A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(12)

“All in good-natured fun,” Gage answered calmly, knowing better than to let himself be riled by the wily old marquess.

Barbreck’s eyes narrowed craftily. “Aye? Naught but a brotherly tussle, then.”

My eyes darted to Gage’s face, perhaps giving too much away. I’d known it would only be a matter of time before someone noted the similarities between Gage and Henry. Not that it was imperative to keep the matter private, but I felt the half brothers should have the ultimate say in who was told and who wasn’t. Particularly as such a revelation was not without risks and repercussions to certain people’s reputations if the knowledge became too widespread.

Gage’s lips curled softly in amusement. “You could call it that.”

Which was neither a confirmation nor a denial, but delighted Barbreck nonetheless.

Lady Bearsden, on the other hand, was scrutinizing Gage’s features with too much intensity, and I knew a far more pointed comment would pass her lips if I did not divert her interest.

“No, I . . . well, I have something a bit awkward to tell you,” I replied somewhat gracelessly, not knowing how on earth to broach such a subject. My gaze shifted to Lady Bearsden before returning to the marquess. “One that might be best discussed in private.”

I could tell from their rapt expressions that I had their attention now. Unfortunately, Lady Bearsden leapt to the wrong conclusion.

“Has something happened?” She slid forward to the edge of her chair. “Emma hasn’t fallen ill, has she?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I assured her. “We are all well.”

“Then, another guest?” She glanced at Gage. “Lord Henry, perhaps?”

“No, it has nothing to do with the family or any of the guests,” I replied with perhaps more force than was necessary. I exhaled an exasperated breath, realizing I would have to be clearer if I wanted her to stop pressing the matter. “It’s to do with Lord Barbreck’s art collection.”

The marquess thumped his cane against the floor between his legs, leaning on the silver filigreed head. “Aye, weel, then ye can speak frankly in front o’ her ladyship. There’s no need for secrecy there.”

I opened my mouth to offer one more objection but then stopped. If he didn’t mind her hearing, then who was I to oppose. Besides, it might go more easily if Lady Bearsden was here to witness the conversation. Her dark eyes shimmered not only with curiosity but also kindness.

I dipped my head once in acceptance and sank down on the upholstered bench across from them, waiting until Gage had joined me before I gathered my words. “I spent some time this afternoon admiring your paintings on the walls of the grand staircase and then into the long gallery. It’s quite impressive,” I confessed with sincerity, hoping to soften the blow.

“Aye, I’ve been told by some that it is the finest collection in Scotland. Perhaps all o’ Britain,” he remarked with pride, having said something similar the day before.

This assessment was definitely taking it too far. His collection was certainly fine, but not the most superb in all of Britain, nor even, in all likelihood, Scotland. However, pointing this out would only make what I had to say next more difficult.

“Yes, well, I . . . I have something troubling to tell you.” I faltered, struggling to continue. Particularly in the face of the forbidding expression which had fallen over Barbreck’s countenance. I searched his features, trying to understand precisely what was stamped there. Did he already have some inkling of what I was going to say, or was he merely reacting to my evident uneasiness?

Gage pressed a reassuring hand to the small of my back, and I forced a deep breath past the tightness in my lungs. “Your Van Dyck portrait. The one of the three ladies.” I hesitated a second longer before spitting out the truth. “It’s a forgery.”

I gazed at Barbreck, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stifle the urge to rattle off all of the evidence, instead making myself wait for him to speak first. But rather than asking me why I believed such a thing to be true, he simply grew redder and redder, until the veins in his forehead became a mottled purple, and I feared he might be in physical distress. Just as I leaned forward in alarm, his voice cracked like a whip. “Lies!”





Chapter 4




I shrank back, feeling as if I’d been struck, memories of my first husband making me want to shrivel up into a ball.

“Lies!” Barbreck repeated, his voice growing in volume. “I welcome ye to my house, allow ye to view my collection . . .” His eyes glittered with fury. “And yet, I’d no’ kenned I was claspin’ a viper to my breast.”

“Now, see here . . .” Gage protested.

“Did she put ye up to it?” he snapped, rearing forward nearly onto his feet, which was no mean feat. I had seen how much effort it took him to stand, using his cane for leverage. “Did she?” he demanded again when I didn’t answer.

“No one put me up to anything,” I finally managed to reply, but he shook his head in disgust and shakily stood.

Lady Bearsden, who had been staring at the marquess in mute shock, appeared to have regained some of her composure. “Barbreck, please,” she pleaded. “You can’t . . .”

“I can,” he shouted as he strode away, thumping his cane angrily against the floor. “And I do.”