“The De-Veer family haven’t gotten any less rich, Nory.” He laughed humorlessly. “And my family haven’t gotten any less brown. I did go to a solicitor once. He was very understanding but he made no bones about the cost. The De-Veers are still making money from Heba’s books; they’ve been using her art to promote their business and bring tourists to Heron House for decades. They aren’t going to let that go lightly. I was advised that they could drag the case out for years, bury it under a mountain of paperwork, and bury me financially in the process.”

Nory’s head was reeling. It seemed too preposterous that such an injustice could go uncontested.

“But. But. But.” She was floundering for the words to express her feelings. “It’s not fair!” Her petulant statement was a pin to Isaac’s chagrin balloon, and he laughed, a genuine laugh this time, without the sharp edges.

“No, it isn’t fair,” he agreed.

“What if I try to do something?”

“Got a few hundred thousand quid to spare, have you?”

“Oh. No. Unfortunately very much not. Does the marquis know?”

“No.”

“Then we should tell him.” Nory jumped excitedly off the chaise longue.

“No.”

“Why not? He’s a good man. And he’s got influence, which is just the sort of thing you need.”

“Believe me, I considered it; I discussed it with my parents when they were alive, but it still comes down to money. We all agreed that we couldn’t ask Lord Abercrombie to make that kind of commitment to one of his staff. I’ve thought of all the ways I could make it right over the years, but the stakes are just too high.”

Nory went back to the desk and sat down. She gently leafed through the sketchbooks again. A life’s work robbed.

“Poor Heba,” she said quietly. “I can’t imagine how betrayed and powerless she must have felt.”

“These sketchbooks were her solace. The De-Veers thought they had all her artwork, but Heba had kept back some of her paintings from when she was in India because she didn’t feel they were good enough—although of course, anyone looking at them can see that they are. And when she realized that she had been duped, she continued to paint in secret. She did some of her best work to spite her mistress. Of course, nobody knew about it, but that wasn’t the point. It was a quiet rebellion.”

“Sometimes they’re the best kind,” said Nory, marveling at the paintings before her.

Suddenly another idea flashed into her mind. She didn’t like it, and at first, she pushed it away. But then she gave herself a talking-to: This wasn’t about her; this was bigger than her. Heba deserved to have her name recognized.

“Guy is an investigative journalist,” she said before she could talk herself out of it.

“Good for him.”