The Unveiling

The estate appears through the fog like something from a gothic romance—all stone turrets and ivy-covered walls perched on the edge of the Scottish highlands. I've been driving for three hours from Edinburgh, and this place feels like the edge of the world.

Which is exactly what I need right now.

I pull my rental car through the iron gates, noting the security cameras tucked discreetly among the ancient oaks. Money and privacy. The combination that makes my particular expertise valuable.

The letter that brought me here sits in my bag, expensive cardstock with a single embossed line at the top: Julian Thorne, Private Collections. The offer was extraordinary—six months' salary for three weeks of work, all expenses paid, complete discretion required. The job: restore a series of nineteenth-century erotic paintings that have never been publicly displayed.

I've built my career on discretion. After my very public divorce from another art historian who couldn't keep his hands off his graduate students, I've learned to appreciate clients who value privacy as much as I do.

The massive front door opens before I can knock.

"Dr. Moretti." The man in the doorway isn't a butler or assistant. He's far too commanding for that. Mid-forties, tall and lean, with silver threading through dark hair and eyes the color of smoke. He's wearing black trousers and a thin black sweater that clings to a frame that suggests disciplined athleticism rather than gym vanity. "I'm Julian Thorne. Welcome."

His accent is British but layered with something else—perhaps years spent elsewhere. His handshake is firm, brief, and somehow manages to convey that he's already assessed me and come to conclusions I'm not privy to.

"Mr. Thorne. Thank you for having me. The drive was beautiful."

"Julian, please." He steps back, allowing me into a foyer that takes my breath away. Original William Morris wallpaper, a sweeping staircase, and gaslight fixtures converted to electricity but maintaining their Victorian charm. "I hope the journey wasn't too taxing. I realize the location is remote."

"I prefer remote." The words come out more honestly than I intended. "It helps me focus."

Something flickers in those gray eyes. Interest, maybe. Or satisfaction.

"Good. Let me show you to your rooms, and then, if you're not too tired, I'd like to show you the collection."

My rooms—plural—turn out to be an entire wing of the second floor. A bedroom with a four-poster bed and fireplace, a sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the moors, and a bathroom that's been modernized without losing its period charm. There's a claw-foot tub deep enough to drown in and a rainfall shower with multiple heads.

"Dinner is at eight if you'd like to jo...