Chapter Two

September 25

Dordogne, France

T he man known simply as Reynard had earned a well-deserved reputation over the years as a procurer of the priceless and unattainable. Unencumbered by legality or judgment, Reynard found pieces for his clients, ranging from valuable paintings and rare jewels to ancient artifacts and obscure collectors’ items. If it could be found, purchased, or stolen, Reynard could acquire it. It appeared, however, that there was one thing Reynard could not secure:

Time.

After thanking his doctor for the unsurprising news, he hung up the phone.

Reynard was dying.

He gazed out the window to the expansive grounds beyond. Funny how the precious art decorating the walls gave him less pleasure than the old rope-and-plank swing suspended from the limb of the big oak.

In his long life, Reynard had known great love, and he had known great loss. Four decades ago, the death of his beloved Annette had turned his heart to stone. For years, there was only work; there were only things . It had been a satisfactory existence.

Then, one sunny spring day after a meeting with a particularly unsavory black market exporter in Paris, Reynard had rescued a young girl, a street urchin, from the clutches of a goon. He neither wanted nor needed a dependent, but the way the child had clung to him, the way she had so willingly trusted him to help, he had no choice. Reynard would never admit it, but the fiery waif with her Mediterranean-blue eyes and golden-blonde hair instantly captured his heart. He was hardly cut out for fatherhood, but considering the child’s alternative, he took her in.

Clara.

Reynard had never been one to believe in fate or forces in the universe—he had cursed God when his wife died. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but wonder if some mystical force had sent Clara to him.

Every day was filled with surprise and delight as he watched the little ruffian blossom. Even as a child, Clara was an exquisite beauty, but far more interesting to Reynard was her penchant for trickery. Many a night, Reynard would come to dinner to find an item from his private safe on his plate. He would examine the rare coin or the watch while Clara sat innocently across from him, prattling on about her dislike of her English tutor or the ducklings she saw in the pond. Reynard had burst out laughing when one of the exterior guards complained Clara had dangled from a tree limb, slipped into the gatehouse, and repositioned all the security cameras to various animal habitats throughout the property.

Concerned for her safety, Reynard had instructed Clara to choose a surname that didn’t connect her to him—she hadn’t known her original one. She had instantly been drawn to art as a child, and Reynard had taken her to every major museum. Transfixed by the John Singer Sargeant portrait, Madam X , Clara had chosen the last name of the painting’s subject, Gautreau. She wanted for nothing, but their bond was not cemented by materialism or spoiling. Clara became his daughter, playing chess, taking long walks, and discussing life. She was a charming thief, and Reynard, despite his repeated scoldings, couldn’t have been more proud.

She had breathed life into his comatose soul.

Reynard backed the wheelchair up and circled the desk, moving out the French doors to the slate terrace—the pant leg of his amputated limb pinned neatly at his knee. Autumn would soon arrive, bringing a bonfire of scarlet and gold to the property.

Most of the home had been closed off. Reynard had no use for many of the rooms. These days, he confined his existence to his office, the library, his bedroom, and the kitchen. The housekeeper, Mrs. Trovik, lived in the village but had converted an old servant’s room into an office to manage household expenses. So, of the eighty-three rooms in the estate, Reynard made use of five.

As a child, Clara ran through the mansion like a feral cat, exploring every nook and cranny. Years after she had left for school, Mrs. Trovik would find stashes of books and trinkets in hidden cubbies. Reynard hadn’t even known about a secret room behind a sliding wall panel. Clara had discovered it during one of her scurries.

Clara’s antics had evolved over the years. While Reynard openly disapproved of her hobby, he secretly adored it (and if he had a call to invite the world’s best safe cracker or foremost expert on high-tech alarms to the estate for a meeting or informal meal, so be it.). He worried as any parent would, but whenever Clara returned a stolen painting or recovered a lost heirloom, Reynard couldn’t help but beam with pride.

Despite his influence, regardless of the blood on his hands, Clara was a do-gooder. She was also fearless—except when it came to her own happiness. Perhaps being surrounded by so much need as a child imprinted this calling to help. Whatever the reason, finding joy in making others whole had replaced her own contentment. The true treasure of life was within her grasp, but Clara never reached for it. He wanted to give her that more than he wanted to live. But like any complexity of human nature, the problem wasn’t simple.

Reynard knew what he wanted for Clara. He just needed to figure out the how.