“Okay,” Nick said, “so what am I supposed to do?”
Claire looked surprised. “Wait, you’re going to do it?”
“Claire, clearly there’s so little that you understand about me and my friends.”
“What do you mean? All I know is that your friends don’t like me.”
“Come on, that’s not true.” He wasn’t really sure what to say to such an awkward statement.
She looked at him askance.
“Okay, so it’s a little bit true. But you’re not very nice to them.”
“I don’t really care. I’m not out to make friends.”
“Claire, just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Tell your father that I should be the next leader of the Conscripts. Charles has been fulfilling that role since the fall, and I know your father wants it to be you after him.”
“Fine.”
“Well, that was easy,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “I thought it was going to be ugly.”
“How would it be ugly?” He knew he probably shouldn’t ask this question, but he was curious.
Claire paused for a moment before speaking slowly. “I know things about you, about your family, that I don’t think you would want to be revealed. I know about Patch being your half brother. And I know that your father told you on New Year’s Eve. And that you never told Patch. Your father told my mother, and my mother told me.”
Claire was right. On the morning of New Year’s Eve, after that horrible, dreadful series of days on Isis Island, his father had drawn him aside. Parker had relayed the story of how he had an affair with Patch’s mother, Esme, and that he was Patch’s biological father. Nick had only started to heal his friendship with Patch the previous evening, and so he hadn’t wanted to tell him. He had wanted to say something ever since that morning in the library of the Great Cottage, but it never seemed to be the right time. After that day, he had blocked it out. It had been easier not to deal with it, to pretend the information didn’t exist. It was easier to believe it would become evident in due course, and he wasn’t responsible for it.
More than anything, Nick wanted his friendship with Patch to go back to how it used to be, when Nick was a Bell and Patch was an Evans and the two of them were best friends.
Instead, he had done the worst thing, something that Patch might never forgive him for: he had kept the truth from his friend. But this time, he wasn’t going to be afraid.
“So what about it?” Nick said.
“I thought I was going to have to tell Patch that you already knew,” she said. “I don’t exactly think you’d want him to find out, would you?”
Nick sighed. “Claire, has it ever occurred to you that it’s a bit tiresome living under all these secrets? I’m going to tell Patch soon. And he’ll take it for what it’s worth. But I’m not going to let you pretend to blackmail me over some stupid position in the Society. What you don’t realize is that you’re doing me a favor.”
“What do you mean?” She looked deflated for a moment.
“The last thing I would ever want is to head up the Conscripts. So you’re not really taking anything from me at all.”
“I really don’t think-” She stood up, seemingly flustered.
“Good night, Claire. I’ll tell my father about your wishes in the next few days. Please thank your parents for the lovely party.”
Nick turned around and left the library, walking down the hall to get his coat. He would have looked for Phoebe, but he sensed that he should give her some time to cool off. As he rode down in the elevator, he hoped he would never have to set foot in the Chilton apartment again.
PART IV
THE RETURN
Chapter Fifty-Five
Six days later, starting after midnight, three enormous trucks arrived at Eaton House in Southampton. Eight workers dressed in black who billed themselves as a “white-glove delivery service” loaded the artworks out a back entrance of the estate’s main house. The company was known for its discretion and didn’t question why it was taking sixteen historically significant paintings to a warehouse near Islip Airport on Long Island, where the pieces would be repackaged, addressed to their respective museums and owners, and sent via private air courier.
Two days later Nick saw that the story was on the front page of every major newspaper in the world. Because all the museums had issued amnesties on the return of each piece, no investigations would be started. Some of the museums wanted to identify the party who returned the artwork so that they could issue a reward, which, in at least one case amounted to five million dollars.
Not surprisingly, and much to the relief of the institutions, in the days that followed, no one came forward.
The day the story broke, Nick asked his father to meet him at the Society’s town house on East 66th Street. He remembered when he and Phoebe and Lauren had asked to meet his father at the town house in December, and how their request had been rejected. Charles Lawrence, the leader of the Conscripts, had met with them instead, which had given them no answers.
This time, Nick had written his father a note, leaving it on the desk in his study. Taped to the bottom of the note was a clipping from the New York Times about the return of the paintings.
That would, he thought, make the message clear.
When Nick arrived at the town house at three o’clock, Parker was waiting for him. His father was sitting in the parlor on the first floor, drinking a cup of tea. The building was quiet, and Nick wondered if anyone ever used it during the day, apart from the Administrator. Perhaps the occasional member took advantage of it, but it seemed like the house was used mostly for parties.
“Nick.”
Nick nodded at his father. “There’s something you need to see.” Nick pulled out his laptop, put it on the coffee table, and slid in a DVD.
“What is this? Nick, I have a very busy day. I don’t have time to watch some little home movie of yours.”
On the screen, an image flickered. Nick heard his father gasp.
First, there was an exterior shot of Eaton House, complete with its address in the frame. The camera led the viewer into the house, through the main entryway, down the hallway, into the kitchen, and down to the basement. A time code appeared on the footage, from two days ago.
“How on earth did you-”
“It gets better,” Nick said. “Just watch.”
The shot continued down into the basement. A team of men from the white-glove service were unpacking each of the artworks in order to inspect and record its condition. There were close-ups of each of the pieces: the Degas, the Rembrandt, the Vermeer, the Pollock, even the forged Leonardo da Vinci.
“You need to destroy this recording!” Parker said. “What were you thinking? How did you get access to this? Horatio was supposed to manage it all with the utmost discretion.”
Horatio had been told by Nick and Patch, two days earlier, that the artworks needed to be filmed for insurance purposes, in case anything happened to them in transit. The butler, whose only desire was to do right by his late employer, accepted the explanation, and had allowed Nick and Patch to film the proceedings. Nick had barely believed that they had gotten away with it. But he still needed this next part of the plan to work.
The film continued, with a shot of the paintings being loaded onto the trucks, and the trucks pulling out of the front gate of the estate.
“Nick, this is absurd. I don’t know why you would make such a film. What do you want?”
Nick leaned forward to stop the clip. His heart was pounding. “We have copies of this DVD, ready to be sent to every major news organization. The Times, CNN, Reuters, the Associated Press.” What he didn’t mention was that Patch had also sent a copy to Eliot Walker in Maine, who would put it in Patch’s safe-deposit box. Patch had also already uploaded the footage to several remote servers. Among all of them, the footage was sure to stay intact.