“But Mr. Roche said it already had a buyer.”
“It’s fine. I can just paint another one.”
“Wait. Paint?” Not “buy,” but “paint.” Giles looked at Reginald in horror, realization dawning on him.
Those amber eyes that were brighter than Fiona’s crinkled mirthfully. Not bothering to hide his smirk, Reginald hopped off the desk and extended his right hand to Giles. “Sorry. I haven’t properly introduced myself yet. I’m Reginald Raymond Bailey.”
Raymond Bailey, the mysterious, widely beloved artist. Giles was so taken aback that he let the pause between them stretch out a bit too long before firmly shaking the man’s hand. “Raymond, eh… So it’s you.”
“Surprised?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Aww, you seem awfully calm to me. I was hoping you’d be more shocked,” Reginald whined, puffing out his cheeks. He pumped Giles’s hand up and down firmly, and Giles thought back on everything Fiona had said about her uncle.
That’s right. She never once said that her uncle was an art dealer.
What she had said was that her uncle sent pieces of art from overseas. Richard and Giles had been the ones to assume that he was an art dealer. It had never occurred to him that Fiona’s uncle painted the works he sent to her.
And then there was that thing Fiona said when she confronted Gordon: “But he has painted a common redpoll before.” She’d said it with authority, and she’d explained that Raymond had painted it ten years prior and that his family was in possession of it. There was no record of the painting, and it had never been sold. Only the painter, his family, or someone close to family could have known of his existence. Moreover, she had mentioned the day before that her uncle was going to do some sketching outdoors.
Just as she promised at the very start, Fiona had not uttered a single lie. Giles was a third party, so she could not tell him the truth, but she had dropped several hints.
Well, now I feel stupid.
When Reginald finally released Giles’s hand, he ran it roughly through his golden fringe as he processed this situation. Giles did not feel deceived. If anything, he trusted Fiona as a confidante all the more for it. “Oh, trust me, I am shocked,” Giles assured Reginald.
“Are you suuure?”
“Looking back, there were many clues. Regretfully, they escaped my notice.” Fiona’s knowledge, passion, and deep understanding of art—there was no doubt that her uncle played a big part in that, and now that Giles knew that her uncle was an artist, it all added up. The picture formed in his mind like a jumble of puzzle pieces rearranging to fit together, making perfect sense of both the man standing before Giles now and of Fiona, who was not in the room. “I have to ask, though: Are you sure that revealing Raymond’s true identity to me was the right call?”
Fiona and Roche guarded Reginald’s secret so fiercely that Giles thought it must have been unwise for Reginald himself to reveal it so easily. Catching the judgmental tone in Giles’s question, Reginald looked surprised for a moment, then burst into laughter.
“Ha ha ha! Is that what you’re worried about?”
This man had no sense of self-preservation. Giles fumed a little at the flippant way he disregarded his allies’ hard work. “I don’t see what there is to laugh about.”
“Well,” Reginald said, dragging the word out, “if I’m being perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure whether I should tell you. I trust Fiona, but I don’t exactly know you.” He wiped the tears of laughter out of his eyes and leaned back on the desk. “But when I saw the way you looked at my paintings just now, I had a feeling.”
His carefree smile reminded Giles of Fiona. The uncle and niece may have had different coloring in the eyes and hair, but their manners were similar.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Giles said.
“You truly loved my paintings,” Reginald said, eyeing the paintings on the table. “You loved them, even before you knew they were Raymond originals.”
Giles didn’t know what to say. What did Reginald mean by that? To be sure, Giles did think they were good paintings—he’d been honest in his praise. But he’d meant nothing more than that.
“Oh, dear. Please don’t freeze up like that, my good fellow,” Reginald said. “Let me explain. I can tell the difference between lip service and words meant from the heart.”
“Yes, but I’m still not following—”
“You saw my paintings, not my name, so I judged you more leniently. In truth, though, Fiona also factored into my decision. She assured me you weren’t a loose-lipped sort of person.”
“Fiona?”
“I hope you won’t betray her trust?”
“Of course I won’t.” Knowing that Fiona lauded Giles as someone she could trust warmed his heart, even under these odd circumstances. At the same time, however, an unidentified emotion began to well up within him.
What is this? Giles thought. He kept up his end of the conversation while he examined his feelings, willing Reginald not to notice. Finally, he arrived at the answer:
Longing. He wanted more.
The revelation surprised him. His relationship with Fiona had begun with a contract. All that was required between them was trust. He knew he shouldn’t want anything more from it. And yet…
Reginald leaned back on the desk again, tapping it with his fingertips. The noise brought Giles’s focus back into the room.
“There are many reasons why I hide my true identity,” Reginald said in a casual tone, staring up at the ceiling. Giles nodded, reining in his racing thoughts. “The main reason is to save myself the hassle. I just want to paint; I don’t want to be rich or famous. It may be uncouth to say so, but I have more than enough money saved to live on. If you ask me, there’s nothing worse than having to schmooze with people or do business with art galleries.”