A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(14)
“Yes, I seem to recall . . . But, no . . .” She lapsed back into silence, and just when I was about to press her on it again, she shifted forward in her seat, beckoning Gage closer. “I must check something.”
Whether this was to do with Barbreck and his hostility toward Miss Campbell or another matter she’d only just remembered, I couldn’t tell, but I stifled the urge to badger her as Gage helped her to her feet and then escorted her from the room. Should she have something to tell us, she would, in her own time.
Meanwhile, I would have to be satisfied by the fact that at least the others seemed to believe my assessment of the Van Dyck as a forgery. Though I couldn’t shake the uneasiness that had gripped me since Lord Barbreck’s outburst.
“Don’t fret, dear,” Aunt Cait consoled me, correctly reading my expression. “He must simply be shocked. He’ll come around.”
“Yes, but . . .” I bit my lip, wondering if now was the time to be asking further questions. But now that I’d begun, I couldn’t take it back. “How did a forgery—and one allegedly by such a renowned artist—end up in his lordship’s collection?”
Everyone fell silent as they exchanged glances with each other. Not even Morven had a quip.
Aunt Cait was the first to reply. “I don’t know, but let’s wait until Barbreck is more accepting before we try to answer that.”
“Of course,” I murmured. But I knew it wouldn’t be so simple. At least, not for me.
I excused myself soon after and wandered back to my bedchamber even as my thoughts were still fixated on the painting. Finding myself standing in the middle of the room, I turned in a circle, searching for some occupation. By now, Emma would be taking her last nap of the day, and I was in no mood for other company. Then my gaze landed on my sketchbook and charcoals on a table next to the pale sea green damask couch before the windows.
Sliding my kid leather slippers from my feet, I reclined on the couch, pulling my knees up toward my chest to form a prop for my book, and then flipped the pages until I came to a clean sheet. I breathed deeper as I swept the charcoal across the page in broad strokes, the smoky musk as familiar and comforting as an old shawl. Sketching had always helped to settle me when I was tired, strained, or anxious. While painting fully absorbed all of my attention, sketching merely distracted me from the present while still allowing my brain to ruminate on what it wished in the background.
Inevitably my thoughts returned to the forgery. Or forgeries—plural—for I had an unsettling feeling that the Titian hanging next to the Van Dyck might also be a fake. And what of the other paintings I hadn’t even seen yet?
Brushing aside that possibility for the moment, I focused on the question I’d posed to my relatives in the library, but my thoughts didn’t travel very far before the door to the chamber opened.
My maid, Bree, paused on the threshold, evidently surprised to see me. “My apologies. Should I return later?”
“No, no,” I replied, gesturing for her to come inside. I knew she would be readying my attire for dinner—checking to see if any of my garments needed pressing or last-minute mending—and I didn’t wish to put her behind schedule.
She closed the door softly and then advanced into the room, her hands clasped before her primrose skirts—as lady’s maids and valets were not required to wear a uniform, but rather more simple garments or castoffs from their employers. I could tell from the expression on her softly freckled face that she’d heard something of what had happened in the library. Given the swiftness with which gossip traveled among the staff of a large household, I should have expected as much.
“Is there anything I can do for ye, m’lady?” Bree asked in her gentle brogue.
“No, Bree, thank you.” I hesitated to say more but then decided it would be best to know. “What are they saying belowstairs?”
She moved several steps closer, sympathy shimmering in her whisky brown eyes. “That his lordship lost his temper and started ragin’ like he were fit to make a Highland charge.”
“Yes, that about sums it up.” I turned to look at my drawing; the background and shape of a man had only just begun to take shape. “Did they say . . . does Lord Barbreck often lose his temper?”
“In general, the staff seems to think o’ him as a rather cranky if fair employer. I didna get the impression he regularly yells at them.”
This matched my history with the marquess. I had only ever seen his cantankerous side, not encountered the man in an actual fury.
“But Callum, the second footman, said he’s heard him arguin’ wi’ some o’ the neighborin’ landowners.” She arched her fair eyebrows high. “And that once he caught him yellin’ at his correspondence as if he thought it would answer him.”
Then my altercation wasn’t an isolated incident. Though at least it appeared he was better mannered than to take out his frustration on his staff.
“Here you are,” Gage declared, opening the door to the corridor. Evidently, he’d been looking for me after escorting Lady Bearsden to wherever she’d wished to go.
“I think I’ll wear the orchid pink watered silk gown this evening,” I told Bree as I turned to lower my legs from the couch and leaned forward to set my sketchbook and charcoal on the table.
“Aye.” She turned toward the clothespress. “Wi’ the pearl-drop necklace?”