The paintings were decent, but Emilios had yet to find one that was so spectacular that he should seek out the artist. Certainly none of them would fit in his own collection. He remembered how excited Angelina had been every time a cloth covered frame arrived at the mansion. She was always entranced by the paintings he chose. He had brought the ones that he had bought after her death to Whitby with him. The others had been left in his London residence.

A male voice brought him out of his reverie and he looked over at the man who had spoken. “I agree. There are several signs pointing to the artist’s lack of experience. Perhaps he is still perfecting his craft.” Emilios arched a dark eyebrow. “You seem to know quite a bit about art. I’m a collector myself.”