To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-Three: Stunning and Swooning Before the Sun

"Two Laughing Boys with a Mug of Beer" by Frans Hals (c. 1626), stolen 1988, 2011, and 2020 - value $17.5 million

Chapter Thirty-Three

Hyenas were significantly braver in a pack than alone. With ranks of encouragement, they could be emboldened to face a lion on his own turf, even roused enough to fall the king with cries of revolution.

At the sight of the stalking, snickering mutts, I did the opposite of August. Where August swung into stances of aggression and fury, I settled into my familiar mask of thick ice and unbothered boredom. I knew they'd want a reaction from me.

They always did.

As the posse came to a stop before us, Daniel's sneer was as permanent as he was predictable. Similarly, his jeer was as unoriginal as his personality. "Well, what do you know?" he drawled. "It's Eleanor Vaycker and her faithful henchman."

"Daniel," I acknowledged. I observed the imposters among his ranks, along with the gorgeous woman on his arm, raising a brow. "Cheating on me, I see."

Daniel feigned confusion at first, then snapped his fingers as if plucking a faded memory into view. He was smirking and smug, muddying the floors with his overflowing entitlement, practically dripping with condescension. I wasn't sure how he found the nerve to be his exhausting self every day.

"Ah, yes, that article! Such a shame when people jump to conclusions, isn't it? But, hey," he said, shrugging, "I thought we made a great couple."

Daniel Ponting stood with too much arrogance before us. His brother James was half a step behind him, except his expression was flat and reserved; it only served to further define the contrast between them. While their pack howled and laughed like the hyenas they were, I evaluated the two a little closer. The more I looked, the more Daniel grinned, and the more obvious I could see Jame's hidden grimace. Both Ponting brothers had a beautiful woman on their arm, but only Daniel looked to be enjoying himself. I felt stirs of pity. The women deserved better than fools dressed as dukes.

Daniel's sneer twisted when I had no response other than a leering smile. My lack of engagement in his veiled attack vexed him; he relied on the unstable hurt of others to fuel his childishly cruel temper. I wasn't giving him the satisfaction anymore. I was steady on my feet. My expression was sharp. My anger was sharper.

My revenge had been sharpest.

"Why are you here?" August interrogated. "I don't remember inviting any critic-wannabes to the party. You and your amateur gallery aren't at this level yet—so who'd you pay to get the invite?"

Daniel twirled the drink in his glass, unfazed by the accusation, yet only addressing a single part of the question. He was gloating. "No, you're right. Ponting Galleries doesn't have the same notoriety as Whitehill. We haven't had any works stolen, have we?"

I laughed, high and false and so very mocking of the shrill titters of his group.

"No, you haven't—but such a shame about the Swigfreid piece, isn't it?" I goaded.

The thrill that punched through me when Daniel's face blanched into anger was spiteful and glorious. It was an absolutely triumphant feeling, and I reveled in it.

A bitch can bite, too, Daniel.

August joined my crusade with the ease of experience. "Yes, I heard about that. A lawsuit for false advertising, right? That can't look good for you. But I guess people weren't happy to discover you kept a fake on the wall, and the real one at home. You slipped up the moment you put a price on the wall. How's the legal fees treating you?"