Page 47

“I watched you all the time from a distance because Victor threatened my hide more than once. But I didn’t want you to become like me, either. I’m not a good man, Ollie. In fact I’m pretty terrible.”

Ollie didn’t respond.

“But I still enjoyed watching you grow up, even if you didn’t know about me.”

Ollie cleared his throat. He put his attention on the painting of the woman, and hot tears began to form in his eyes as he realized who she was. He was able to blink them back. “That’s her?” Ollie asked. “My mother?”

“’Tis.”

Ollie had of course seen the one photograph of his mother with his father. But this painting looked different. It somehow seemed realer than the photograph.

“She was a tortured woman,” Eamon said. “Emotional, angry, sad, yet always quite funny.” Eamon looked upon it, his dark eyes misty, tormented. “I wish I could have helped her.”

“Did you ever know my father?” Ollie asked.

Eamon scoffed. “Bastard,” was all he said.

Ollie almost asked what that meant but decided he would rather remember his father as Dantes had described him: madly in love with their mother. If that wasn’t the truth, he didn’t want to know.

“Just a second.” Eamon clapped Ollie on the shoulder and disappeared back into the studio.

Evelyn approached Ollie but stopped a good distance away. “Are you all right, Ollie?” she asked gently.

He swallowed hard. “Yes. Just trying to comprehend everything he told me. I think it will take a while.”

Evelyn gave him a small smile. “Are you glad to know about it?”

“I am,” Ollie decided. “But I can’t believe Victor kept family away from me. I don’t know how I’ll be able to look at him the same. A lifelong con like that. He knows how important family is to me. It wasn’t his decision to make.”

“I know.”

Realization dawned on Ollie. “Nor should it have been his decision to kick me out of my own business.”

Evelyn looked up at him with a smile and then, to his great surprise, hugged him.

She stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly.

For a second, Ollie froze, stunned by her show of affection.

But then he wrapped his arms around her and oh, how wonderful it felt to have her so close.

He bowed his head down, burying his face in her neck.

He was bigger than her, stronger than her, but right now, she was holding him up.

Letting her go would be the most difficult thing he would ever do in his life.

Eamon cleared his throat and Evelyn immediately pulled away from him, leaving Ollie feeling melancholy and empty once again.

The thief, his uncle, had reappeared from his studio carrying something. He walked over to Evelyn, though he raised his eyebrows at Ollie briefly. “You’re sure you want to separate?” Eamon asked as he handed over the Gustave Courbet to Evelyn. But it wasn’t clear whom the question was for.

Evelyn flushed again and gave a fleeting glance to Ollie. “Thank you for returning this—not that you should have taken it in the first place,” she said, unamused. “Is this the real one?”

“Why do you say that?” Eamon asked with a grin.

“I saw your copies of the Fragonard.”

“Ah…” Eamon looped his hands behind his back.

“You steal them then sell them to people who don’t know any better. Awful of you.”

Eamon laughed. “That’s not what I do.”

“Then what do you do with them?” Ollie replied.

“I study them,” Eamon said with a shrug. “As I get older, I find it harder for me to be around people. I don’t like it much. I used to go into the museums themselves and copy them there. Now, I steal the paintings at night when no one is around, bring them home, and study them on my own time.”

“See.” Ollie turned to Evelyn. “I told you it couldn’t be art forgery. He only just started stealing paintings.”

Evelyn smiled and bowed her head. “That was a very intelligent conclusion, Ollie.” She gave him a brush of a smile before turning to his uncle. “However, it still doesn’t make sense to me,” Evelyn said, crossing her arms. “Steal paintings to study them?”

“Sure, it does. See those.” Eamon nodded out to the gallery wall. “Those are mine. I’m self-taught. Too poor to take classes or buy supplies. So I taught myself by reading about the masters and copying them.”

“But you don’t sign your work.”

Eamon grinned. “Oh, but I sign my heists. No one wants my paintings. Why sign them when they’re for myself? Seems a bit egoistical.” As if he didn’t have a giant ego.

“Why doesn’t anyone want your paintings?” Ollie asked.

“The moment they hear my name, they make a decision about me without seeing my work. No one wants a poor Irish artist. The want bohemian French, English, and American artists.”

“Why not use a fake name, like you do with heists?”

Eamon shrugged. “Tried that, worked until they met me. They always want to meet the painter and watch them work. Can’t really change my appearance or voice, can I? Don’t really want to be around people anymore, either.”

“If you don’t sell your work, how do you support all of this, then?” Evelyn asked, looking around.

“Jewelry.” Eamon grinned again. “While people are starving in the streets, nobs are throwing thousands of pounds at shiny rocks instead of helping others. I, frankly, don’t care about them at all, so I take their things to support myself. And I don’t feel the least bit bad about it.”

Ollie looked at Evelyn. She frowned at this, being an aristocrat herself, but he also knew she wouldn’t exactly disagree with the sentiment, either.

“All right, well…” Eamon clapped his hands together. “You can leave now.”

“But—” Evelyn began.

However, Eamon wasn’t having it. “You got your painting back, and I don’t like visitors. Goodbye.” He practically shoved them out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind them.

Ollie knocked on the door. “Will I ever see you again?”

Eamon shouted back. “You know where I live!”

Ollie laughed at the absurdity before turning to Evelyn. “Can you believe I’m related to that man?”

“Am I supposed to say no to that?” Evelyn replied with her own laughter. She was teasing him, and he didn’t mind it one bit.