The thick clunk of her heels grew quieter as she descended the stairs. I glanced back at her chair. The journal had fallen onto the floor, as if its work here, too, was done.

*  *  *

Freddie’s interview was set for that afternoon at Clarence House. One camera, one interviewer, a small handful of questions, and the transaction would be complete: safety and silence in exchange for a scoop. The major British media outlets would all get the footage first, and everyone else would have to chase them.

We were already due at Clarence House for a more formal explication of Marta’s will, so Nick and I sneaking in to support Freddie would be fairly simple. I scooped my hair into a bun, curled a couple of tendrils in the front so it looked less severe, and picked jeans and a blazer—professional, but comfortable, a mix of off duty and on that suited the day’s strange agenda.

Calling our meeting spot at Richard’s residence a “conference room” was an undue compliment to all the hideous ones I’d seen at various workplaces over the years. Its massive mahogany table was surrounded by priceless, mismatched antique chairs with silk-covered seats. The famous unfinished portrait of Queen Eleanor had been rotated out and replaced with a landscape that looked as if it had been stitched together from the work of several different artists with a variety of skill sets. The colors were beautiful, and parts were supremely accomplished; others, more childlike, but not without perspective. It was a fascinating piece.

“Paint Britain,” came Richard’s voice behind me, and I turned to see him staring up at it as well. “I made it with several of the children.”

“It’s really special,” I said sincerely. “Almost a shame to keep it hidden.”

“I like it here,” he said.

Richard’s gaze was still fixed on the painting, so I took the second to stare at him. It was such a challenge to burrow inside his façade. He’d been, in turns, unpleasant and manipulative and cruel; the same man who’d embraced Paint Britain, an organization I’d helped cofound, had also removed me from it when he’d decided I was a liability.

“I’m glad Paint Britain is in the hands of a patron who cares about it,” I said, and meant it. “I miss it. And I’d really like to be involved again whenever you think it would be appropriate.”

Richard looked at me then. The one thing we had in common was a love of art, so I knew he was aware how much it hurt me to be elbowed aside. He also knew what it was costing me to ask a favor of a man who viewed them as debts to be paid.

“That can be arranged,” he said, and I was so surprised that I beamed at him.