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of her choice of career, but when she’d won a place at the prestigious Ruskin, he’d become resigned to his fate of having an artist for a daughter. Not that Frederica could blame him for having doubts. Despite being only very vaguely related to the great nineteenth-century French artist, Eugène Delacroix, several members of her family had, in the past, tried their hands at painting—with only one or two having met with even modest success.
    In the Victorian era, an ancestor had begun collecting paintings, and his descendants had caught the bug, the result being that Rainbow House now possessed some very fine paintings, some mediocre ones—and some that made Frederica cringe with embarrassment! In addition, scattered amongst these paintings were Delacroix family originals, most of which were quite dreadful.
    So when his only daughter had announced, at the age of six, that she was going to be a famous artist, it was hardly surprising that James Delacroix had hoped she’d grow out of it. But she hadn’t. Now, with her Tutor’s recent endorsements still echoing in his ears, James Delacroix was hoping that Freddy’s artistic expertise could come in downright useful.
    â€˜Da . . . a . . . ad,’ Frederica said, stringing his name out cautiously. ‘Is something wrong?’ She knew that sheepish look on his face only too well.
    James sighed. ‘Come with me,’ he said, leading her to the Blue Salon, which appeared much as it always had: good, solid country furniture, fine but faded velvet curtains, and the usual Rainbow House mix of paintings—the good, the bad and the ugly. Frederica immediately noticed the gap on the wall, and quickly pointed it out.
    James blushed, making Frederica stare at him in amazement. ‘Dad?’ she said, her voice sounding sharper than she’d intended.
    James sighed. ‘It’s the Forbes-Wright.’
    Frederica’s eyes widened. Forbes-Wright was a local artist, who had died in 1882. He’d recently begun to become quite collectable—quite rightly, in her opinion. The painting was of the old Mill House, right here in Cross Keys village. A pretty little painting, complete with a pair of inquisitive swans and some quite exquisitely painted willow trees.
    â€˜I’ve told your mother it’s being cleaned. We’ve got the Society of Art Appreciation coming this August,’ James Delacroix mumbled unhappily. Frederica nodded absently.
    â€˜But it isn’t,’ James continued unhappily. As his daughter turned questioningly to look at him, he added helpfully, ‘Being cleaned, I mean. I sold it.’ He said the last three words in a rush, as if expecting a storm.
    Frederica was too surprised to be angry. It was an unspoken rule that the family works of art were never,
ever
sold! James blushed again. ‘I had to do it, Freddy. It was the kitchen roof. So much expense, all at once. I had no choice.’
    It took Frederica only a few seconds to sort out this garbled explanation. Last winter, due to a leaking roof, the kitchen had required a completely new ceiling. No doubt it had been expensive.
    She shrugged, a little sadly. She’d been fond of the painting. ‘Never mind Dad,’ she said softly. ‘It obviously couldn’t be helped.’ Then she turned sharply. ‘Wait a minute . . . you told Mum that it was being cleaned?’
    James nodded.
    â€˜But, when she learns the truth . . . ?’
    â€˜She’ll hit the roof,’ James supplied, in classic under-statement.
    Donna was not at all artistically minded, but was very,
very
protective of the Delacroix’s reputation as collectors.
    â€˜But she’ll find out!’ Frederica gasped, dismayed. ‘Who did you sell it to?’
    â€˜A man called Horace King. He’s a recluse, lives up in Cumbria. He’s rumoured to have a vast collection, but nobody’s ever seen it. He won’t even admit he’s