“They say four people from Washington, DC, bought second homes out here this month,” said Audrey, twirling her earring. “It’s a trend.” She met Lara’s eyes with a warning to pay attention.

“A good one?” said Ben, shifting in his chair and touching one of the flower centerpieces. “I’m not so sure.”

“Must be the low crime,” said Lara under her breath, seeing the opening to tease Ben.

“Smart-ass,” said Ben, not looking at her, but grinning.

As the waiter poured more wine, Audrey leaned in, her face illuminated by the votives. “Also, Gaston has news of the painting, don’t you?”

“Oui,” he said. “I sent an email to Teddy Barrow.” Gaston’s tuxedo was clearly one that he owned. His normally messy hair was now secured into a smooth, low ponytail. This change from day to night looked effortless for him, like he’d donned tons of tuxedos in his life.

“Barrow the Fourth?” Lara’s eyebrow raised. She was trying to show Audrey that she was focusing on the conversation at hand.

Gaston chuckled. “Yes. Barrow-le-quatrième. I sent him a photo of the painting. He called from Paris this morning, waking me up from a most wonderful sleep. He is very excited.”

“Gaston’s friend thinks a painting we had might be a real Giroux,” Lara turned to explain to Ben. She was enjoying this wine. It was a full-bodied red, and she took another sip to make sure it was as good as she’d thought.

“Yes,” said Gaston, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. “Barrow thinks that it might, indeed, be one of the long-thought-missing Giroux paintings—The Ladies of the Secret Circus, as they were called.”

“The Ladies of the Secret Circus?” Lara leaned in to listen, truly interested in the conversation now. “That sounds mysterious.”

Gaston nodded before taking a sip of wine. “It is. This entire series of paintings has been missing for more than seventy years.”

“What is a Secret Circus exactly?” Ben seemed amused. “I gather the Rivoli Circus is not a Secret Circus?”

“Most definitely not,” said Audrey, wiping the corners of her mouth with her cloth napkin.

Louie Favre, the Rivoli director, perked up. “What’s this about the Secret Circus?”

“Have you heard of it?” Audrey turned toward him.

“Of course. Everyone in the circus world has heard of it; I’m surprised you haven’t, Audrey.” Louie Favre was a barrel of a man with a large, full mustache as thick as a paintbrush. “It’s legendary.” He swirled a glass of what looked like bourbon.

“No,” said Audrey. “I’ve never heard of it until tonight.”