instead of ringing.’

Just passing. Even though Haywards Farm was miles from anywhere down a lane full of potholes. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, secretly glad of any company, even Adam Dysart’s. She waved him towards the round oak table. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

Adam shook his head. ‘I won’t keep you. I was just anxious to know how things are with your father.’

‘He’s a lot better. If all goes well he should be home next week.’

‘Thank God for that!’ said Adam, with such obvious sincerity Gabriel thawed slightly and, mindful of humble pie, remembered to smile.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’

His answering smile lit up his face. ‘In the circumstances a celebratory glass of beer would be good.’

Gabriel waved Adam to a chair, took a can from the fridge, and poured him a glass of beer.

He thanked her, and raised his glass in toast. ‘To Harry’s swift recovery.’

‘Amen to that,’ she said, then looked him in the eye. ‘Mr Dysart—’

‘Adam!’

She steeled herself. ‘I must apologise for my—my attitude this afternoon. If you’ll bring your painting back tomorrow I’ll see what I can do. If, of course, you trust me to do a satisfactory job on it.’

Adam looked at her in silence for a moment, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘This is unexpected. Earlier on you just about ran me off the property.’

‘That was this afternoon,’ she snapped, then reined herself in. Humble pie, humble pie, she chanted silently, and gave him a conciliatory smile. ‘Of course if you prefer to take your work elsewhere I quite understand.’

He shook his head emphatically. ‘No way. Harry says you’re even better than he is, which is good enough for me.’ His lips twitched. ‘This change of heart is his idea, I take it?’

‘Yes. He got very agitated because I’d refused you. So please bring your picture back, Mr Dysart—’

‘Adam.’

‘Right. Is your painting likely to be valuable?’

He shrugged. ‘My gut feeling says it is. Though I bought it for a song at auction in London this morning.’ He leaned forward, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘I’m positive that under the layers of dirt and overpaint there’s something interesting. So far the only thing visible is a head and shoulders of a girl. But something about it says 1820s to me.’

‘Any ideas about the artist?’ said Gabriel, her interest caught.

‘Dirty though my lady is, what I can see of the skin tone suggests William Etty possibly—’

‘The man known for nudes,’ she said quickly, winning a look of respect from Adam.

He drained his glass and sat back in his chair, looking very much at home. As he was, Gabriel reminded herself. Drinking beer with her father at this table was probably a more regular occurrence for Adam Dysart than it was for Harry Brett’s daughter.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ he told her, ‘but I get a certain tingle at the back of my neck when I spot a possible sleeper.’

‘The unidentified goodies that slip past the auctioneers.’

‘Exactly.’

Gabriel looked at him curiously. ‘But you’re an auctioneer and valuer yourself. Have you let anything like that get away?’

‘Not yet,’ he said, without the slightest trace of conceit. ‘But before I joined the firm officially we didn’t do so much in the fine art line. My father’s specialties are furniture and silver. But lately Dysart’s are beginning to make quite a name for themselves with paintings, too.’

‘All down to you?’

‘Absolutely.’ Adam looked across at her in amusement. ‘You think I’m a right prat, don’t you? Sitting here singing my own praises.’

Gabriel shook her head. ‘I’m good at my craft, too. No point in selling oneself short.’

He looked at her in silence for a lengthy interval. ‘I’m curious,’ he said at last. ‘Why did you turn me down this afternoon?’

She flushed. ‘Due to Dad’s illness there’s a backlog of work outstanding, and the three of us are working flat out to meet commitments. But, if you want the real reason, I was annoyed because you took it for granted we’d drop everything just to suit you.’

Slight colour crept up Adam’s face to match hers. ‘Which I did, of course,’ he admitted stiffly. ‘My turn to apologise.’

‘I suppose my father gives you top priority every time you turn up with one of your finds,’ said Gabriel, resigned.

‘It’s not that big a problem for him because they don’t turn up very often,’ he assured her, ‘otherwise I’d be a millionaire by now. But when they do Harry usually lets me sneak to the head of the queue.’

‘Something he made very clear tonight,’ she assured him. ‘He said you had an auction coming up soon.’

‘We do.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you can’t manage it by then I’ll leave it with our security people and wait until you’re free to work on it.’

She eyed him in surprise. ‘You’re convinced it’s that valuable?’

He nodded. ‘I may be wrong. But I don’t think so. Half the canvas is obscured by overpainting, which must be hiding something, maybe another figure, or a landscape. No sign of a signature, but hopefully that will appear when it’s cleaned.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not talking big bucks like a Van Gogh, Gabriel Brett, but one thing’s certain—even with your fee for the restoration I can’t fail to make some profit on the price I paid for it.’

‘How much?’

‘One-fifty, with some faded watercolours and a foxed old map thrown in. No one else was interested in Lot 13.’

‘Your lucky number?’

Adam shrugged, a wry twist to his smile. ‘If it isn’t I won’t have lost much—at least not in money.’ He sobered. ‘But indirectly it cost me one of my oldest friends.’

The bleak look in his eyes roused curiosity in Gabriel. ‘Sounds as though you could do with another beer.’

‘Would you share one with me?’

Gabriel fetched another can from the fridge, and half filled a glass before pouring the rest into Adam’s. ‘How did you pay so little for a picture in London?’

‘It was a pretty downmarket sale, mostly flotsam and jetsam from a house clearance. The cream had gone up west, to the main auction house, but the branch was selling off stuff from the kitchens and attics.’

‘Do you go to places like that often?’ she asked curiously.

‘As often as I can. It’s surprising what you can pick up. But oddly enough I came across this sale quite by accident.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Would you care to hear my tale of woe, Miss Brett? Or am I keeping you from your bed?’

Far from it, thought Gabriel. ‘What happened?’ she asked, her curiosity whetted by the mention of woe.

Adam smiled without mirth. ‘I went to a party in London the night before last. I was on my way to the train yesterday, nursing a hangover, when I spotted a sign across the road, advertising a sale the following day.’

Adam had promptly dropped the arm he’d raised to flag down a taxi, fished an old cricket hat from his overnight bag and crammed it on, then dodged swiftly through the London traffic. After loitering a while, pretending to read the headlines outside the newsagent’s next door to the saleroom, he’d pulled the hat down to meet the dark glasses protecting his hangover, and gone inside to wander through the chaotic saleroom, feeling the familiar anticipation as he’d cast an eye over the jumble of uninspiring goods on display. This was the rough end of the market, with some of the lesser lots consisting of prosaic lampshades and kitchen chairs and boxes of miscellaneous china and kitchen utensils. Exactly the kind of hunting ground that Adam Dysart, with the blood of three generations of auctioneers and valuers in his veins, had relished all his life.

But for once he’d been about to admit defeat when he’d spotted a small stack of pictures leaning against the wall at ground level, almost hidden from sight in a corner. He’d cast a quick glance through some small faded watercolours, an antique map with a rash of the brown spots known as foxing, and behind them had found a framed portrait in oil, so blackened with dirt and overpaint it was only just possible to make out the head and shoulders of a girl to one side of the canvas.

The familiar adrenaline rush had raised the hairs on Adam’s neck. He’d turned away at once, forcing himself to go back over every undistinguished lot on offer once again before he returned to Lot 13, when a second glance at the portrait had reinforced the feeling that under the layers of grime and overpaint lay buried treasure.

Adam had gone outside into the noisy street, hangover forgotten, the familiar excitement fizzing through his bloodstream like champagne bubbles. Something about the hair and pose, obscured though they were, hinted at early nineteenth century. And had struck such a chord he wanted the portrait. Badly. In which case there would be no point in going home to Friars Wood. An afternoon in the Courtauld Institute would be a better idea, browsing through the endless green box files in the Witt Library to throw light on his find. If the painting had been photographed it would be there amongst the archives. But even if it hadn’t he could spend a happy hour or two researching other painters of the time to throw light on his mystery lady. Because his she was destined to be, Adam had known beyond all doubt.

Without the artist’s name to go on the afternoon’s search had been difficult. But in the end Adam had felt that his lady might possibly have been painted by William Etty, an Academician known for allegorical subjects, landscapes and portraits, but most celebrated for nudes which looked surprisingly modern to the present-day eye. Elated, Adam had taken a taxi back to Marylebone, bought flowers and wine and returned to Della Tiley’s flat.

After two prolonged blasts on the buzzer, followed by a lengthy wait, the door had opened and an eye had peered at him through it in horrified dismay. ‘Adam?’ gasped Della. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came back to beg a bed for the night.’

‘Who is it?’ called a male voice.

Adam’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, his teeth showing in a tigerish smile. ‘Ah! Bad move on my part, obviously. So sorry to intrude.’ With a mocking bow he held out the flowers. ‘A little token of appreciation for the party. See you around, Della.’

‘Adam—wait!’ She hugged a dressing gown around her and opened the door wider, looking at him in desperate appeal. ‘It’s not what you think.’

But when a large male figure hove into view, draped insecurely in a towel, Adam, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach, shook his head in disgust. ‘Oh, come on, Della. It’s exactly what I think. Hi, Charlie. Still here, I see.’

Charles Hawkins, a friend of Adam’s since student days, swore in voluble anguish, a startling shade of brick-red rising from the low-slung towel to the roots of his hair. ‘We thought you’d gone home—’

‘I have now.’ Adam thrust the flowers at Della, stowed the wine in his hold-all, and took himself back down the stairs into the hot summer evening to find a taxi.

‘And so,’ he said now, smiling wryly at Gabriel. ‘I went off to stay the night with my sister in Hampstead, bid for the picture this morning, caught the first train available, then drove straight round here this afternoon, only to meet rejection once again. But, far worse than any of that, you told me that Harry was ill. Other than snapping up the portrait for a song, not a happy interlude in the life of A. Dysart, Miss Brett.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘WERE you in love with the lady?’ said Gabriel, quite liking the idea of Adam Dysart, betrayed lover.

‘Lust, not love,’ he said bluntly, and shrugged. ‘I’m a sight more cut up about Charlie than Della.’

‘Maybe there was a perfectly logical explanation,’ said Gabriel after a pause. ‘Perhaps he was just taking a shower.’

Adam shook his head. ‘Della had a certain look about her. At the risk of embarrassing you, Miss Brett, it was blatantly obvious that Della had just emerged from a hectic session in bed with Charlie Hawkins.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Which she was perfectly entitled to, of course. But I’m not into sharing in that context.’ His eyes met hers. ‘You think I’m unreasonable?’

‘Not in the least.’

Adam drained his glass and stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, and the sympathetic ear—hope I haven’t bored you rigid.’

‘You haven’t,’ she assured him. It was infinitely pleasing to know that the path of Adam Dysart’s life failed to run smooth at least once in a while.

‘Harry told me you lived in London.’ He looked round at the big, low-ceilinged room. ‘How do you like it out here in the wilds?’

She smiled wryly. ‘I’m used to city traffic outside my window, so I find it a bit quiet in this part of the world.’

‘Isn’t there anyone who could come and keep you company?’

She shook her head. ‘My mother lives in London. She runs an employment agency. And no one else is available. Not at this moment in time, anyway.’

He looked sceptical. ‘But there must be some man in London missing your company right now?’

‘There is someone,’ she admitted. ‘But Jeremy also has a business to run. Besides, he suffers withdrawal symptoms if he’s away from city pavements for long.’

Adam subjected her to a lengthy scrutiny from the mane of fair hair to her feet and back again. ‘If you were mine, Gabriel Brett, I wouldn’t let a little matter of city pavements keep me away.’

She stared at him, startled into silence.

‘This afternoon it was hard to know what you looked like in your working gear, though it was obvious you’d changed a lot since last time we met,’ he went on, enjoying her reaction. ‘But you must have noticed I was totally poleaxed by the vision who opened the door to me tonight.’

Gabriel knew perfectly well that she could hold her own in the looks department when she exerted herself. And she’d had no trouble in registering Adam Dysart’s satisfying reaction at the sight of her. But she’d never thought of herself as a vision. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘Normally, Gabriel, I’d invite you to stay at Friars Wood,’ he went on, surprising her again, ‘but at the moment I’m in sole residence, so I know you’ll turn me down. My parents are in Italy with my sister Jess and her family, and Kate is away, educating the young.’

‘Three sisters? And just you to be the centre of their attention?’

‘Actually it’s four. Fenny’s in her first year at university. Though I doubt that any one of them sees me in that light,’ he said, grinning. ‘In any case, even when they’re around I don’t live in the bosom of my family. I’ve got a converted stable block all to myself.’

A piece of news which stopped Gabriel’s thaw towards him stone-dead. Spoilt brat, she thought bitterly. ‘Thank you so much for coming round,’ she said aloud, her voice suddenly so frosty Adam frowned. ‘By the way, Dad’s in Pennington General. He’d quite like a visit if you fancy calling in. Only if you have time, of course.’

He gave her a baffled look as he walked out past the door she held open for him. ‘Of course I’ll have time.’

‘Then I know he’ll be pleased to see you. And if you bring the portrait round first thing in the morning,’ she added briskly, ‘I’ll have a look at it, give you an idea of how much time needs to be spent on it.’

‘Right,’ said Adam, his manner chilly as hers. ‘Shall we say nine? Thanks again for the beer. Goodnight.’

Gabriel closed the door on him, feeling thoroughly out of sorts. Her slice of humble pie had not been remotely humble enough for someone beholden to Adam Dysart for keeping a roof over her father’s head. Nor had it given her any enthusiasm for her supper. But preparing something would at least postpone going to bed a bit longer. Gabriel assembled a salad, made an omelette, then switched on the small portable television in the corner and watched the news while she ate. And found, ten minutes later, that most of the food was gone, the newscast was over, and she hadn’t paid attention to either, because she’d been thinking of Adam Dysart. Not least of his compliment. His reaction to his first proper sight of her had been deeply satisfying after his callous indifference all those years ago. Her eyes flashed. But if he was expecting her to massage the ego his faithless Della had injured he’d be disappointed, roof or no roof. Though it wasn’t as impossible a prospect as it should have been. Resent him or not, she could see that to most women Adam Dysart would be a pretty irresistible male specimen.

With the television on for company Gabriel made a batch of almond biscuits to take in to her father next day, then forced herself to go outside with a torch to make sure that the barn was securely locked, even though she knew perfectly well she’d seen to it as soon as Wayne and Eddie had left for the day. Afterwards she scooted inside at top speed, locked the door, switched off the television, checked that the alarms were functioning, then went on a tour of the brightly lit house before she went to her room, armed with a cup of tea and a couple of still-warm biscuits.

Sitting up in bed later, with the radio on high to drown out the creaks and groans of the old timbers as they adjusted to the falling temperature, Gabriel promised herself that when Adam Dysart arrived in the morning she would be all sweetness and light. Otherwise he might complain to Harry Brett. Who would give his daughter hell for alienating someone who was not only his favourite client but his benefactor, and endanger his own recovery in the process.

Gabriel was up early next morning, after her usual restless night, and by eight-thirty she was zipped into a fresh white cotton coverall, her hair pinned up under the baseball cap, face bare of anything other than moisturiser, and looked a lot different from the ‘vision’ of the night before. She opened up the barn, prepared her workbench with a thick, doubled blanket, and laid out the tools of her trade alongside a book sheet magnifier mounted on a wooden stand, ready to receive Adam’s mystery lady. Afterwards she went back to the house to unlock the vault in the cellar, and took out the prints Wayne and Eddie had been working on the day before. Both young men were only a couple of years out of art college, but to her relief the work they were doing under Harry Brett’s tutelage was of a standard high enough to please even his daughter’s demanding eye.

When both young men arrived on Wayne’s beloved Harley-Davidson, they were pleased, and not a little startled, to receive warm praise for their work of the previous day.

‘Thanks, Gabriel,’ said Eddie. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘Better. Much better,’ Gabriel assured him, smiling.

‘Brilliant!’ said Wayne with relief. ‘In that case, could we pop in and see him for a minute on the way home?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ she said. ‘Do him good to talk shop with you two. Oh, and by the way, I told him about Adam Dysart. And you were quite right.’ She pulled a face. ‘Feel free to crow. Dad insists I start work on the latest Dysart find right away, and leave the rest until I’ve finished it.’

‘We’ll do anything we can to help,’ said Wayne eagerly.

‘Thanks. I’ll need all the help I can get,’ said Gabriel ruefully, then looked up at the sound of a car approaching. ‘Right. Whose turn to make the coffee?’

A workmanlike estate car cruised slowly down the lane and came to a halt outside the barn. Adam Dysart got out, dressed in conventional jacket and tie in contrast to the night before.

‘Good morning, Miss Brett,’ he said coolly.

‘Good morning,’ returned Gabriel, wrong-footed by his formality. ‘Have you brought the portrait?’

‘Why else would I be here?’ he countered, and bent to remove the swathed canvas from the car.

Right. Forget sweetness and light. ‘Would you bring it inside?’ Gabriel directed him to the padded table under the north light. ‘Lay it down gently, please.’

Adam gave her a scathing look. He removed the covering and laid the painting down, then moved slightly so that Gabriel could stand alongside him to look at the portrait.

She scrutinised it carefully for some time, then took a hand magnifier and made a closer inspection. After a lengthy interval she turned the picture face down on the blanket.

‘Would you take some notes, Eddie?’ Gabriel asked. ‘The canvas is dark and grimy, but fine-woven, and the stretchers are good quality, straight-grained wood. The frame is contemporary, but with no labels or indications as to origin.’ She turned the painting back again and with infinite care rubbed the extreme corner with a gentle fingertip. ‘The paint is dry and flaky, remains matt, and the painting as a whole has many fine, random cracks. This rules out acrylic, and confirms age.’

‘So it could be 1820s?’ said Adam.

‘Possibly,’ Gabriel said cautiously. ‘Eddie, note that the subject occupies only half the canvas, the rest of which is obscured by thick dark paint applied by a different hand. As though someone wanted the rest of the painting obliterated.’

‘So you agree there may be something—or someone—else under there,’ said Adam with satisfaction.

‘Otherwise it’s certainly a great waste of canvas,’ agreed Gabriel, and gave him a polite smile as Wayne came in carrying a tray. ‘Will you have some coffee, Mr Dysart?’

‘I won’t, thanks. I must be off. I’ll be at Dysart’s all day, so ring me there if you need to contact me. Otherwise I’ll be home about seven.’ Adam took a card from his wallet and handed it to Gabriel. ‘All three numbers on that, Miss Brett, including my mobile.’

The two young men discreetly retreated to a far corner of the barn with their coffee, leaving Gabriel in unwanted privacy with Adam.

‘I’ll make a start straight away,’ she said briskly. ‘But, as you well know, initial cleaning can be a painfully slow process.’

‘Take as much time as you want. One thing, though. Your father’s accustomed to frequent visits on my part to check on the work in progress.’ He looked down at her quizzically, obviously expecting her to object. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Come whenever you like,’ she said indifferently. ‘By the way, if this picture turns out to be as valuable as you think, will you be taking it away every night? Or will you trust it to Dad’s new vault in the cellar?’

‘That’s what I’ve always done in the past. Harry takes out hefty insurance, so I’d rather you kept it here to save time.’ Adam’s eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Unless that’s a problem for you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for taking the work on.’

‘No need for thanks.’ Gabriel shook his hand briefly. ‘I’m just following orders.’

His jaw clenched. ‘You make that blatantly obvious, Miss Brett.’ He called a goodbye to the boys, nodded formally at Gabriel and strode from the barn.

She stared after him for a moment, then turned her attention to his painting. She began by removing the nails rusted into the frame, using pincers and painstakingly gradual leverage to avoid harm to the stretchers. Then she got to work on the brass securing tacks, which were green with age and so deeply embedded it took patience and time before the canvas was free. To Gabriel’s relief there was no sign of the mould which could lift paint film from its support. But neither was there any sign of a signature or framer’s label.

‘No clues at all,’ she told her hovering aides, ‘other than its obvious age—’

‘How old?’ said Wayne eagerly.

‘Too early to say. But probably early nineteenth century, as Adam hopes. And the original work is definitely by a skilled, professional artist. Unlike the paint slapped on the rest of the canvas.’ Gabriel smiled at them. ‘Right, then, let’s take it out into the sun. You hold it while I peer through my trusty magnifying glass.’

Satisfied that there were no gashes, or signs of old restorations, Gabriel took a photograph of the painting, then retired with it to her corner of the barn under the north skylight and set to work. She supported the canvas with blocks of plywood secured with carpet tape, pulled on a builder’s mask and the binocular headband, then moistened a cotton swab in white spirit and made a start on the preliminary cleaning.

By the time the boys were finished for the day Gabriel was surrounded by a sea of used swabs, her eyes and back ached, and both Wayne and Eddie were disappointed that she had so little to show for her labours.

‘I’m just taking off the dirt, remember. A couple of centuries of it at a guess,’ said Gabriel, yawning. ‘You’ll only see a difference when I get to the overpaint.’

Wayne and Eddie had accompanied her to the cellar vault with the portrait, along with everything else valuable enough to need security, before Gabriel remembered Adam Dysart’s request to inspect her progress. Too late now everything was locked up for the night and she was alone. She’d surrendered about giving Adam priority, but otherwise he’d have to play to her own rules. Her working day at Brett Restorations ended at five-thirty sharp, to give her time for a bath and some glamourising before she paid her nightly visit to Pennington General. If Adam wanted to check on his property he’d just have to make time during his own working day.

Armed with the cookies, and dressed in a yellow shirt and a short denim skirt which displayed the tan her legs had acquired over the weekend, Gabriel breezed into the four-bed ward later that evening to find that her father already had a visitor. Adam Dysart rose to his feet, with a smile that dared her to object to his presence.

‘Hello, there,’ said Gabriel brightly, and bent to kiss her father. ‘And how are you today, Dad?’

‘All the better for seeing you, pet.’ Harry patted her cheek. ‘You’re late. Not that it matters. Wayne and Eddie dropped in, then Adam came to entertain me with tales of his latest find.’

‘I’ve had a busy day working on it, which is why I’m late.’ Gabriel smiled sweetly, then turned away for a word with Mr Austin as usual, before taking the chair Adam pulled up for her.

‘Am I allowed to ask how you’re getting on?’ he asked.

‘Very slowly.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t been round to check, Adam,’ said Harry. ‘You’re always breathing down my neck.’

Adam gave Gabriel a wry look. ‘I think your daughter would object if I tried breathing down hers.’ He stood up. ‘Time I was off. I’ll look in again, Harry.’

‘Before you go—Adam,’ said Gabriel, determinedly pleasant, ‘when you do come round to check on the portrait could you make it before five-thirty? We pack up for the day then.’

Her father looked at her in surprise. ‘As early as that? I usually put in another couple of hours after the boys go. The light’s good at this time of year.’

But she’d have to go down to the cellar on her own afterwards. ‘If I did I wouldn’t make it here to see you,’ she said lightly.

‘True,’ he said, sobering. ‘Anyway, pet, how is the work coming on?’

‘I’m just removing the first layer of dust and grime.’ She looked at Adam. ‘Not much to show yet.’

‘I’ll come round tomorrow,’ he said promptly. ‘If that’s convenient—Gabriel.’

‘Of course.’ She gave him a smile so honeyed it won a cynical look from him before he left her alone with her father.

Harry Brett shook his head in disapproval. ‘What is your problem with Adam?’

‘What problem?’ she said innocently.

‘Come on, this is your old dad you’re talking to! For some reason you don’t like Adam. Why?’

‘I don’t have to like your clients to work for them.’ She patted his hand. ‘It’s nothing personal, Dad. I suppose we rather got off on the wrong foot because he expected me to drop everything to work on his precious sleeper. If that’s what it turns out to be,’ she added.

‘Do you think he’s right?’ said Harry.

‘Quite possibly. The canvas is certainly old enough. I’ll report my progress tomorrow night.’ Gabriel looked at him in appeal. ‘Dad, I’m sorry I can’t make it in the afternoons as well—’

‘My dear child, you’re doing far too much as it is. Don’t worry. Mrs Austin’s daughter brings her in every afternoon.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘The ladies see I’m not neglected.’

‘Did they bring you that enormous basket of fruit over there?’

‘No. Adam brought that—plus a new thriller. And now you’ve got that look on your face again,’ he said, shaking his head at her.

‘Sorry, Dad. He lends you money, brings you expensive presents—I suppose I’m just plain jealous.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Actually, it was very good of Adam. Though his offerings rather put my homemade biscuits in the shade.’

‘Not to me,’ said Harry, so lovingly Gabriel had to swallow a lump in her throat and pretend interest in the new novel to disguise it.

‘How are things?’ asked Laura Brett later, during their nightly phone call.

‘Dad’s looking good, but—’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I had a word with the ward sister on my way out. If Dad does come home next week it’s vital he has complete rest.’

‘And we both know that the moment he’s back at the ranch he’ll be out in that barn, getting up to all kinds of mischief instead of behaving like a sensible invalid.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Let me think about it for a while. Maybe I can help.’

‘Don’t offer money, Mother!’

‘As if I would,’ said Laura, laughing. ‘Besides, Harry’s not that broke, surely?’

Gabriel hoped not. ‘His restoration work certainly doesn’t come cheap.’

‘So what are you labouring on right now?’

‘I’m restoring a portrait for Adam Dysart.’

Her mother whistled inelegantly. ‘Are we talking about the Adam Dysart?’

‘The one and only. Dad’s blue-eyed boy.’

‘So you’ve met him again at long last. What’s he like?’

‘Tall, dark, and full of the self-confidence you’d expect from the man who has everything.’

‘You don’t like him, obviously. But then, your father’s been singing his praises to you for so many years you’re bound to be prejudiced against him.’

‘Adam was there in the ward when I visited tonight. Took Dad an enormous basket of fruit and a brand-new thriller,’ said Gabriel, depressed.

‘Is he married?’ asked Laura.

‘What’s that got to do with anything? But as it happens he isn’t. He’s just broken off a relationship with someone.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He told me.’

‘Then you must have had some conversation with him.’

‘He came round last night to ask after Dad. And this morning to bring the picture. And he’ll be back tomorrow, and every other tomorrow until I’ve finished, to check on the work in progress.’

‘In that case, darling, make sure you charge the earth for your services. It sounds as though you’ll earn it!’

CHAPTER THREE

BY LATE afternoon next day Gabriel’s efforts had removed much of the grime from the painting. A check on the back of the canvas in the first stages had confirmed that there was no serious cracking, and she had completed a second round of cleaning by the time Adam Dysart appeared, just as her henchmen were clearing up for the night.

This time Gabriel was so weary she greeted Adam without hostility or emotion of any kind. She took off her baseball cap to thrust a hand through her hair, conscious that she must reek of white spirit as she beckoned Adam across to the painting lying tilted slightly on its stand.

‘I’m sure you know that at this stage our mystery lady looks rather worse than when I started, because the spirit leaves white patches as it dries,’ she began, and he nodded, unconcerned.

‘But she’s waking up,’ he said with relish, his eyes drawn in fascination to the face now more visible in the painting. The girl’s violet eyes shone out from the murky background, something in her expression rousing such a discernible response in the man looking at her that Gabriel eyed him curiously, wondering if Adam Dysart always felt this way during the restoration process. He dragged his eyes away from the painted face with effort, and glanced down at the sea of cotton wool swabs surrounding Gabriel’s bench. ‘There was obviously a lot to clean off.’

She nodded, eyeing the canvas speculatively. ‘But oddly enough not what I’ve come to expect. A painting of this age—and it is old—has usually suffered from the effects of coal fires, candles, soot, tobacco—sometimes even grease from cooking. But not this one. You mentioned attics, and I bet that’s where our lady’s been hiding, accumulating layers of dust and cobwebs in the process ever since she was painted. I’m beginning to think that she’s never seen the light of day—or any other kind of light—until the house clearance.’

Adam’s eyes, bright with speculation, met hers. ‘Do you think the subject hid it in the attic herself?’

‘Or someone else did, maybe out of malice.’ They turned to gaze down at the face in the painting as though expecting an answer from it.

‘I’ve discovered where she came from—a small manor house in Herefordshire,’ said Adam, his shoulder in contact with Gabriel’s as they leaned over the portrait. ‘It was sold recently to start a new life as a retirement home. An elderly lady lived alone in it the last few years.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Gabriel with feeling.

Adam eyed her sharply. ‘Is living alone here getting to you?’

‘A little, yes.’ She shrugged. ‘Thank goodness it’s summer, and the evenings are long.’

‘Does Harry know you feel like this?’

‘Certainly not!’ She speared him with a cold blue look. ‘And please don’t tell him.’

‘Of course I won’t tell him,’ he snapped. ‘Adding to any worry for your father is the last thing I’d do. I’m very fond of him.’

‘He’s fond of you, too,’ she said, resigned.

‘And you take exception to that.’

Gabriel was saved from lying by the reappearance of Wayne and Eddie with the safe keys.

‘Shall we take the portrait now?’ asked Wayne.

Gabriel looked at her watch in remorse. ‘No. I’ll see to it. You two get off. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘I’ll help Miss Brett lock up,’ said Adam. ‘I trust that meets with your approval, too?’ he added belatedly as the motorcycle went roaring off down the lane.

‘Of course,’ said Gabriel carelessly. ‘It’s your property we’re stowing away. At least you’ll be sure your lady is safe for the night.’ And as long as someone went down with her to the cellar she didn’t care who it was. Even Adam Dysart.

Adam not only accompanied Gabriel down into the cellar, but helped her clear up and went the rounds of the barn afterwards to check that all was secure for the night before he left.

‘Would you like to come in for some tea—or a drink?’ asked Gabriel afterwards, with an awkwardness that would have surprised the other men in her life.

His lips twitched. ‘Yes, I would. But I’m not going to in case I wear out my never very warm welcome. Besides, I know you want to get off to see Harry.’

Gabriel smiled politely. ‘Thank you for lending a hand.’

Adam shrugged. ‘My pleasure. I’m off to London tomorrow, but I’ll be round the following day, if that’s convenient.’

Gabriel told him he could come whenever he liked. It was of no interest to her if he was off to patch things up with the promiscuous Della, she assured herself, and shut the door behind him and locked it, then went round the house switching on all the lights. Which, she told herself acidly, for an adult female of her age was utterly stupid at just after six on a sunny June evening.

Looking as good as she could in the time allotted for a shower and a lot of effort with a hot brush, Gabriel reported on her progress later to her father, voluble with the details to hide her dismay. Harry Brett looked exhausted, despite his efforts to reassure his daughter that nothing was wrong.

‘I had a word with Sister afterwards,’ Gabriel told her mother during their nightly call. ‘Apparently he’s been on his feet a lot today, and stayed too long in the day room, watching the cricket on television. But she assured me that he was doing well otherwise, and there’s no reason why he can’t come home next week. Though how I’m going to make him behave sensibly when he does, I haven’t a clue.’

‘Actually,’ said Laura casually, ‘I’ve had some thoughts about that. Julia’s holiday cottage on the Gower coast is free for a couple of weeks. I thought I’d skive off and take your father there to recuperate. Unless, of course, you think the mere idea would give him another heart attack.’

By the time she got to bed later, Gabriel was still marvelling at this strange new turn of events. Julia Griffiths had been Laura Brett’s business partner since shortly after the divorce. At the time her doting grandparents had been a great consolation to the young Gabriel while her mother and Julia had been getting their employment agency off the ground. But Gabriel had missed her father sorely, and her schoolfriends in Pennington almost as much, and every school holiday had gone back there like a homing bird. By that time her father had sold the family home in Pennington, moved into Haywards Farm with his aunt, Charlotte Hayward, and converted the long-unused barns into one large workshop for his restoration business. On his aunt’s death he had inherited the property outright. Which surely meant that now his debt for the roof was repaid to Adam there was no need for him to work so hard, thought Gabriel impatiently. But hiring extra help in this line of business was no easy task. Harry Brett was hard to please when it came to the skills of his employees. Alison Taylor, his most experienced assistant, had recently left to produce her first child, leaving Harry, who hated to say no to anyone, with a workload which had increased to the extent that the heart attack had come as no surprise to anyone except the invalid himself.

And now, astonishingly, Laura Brett proposed taking her ex-husband away to convalesce. Gabriel wasn’t looking forward to broaching the subject. Though if her father turned the idea down flat, when he came home she would have her work cut out to make him behave himself and at the same time carry out the restoration work piling up while she worked on Adam Dysart’s mystery lady.

Gabriel’s heart lurched when the phone rang later that night. Terrified it was bad news from the hospital, she snatched up the receiver with a shaking hand.

‘Adam Dysart here, Miss Brett. Sorry to ring you so late. How was Harry tonight?’

‘Not so good,’ said Gabriel breathlessly, slumping down at the table as her heartbeat slowed. ‘An overdose of televised cricket, according to Sister.’

‘Enough to prevent his return home?’

‘Apparently not. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.’

There was a pause.

‘Gabriel,’ he said at last, ‘this probably sounds presumptuous, but I can’t help worrying about you.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Why on earth should you?’

‘Because you’re alone out there at night, with a fair amount of valuables in the cellar. Would you let me help out with that?’

‘How?’ she said blankly.

‘Dysart’s have a safety depository in Pennington. I could transfer your stuff there every night, if you like. I can guarantee security.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not worried about the pictures.’ It was the creaks and groans, like the soundtrack of a horror film, that kept her awake, not responsibility for the artwork.

‘Couldn’t Wayne or Eddie sleep in the house while Harry’s away?’

‘I don’t need them,’ said Gabriel firmly. ‘It’s very good of you to be so concerned, but I’m fine. Truly.’

‘If you say so. But you’ve got my phone number. Ring me if you need me. Any time—day or night.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, taken off guard. ‘Thank you.’

‘No thanks necessary. I meant what I said. Goodnight, Gabriel. Sleep well.’

Whether it was Adam’s phone call, or the simple fact that she’d slept badly ever since her father had been rushed into hospital, Gabriel enjoyed a good night’s sleep for once, and woke only when her alarm went off, instead of hours beforehand. Consequently she felt rested and full of enthusiasm for the task in hand, and by the time Wayne and Eddie arrived she was already at work, making tests in different small areas at the edges of the painting to determine which type of solvent to use to tackle the overpaint. Eventually she opted for her favourite acetone diluted with white spirit, with a stopping pad of spirit-soaked cotton wool to halt the solvent if it acted too quickly.

She set to work in earnest, but, as usual, her progress was painfully slow. After several hours only a small area of canvas had been cleared, but this was enough to cause great excitement in Gabriel’s acolytes when they came to look on during their coffee break.

‘There’s someone under there, all right,’ said Eddie in triumph. ‘That pink bit—is it skin?’

Gabriel shook her head, accepting her coffee gratefully. ‘Part of a dress—satin, by the look of it.’ She sighed. ‘I just wish Dad was here. He’d love this.’

‘Wouldn’t he just?’ said Wayne with sympathy. ‘Is Adam coming round today?’

‘Not until tomorrow. By which time we may have another face to show him.’

Now that she was actually removing the dark, brownish overpaint Gabriel became so absorbed she had to be reminded to eat something at lunchtime. She took grudging time off for a sandwich, then got straight back to work, only breaking off from time to time for the various drinks that one or other of her assistants brought her. And it was they, at five-thirty, who reminded her that if she was going to the hospital that night it was time to knock off.

Later in the hospital, much reassured by her father’s look of wellbeing, Gabriel described her day’s work with such enthusiasm he smiled at her slyly.

‘No more objections because you’re working for Adam, then!’

Gabriel raised a limpid blue gaze to his. ‘I’m doing it for you, Dad, not for Adam Dysart.’

‘Not to mention the kick it’s giving you to reveal the secrets hiding under the overpaint.’ He patted her hand. ‘What solvents are you using?’

They were immediately plunged into a technical discussion, with Harry giving his daughter very valuable advice on how to proceed once the subject was fully revealed and she was down to the actual varnish. It was only when other visitors were beginning to leave the ward that Gabriel remembered she had a proposition to make on her mother’s behalf.

‘Dad,’ she began, ‘have you given any thought about what happens when they discharge you?’

He looked surprised. ‘I come home, of course.’

‘Sister says you must have complete rest,’ Gabriel warned.

‘I’ll be as good as gold,’ he promised, then gave her a worried frown. ‘Or am I asking too much of you? You’ve done enough already, taking over the business, and holding things together for me. I can’t expect you to stay away from your job much longer.’

‘That’s no problem at all. In fact, Dad, I’ve been meaning to tell you this before. I’ve resigned.’

He looked startled. ‘Is this because of me?’

‘No. I’ve been planning a move for some time. So I’m yours for as long as you need me.’ Gabriel hesitated. ‘But the thing is, Dad, you need to convalesce before coming back to Haywards. A nice little break with sea air and plenty of peace and quiet.’

‘Why do I have the feeling you’ve got this all arranged?’ he said, wagging a finger at her. ‘Go on. Get it off your chest. Exactly what plan have you hatched up for me?’

‘It’s not me. It’s Mother. She—she suggests you spend a couple of weeks with her at Julia’s cottage on the Gower,’ said Gabriel in a rush.

Harry Brett’s sleepy blue eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘Laura said that? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Gabriel smiled coaxingly. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s a long time since your mother and I spent even one night under the same roof,’ he said dryly. ‘And yet she’s casually suggesting we spend a fortnight together?’

Gabriel looked up to see a nurse stationed in the doorway, obviously about to suggest she leave. She stood up. ‘Mother rings up every night to see how you are. So what shall I say to her tonight? Yes, or no?’

Harry gazed up at his daughter in appeal. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Whatever you want to do,’ said Gabriel promptly. ‘Think it over—ponder a bit. Tell me what you decide when I come tomorrow.’

Laura Brett was rather amused to hear about her ex-husband’s astonishment. ‘I’ll ring him myself in the morning, and assure him that my offer was made with the best of intentions. And if it’s the prospect of my company that’s bothering him he can take someone else down to the cottage, free of charge, if he prefers. Is there someone else?’ she added.

‘No, Mother. At least, not as far as I know. Ask him yourself when you ring.’

By late the following afternoon, after working area by small area with agonising slowness, Gabriel had removed enough overpaint to reveal most of a second face. Like the first it was obscured by cracked, discoloured varnish, but the features were visible enough to show that the likeness between the two beauties was unmistakable.

‘Sisters?’ said Wayne in excitement.

‘Must be,’ said Gabriel, rotating her head on her neck in weariness. ‘We’ll see more tomorrow after I get the rest of this brown stuff off, maybe even find a signature.’ She glanced at her watch, hoping Adam would come soon, because she’d had enough for one day. While Wayne and Eddie went off with the drawings they were working on Gabriel took the headband off and looked down at the picture on the stand. Already there was a luminous quality to the faces, even through age-darkened varnish. This was very definitely no jobbing painter’s work. Which pointed to a wealthy background for the girls in the portrait. Who are you? she asked them silently, then started violently at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

‘Sorry to startle you,’ said Adam Dysart.

Gabriel turned quickly. ‘I was miles away.’

‘We were right,’ he breathed, gazing down at the painting as though he’d found the Holy Grail. ‘There was someone hiding under there.’

‘You were right,’ corrected Gabriel. ‘A brace of sisters, do you think?’

‘Definitely. And I’m pretty certain who they are.’ He turned to look at her, his eyes bright with triumph. ‘Fancy a trip into Herefordshire on Sunday for some research?’

Gabriel thought about it, surprised by how much she fancied the idea. ‘You mean you don’t expect me to work over the weekend?’ she said in mock amazement.

‘Certainly not,’ he said virtuously. ‘I’m no slave-driver.’

Gabriel laughed, then waved at Wayne and Eddie hovering in the doorway. ‘Thanks, you two. You can call it a day. I’ll lock up.’

After the Harley-Davidson had zoomed off down the lane Adam, in ancient jeans and sweatshirt, helped Gabriel gather up the cotton swabs and tidy up, carried the canvas down to the vault with reverent hands, then accompanied Gabriel on a round of locking up, and this time accepted her offer of tea.

‘I’m dry as a bone,’ he confessed, as they strolled up to the house together. ‘I’ve just got back from London.’

After a grand reconciliation with Della?

‘I went to an auction in the West End yesterday,’ he went on, ‘stayed the night with Leo, then on to one of those huge open air sales on the way back today.’

‘Dressed like that?’ said Gabriel, wondering about Leo.

‘Not at the auction. But this is my usual camouflage for general sales. A pair of sunnies and a scruffy old hat and I could be anybody. I don’t go bargain-hunting in my best bespoke suiting, Miss Brett.’

‘Were you successful?’ she asked, preceding him into the kitchen, which was miraculously tidy, due to one of the twice weekly visits of Miss Edith Prince, who had ‘obliged’ for Lottie Hayward in the past, and still continued to do so for Harry Brett, to Gabriel’s everlasting gratitude.

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