Never having stayed at a hotel such as the Hotel du Louvre while visiting Paris, or any other city for that matter, Megan found herself unable to tear herself away from the window of her corner suite, one that overlooked the Rue de Rivoli and, less then a hundred feet from where she was standing, the Louvre itself. Whether she’d been given this room to impress her, or people who worked for Guy Tinsdal expected this degree of luxury whenever they were traveling abroad on business did not matter. She intended to relish this rare opportunity for as long as she could. That doing so would have to wait until later was unfortunate, but necessary. “Business before pleasure,” she sighed wistfully to herself as she took to going over the day’s agenda in her mind.

The first order of business was a visit to the Louvre where she and Hackett were scheduled to meet with the curator of the museum’s Renaissance collection. It was the prospect of taking a peek into the inner workings of that revered institution that motivated her to step back and away from the window. That, and an appreciation the man she’d been saddled with was a stickler for promptness led Megan to conclude it was best not to keep him waiting. After all, she mused as she pulled on the only blazer she owned, took up the well traveled canvas messenger bag that served as both purse and carryall, and headed for the door, its not wise to piss off the golden goose, not unless there’s a damned good reason to do so.

Despite all she’d seen of Hackett to date and the way he went about his affairs, the ease with which he breezed up to the museum’s information desk, informed a young female receptionist he had an appointment with Gérard Caron in an assertive, no-nonsense tone of voice, and took to making something of a show of being impatient as he waited for an escort should not have surprised her. But it did. The man had brass, she told herself as they were being led through a portion of the museum she’d never been, peeking into offices they passed as they went along in an effort to see what distinguished the men and women who worked here from her. That she was different in one very significant way did come to mind, but was quickly set aside, as it often was, if for no other reason than she hated to dwell on what was, for her, an inconvenient truth she had come to appreciate would never be able to fully put behind her.

The person they were introduced to as being Gérard Caron made a great show of welcoming Henry. Leaping up from his chair and briskly coming out from behind his desk, he offered his hand to him. “Ah, Monsieur Hackett, ever since we received Madam Mollini’s email I have been on pins and needles,” he declared without taking a breath. “It is rare day, indeed, when we have an opportunity to set our eyes on a new find, provided of course, it proves all she claims it to be.”

Having no idea what Silvia Mollini had said in her email to Caron, Megan didn’t know what to say. Not that she had any need to say anything, for Henry returned the Frenchman’s handshake and smile as he reassured him he had every confidence the portrait was all she had said it was, and, perhaps even more. “As you well know, Silvia is not in the habit of giving herself over to flights of fancy or hyperbole,” he replied. “I have no doubt there is something about the piece that has captured her unerring, well schooled eye. If nothing else, Monsieur, you and the members of your staff shall have an opportunity to put your vast knowledge and resources to good use,” he added with a casual air of authority that was, in Megan’s mind, not in the least bit justified.

“True, true,” Caron muttered in a reflective manner. “I have never known Madam to be wrong.”

Henry pulled back ever so slightly and arched a brow. “When it comes to Renaissance art, I, for one, would not wish to tell Silvia even if she was, Monsieur.”

It suddenly dawned upon Megan as the Frenchman was chuckling politely he and Hackett were engaged in a polite game of measuring each other’s doder. Because of his relative position in the art world in comparison to Silvia Mollini, Caron felt compelled to refer to her as Madam Mollini. By freely using her first name, Hackett let it known there existed a degree of trust between himself and one of the most reverted experts in the art world. By doing so, he was putting Caron on notice he was in no mood to be messed about with in a manner men like Clive Barrows often did when dealing with someone who was not part of the tightly knit art community who looked down on amateur dabblers like Guy Tinsdal.

“Ah, well, in that case, let us get to it, shell well?” Caron muttered as he lowered his gaze in a subconscious act of submission before shifting his attention to the padded carrier Hackett was holding in his left hand.

“Of course, Monsieur. That’s why we’re here.”

Eager to push beyond a momentary awkwardness and see what had excited Silvia Mollini, Caron led Hackett over to a worktable that had been cleared of everything. That she was being ignored did not surprise Megan in the least. No doubt, she told herself, the Frenchman was assuming she was nothing more than Hackett’s assistant, someone he had no need to bother with.

Having gained an appreciation for the young art historian’s sensitivity to such things, Henry did his best to correct this oversight as he was unzipping the carrier with a deliberateness that was quite intentional. “Monsieur, I do not believe you and Mademoiselle Ellsworth have been properly introduced.”

With his attention riveted to what Henry was doing, Caron didn’t even bother looking back over his shoulder at Megan as he spoke. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”

Had she been back in London at the National Gallery, Megan would have said something. But she wasn’t. In addition to being in the employ of a man who was a noted patron of the arts and was underwriting this project, the last thing Megan wished to do was to prejudice the Frenchman’s opinion of the piece and any help he might be in finding out who the artist was by treating him to a dry, sardonic response. Instead, she remained silent but did avail herself of the opportunity to shoot Henry a quick glance that alerted him she was not at all happy with how things were playing out.

The young art historian’s righteous ire was quickly forgotten as the carrier’s flap was dramatically flipped aside and the portrait revealed. Unlike Silvia Mollini, when Caron laid eyes on it, he made no effort to hide his enthusiasm. “Yes, yes,” he muttered as he gingerly lifted the portrait from its protective carrying case. “I can see why Madam was so excited. It is…it is…”

Unable to find a suitable word to describe the piece, not until he and select members of his staff had taken their time to study it more closely, Caron didn’t finish his statement. Instead, he lapsed into silence as he slowly settled down in a chair, lost to the world around him.

“I am not at all comfortable with leaving the portrait here,” Megan groused brusquely as soon was they were out of the museum and making their way through the Tuileries Gardens.

“Ms. Ellsworth, it’s the Louvre, not the Gare du Nord baggage room,” Henry replied with a cavalier tone that was beginning to annoy her. “Besides,” he quickly added in a low voice before she could respond, “it wouldn’t be a good idea to take that with us, not where we’re going next.”

“First off, it’s Megan, if you please,” she growled.

Unfazed by the young woman’s tone of voice, Henry chuckled. “Alright, provided you drop the Mister Hackett and call me Henry.”

Having the way she’d been addressing him thrown back in her face caused Megan to cringe. “Yes, of course,” she replied sheepishly before doing her best to return to the topic at hand. “Where is it you said we were going?” she asked, doing her best to regain the initiative in this exchange by making it clear she was miffed by once more being caught off guard by something he had arranged without first consulting her.

“ I didn’t say.”

Only when he saw the young woman next to him snap her head about and regard him with a scathing glare that warned him she was about to go off on him did Henry stifle a snicker and continue. “We’re off to pay a visit to the studio of Monsieur Andre Perret.”

“Who?”

“Andre Perret. According to Silvia, he’s something of a legend in the art world.”

Looking away from Henry, Megan cocked her head to one side as she took to searching her memory in an effort to recall if she had ever heard of the man. After concluding she hadn’t, she shot a quick glance at Henry as they waited to cross the Quai Aimé Césaire and onto the Pont Royal. Having come to the conclusion he was, once more, messing with her, she sighed. “Okay, you win,” she muttered. “Who is Andre Perret?”

Sensing he’d had enough fun at her expense for the moment, Henry waited until after they’d crossed the busy thoroughfare and were on the bridge. He used this interlude to weight just how much he should tell Megan, looking out over the river as he was doing so. This effort was disrupted by the sight of a boat crammed with garishly clad tourists who scurried about, going from one side of the boat to the other in an effort to take pictures of everything and anything that stuck their fancy before posting every one of them, no matter how bad they were, to personal websites no one ever visited. The sight reminded him of a blight of ravenous locus busily despoiling the otherwise serene beauty surrounding them.

Turning away from a scene that encapsulated what passed as cultural enlighten in the Twenty-first Century, Henry took to answering Megan’s question. “Andre Perret is a contemporary of your Mister Barrow and a former instructor at the École des Beaux-Arts here in Paris.”

“I take it he’s retired,” Megan stated after waiting for Henry add to his rather superficial description of someone he felt they needed to visit.

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean, not quite?”

“Rather than cause a major brouhaha that would have cast the school and its faculty in a most unfavorable light, several years ago he was politely asked to leave,” Henry carefully explained as they reached the end of the bridge and turned left, following the river along the Quai Voltaire.

Drawing upon her own experiences and memories, Megan assumed his departure was due to misconduct. “Caught fiddling about with his students?” she ventured.

The temptation to remind Megan this was Paris, where such behavior was thought to be so common that those who did not engage in an occasional tryst were considered the odd duck was dismissed without a second thought. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and grunted. “Not quite.”

Peeved by his evasiveness, Megan made no effort to hide it. “Well?”

“He’s a forger, a very good one I’m told,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Stunned, Megan stopped dead in her tracks.

Coming about, Henry could not help but smirk as he stared at the young woman standing there, wide-eyed and slacked jaw. Realizing he needed to explain why he felt the need to pay a visit to a forger, Henry sidled up to her, took her by the arm, and led her on, explaining as they went. “Silvia thought it would be a good idea if you saw with your own eyes just how easy it was to reproduce a work of art.”

Still reeling from Henry’s revelation, Megan asked how a woman like Silvia knew a man like Perret. “She was one of his students, back in the day.”

“And she has stayed in touch?”

“According to her, they’re great friends.”

Shock turned to incredulity. “Friends?” Megan stammered.

Taking great care, Henry attempted to make a point he often found himself having to wrestle with himself as he went about his duties, both in the service of Guy Tinsdal and as an officer of the Queen. “Sometimes it is necessary to step into the shadows, consorting with people who you wouldn’t ordinarily chose to associate with. I dare say in my lifetime I’ve found myself working side by side with people who, if it was known I had, would be cause enough to justify locking me away in a dank basement cell in HMP Wakefield forever and a day.”

Suspecting that the man next to her was unconventional in the way he went about his business was one thing. To have him admit as much, well, that was more than unnerving to a person who had spend most of her life sequestered from the darker side of life, first in private schools and university, then all but cloistered within the safety of the National Gallery among like minded people who considered tossing a plastic water bottle in the street a crime against humanity. Yet as disturbing as this was, an appreciation an icon such as Silvia Mollini consorted with known forgers was almost too much to accept.

In an effort to snap the young woman at his side out of the mental tailspin she was in, Henry wandered over to the wall overlooking the river. There he paused, resting his forearms on it as he took to gazing out over the river. Troubled by her thoughts and all but lost to the world, Megan followed. Turning her back to the wall, she leaned up against it, crossed her arms, and took to gazing down at the street before her.

“Disappointed?” Henry asked without bothering to look over at Megan.

“Something like that,” she whispered.

“Welcome to the real world.”

Not at all sure how best to answer, Megan simply stood there, wondering where this journey she was on was going to take her. It was a question she was not at all sure if she wanted to have answered.

Stereotypes and preconceptions can be very powerful. They can also be very wrong. This proved to be the case when Henry and Megan entered the private studio of Andre Perret. “Ah, bon,” a man who bore far too many similarities to Clive Barrow for Megan’s liking exclaimed cheerfully as he greeted them. “After receiving Madam Mollini’s call, I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

Unable to share that sentiment, Megan returned the Frenchman’s smile with a weak one of her own and a brief, limp handshake.

“Come, please, sit,” he offered in an overly effusive manner, causing Megan to suspect he was excited to have guests. “I have just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Would you care for some? Or would you rather tea?”

Suspecting Megan would demure, Henry answered for both of them. “Coffee will be fine, Monsieur.”

For once Megan was quite happy Henry was taking the lead, for she was not at all sure what to say or do. The very thought of simply being in the presence of a known forger rebelled against her sense of propriety.

If he was aware of the way the drably dressed young woman was fidgeting, Perret ignored it as he took to muttering even as he was serving the coffee and placing out a plate of delicate pastries. “Technology and new methods in forensics is making the task of reproducing a passable copy more difficult by the day. It’s not at all like it was back in van Meegeren’s day.”

“Who’s van Meegeren?” Henry asked as he was about to take a sip of the rich café au lait he had been served.

“Hans van Meegeren is, perhaps, the most renowned forger that has ever lived. His copies of Vermeers bearing van Meegeren’s signature are themselves considered to be of great value in their own right.”

As much as she found the term renowned forger to be something of an oxymoron, Megan was intrigued as she listened to Perret recount how, in the aftermath of the Second World War, Meegeren had to prove his innocence of the charge of treason by creating a forgery in front of reporters and court-appointed witnesses. Unable to help herself, Megan spoke for the first time. “Treason? For being a forger?”

Pleased that the young woman had managed to set aside her shyness and come out of her shell, Perret’s eyes twinkled as a grin lit up his face. “During the war, one of Meegeren’s agents sold a work of his, Christ with the Adulteress to be exact, to a Nazi art dealer who, in turn, sold it to Herman Göring for one point six million Dutch guilders, or roughly five point three million Euros. Well, naturally the Dutch government felt the sale of a national treasure was a high crime that could not go unpunished.”

“Naturally,” Megan muttered in a manner that left Henry wondering if she was being sarcastic or felt the same way the Dutch had.

“He never did create another forgery after that,” Perret mused sadly.

“Pity,” Megan grunted before taking a sip of her coffee.

“Yes, the art world lost a great man that day,” Perret sighed. Then, after lingering on this thought for a moment, he set aside his coffee, all but leapt out of his seat, and grinned as he looked down at Megan. “Well, enough with these pleasantries. Madam told me you were interested in seeing how it’s done.” When he saw the quizzical look on Megan’s face, he winked. “A forgery, dear girl, one that could pass muster in even the most discerning gallery.”

Without another word, he headed off into his studio, a well appointed modern workplace that would have been the envy of any artist. Despite her better judgment, she too set aside her coffee and followed.

“As I was saying, modern forensic techniques used to detect forgeries make it harder with each passing day to produce a piece that is marketable to the sort of discriminating customer I like to do business with,” he declared as he set about mixing paints in the same manner da Vinci and his contemporaries had. “All too often the forger betrays himself by using a technique that can be linked back to him and not the artist who painted the work he is copying. Some of the less talented ones even use styles of dress, hair, or background that is not at all appropriate for the period during which the original work was painted.” Pausing, he scraped up a bit of paint with the antique palette knife he’d been using to mix paint and held it up to his nose, sniffing it before offering it to Megan to do likewise.

Curiosity finally trumped the last of the trepidation she had been clinging to as she leaned forward and sniffed. When he saw her brow furrow, Perret grinned. “That is what oglio cotto, or paint created with cooked oil smells like,” Perret beamed. “It was introduced to Italy by the Dutch and improved upon by Leonardo, who heated the oils he used at a lower temperature and added a slight amount of beeswax. By doing so he was able to reduce the degree of craquelure, which is another problem most forgers have replicating.”

Though she was familiar with the terms he was throwing out, and knew beforehand what went into making oglio cotto, the scent of the freshly mixed paint she had watched him prepare was unlike any of the modern oil paints she was familiar with. Having the opportunity to actually smell it alone was worth the time she and Henry was spending here in the presence of a man she should have found repulsive.

Pleased with himself, Perret turned toward a canvas he had set on an easel upon which the early afternoon sunlight was falling. There was already the sketch of a head etched on it with what Henry took to be a pencil or charcoal. “Creating paint using the same compounds and techniques the great masters did during the Renaissance would be for naught if the canvas didn’t hold up to carbon 14 dating or other, more definitive methods used these days to date organic materials such as wood, canvas, or vellum. This particular canvas belonged to a painting of questionable worth I purchased for a ridiculously low price from someone who had no idea what the true value of the material was. As you can see, after cleaning it off, I sketched an outline of the subject I will be painting, taking care to include several corrections here and there in a manner da Vinci did when he was creating the original I shall be copying. By using a canvas that dates back to the period, I will be able to deceive anyone who takes the time to have it properly tested.”

Having overcome the last of her apprehensions, Megan stepped closer to the canvas, bending over and sniffing it. “What about the traces of residue from the solvent you used to clean away the old portrait. Aren’t you concerned they would show up in a test?”

Realizing he had drawn the young woman in, Perret allowed himself a hint of a smile as he gave her a quick, sideward glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Yes, that is a concern, which is why one must use a solvent that an artiest would have used then,” he informed her as he turned his full attention back toward the canvas.

From where he stood, Henry could not help but smile to himself, for it was obvious the young art historian was absolutely fascinated by what Perret was showing her. Once more he realized Silvia had been right, leading him to conclude a suggestion she had made to him concerning the young woman’s presentation was also spot on. Tending to that chore, however, would have to wait, for it was clear to him that they would be there, in Perret’s studio, until well into the evening and, even then, he figured it would take him, a crowbar, and a boy to pry her way from it.

The next morning Megan found Henry to be his usual cryptic self. With everything she felt they needed to accomplish in Paris checked off her list, she asked if he had any plans for the day. In response, Henry shrugged. “Might I suggest we enjoy a leisurely breakfast for a change?”

Something in the man’s expression and the way he was behaving put Megan on guard. “And after that?” she asked warily.

“Why don’t we meet in the hotel lobby at ten and take it from there?”

The experience of the previous day, which included a visit to a known forger, left Megan wondering what new ‘Adventure’ he had planned. Her apprehensions ratcheted up a few ticks when, at five minutes to ten, Megan came out of the lifts and saw Henry at the concierge’s desk picking up a slim FedEx envelope.

When he spotted her standing across the lobby regarding his cautiously, he flashed her a broad smile, strolled over to where she was standing, and, taking her by the arm, guided her to a cluster of ornately gilded armchairs in a quiet alcove to one side of the lobby.

“Do take a seat, we have a few minutes yet. Would you care for tea? Coffee?” he asked even as he was looking about, trying to caught the eye of a waiter.

Megan frowned questioningly. “Errm, tea would be nice. Thank you.”

She waited until after the waiter had taken their order before rounding on Henry. “Okay, what’s up?”

Settling back in his chair, Henry rested his elbows on the armrests and grasped his hands before him. “I need to tend to some other business whilst we are here in Paris.”

Megan tilted her head to one side and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “More dubious dealings with nefarious Persians?”

Henry chuckled “Oh worse, far worse. Parisian property developers, possibly even an occasional French lawyer. Guy called me last night. There’s a situation he needs taken care of PDQ, and since I’m already here…” He shrugged apologetically.

Megan felt a pang of disappointment tinged with irritation but for a moment before reminding herself business deals and the such like the one Henry was having to tend to that morning were the reason Guy Tinsdal could afford to pay for her to do a job she was fast coming to adored. With a carefully schooled smile on her face, she nodded. “Well, I’ve got plenty to keep me busy back up in the room,” she mused as Henry took a moment to serve the tea that had arrived. “Notes to go through and the such,” as she added as she was accepting a cup of tea from him.

“Don't tell me you intend to spend the day locked away in your room?” Henry asked in feigned horror. “You’re in Paris.”

“What more is there to do? We’ve accomplished all we came here to do, and then some.”

“You could always go shopping.”

Megan laughed. “Yeah, right. Me, waste my time shopping in Paris. Whatever for?”

“A few items for your wardrobe, perhaps.”

Megan gave Henry an Are you kidding looked over the lip of her teacup. “Mr. Hackett, in case you haven’t noticed, haute couture is not high on my list of priorities. Besides,” she added after taking a sip of her tea. “Even if I were something of a cloths horse, what the shops in this town have to offer aren’t within my budget.”

Upon hearing this, Henry smirked. “That’s a pity. Silvia was so looking forward to taking you round some of her favorite shops.” He leant back with his cup in hand and a sly smile. “It’s not as if you couldn’t afford to do so.” Pausing, he to took a sip before regarding her with furrowed brow. “You did read the contract you signed, didn’t you?”

Uncertain where the conversation was going, it was Megan’s turn to frown. “Of course. While quite generous, it wasn't that extravagant. If I recall, it was more than enough to cover my travel and accommodations plus a day rate of two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Henry’s smile grew broader. “Megan, that two hundred and fifty pounds was your per diem, to be used to cover incidental expenses. The actual salary and bonus was on the third page.”

Megan’s eyes snapped wide in shock. “Who on earth needs two hundred and fifty pounds a day for incidental expenses!” She spluttered. “What could you possibly spend it on?”

“Well, for one thing, shopping in Paris.” With a grin that went from ear to ear, Henry set aside his cup and tore open the FedEx envelope, from which a shiny new gold credit card dropped. With a flourish, he handed it to Megan. “They did get the spelling of your name right, didn’t they?”

Megan stared in disbelief at the embossed gold lettering ‘Ms. M. J. ELLSWORTH’ whilst Henry scribbled four numbers down on a notepad, then tore off the sheet and handed that too across. “Your PIN. The card is good for ten thousand euros.”

For a long moment Megan stared dumbstruck at the card as a cascade of thoughts and questions chased each other around her head. “But…” She shook her head before trying again. “But, its Guy Tinsdal’s money.”

“And at the moment you’re working for him. In his world the way we underlings present ourselves reflects on his reputation, something he takes very seriously,” Henry smoothly replied. “Look, as you’ve already been on the payroll for just over three weeks, by my reckoning that come to about seven thousand euros.” Henry watched amused as Megan tried to come to terms with what he had said before pressing on. “That means you've got some very serious catching up to do, and Silvia Mollini is the very person who can help you with that.”

“But why would a woman like her want to go shopping with someone like me?”

Rather than answer, Henry rose from his seat with a welcoming smile to someone approaching from behind the shell-shocked young art historian.

“Because I adore shopping, not to mention an opportunity to show off one of my favorite cities,” Silvia cooed as she drew up next to Megan. “That, and because Enrico asked me to,” she added while regarding Henry with a knowing smile as she was taking Henry’s seat.

With nothing more to do here and a room full of Gallic suits waiting for him to show up, Henry offered the two women a mock bow before heading off towards the hotel entrance with a cheeky, “Ladies, bonne chance.”

Silvia wasted no time taking charge. “Before we head out, my dear, we need do some planning. Have you finished your tea? Wonderful,” she continued without giving the dumbstruck girl a chance to reply. “Now let’s head up to your room and check your wardrobe.”

Once alone and in her suite, Megan was shocked to see the elegant and renowned Silvia Mollini cast aside her cool, urbane manner as she took to behaving like a bubbly teenager who’d just been handed the key’s to her daddy’s car. Without bothering to ask, she took to rummaging through Megan’s limited wardrobe.

Standing aside, Megan found herself unable to do anything but watch as Silvia pulled out jackets, skirts, trousers, and blouses to hold up to the light, glancing back and forth between the article of clothing and her. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Megan managed to pluck the courage needed to ask the woman a question that had been bothering her ever since she had first breezed in to the offices of the Tinsdal Group. “You remembered me from the lecture in Oxford, didn’t you?”

Silvia didn’t bother looking away from a blazer that Megan had thought rather smart when she bought it, but was now apprehensive as Silvia made as face that put Megan in mind of the way her mother had frowned whenever she had come home with a bloody nose or shirt torn during a schoolyard fight. “There were twenty seven students in the audience,” she replied in an even, matter-of-fact manner. “You were in row two, second from left, wearing a pony tail that needed trimming, which I’m glad to see you've done, by the way,” she added casting a quick glance and smile at the befuddled young woman. “I never forget a face, especially one blonging to a promising young student.”

“So you know?”

“That you need an appropriate wardrobe in order to be taken seriously? Absolutely my dear! Now, about this blazer, I think that you would look better…”

Without thinking, Megan bristled at Silvia’s comment and couldn’t help herself from interrupting. “I am taken seriously!” She exclaimed in a tone of voice that bordered on being petulant. “I’ve had eleven peer reviewed articles and spoken at, oh, it must be dozens of conferences.”

For the first time since entering the room, Silvia stopped, turned, and gave the young woman her full attention. Rather than being upset at the young woman’s outburst, she smiled. “Megan, my dear girl, you signed up for this ride you and Henry are on, so it’s time to face up to the truth.” With a sigh, she watched Megan stiffen as if withdrawing within herself.

Setting the blazer aside, Silvia reached out to take Megan’s hands in her own, wishing someone had had the sense to deliver the lesson she was about to long before this.

“In this world a woman’s brains, her skill, and her experience have always come second. As unfair as it is, you will always be judged first and foremost by your looks and presentation,” she murmured as she squeezed Megan’s hands to emphasize her point. “And worst of all, your greatest critics will be other women, especially when you have the absolute effrontery to be younger and prettier than they are.” Pausing, Silvia watched Megan to see if her message was gaining purchase. Only when she felt the young woman finally relax, did she offer up a wicked grin. “Now my dear, let us see just how much wear and tear we can put on that shiny new card Enrico has given you.”