The Girl with the Emerald Ring: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 12) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Bethany

  Chapter 2 - Alaric

  Chapter 3 - Alaric

  Chapter 4 - Alaric

  Chapter 5 - Sky

  Chapter 6 - Bethany

  Chapter 7 - Sky

  Chapter 8 - Sky

  Chapter 9 - Bethany

  Chapter 10 - Alaric

  Chapter 11 - Bethany

  Chapter 12 - Sky

  Chapter 13 - Sky

  Chapter 14 - Emmy

  Chapter 15 - Sky

  Chapter 16 - Alaric

  Chapter 17 - Sky

  Chapter 18 - Bethany

  Chapter 19 - Sky

  Chapter 20 - Bethany

  Chapter 21 - Bethany

  Chapter 22 - Alaric

  Chapter 23 - Bethany

  Chapter 24 - Alaric

  Chapter 25 - Bethany

  Chapter 26 - Bethany

  Chapter 27 - Alaric

  Chapter 28 - Alaric

  Chapter 29 - Alaric

  Chapter 30 - Bethany

  Chapter 31 - Alaric

  Chapter 32 - Sky

  Chapter 33 - Emmy

  Chapter 34 - Bethany

  Chapter 35 - Bethany

  Chapter 36 - Alaric

  Chapter 37 - Bethany

  Chapter 38 - Bethany

  Chapter 39 - Alaric

  Chapter 40 - Alaric

  Chapter 41 - Alaric

  Chapter 42 - Sky

  Chapter 43 - Bethany

  Chapter 44 - Sky

  Chapter 45 - Alaric

  Chapter 46 - Bethany

  Chapter 47 - Emmy

  Chapter 48 - Bethany

  Chapter 49 - Alaric

  Epilogue

  What comes next?

  Want to stalk me?

  End of book stuff

  Other Books by Elise Noble

  THE GIRL WITH THE EMERALD RING

  Elise Noble

  Published by Undercover Publishing Limited

  Copyright © 2020 Elise Noble

  v4

  ISBN: 978-1-912888-23-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Edited by Nikki Mentges, NAM Editorial

  Cover design by Abigail Sins

  www.undercover-publishing.com

  www.elise-noble.com

  For Janet, who so selflessly gave so much to others.

  The sky has another star now.

  CHAPTER 1 - BETHANY

  “BETHANY, WOULD YOU help that lady?”

  I forced a smile for Henrietta, the gallery manager, a scrawny blonde with an addiction to mascara who’d hated me from the moment I started working at Pemberton Fine Arts.

  “Of course.”

  Henrietta thought I wanted her job, and while I couldn’t deny I’d have accepted if it was offered, I wasn’t about to stoop to her level and make snide comments to Hugo Pemberton, the gallery’s owner, behind her back. Not that I in any way expected an offer—despite being thirty-four years old, I was little more than a glorified intern. Henrietta had only asked me to help because she was busy with another client and the third member of our little team, Gemma, had disappeared. Again.

  I glanced towards the door to see who “that lady” was and swallowed a groan. Mirabella Vallos was no lady. She might have had money, but she also had a drinking problem and a stinky attitude to go with it. Even at school, she’d been a cantankerous little witch.

  “Mira, how lovely to see you.”

  “Bethie!” Oh, how I hated being called Bethie. “It’s been months, hasn’t it? Since before your divorce? Wait—you’re not working here, are you?”

  The word “working” obviously left a nasty taste in her mouth because she screwed up her face in disgust. Or at least, she screwed up the bottom half. The top half was frozen in place by Botox. Mine had long since worn off, and boy was I glad to have the ability to frown back.

  Ladies like Mira didn’t work—well, maybe the odd day of volunteering to give them something to post on Instagram—and I’d once been a part of that realm. It was only recently that I’d turned my back on it, and I was still trying to find my place in a new world.

  “Yes, I work here now.”

  “I heard…” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper, and I saw Henrietta straining to listen. “I heard you got screwed over in your settlement.”

  Screwed over? That was the understatement of the century. Somehow, our family home had ended up in a trust fund controlled by my ex-husband’s parents, the villa in Italy turned out to be “owned” by a business partner, the fancy cars were “leased,” and in an unexpected turn of events, our savings had dwindled due to a series of bad investments. By the time our lawyers finished arguing, I was left with our pied-à-terre in Kensington, an extensive designer wardrobe I no longer needed, a horse that ate the little money I had remaining, and a reputation as a gold-digging bitch. And the best part? My ex also kept my family. My parents and sister still liked him better than they did me.

  “The settlement could have been better,” I admitted. “What brings you here today?”

  “We’ve just redecorated the lounge that overlooks the indoor riding arena, and we need to spruce up the walls.”

  An indoor riding arena was a mere memory for me. Chaucer spent most of his time in a muddy field now, and boy did he love to wallow.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Something horsey. Old-looking. What’s that guy’s name, the one who paints the thoroughbreds? Stubbings?”

  “Stubbs. George Stubbs.”

  “Do you have any of those?”

  “I’m afraid not. We could find you a print, but I don’t believe there are any originals on the market at the moment.”

  And even if there were, they’d cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. Hardly the thing to hang on the wall of an indoor school. The insurance would be astronomical.

  “I don’t want a print.”

  “We do have some lovely paintings with a similar feel about them. Perhaps you’d like to look at those? And can I tempt you with a cup of tea or coffee while you’re here?”

  “Have you got any wine?”

  It was only ten a.m., but okay then. If I recalled correctly, Mirabella tended to get rather loose with her husband’s credit card once she had a few drinks inside her. Give her a bottle, and she wouldn’t even know what she was buying. She’d once purchased a stallion at auction that turned out to be a gelding, and the day it arrived, she’d invited a bunch of us over to see her prized possession, still totally unaware. I hadn’t been popular when I’d pointed out the lack of balls.

  “Red or white?”

  “Rosé or champagne.”

  But of course.

  We’d held a show last night, and thankfully, we still had half a dozen bottles of rosé left over in the fridge. I stifled a yawn as I trudged to the kitchen. The show had been a success in that we’d sold all but two paintings, but the artist was a pretentious bore and the event ran late. Midnight had been and gone by the time I shovelled the last guest out of the door and into a taxi.

/>   Still, I couldn’t complain too much. At least I had a job.

  Between my complete lack of experience and Piers bad-mouthing me to anyone who’d listen after I left him, finding work hadn’t been easy. Do you know how much use a degree in art history is in the real world? No other gallery would give me so much as an interview, but luckily for me, Hugo had read for his degree at Oxford University, my alma mater, and also once had a bust-up with Piers’s father. The whole Fortescue-Hamilton family was mud in Hugo’s eyes, which I suspected was the main reason he’d offered me the position.

  A position that paid peanuts, but it was better than having to turn to my parents. They weren’t short of money, and they’d even offered to bail me out, but their “gifts” came with so many strings attached that it was like wading through macramé. Never again would I be beholden to another person, not a blood relative and certainly not a man.

  Which was why I poured Mirabella a generous glass of rosé and headed back to the gallery to find her studying one of the most awful examples of modern art I’d ever seen. Imagine if Picasso drew a pineapple, then put it through a shredder and gave the pieces to a toddler to reassemble. Even Hugo agreed it had no redeeming features. He’d bought it as part of a job lot from a house clearance to get a David Hockney sketch he really wanted, and it was a toss-up over whether to burn the piece or hang it in the gallery on the off-chance some schmuck with appalling taste came in.

  “Isn’t it something?” I said to Mirabella as I passed her a glass of wine. “It’s by Vincent Crystalla.”

  “Who?”

  “He won the Turner Prize for Laughter Unchained.” Which was a vaguely horrifying sculpture of a clown in orange prison overalls, handcuffs and leg shackles lying on the floor behind him. “Are you familiar with his work?”

  “I don’t think I saw that one.”

  “It’s a metaphorical representation of the constraints oppressive governments put on human enjoyment. Profound. What do you think of Fruit: Reconstructed?”

  “It’s, uh, interesting.”

  “Imagine having that on the wall at one of your parties—it’d be a real talking point.”

  “You think? It’s not a bit…offbeat?”

  “Well, you have to be a real art lover to appreciate it.”

  “I’m not sure it’d work in the riding arena.”

  “No, you’d want something more traditional for that spot. Andrea Edmunds is an up-and-coming artist who paints horses in a distinctive style—acrylic on bare canvas with minute attention to detail—and she also takes commissions. Would you like to see her portfolio?”

  Two hours and four glasses of rosé later, I helped Mirabella into a taxi and went back inside to face Henrietta. Any other boss would no doubt have been thrilled by the sales I’d made—two countryside scenes, one custom painting from Andrea Edmunds, and the awful pineapple thing—but I knew Henrietta wouldn’t see it that way. We got a bonus for each painting sold, and her client had left without buying a thing.

  “Bethany, a word?”

  “Let me just clear these wine glasses away.”

  Anything to put off the inevitable. What would she make me do this time? Rearrange the packaging supplies? Reply to comments on the gallery’s Facebook page? Dust the back office? In the five months I’d worked there, Henrietta had proven herself to be a master at dreaming up trivial tasks to keep me busy, thereby minimising the possibility that I might beat her in the sales stakes. And I couldn’t say a thing. Complaining would make me look like a troublemaker, and I needed to keep this job for a little longer. The only thing that would look worse on my CV than no experience at all was leaving a position after such a short period of time.

  “No, no, leave that. Gemma can do it. Hugo’s asked you to run an errand.”

  Translation: Hugo had asked Henrietta to run an errand, and she’d seen it as the perfect opportunity to get rid of me.

  “What kind of errand?”

  Oh, that sly smile… She tried to hide it, but just for a moment, it popped onto her face unbidden.

  “He wants you to deliver a painting to a client.”

  “Which client?”

  Henrietta passed me a piece of paper, and I recognised Hugo Pemberton’s elegant cursive.

  “Here—Hugo wrote down the address so you wouldn’t forget.”

  So she wouldn’t forget, more like. The week after I started, she’d delivered a painting to Christie’s instead of Sotheby’s and blamed it on Gemma’s poor instructions. But I’d been standing next to Gemma when she jotted down the notes from Hugo to give to Henrietta, and she’d clearly written Sotheby’s. When Hugo asked if I knew anything, I couldn’t lie, and that was another reason Henrietta went out of her way to make my life difficult.

  Except that today, I got the last laugh. Hugo’s note gave the address of a hotel in Richmond, with an instruction to meet AJ Lonsdale in the bar at four o’clock. It may have been less than ten miles away, but in London traffic, it would take me over two hours to get there and back, by which time the gallery would be closing. Since there was obviously no point in me going back to work, I could carry on driving west to Ascot and visit Chaucer. Between the distance to the stables, the cost of petrol, and the overtime at work, I only got to see him three days a week now if I was lucky, so today’s trip would be an extra treat. Still, I tried to look cheesed off in case Henrietta changed her mind.

  “I’ll be sure to memorise the address. Where’s the painting?”

  “In Hugo’s studio. You need to leave soon or you’ll be late.”

  Really? But it was only half past twelve, and I didn’t need to arrive until four. Then the old-fashioned brass bell above the front door jangled, and I realised Henrietta just wanted to get rid of the competition.

  “Ooh, I’d better go and speak to this couple,” she said.

  See?

  Hugo was seated at his easel, his face hidden behind a jeweller’s visor as he retouched an old oil portrait. The rather stern-looking lady was the ancestor of a client’s wife, and he’d decided to have the painting restored as a Christmas surprise. If the wife was anything like my mother—and I suspected she was since they played tennis together—she’d rather have some diamonds or a trip to the Caribbean, but since the husband was paying Hugo a lot of money, I wasn’t about to mention that.

  “Henrietta said you wanted me to deliver a painting?”

  Hugo tutted quietly under his breath. “I asked her to go while you looked after the customers.”

  As I suspected. I saw my precious hour with Chaucer slipping away. “I could ask her to swap? But some people just came in, and she’s talking with them.” I leaned in closer to study the painting. The last time I’d seen it, there had been a two-inch tear in one corner, but now the damage was all but invisible. “Did you patch it?”

  “I considered that, but there were flaky areas of paint on the subject’s dress, and also the face, so in the end, I re-lined it instead.”

  Sometimes, when a painting had been neglected over the years and was almost beyond saving, the best option was to bond the whole thing—the damaged canvas and what was left of the paint—onto a new canvas behind using a heat-sensitive glue.

  The number-one rule of art restoration was that any changes to the painting needed to be reversible. After re-lining, the whole thing would be coated in a synthetic, non-yellowing varnish that could be removed later with solvent if necessary. Only then would the delicate process of retouching begin. A restorer was a master in his own right—he had to be every bit as skilled as the original artist as well as schooled in chemistry, materials, and the history of art. Hugo Pemberton was one of the best.

  Once, I’d hoped to follow in his footsteps. The way a seemingly lost cause could be transformed into its former glory by a process that at times seemed like magic had fascinated me for years, ever since my father had my family’s own art collection restored when I was a child. But a lack of courage and marriage to the wrong man had put paid to those dreams, a
nd now I was the errand girl.

  “It looks great. About that delivery—I really don’t mind making the trip. Best not to interrupt Henrietta when she’s with potential customers.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. As long as you’re sure you don’t mind.” Hugo’s lips pinched in concentration as he selected a tiny sable brush, a double-zero size, then changed his mind and swapped it for an even smaller triple-zero. “The painting’s right over there in the corner.”

  He waved his other hand at a small wooden crate, roughly thirty inches by fifteen. From those dimensions, I knew the painting would be about two feet by one foot in size as we tended to allow three inches for packing materials, perhaps a little more if it needed to survive a plane trip. Inside, the painting would be wrapped in buffered, acid-free tissue paper and a layer of bubble wrap, with the remaining space filled by styrofoam peanuts.

  “Is it the Stanley Spencer landscape?”

  “No, I’m still working on that one. This is a Heath Robert, a birthday surprise for a friend in California. His assistant’s in town today, and he’s going to take it back with him.”

  Heath Robert—pronounced “Roe-bear,” never “Roh-bert”—was a well-established artist fond of painting sailing boats. The last work of his we’d sold went for eleven thousand pounds, so it was a generous gift. But Hugo always had been generous. On my birthday, he’d given me a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, then taken me, Henrietta, and Gemma out for dinner at the fancy restaurant around the corner. Even Henrietta had been cheerful that night.

  “Lovely—I’ll take good care of it. Don’t work too late, will you?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  Hugo would ignore me, just as he always did. It wasn’t unusual for me to unlock the gallery in the morning and find him fast asleep on the old leather sofa in the corner of his studio, snoring quietly. Hugo got so engrossed in his work that he forgot about the time.

  Outside, I carefully strapped the Heath Robert into the boot of my Ford Fiesta, a car I’d bought second-hand with proceeds from the sale of four Versace evening gowns and half a dozen hats I’d never worn. I still had clothes in the consignment store near my apartment, and every so often, money would trickle into Chaucer’s carrot fund.