Page 56 of The Art of Theft
Now that she thought about it, all those evenings they’d spent together, shehadasked questions. But the maharani had seemed less interested in talking about herself and her life in India than in learning about the wider world, and Mrs. Watson had been happy to let her guide the direction of their conversation, never guessing that she had intentionally avoided certain subjects.
And then she thought of what the maharani just said with an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. “You said that my lack of insight was one reason your true views never came up. What—what other reasons were there?”
The maharani looked down for a moment and tucked a nonexistent strand of loose hair behind her ear. “There were those around me who worried that your friendship concealed ulterior motives.”
Mrs. Watson blinked. What ulterior motives? Had the maharani’s underlings thought that she would have swindled her?
“They suspected that you might have been planted by the British government.”
Mrs. Watson’s jaw dropped. “To spy on you?”
And then, her shock exploded into stupefaction. “Didyoubelieve that?”
“For a while I didn’t know what to believe: We had no evidence one way or the other. Which was yet another reason that I never brought up my true beliefs on the matter.”
Mrs. Watson opened her mouth to argue her absolute innocence, but the maharani forestalled her with a raised hand. “I did believe you in the end. No spy would waste so much time on me and never get to the point. I especially believed you when you didn’t seize the chance to come with me to India.
“Don’t misunderstand me. Your refusal devastated me. I’d never been in love before, and it took me a long time to recover from that loss. But at least afterward I knew that you had been with me for me, not playing a role at someone else’s directive.”
Her eyes were frank and clear, her expression wistful.
Mrs. Watson suddenly felt shy. “It took me a long time to recover, too. I felt the worst sort of mercenary, but I was no spy. I loved every minute of being with you.”
The maharani shook her head slowly. “You were not mercenary. What I’d hoped for was the rainbow. But rainbows aren’t meant to last. Most beautiful things aren’t.”
They fell silent.
The past was never quite what one remembered it to be. Mrs. Watson had thought the love between herself and the maharani some of the purest, simplest emotions she’d ever experienced. But for the maharani, it would have been some of the most complicated. All the same, she’d been determined enough to make Mrs. Watson a permanent part of her life, to live with her own and her subordinates’ doubts as a price she was willing to pay.
Mrs. Watson swallowed past a lump in her throat. She had better go before she did something embarrassing. She rose to take her leave, and only then remembered that she had not come merely to reminisce with the maharani.
“Your Highness,” she said awkwardly, “I need something from you.”
Mr. Hurst and Mr. Nariman continued to circle the gallery, stopping from time to time to admire a particular work, savor a new glass of champagne, or replenish their plates with hors d’oeuvres from a table decorated with spruce garlands and olive wreaths.
Not only had they not seen the Van Dyck, they hadn’t seen either Livia or Mr. Marbleton.
This was not particularly surprising. No art dealer, not even one who opened for business only once a year, showed his entire stock to all the prospective buyers at once. It was only a matter of whether Mr. Nariman’s supposedly fabulous family wealth would let them see the better pieces.
Lieutenant Atwood put on an expression of polite ennui, which almost slid to outright disdain when they passed by a well-dressed young man entertaining a pair of middle-aged ladies with a magic trick. He and Charlotte sat down on a padded bench to sip their champagne and eat caviar on toast, sighing with implied boredom between bites.
“Since ours isn’t the only party in attendance with ulterior motives, I’m doubting everyone here,” murmured Lieutenant Atwood. “But most of them are probably legitimately interested in the art.”
Charlotte had her eye on a pair of good-looking women with their aging uncle. Men of a certain age appeared from time to time with new “nieces.” That by itself wasn’t particularly notable. But Charlotte had never seen an “uncle” regard his two attractive “nieces” with both a great deal of timidity and almost as much self-reproach.
She had also singled out a solicitor who had been brought along by an aristocrat. She hadn’t spent a great deal of time with lawyers but she didn’t think the typical lawyer would be that interested in windows and fireplace flues.
“The one that caught your attention.” She gestured subtly to the young man playing magic tricks. “Too good?”
“Far too good for someone who isn’t a professional,” saidLieutenant Atwood from behind his champagne glass. “So good that he can no longer gauge how a dabbler does at these tricks.”
Charlotte placed another piece of caviar toast into her mouth. As she chewed meditatively, Monsieur du Vernay walked by and raised his champagne glass in salute. Under the electric lights, his rings twinkled exuberantly.
“I might know who that young man is,” said Lieutenant Atwood, speaking softly as Monsieur du Vernay joined his “Grandmaman.”
Charlotte knewwhatthe young man was, but she had not inferred his exact identity yet. There was no one immediately nearby; still she scooted closer to Lieutenant Atwood. “Go on.”
“You yourself aren’t an agent of the Crown, but you consulted for Lord Bancroft, when he was still in charge of certain clandestine portfolios.”
