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She gave in and simply went out ahead of him

He shut the door and took the lead One hallway led to another In the soft light frolorious State Roo a central hallway to the da

In the West Wing, he turned on the flashlight No one lived or worked in the West Wing At night, the dim hallall sconces were left off

It was sad, really, even by flashlight, even when they were sticking only to the hallways, to see the water stains on the ceilings and walls, the emptiness where marble-topped hall tables had stood and beautiful art used to hang Yes,had once been servants’ quarters, but the central hallways used to be as finely put together as the rest of the house There was the faint s, winter and the new roof couldn’t coh

Rafe led her up the stairs and along another hallway until finally they ca red rooallery and the rooed roof replaced forty years before

The West Wing Gallery was not a the finest roos and portraits hung in the State Roo where the fa Gallery was for all the pictures no one really cared all that otten ancestors painted by uniuished landscapes by painters no one remembered anymore

Rafe turned on the lights

Genny stood in the middle of the roo The El Grecos, the Titians and Turners were in other rooilt mirrors here and serpentine columns flanked the arched s

Rafe came up behind her and clasped her shoulders She leaned back into the solid heat of his body—but only for a ht her hand again “Here Let me show you”

He led her to a shadowed corner, to a grouping of mediocre portraits in unreht on a portrait of a young, powerfully built dark-eyed man with thick black hair and sideburns The felloore a fitted, single-breasted tailcoat There was a spill of snohite—what they used to call a cravat—at his throat His doeskin breeches tucked into shiny black Hessian boots and he held a silk top hat to his breast He stared into the reat seriousness

It wasn’t a very good painting The eyes weren’t quite right and the proportions were odd But the likeness was still striking—eerie, even

Genny’s heart was suddenly racing and her one dry She said in a whisper, “Rafe, he looks just like you”

“He does, doesn’t he? This was painted in 1819”

“Butwho is he?”