The evening of the dinner invitation arrived soon enough, and Miles closed the shop early to get ready and allow travel time. He dressed casually in a turtleneck and dark jacket, and tucked the invitation into a pocket.

Traffic on the M3 was light for that time of the evening. Miles maneuvered his Bentley easily through the last of the afternoon commuters, heading west at somewhat over the legal speed limit. He wasn't running late -- he simply enjoyed driving fast. The directions he'd received over the phone were clear and concise. 

He'd taken the Bracknell exit off of the M3 and caught the loop that led him back onto the Old London road, heading east.  The directions stated to turn north on Hollybrush track and follow it to the end. It wasn't difficult to find the address. He'd gotten there about 15 minutes early.

The small country lane ended in a gated entrance. The large wrought iron gate was closed. Its ornate fililgree was elegant, without being ostentatious, The center of the gate held a large circular medallion, engraved with the same symbol that had graced the invitation's wax seal, a stylized image of a Phoenix rising. Just to the right of the gate was a small brick guard house. A bored sentry stepped up to Miles' window.

"Welcome To Oakhurst manor, sir. How may I help you?"

"Miles Aldred to see Jeffrey Duvalle."

The wrought iron gate was elegent, but at a cost of some security. The ornate filligree also provided numerous potential hand and footholds; scaling the gate would be easy and fast had one been so inclined. The fencing extending from either side of the gate and presumably surrounding the grounds was somewhat better, being designed more for functionality that for impressing guests, but it too would not have been too difficult to get over. Miles made these observations automatically, almost subconsciously as he waited.

"Of Course Mr. Aldred. We've been expecting you. The others have all arrived. Enjoy your visit, sir." The guard said pleasantly. He moved to the guard house, and a moment later the gate slid open, along a recessed track, the motor and chain clanking softly. When it had opened fully the guard waved Miles through.

As the car wound its way along the estate, Miles saw that the grounds were as beautiful as the countryside. The lawns were carefully and beautifully landscaped, and apparently meticulously maintained. He saw no signs of technical security, nor did there appear any tell tale signs of guard dogs. It looked like a park, or one of the royal gardens.

The long drive ended in a large cobble stone courtyard. The main manor house was flanked by a carriage house and another outbuilding. The Carriage house had been apparently converted into a garage. Parked inside was what looked like an excellent reproduction of a 1930's Rolls Royce touring car, alongside a more modern Sedan. Parked infront of the main house was a limousine, it's long sleek styling seemed incongruous to the setting, yet somehow appropriate. 

The manor house itself was typical of upper class society in the late 17th century. The home was obviously that of a landed nobleman, its size and architectural features spoke of wealth beyond the masses. The well-manicured gardens and grounds spoke of absolute control over its environs, yet the abundance of natural materials bespoke a love and harmony with its surroundings, the land from which it was built.

The double entry doors stood open and a gentlemen stood in the doorway, his posture stiff. He was dressed in formal attire, so formal it seemed a uniform.

Miles swung the Bentley around easily in the courtyard, parking to one side where the car was out of the way yet not far. Out of long-standing habit he left the car pointing down the drive so that he wouldn't need to turn it around when it came time to leave, and he didn't bother to lock it.

He climbed out of the car and looked around, appreciating the surroundings before proceeding. Although his unconscious assessment of the estate's security continued, he was impressed by the natural elegance of the grounds. Despite the modern limosine and the sedan in the garage, there was a sense of having stepped back in time a few decades.

After a moment, Miles pocketed his keys and went up the few stone steps to the main entrance, nodding to the doorman.

The man at the door sniffed once as if he'd smelt something offensive, nodded sharply to Miles and snapped a militarily precise one eighty. "If you'll follow me. The master has been expecting you." The man's voice was stiff, droll and very proper.

Miles raised an eyebrow in mild amusement at the fellow's evident disapproval and followed him inside.

The man-servant led Miles through a large foyer filled with artwork. The man servant gestured to a divan against one wall, under a surprisingly beautiful painting. Something about it's style caught Mile's eye. "if you'll wait here, the Master will be in to escort you the rest of the guests." With that the man stalked, off into the wings, his back stiff and unyeilding.

Whomever owned this estate certainly had a taste for antiques, and a budget to match. The divan, which Miles examined casually without sitting on it, was ornately carved and quite elegant, probably from the mid ninteenth century. The decor was mixed, generally baroque but with other styles and periods liberally represented. Everything seemed to fit together in spite of the eclectic selections. Miles recognized several of the paintings on display, and there were a couple that many people would have recognied even without being versed in the world of art. If they weren't originals, they were reproductions too good for Miles to spot. He had a growing suspicion that they were all entirely authentic, making this a collection impossible to price.

The styles varied considerably; one corner of the foyer displayed a number of more modern works. One in particular gave him pause, and Miles examined it for some time. It was an almost surreal image, with nude figures, a skeleton, an infant... and it was also an image that Miles recognized right away. He would have to ask his host about it.

His attention was eventually drawn back to the large painting dominating the wall above the divan. It depicted a young nude woman sleeping by a stream, in a somewhat romantic light. Miles didn't recognize this one, but he thought he should.

Obviously the proprietor was a knowledgable and wealthy collector. Miles was fairly confident now that he knew, at least in general, what the nature of this proposal would be -- despite the orignial invitation's assurance to the contrary -- and he would have to disappoint. nonetheless, he didn't regret following up on it. The opportunity to see some of this collection was well worth the trip.

"Ah, Mr. Aldred. I see you've discovered my little treasure." Miles turned to discover he was being watched from down the hall. An elderly gentleman strolled over hand extended in greeting. His careful strides across the hall were that of the very old, who moved carefully and precisely to avoid incident. The man's appearance belied his stride however. Though obviously elderly, the strength of the man's spirit burned bright enough that one would have thought he was half his apparent eighty years. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit, which was at least a century out of date. His long white hair tied cleanly at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon.

Miles shook hands and found his host's grip stronger than his elderly appearance might have suggested. "Mr. Duvalle, I presume? I'm pleased to meet you. I must say that intriguing as I found your invitation, your art collection in considerably more so." He gestured back to the corner of the foyer where the more modern works were displayed. "That's a remarkable reproduction of the Klimt, for example -- easily the most convincing I've ever seen. And this one here... I'd guess Courbet, except that I'm quite familiar with his oeuvre and this isn't part of it. Very impressive nonetheless."

"The pleasure is all mine." Duvalle said, his eyes glinting with mischief. "So you're a collector as well? I'm curious, what makes you think the Klimt is a reproduction?"

"Not a collector, no. Art of this caliber is a bit beyond the budget of a bookstore proprietor, I'm afraid.  I'm merely an amateur student and one who attempts to appreciate the accomplishments of others. In this case, I know your copy of Klimt's Medicine is in fact a copy because the original was destroyed in 1945 by SS forces as they retreated at the end of the war. It's certainly a fine copy though; if I didn't know the history of it I would probably have taken it for authentic."

"Ahh." Duvalle said simply, a small smile on his lips, his eyes still ginting with mischievious amusement. "And if I were to tell you that the history books were in fact in error, and that is, in fact the original? That, in fact, all of these are originals, including the Courbet?"

Miles raised an eyebrow, doubtful. "I'd say that would be remarkable to say the least. I'm sure you understand why I am a bit skeptical." He examined a corner of the Courbet, or at least the painting Duvalle claimed was a Courbet, closely. It was awfully good. Miles was passably well versed in the art and science of forgery and its telltale signs, but he knew he wasn't qualified to really evaluate the truth of Duvalle's extraordinary claim. "If true, these would certainly be huge news in the art world. If I might ask - how did you come to possess an undiscovered Courbet? If authentic, I don't imagine it's any later than 1870, which is a fair time for it to remain unknown."

Duvalle's smile widened considerably. "Oh, it's been in the family for ages. Family gossip has it that it was a private commission, so to speak, actually a gift. Courebt used to vacation at Oakhurst, that stream is actually here on the grounds. The story goes, that Courbet stumbled upon a young scion of the house Duvalle, in a very similiar repose and was so taken with her that he fell madly in love and asked her to pose for him. The painting was a token of his love for her. Courbet was heartbroken when she died of consumption, and couldn't bear the constant reminder. He left it and all of the sketches in our care. It's never left the grounds." 

"If that's true, it's rather more than a footnote in the annals of art history. And please don't misunderstand; I say 'if true' not to cast doubt on the veracity of your explanation, but merely to reflect the skepticism with which it would be met by the art community." Miles didn't say he shared that skepticism, but Duvalle undoubtedly knew it. "Still, if you have all the studies and sketches and preparatory work that often accompanies ambitious paintings, that would go a long way toward authenticating this work. Most forgers don't bother to spend the effort to forge supporting documents as well. If I may ask, why not share these with the world, and let the larger community appreciate them as well?"

Duvalle's expression slid into bemused contemplation for a moment as he considered Miles' words. "Actuall, Mr. Aldred. Other than a family penchant for eccentricity and extreme privacy, I can't think of any reason at all. It's simply never been mentioned. I don't have many visitors to the family estates, and well....." 

Duvalle shrugged. "We'll talk more about this later, to be sure. I like the way your mind works. Shall we join the others?"

"Certainly," said Miles with a smile, and followed as his led the way.

Duvalle was an interesting sort, to say the least. Most private collectors of fine art, especially those who sought out the famous pieces, had a certain pride of ownership and power somewhere in their motivation. They wanted to have something that no one else had. This was especially true of those who dealt in stolen art, since in that case one could not even boast about it.

Duvalle was different though. He didn't seem to have the typical collector mentality. The art in his collection simply was what it was, and though he clearly did appreciate it he didn't appear to devote much thought to his collection's place in the larger art world.

Curious. Miles began to think that he might have been mistaken about Duvalle's reasons for inviting him.