FALSE IMPRESSION By Jeffrey Archer

Victoria Wentworth sat alone at the table where Wellington had dined with sixteen of his field officers the night before he set out for Waterloo. General Sir Harry Wentworth sat at the right hand of the Iron Duke that night, and was commanding his left flank when a defeated Napoleon rode off the battlefield and into exile. A grateful monarch bestowed on the general the title Earl of Wentworth, which the family had borne proudly since 1815. These thoughts were running through Victoria’s mind as she read Dr Petrescu’s report for a second time. When she turned the last page, she let out a sigh of relief. A solution to all her problems had been found, quite literally at the eleventh hour. The dining-room door opened noiselessly and Andrews, who from second footman to butler had served three generations of Wentworths, deftly removed her ladyship’s dessert plate. Thank you,’ Victoria said, and waited until he had reached the door before she added, ‘and has everything been arranged for the removal of the painting?’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention the artist’s name. Yes, m’lady/ Andrews replied, turning back to face his mistress. The picture will have been dispatched before you come down for breakfast.’ ‘And has everything been prepared for Dr Petrescu’s visit?’ Yes, m’lady,’ repeated Andrews. ‘Dr Petrescu is expected around midday on Wednesday, and I have already informed cook that she will be joining you for lunch in the conservatory.’ “Thank you, Andrews,’ said Victoria. The butler gave a slight bow and quietly closed the heavy oak door behind him. By the time Dr Petrescu arrived, one of the family’s most treasured heirlooms would be on its way to America, and although the masterpiece would never be seen at Wentworth Hall again, no one outside the immediate family need be any the wiser. Victoria folded her napkin and rose from the table. She picked up Dr Petrescu’s report and walked out of the dining room and into the hall. The sound of her shoes echoed in the marble hallway.