Page 89 of A Rogue to Watch Over Me
“No, Amelia. Don’t move it.” Mrs. Johnstone leaned closer to examine the plank. “There... do ye see it? Something’s here, under the floor.” Sweeping her skirts to the side, she crouched low and jostled the board loose. “Polly, please bring the lamp here.”
While Mrs. Langford held the lamp over the spot in the floor where the plank had been, Amelia peered into the hollow. A plain cotton bag not much larger than Amelia’s hand lay between the joists. Crude, black stitches closed the pouch at one end. Mrs. Johnstone reached down to take hold of it.
“Do be careful,” Amelia urged. “There’s no telling what could be in there.”
“I so enjoy a hunt for hidden treasure.” A touch of excitement colored Mrs. Langford’s voice.
Mrs. Johnstone slid her an incredulous glance. “When in blazes have you ever hunted for treasure?”
“I haven’t,” Mrs. Langford said, unflaggingly cheerful. “Until now.”
As Mrs. Johnstone gingerly retrieved the object from its hiding place, her mouth thinned. “Polly, close the curtains.”
After the windows were secured, Mrs. Johnstone yanked apart the stitches that held the sack closed. Lamplight glimmered against what had once been a gilded frame surrounding a crudely painted image of a garden gate.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Mrs. Johnstone examined the painting rendered in unskilled strokes on canvas. “Do you recognize this?”
Amelia studied the landscape which seemed a poorly done imitation of Monet’s technique. “My brother dabbled in oils. But I do not believe this is his work.”
“It may be valuable,” Mrs. Langford said hopefully.
“That’s rather unlikely,” Amelia said. “Why, I don’t even see an artist’s signature.”
Suddenly, Helen Tanner’s words came back to her in a rush.
He entrusted the treasure to you.
Tingles crept along Amelia’s nape. Surely this crudely wrought painting in a battered frame was not the bribe Hawk had offered in exchange for his silence.
Unless . . .
Unless the painting was merely a ruse.
Dragging in a breath to steady her racing pulse, she turned the frame to take a look at the back. “Mrs. Langford, please hold the lamp closer.”
Under the light, she studied the frame, then the canvas. Had this image been painted over an artist’s original?
She sighed. Her expertise in such matters was minimal. But she had no doubt that Paul would’ve known what to do. He’d have known how to hide a valuable work.
“I don’t know what we’re looking at. Or for,” she admitted. “I don’t know if this work has any true value.”
“Why would someone place it here, beneath the floor?” Mrs. Langford asked, shifting to hold the lamp at a different angle.
With the sudden tilt of the light’s rays, Amelia’s gaze was drawn to a scarcely noticeable flaw. The painting rested unevenly against the worn edges of the frame. How very peculiar.
Was something else there, behind the canvas?
Slowly, hesitantly, she pried an edge of the painting from the wood.
The heavy canvas frayed, revealing another layer beneath it.
Her suspicion was correct.
Another layer of canvas lay within the frame. This piece bore no sign of color. Perhaps it was merely a backing for the landscape.
Still, she had to be sure.
Carefully, she peeled away the canvas.
