“So how should I respond?” asked Christina.
“Accept Limpton Hall and the flat in Eaton Square, but ask for sixteen thousand a year, and nothing less than eight hundred thousand pounds as a settlement. After all, it’s your husband’s moral and legal responsibility to ensure that you continue to live in the style you’ve grown accustomed to after so many years as his dutiful wife.”
“I do believe, Sir Julian, you are enjoying yourself.”
“Certainly not, madam. I am simply carrying out my fiduciary duties on behalf of a client. No more.”
“And certainly no less.”
Sir Julian allowed himself a wry smile. He didn’t care much for Mrs. Faulkner, but he had to admit he always enjoyed her company. “I need to ask,” he continued, “how strongly you feel about the paintings being part of the final settlement?”
“I couldn’t feel more strongly about it,” she said. “In fact, it’s a deal breaker.”
“May I ask why, Mrs. Faulkner, when you’ve made it abundantly clear you have no particular interest in art?”
“The moment the decree absolute is granted, I’ll be putting them all up for auction. Miles won’t be able to resist buying them back, and I intend to make sure he doesn’t get them cheaply.”
Sir Julian avoided asking the obvious question, and simply said, “Then I shall insist the paintings at Limpton Hall are part of the settlement.”
“All seventy-three of them,” said Christina. “And you can tell Miles not to bother trying to foist me off with copies or fakes, because if he does, my next call will be to Commander Hawksby.”
Sir Julian suppressed a smile. “Do you have any other questions concerning the settlement, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“Just one. Did the other side agree to pay your fees?”
“They did.”
“Then I will be calling on you for advice fairly regularly, Sir Julian, and it may not always be about Miles. But it will always concern him.”
* * *
Jackie walked quickly across to the other side of the room when the phone on William’s desk began to ring.
“DC Roycroft.” The line went dead.
“Probably William’s old school chum,” said Lamont. “Unfortunately he’s unlikely to talk to anyone else.”
“What if he calls again?”
“We’ll have to hope Warwick’s back by then.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then you’ll have the unenviable task of deciding whether to interrupt his honeymoon.”
* * *
William stared up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel that, according to the guidebook, scholars considered had changed the history of Western art.
“How long did Michelangelo take to complete the fresco?” Beth asked.
“He worked on it tirelessly from 1508 to 1512,” replied William. “The poor man spent most of that time lying on his back on the top of a crudely constructed scaffold. By the time he’d finished he was virtually a cripple. It didn’t help that Pope Julius the Second never paid him on time.”
Beth was mesmerized by the sheer ambition of the project, and didn’t stop staring up at the ceiling until her neck began to ache.
“You could have used one of the large mirrors provided,” suggested William.
“I could also have bought a postcard. If Rome wasn’t littered with masterpieces, I’d visit the chapel every day until you had to drag me away!”