A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(19)

As apologies went, it wasn’t exactly sincere. If it could even be considered an apology, given the fact he’d avoided saying the actual words. But I suspected Barbreck had rarely, if ever, been made to apologize for anything in his entire life. And at four score and two years of age, he was unlikely to develop an aptitude for it. In any case, his remorse was short-lived.

“But surely ye must understand why I need your help.” His eyes hardened. “She canna be allowed to get away wi’ this.”

I turned to look up at Gage, seeing in his face the same irritation and reluctance I felt, but I knew he would leave the decision to me. I had been the one who had been insulted, and I was the one who possessed the knowledge and skills Barbreck wished to utilize. My stomach swirled with a mixture of pity and revulsion, for I had no desire to become entangled with this vendetta between Barbreck and the Campbells. Though, truth be known, we had only heard one side of it. Perhaps this Miss Campbell had done her best to move on, harboring no ill will toward her former fiancé. Or perhaps she had not. There was no way to know unless we spoke with her about it.

I also had to admit that my curiosity had been awakened. I felt certain the Van Dyck was a forgery, but how old was it? Could an authentic Van Dyck actually lay somewhere underneath numerous layers of overpaint, perhaps originally applied to hide damage? Had I discarded such a possibility too swiftly? Could that explain the discrepancy? And then there were the questions about the painting’s provenance. How did it come to be in Barbreck’s possession in the first place? Was the painting hanging in the long gallery the original portrait he had purchased, or as he alleged, had it been switched out with a forgery? If so, when?

Finding satisfactory answers to these questions could be very difficult, if not impossible, but the challenge of doing so appealed to me. The artist in me was affronted by the idea of someone else trying to pass their artwork off as another artist’s, be it for monetary gain or pure ego. It wasn’t right. Of course, there was always the possibility that the painting had been misidentified, either by accident or on purpose. If so, the real artist deserved to have their name restored to their creation.

If I agreed to do this, it would be for the integrity of that artist, not for Barbreck and whatever revenge he wished to take on Miss Campbell.

But first there was another issue that needed to be addressed.

I turned to study Barbreck’s features, ignoring the murmurs of the others in the room. “The Titian you mentioned. The one you said the Campbells claimed was a forgery. Where is it now?”

“Hangin’ in the long gallery,” he replied after a slight hesitation.

“Next to the Van Dyck?”

“Yes.” This time his voice was definitely tinged with suspicion and perhaps a warning.

“Then I’m afraid the Van Dyck isn’t your only problem. Because I’m fairly certain that Titian is also a forgery. Though, in this instance, it may simply be a misattribution rather than outright fraud.”





Chapter 6




Barbreck’s face flushed with fury, but whether it was the presence of the others or his own realization that lashing out at me would get him nowhere, he stifled his anger before speaking. “Fairly certain?”

“Yes, I would need to study it closer. And . . . there are a few assessments I could attempt to verify its age.” I mentioned the last with some trepidation, for these could potentially damage the painting. I was no expert when it came to such things, but as an artist, I did understand how my chosen mediums worked, and the changes and processes they went through.

Barbreck scrutinized my features, clearly recognizing the other implication of my analyzing the paintings. If I uncovered evidence that they were, in fact, forgeries, there would be no turning back, no denying it. Just because he seemed to have accepted the possibility that the Van Dyck was a fake did not mean he was willing to face the prospect that there were other forgeries in his collection.

Then suddenly his shoulders slumped, and the proud angle of his gray head seemed to droop as he nodded somewhat listlessly. It was such a rapid change from his prior bristling demeanor that it seemed all of us in the room leaned forward in alarm. “Do what ye must to uncover the truth,” he directed, the weariness he must have felt making his face pale. “?’Tis better to ken than no’.” He clamped his hands on the arms of his chair, his own arms shaking as he attempted to rise. “And noo, I’d like to rest.”

Rye and Henry, being closest, hurried over to help him to his feet. Then Rye escorted him from the room while Aunt Cait bustled after them, promising to send up his valet and a tray of dinner. Meanwhile the rest of us sat looking at each other, uncertain what to do.

It was Lady Bearsden who broke the spell, planting her cane firmly between her legs. “I think I shall also retire,” she declared, hoisting herself to her feet. Charlotte came forward to grasp her arm as Lady Bearsden hobbled toward the door. She paused beside my chair, reaching up one gnarled finger to pat my cheek. “The truth will always out. So do not fret, my dear.” Her eyes were kind, as if realizing that was exactly what I’d begun to do. “Simply give it to us unvarnished. The rest will take care of itself.”

Then with one last pat, she moved on, though not before briefly clutching my husband’s strong arm. “Oh, to be young again,” she lamented on a sigh, and I couldn’t halt a bubble of amusement from bringing a smile to my lips. Lady Bearsden was rather fond of good-looking young men, and unafraid to comment on that fact as well as their attributes.