Page 60 of The Scarab's Game

He chuckled. “Samantha—my wife—thought to visit the Courtauld and speak with an associate about your case.”

They flew to London for this? Who did that? “In person?”

“Sì, she did. And I think you’ll be glad for it.”

“You found something?”

“We did. My wife is sending you an email with the details now.” No sooner did he say that than a notification popped up on my phone.

My first thought was to put him on speaker and look at the email. I glanced at the closed door. Would Dante hear me? “I’m not somewhere I can open it right now. What is it?”

“Samantha’s contact maintains auction catalogs dating back decades,” Dr. Ferraro said. “We found one which included your Constable painting, recording its sale in 1956. We compared the catalog photograph to the one you sent and found a discrepancy with the signature.”

My heart skipped a beat. “A discrepancy? What kind of discrepancy?”

“The letters B and L are not the same.”

An excited female voice chatted in his background—which must have been his wife. “Tell her how.”

“In the original painting, the letters touch, but in the photos you sent, they do not.”

“They don’t?” I echoed, my mind racing to keep up. I looked at the painting, lying on the worktable, so innocent. “No professional would change a signature.”

“Precisely,” he said.

A trained conservator or restorer would work around a signature. If it was damaged, they’d often leave the damage inplace to maintain the painting’s integrity. A signature wasn’t like a leaf, a flower, or a hand, which would be corrected.

His wife’s voice came across from his end. “Tell her she’s dealing with a fake.”

His voice grew fainter as he said, “Bella, per favore?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said.

What if the one in the catalog was the fake, and I was working on the original?

“As I was saying,” Dr. Ferraro continued, “there were two catalogs which included the painting. The one from 1956 included a photo and a complete provenance. Another, from 1932, had a line drawing of the painting. We can’t use that one to confirm, but it was part of the intact chain of provenance.”

“Shit,” I hissed. “What now?”

“Have you told the owner?”

“Not yet.”

“You should find out what they wish to do.”

I nodded slowly, unable to rip my eyes away from the painting. “I will. Thanks.”

“And my wife would like for you to email her if you have any further questions.”

I thanked him again and clicked off.

Emmett had been right. How did he know? And what did this mean for Dante and the gallery?

I pulled up the documents Dr. Ferraro had sent and reviewed the 1956 catalog photo, placing it next to theWheatfieldI’d been working on. The signatures definitely didn’t match. It was slight, and they were close, but the connection between the B and L was different.

Dante had hired me to work on a fake. But why? It made no sense. He couldn’t have known the truth. Unless it wasallabout getting me in bed? Would he go that far? And then simply give up because he claimed Emmett was in love with me?

A strangled laugh burst out of me.