Portrait of Lady J

By Marilyn Holdsworth

A surprise phone call, an unexpected bequest, and a mysterious portrait send wealthy entrepreneur and art collector Charles Brentworth on a perilous quest. With the help of attractive cosmopolitan art dealer Courtney Trent, he searches for the identity of the young woman in the antique portrait titled simply Lady J. Their puzzling pursuit leads them to London, the English Cotswolds, and into a dangerous web of art fraud in a shadowy art underworld. As they uncover clues to Lady J’s identity, they discover an unsolved murder, art heists, and forged paintings. Their findings catapult them into a desperate race against time to prevent the theft of a valuable art collection and finally lead them to solve the riddle of their treasured, enigmatic Lady J.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504963947

Marilyn Holdsworth

Marilyn Holdsworth graduated from Occidental College with a major in English literature. She is an extensive world traveler, art collector and author of three other novels. She lives in Southern California, where she is a Huntington Library and Art Collection Fellow. Her gift for storytelling, combined with her love for art and knowledge of art history, make her book universally appealing.

Book preview

Prologue

British Airways flight 114, bound for London’s Heathrow Airport, raced down the runway and lifted easily into the sky. It was the moment that Courtney Trent found both exhilarating and frightening. The shuddering burst of speed and then the abrupt lift off the ground and swift climb into the clouds always left her a little breathless. She sat with her head resting against the seat, eyes closed to discourage conversation with fellow passengers. Too often there was one next to her eager to share a horrendous airplane story—a traveler’s game of one-upmanship she always tried to avoid. It was going to be a long journey, and she had some business papers in her briefcase to review as well as her week’s work schedule to plan before reaching her English destination.

The drive across town to the Los Angeles Airport had been rushed. Traffic was always heavy in the late afternoon, and this day had been no exception. She had left so hurriedly, locking her condominium, setting the alarm, and trying not to forget anything essential. The last two weeks preparing for the trip had finally caught up with her. And now it was a welcome relief to sit quietly as the plane gained altitude and wait for the captain to switch off the seat belt sign. After listening to the flight attendant review air safety procedures, Courtney scanned the cabin as directed to check the exit locations. Seated in business class, she was grateful for the extra legroom and fewer passengers. Soon they would be pushing a drink trolley down the aisle. A glass of white wine would be most appreciated, she thought as she settled back comfortably, determined to enjoy the flight.

Moments later, the Fasten seat belt sign switched off, and the sound of unsnapping buckles rippled through the cabin. A flight attendant made her way down the aisle, offering passengers both English and American newspapers and assorted magazines. Courtney hesitated only a moment before choosing the London Times. She wanted to check the weather report and study the list of theater productions currently being offered. She was looking forward to a trip to London’s West End to see a show—if time permitted. She thanked the smiling attendant and started to tuck the paper into the seat pocket in front of her to read later, but a headline caught her attention: Four-Gallery Art Heist. She scanned the article quickly. There had been a series of art thefts from four minor galleries in London. She read the report thoughtfully, remembering a similar headline a few months ago in the New York Times. It was now suspected that all the incidents were connected. The English and American authorities were working together in the investigation of that possibility. Courtney frowned recalling the New York thefts. She knew two of the owners of the small art and antiques shops that had suffered losses. As she reread this latest account, she thought of her own gallery associate Colin Patterson’s suspicions that the thieves were not running a simple grab-and-fence operation. And now, looking at this latest list of missing items, she thought back on his assessment. She suspected there was something far more complicated involved in these thefts than just snatches for quick sale. The incidents were obviously not random and had to have been carefully plotted over a period of time. The wide variety of stolen art pieces made the case all the more baffling. And to date, none of them, English or American, had been traced or resold.

Still thinking about what she had just read, Courtney scanned the rest of the news. The front page was mostly devoted to local English political activity and the violent happenings around the rest of the world. Hastily she flipped through the paper, searching for the lists of theaters, shows, and curtain times. Impatiently she turned to the Society section where she thought she remembered them to be. About to turn back to the front page to check the index, she suddenly gasped and gripped the paper intensely as she stared at an obituary notice. A small photograph identified the deceased as Lady Celia Foxworth Hatfield and was followed by a short paragraph. Courtney read the words carefully: Lady Celia Foxworth Hatfield died unexpectedly Sunday last while visiting Churnbury Castle. The Earl of Churnbury has closed the castle grounds pending investigation. Lady Hatfield, a renowned art collector and supporter of the Tate Gallery, was one of the foremost contributors to the Wallace Collection. A leading authority on artistic and antique authenticity, she will be missed by her many friends and colleagues in the art world as well as her family. She leaves her husband, Lord Cornelius Pomeroy Hatfield; son, Lord William Pomeroy Hatfield; and daughter, Lady Mary Hatfield Radcliff.

Courtney clutched the paper, intently staring at the picture of Lady Hatfield. Although slightly blurred, the newsprint image—with its chiseled, classic features; large, expressive eyes; and fair hair softly framing the face—was an amazing likeness of her. A slight shudder ran through her as she continued to stare at the photograph. Slowly she removed her passport from her handbag and compared the two images. The resemblance was startling. In disbelief, she whispered aloud the name beneath the newspaper picture: Lady Celia Foxworth Hatfield—and then from her own passport: Courtney Foxworth Trent. She read and reread her middle name as if seeing it for the first time.

Chapter 1

C HARLES NELSON BRENTWORTH PUSHED BACK from his desk and impatiently stared out at the increasing clouds. Rain was on its way—there was no doubt about it. His afternoon golf game would be wet or not at all. Although playing in the rain didn’t really appeal to him, Charles knew he would be the only one in his foursome willing to show up on such a day. Fair weather golfers, Charlie muttered, remembering his many watery matches at St. Andrews. If an Englishman wouldn’t risk the links in the rain, he’d never play golf. The weather was part of the game. Wind, rain, and biting cold just added to the challenge. But not to a Californian, and Charlie knew today would be no exception. He dismally glared at his wide plate-glass office window, where large drops were already beginning to form. Moments later they had turned into rivulets, and when his phone rang, he knew it was the call to cancel his game.

Right ho, Bill. Reschedule. Thanks for ringing. Dejectedly, Charlie hung up, paced over to the window, and stared down at the now rain-slicked street. A sudden clap of thunder rumbled through his office, rattling the glass. He watched for a minute the scurrying pedestrians, mostly Saturday shoppers caught without umbrellas. He turned back to his desk and the stack of files waiting for his review. He sat down and then reached for one labeled Penny Wise Products Inc. He flipped through the pages, making notes as he read. He knew he should be pleased with the progress of the deal; the company would be a good acquisition for his own Brentworth Enterprises. But for some reason, the more he studied the spreadsheets and numbers, the less enthusiastic he became.

Impatiently, Charlie pushed back from his desk and paced once more over to the window to look out at the now pelting rain. Another crack of thunder rattled the windowpane. So unlike the heavy misty London days he was used to, he thought. Not that he was homesick for England’s fog and bone-chilling dampness. But a lingering loneliness had invaded him this morning, plunging him into a moody gloom that matched the weather. Returning to his desk, he pushed the stacks of files aside and jerked open the center drawer. I thought I kept that woman’s card, he muttered as he shuffled through the contents of the drawer. What was the name of her gallery? he ran his hand through his hair, attempting to jog his memory. Began with a T, I think. Trent, that’s it. He picked up one of the cards and studied it for a moment.

Trent Gallery Fine Art and Antiques

Appraisals and Assistance in Personal Acquisitions

He studied the card for a moment, remembering the young woman who had handed it to him. Although they had exchanged only a few words at a recent art show, he had been impressed by her professional manner and warm smile. Courtney Trent. He read the name on the card again, and then the address of the gallery and telephone number.

Still holding the card, Charlie looked around his office, his eyes resting for a moment on each of the paintings that adorned the walls. He had selected all of them himself. Refusing to accept the advice of his decorator to choose smart, trendy art to compliment the office furnishings and color scheme, he bought only what he liked: rich, strong colors applied with bold, thick brush strokes and each of the works done by a well-known artist. They were expensive, but all were well worth their price to surround him with such beauty. He loved haunting the auctions and galleries, searching for the perfect work to add to his collection. And he always knew what he wanted the minute he saw it. Each of his pictures spoke to him.

Clair never understood that. To her it had been money thrown away on paint-spattered canvases. Why waste so much on them when nice, framed, colorful prints would do just as well? He remembered her words.

Clair, he sighed. He didn’t miss her, he had to admit. At the time he had been sorry, but more because of the dreadful storm she created before she finally left. Another clap of thunder shook the room as if to add a final exclamation point to his thoughts. No, he had no regrets where Clair was concerned. Far better a broken engagement than a messy divorce. Pushing the memories from his mind, Charlie shoved the card in his pocket and reached for his jacket. Saturday’s hours noted on the card were 10:00 to 3:00. If he hurried, he might get there before closing.

The rain had slackened to a steady, persistent drizzle, making the streets slick and visibility poor as Charlie drove across town. Located in one of the city’s more fashionable areas, the Trent Gallery was easy to find. It was nestled between an upscale clothing shop and a trendy boutique. He spotted a sign for customer parking in the rear and turned his sleek black Jaguar into a narrow alley. He slid the car into a space close to a door he presumed was the back entrance. Hoping it was unlocked, he stepped out of the car and made a dash to it, barely avoiding a deep puddle in front of the doorway. He tried the latch, and the door swung easily open into a narrow hallway. I say, anyone about? he called as he stepped into a high-ceilinged, spacious room at the end of the corridor. Flooded with natural light from skylights and strings of well-positioned track lights, the gallery’s pristine white walls were covered with colorful framed works of art. The overall effect was dazzling as Charlie surveyed the collections hung there. His critical eye was immediately drawn to a small, vivid, rectangular work in a simple ebony frame. The narrow, black-ribbon border made the vibrant hues stand out, and Charlie crossed the room to view the piece more closely.

Wonderful, isn’t it? You obviously have a keen eye for art.

Charlie turned around and stared into the deepest blue eyes he had ever seen. Intense and sparkling, they met his startled gaze and he stammered like a startled school-boy. Ah, I say, I didn’t know anyone was about. I came in through the back. Hope it’s all right. Raining you know. His words trailed off, and she laughed at his obvious discomposure.

I heard you come in, but I was on the phone in my office. I’m afraid I’m the only one here this afternoon so there was no one to welcome you, she smiled warmly, extending her hand. I’m Courtney Trent.

He folded her long, tapered fingers into a firm, friendly clasp. Yes, I know. We met at an auction some time ago. I’m sure you wouldn’t remember. I’m Charles Brentworth. Charlie Brentworth, he said, continuing to hold her hand, staring into those amazing blue eyes.

But I do remember, she laughed. You and the auction. I gave you my card as I recall.

You did, and here I am. He flashed a boyish grin, dropping her hand and motioning to the picture before him. I like it. The colors and the style speak to me. He peered at the painting, attempting to read the scrawled signature of the artist.

It’s a Lars Parkin, she provided He has really caught on in the last ten years, and since he’s well into his eighties now and producing very few new paintings, prices for his work can only go up.

And this one? It’s for sale?

It is. In fact, I can make you a very attractive offer if you’re considering buying it. Lars gave me three of his paintings to sell for him, and this is the last one. The other two were snapped up by a collector at our last gallery show. This one would have been too if my assistant Colin hadn’t left it in the back by mistake.

Ah, his loss my gain, Charlie chuckled. He stepped forward to examine the picture more closely. He then produced a checkbook from his back pocket. I’ll take it.

Courtney raised an eyebrow and asked with a quizzical smile, No bargaining? Not even just for the sport? Again the blue eyes bored into his, and her infectious laugh filled the room. Twenty-five thousand is more than a fair price. The other two sold for thirty each. So I can assure you, Mr. Brentworth, you’ve got a deal.

I do, and I know it, and it’s Charlie. He grinned as he wrote out the draft. I bought a Lars Parkin at auction three years ago and paid more. So, Ms. Trent, I’m more than satisfied with your price. But if you’d like, we can barter a bit for the sport of it, as you put it. If not, you can take this to the bank. He handed her the check.

She shook her head, her long blonde hair cascading around her shoulders. I’ll take it to the bank, Charlie, and it’s Courtney. She grinned at him as she folded the check and slipped it into her pocket.

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The rain had stopped by the time Charlie left the gallery, but Courtney insisted on carefully wrapping his painting in an extra-protective plastic covering.

Better to be safe than sorry, she said as she handed it to him. Another thundershower could be on its way. California spring weather is always unpredictable.

Right. One of the things I’ve learned since crossing the pond, as you Yanks put it. He laughed, stowing the parcel carefully in the back seat of the Jaguar.

She walked out to the car with him, and a sudden clap of thunder seemed to accent her words. I better make a run for it, she laughed, turning back toward the open gallery door. Looks like the heavens are about to open up. Thanks for coming by, Mr. Brentworth, and enjoy your painting.

I will. And it’s Charlie, remember?

Charlie. I’ll remember, she called with a wave.

Charlie eased the Jaguar through the late afternoon traffic. Bright patches of sunlight filtered through the dark clouds, punctuated by rolls of threatening thunder, as he turned his car into the underground parking structure of his condominium complex. Perched on the top of a steep hillside, the building had a commanding view of the entire valley. Once, only a dilapidated ranch house with a few shabby sheds surrounding it had occupied the parcel. But Charlie had immediately seen the location’s potential and Brentworth Enterprises made the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse. Charlie had enjoyed the challenge of designing it, and now the opulent project catered only to the most elite clientele. His buyers were handpicked by Charlie, and his long waiting list was a testimony to the venture’s success.

Charlie pulled the Jaguar into his parking space and quickly hopped out. He carefully withdrew the painting from the back seat and headed for the elevator. He stepped into the lift and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. The polished brass doors slid quietly closed, and the car began its assent. It took only seconds for it to rise up from the subterranean parking structure. Once clear of the garage, the all-glass car seemed to hang suspended in space, clinging to the outer wall of the building, providing a spectacular panoramic view Charlie never tired of seeing. Paul Barnes, his project architect, had shuddered when Charlie proposed installation of the glass elevator. Too dangerous, too hard to maintain, scare off buyers, Paul argued. But Charlie had made up his mind, and now as he surveyed the Valley falling away beneath him, he was glad he had overridden the practical Paul.

Just as Charlie reached the twentieth floor, a wide rainbow arced across the sky like a broad paintbrush stroke across the stormy clouds. I say, if I was a superstitious kind of chap, I’d take that as a sign from the heavens, he chuckled as he stepped out of the lift into the plush, carpeted hallway.

Moments later, he was unlocking the door to his penthouse, disarming the security system, and striding through the entry hall to the apartment’s vast sunken living room. Another of Paul Barnes’s challenges provided by Charlie. He flicked a switch, and ivory silk brocade draperies silently swept back from a wall of floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, revealing another breathtaking view. Carefully Charlie unwrapped the painting and then placed it on an easel by the huge marble fireplace that dominated one end of the room. He stepped back, admiring his acquisition. The artist’s signature in the left-hand corner was so small it might escape notice, but the title on the back of the painting was clearly printed in bold black letters: Metamorphoses. As Charlie continued to study the painting, a low whistle escaped his lips. "Ah, Metamorphoses. Now I see it. Right there, a butterfly. With his finger he gently traced the gossamer wings that seemed to be unfolding on the canvas. Amazing. Truly remarkable the way the lines and colors create the image," he enthused. He continued to study the picture, marveling at the artist’s talent and smiling to himself over his purchase. The afternoon had turned out very well, even without his weekly golf game.

Chapter 2

M ONDAYS AT BRENTWORTH ENTERPRISES WERE always hectic, but this week’s promised to be an especially demanding one. Charlie sat at his desk, studying a long list of problems awaiting his attention. He was about to reach for the phone to tackle the most critical item when it rang.

There’s a Mr. Clarkson from London on the line, his secretary Carol told him.

Clarkson doesn’t ring a bell, Carol. Who’s he with? Gaylord Land? Or perhaps Farthington?

Neither. He’s an estate attorney. Cromwell, Clarkson, and Picks is about all he’ll tell me, she sniffed with obvious resentment. Carol prided herself on