A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(10)
“You’re wondering how I can be so sure?”
His expression turned sheepish.
I sank down on the opposite end of the mattress. “Because I’m an artist.” I shook my head. “No, it’s more than that.” I tried again. “Because I’ve studied Van Dyck. I know his work. I know his style, his techniques. Were it a good forgery, I would not dare to voice my misgivings even if I had them, for there are any number of reasons why a painting might not appear to be entirely up to snuff. The varnish could be discolored with age, or it could have been damaged or improperly cleaned, and then someone of lesser skill tried to cover it up or fix it.”
I tilted my head to the side, considering the possibility that the flaws and inconsistencies I’d detected had been caused by such overpaint, that a real Van Dyck was hidden beneath, but then I discarded the possibility. If there was an actual Van Dyck underneath—and I highly doubted it—it had been so damaged and obscured as to no longer truly be his work.
“But this is not a good forgery. Not by Van Dyck’s standards in any case, or his pupils.” A man of Sir Anthony Van Dyck’s caliber would have had a studio of artists working under him, preparing the canvases and pigments, echoing his technique, copying his work, and even painting the elements of some of his portraits that were less in need of the master’s hand.
I pressed a hand to my forehead, wondering how I was going to tell Lord Barbreck that one of his most prized works of art was a forgery, or whether I even should.
But of course I had to. I couldn’t let him go on believing it was a genuine Van Dyck. Not when he might find out from another visitor to Barbreck in a far more embarrassing manner. In any case, if he didn’t know it was a fraud, how could he attempt to recoup his losses, either by investigating the theft of the original or suing the fraudsman who’d sold it to him in the first place?
Unless that had been his brother Alisdair.
I cringed. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
“You’re worried about telling Barbreck,” Gage deduced.
“How can I not be?” I retorted, distress tightening my voice.
He laid Emma in the middle of the counterpane decorated with delicate twining silver embroidery and gave her the ragdoll sitting on the table beside the bed. She cooed to her little friend before stuffing part of it into her mouth. Seeing this, I couldn’t help but smile, especially when she began to kick happily.
Gage slid closer, reaching out to clasp my hand where it rested against the coverlet. “He might be upset upon hearing the news, but he’ll recognize it’s not your fault.”
I nodded, hoping he was right. Barbreck might profess a fondness for me, but he was also quite the curmudgeon and, like many Highlanders, capable of keeping ferocious grudges for even the tiniest infractions.
“Shall I come with you?” he offered.
I supposed it was better to have it over and done with, but still I hesitated, wondering if perhaps I’d made too hasty an assessment. Except I knew that I hadn’t. Actually, the more I questioned myself, the more certain I became. After all, when it came to art, I’d come to realize that the first instinctual impression was almost always the right one. Certain artists and paintings made you feel certain things. They resonated inside you like the pure sweet ring of a bell or the deep peal of a gong, like the precision of a major chord or the aching tension of a minor seventh, like the lyrical cascade of a mountain spring or the grumble of thunder. Whatever tone that painting had been attempting to strike, it had succeeded in stirring only discord, and not even an intentional dissonance at that.
“Would you?” I finally replied.
“Of course. Shall we go now?”
“Yes, I suppose there’s no use dragging my feet.”
He smiled in commiseration and then strode across the room to rap once on the adjoining nursery door while I lifted Emma and her ragdoll. A moment later, Mrs. Mackay came bustling through the door, her silver hair tucked neatly inside a lace cap. I didn’t know precisely how many generations of children she had raised in her lifetime, but Emma was certainly not her first—or even second or third—and somehow I doubted she would be her last. Despite the wrinkles which had settled into the grooves of her face and the gentle sagging of the skin around her neck and beneath her eyes, she still brimmed with energy.
We had struggled to find just the right nurse to fit the needs of our little family. One who wouldn’t mind the somewhat nomadic lifestyle we led at times, for I had absolutely no intention of leaving my child behind as we traveled about. Not that I could at the moment, nursing her as I was, but I had wanted to be sure they understood that that wouldn’t change even when she was older. Because most children of the upper classes remained at a country house in the charge of their nurse and her staff while their parents traveled, I knew this would not appeal to all potential nannies, particularly experienced ones.
There was also the matter of my scandalous past and Gage’s efforts as a gentleman inquiry agent, which I assisted him with. We had solved a number of intricate investigations over the past two years and unmasked several murderers, and while we had recently taken a respite from such activities since Emma’s birth, that didn’t mean we had given them up entirely. If someone needed our help and it was in our power to give, I knew we would never say no, even if Gage had made it clear to his father—who was also a gentleman inquiry agent of great renown—that he was no longer at his beck and call. The fact that we dabbled in such matters was unattractive to some would-be applicants and downright disagreeable to others.