“We’re generally fine leaving the port. It’s arriving at Port Klang and transferring onto the next ship where the trouble could come in. I’ve got men on both ships, and a friend at customs in Dubai who’ll grant me clearance,” said Stu.

“We’ve completed over fifty transfers to the United Arab Emirates in the past two years,” I felt compelled to add. “All of them without a hitch.”

Renfield’s attention came to me, his shrewd gaze taking me in, and I immediately regretted opening my mouth. “Forgive me, but you look vaguely familiar, Miss Jordan. Have we met before?”

I tensed, unsure where this was coming from. We definitely hadn’t met before. Either it was an interrogation technique or in my current guise I resembled someone he knew.

“I don’t believe so,” I answered.

“Are you quite sure? Your accent is from Surrey, correct? I have a lot of acquaintances in that area. Perhaps our paths have crossed at some soiree or other.”

I gave a soft laugh, though it was completely fake. “Perhaps.”

“Who’s to say when libations have been taken, am I right?” Renfield chuckled. I sort of wanted to laugh at his use of ‘libations’ in regular conversation. The only time I ever came across that word was when I was reading the classics.

“I can hardly remember my own name, never mind the folks I’ve met after one too many glasses of wine,” he went on, obviously finding himself completely hilarious. Stu’s eyebrow rose slightly.

“Oh, I’ve been there myself a time or two,” I said, humouring him.

Renfield smiled at me widely, his face taking on a look of interest that I didn’t immediately recognise. It was only when his eyes travelled along my breasts, lingering on my hips that I realised he was checking me out. Stu glanced between us, seemingly coming to the same conclusion. His posture stiffened.

Renfield leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Miss Jordan, do you enjoy art?”

“Oh, very much so.”

“Do you have a favourite artist, or a favourite style, perhaps?”

“I’m quite fond of the impressionists, Cezanne in particular, though technically he was a post-impressionist,” I answered.

“Ah yes, when it comes to the impressionists I’m a purist, I’m afraid. It’s Monet all the way,” said Renfield, laughing boisterously. I chuckled and feigned amusement. Stu was staying strangely silent, and I could’ve been mistaken but I thought he was a little irritated at how Renfield was flirting with me.

“Are you a fan of cubism? I have a Picasso in my collection that I’d love to show you sometime.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending to be flattered, “that would be amazing.”

“Is that one of the pieces you want us to transport?” Stu asked, his voice holding a note of derision. I stiffened, hoping Renfield didn’t pick up on it.

“No, no, the Picasso will be travelling with me. The purchase of that piece was all above board. It’s my other more precious cargo that I’ll be entrusting you with,” he answered, his gaze almost dismissive. When he looked back at me he was smiling again, all charm. “Now, might we discuss the matter of payment? I know, such a pesky topic when we could be chatting about our beloved artists, but I would like to come to an agreement on a figure.”

“Of course,” I answered as he picked up a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled something down. He slid it across the table to me. I picked it up and tried not to gape at the sum. He was going to pay us one hundred thousand pounds, or more specifically, he’d be paying whoever Stu convinced to do the job. Our money would be coming from the eventual sale of the painting.

I wondered why the Duke didn’t plan to take any of Renfield’s other pieces, but then, that was the beauty of the con. Rembrandt was probably the only artist in his collection that Alfie could successfully imitate, their styles being so similar. Renfield would probably never discover that the painting he owned was a fake, and if he did it could be years down the line.

I passed the paper to Stu and he nodded. “Looks about right.”

“Wonderful,” said Renfield. “Now, are you sure you both won’t join me in a drink to toast a successful arrangement?”

“I’ll take a whiskey if you have it,” said Stu and I resisted the urge to nudge him and remind him of Alfie’s warning. There was a calculation in his eyes, though, which led me to believe the drink was purposeful. Renfield’s attention came to me, that flirtatious grin back in place. “And you, Miss Jordan?” he asked expectantly.

“She’ll have a whiskey, too,” Stu answered for me. I wanted to grimace because I hated dark liquors, but I didn’t want to kick up a fuss and continued smiling my false smile. Renfield opened his cabinet, pulling out three glasses alongside an expensive-looking bottle of Scotch. He poured some for each of us and we toasted before taking a sip.

Ugh, I didn’t care how much it cost, it tasted disgusting. Where was a spittoon when you needed one?

“By the way, Miss Jordan, or can I call you Rebecca?” Renfield enquired, sidling up to me. He was several inches shorter, but unlike most men he seemed pleased by the fact. Over his shoulder I saw Stu shooting him a narrowed-eyed glare, lifting his glass to his mouth and knocking it all back before discreetly pouring himself another. Since Renfield was so focused on me he didn’t notice. I widened my eyes infinitesimally to try and urge him to act normal.

“Of course you can,” I replied.

“And you can call me Kenneth,” he continued. “Rebecca, the offer to view my Picasso still stands. In fact, I’d like to take you out to dinner sometime, too. What do you say?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, trying to come up with a polite way to decline.

In the end I didn’t have to because Stu spoke for me, pointing his glass in the direction of my wedding ring. “She’s married.”

Damn, he really needed to stop sounding so angry or this whole meeting was going to go belly up pretty quickly.

“My apologies,” Renfield exclaimed. “I didn’t realise. Since you go by ‘Miss’ I just assumed—”

“No, it’s my fault. I’m newly married, and I still haven’t gotten used the whole ‘Mrs’ thing yet,” I joked. “I’m sure it’ll stick eventually.”