A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(22)

Stepping back, I gazed up at the portrait of the three ladies again, feeling outrage building inside me. That someone should have forged Van Dyck’s work and succeeded in doing so—at least in fooling some people into believing it was such—was maddening and insulting. I was offended on the artist’s behalf. If the forger had been able to replicate Van Dyck’s style and technique more exactly, I think I would have been less upset, for then they would have at least exhibited skill equal to that of Van Dyck, or nearly so. I was no prig. I appreciated talent wherever it appeared. But to pass off this mediocre effort as the work of a master was frankly infuriating.

I turned my back on it, my lips undoubtedly curled in a sneer, and exchanged the turpentine for the magnifying glass to analyze the second troubling painting. Once again I was struck by the overwhelming sensation of wrongness. The light, the shadows, the colors, the textures—nothing felt right. Yes, there were pieces that were quite good if I separated them from the impact of the whole, but as soon as I widened my gaze, the composition once again fell flat. It was not as poorly executed as the Van Dyck, but it was certainly not equal to the genius of Titian.

“This one, too?” Bree whispered aghast.

“I’m afraid so.” Moving closer, I lifted the magnifying glass to scrutinize the texture of the paint. What I saw made me grimace in disgust. “If this portrait was by Titian, then it would be over 250 years old. There should be fine cracking in the mineral-rich pigments on the surface, not this . . . soupy, coagulated mess. This has to be overpaint.” I retreated a step to let my gaze sweep over its whole. “Which means something is painted underneath, possibly something very old.” I debated how to proceed. Whether I should gingerly test a small section of one of the lower corners or wait until the canvas could be removed from the wall.

Then I noted a discrepancy in the coat of one of the horse’s forelegs where it met the tasseled caparison covering. “Look here.” I pointed at the spot where a jagged strip of paint had flaked off revealing a sandy shade underneath quite unlike the steed’s deep umber coat. I knew that Titian had often layered his pigments to achieve a desired effect, but they would have dried at the same speed, and would not have flaked off or congealed as the top layer of paint had done. Clearly the portrait we now saw had been painted over an older composition.

“You were right, m’lady.”

“Yes. Though it’s somewhat of a sour triumph.”

Bree glanced at me and then back to the painting. “So . . . what does this mean? Did someone paint over a Titian?”

“There’s no way to really tell. Not unless the overpaint is painstakingly removed, and I’m not even certain that could be done without damaging the painting underneath.” I scowled in frustration. “And even if such an undertaking were successful, there’s no telling what we would find. The painting underneath might have been damaged, explaining why the overpaint was applied in the first place.”

“Do ye think that’s why they did it?”

I shrugged. “I suppose that would be the kindest reason. But there are also artists who believe their talent is equal to or greater than a painter like Titian and think they can improve upon his works. Not everyone is as reverent of art as I am. Or as clear-sighted about their abilities,” I added dryly.

I bent to replace my supplies in my kit. “Regardless, as it now appears, this painting is not a Titian. And I doubt it’s by any of the other notable artists from Venice who are sometimes mistaken for Titian—Tintoretto and Veronese and others—either.” The Venetian artists were known for their distinctive use of light and color, and neither of those characteristics, nor their level of skill, were present. I straightened, gazing sadly up at the equestrian. “The Campbells were right to question its authenticity.” They had been right to demand answers.

Which meant that Barbreck had been wrong.

“His lordship isna goin’ to like hearin’ that, is he?” Bree asked, correctly guessing the reason for my unhappy silence.

“No, I’m afraid he isn’t.”

Even if he was trying to coax himself into believing, now that he’d confronted Miss Campbell, he wanted the paintings to be forgeries. I knew the bald truth was that the discovery they were indeed fakes would be a hard blow. He would undoubtedly continue to insist she had somehow swapped and stolen the originals, but the logistics of such an enterprise would be staggering. Who had painted the forgeries? And how had the switch been made without anyone noticing?

There were dozens of questions to be answered. But the one foremost in my mind was whether the Van Dyck and Titian were the only fakes in Barbreck’s collection, or were there more yet to be uncovered?





Chapter 7




It had been almost a year since I’d enjoyed the pleasure of riding across the countryside on horseback, and nearly two years since I’d done so in the Scottish Highlands. As such, I began our ride feeling rather awkward atop the sturdy bay pony Gage had chosen for me from Barbreck’s stables, but soon enough I found myself settling into her gait, becoming re-accustomed to the saddle. Which was fortunate, for the trail my uncle had directed us to take soon after we crossed the bridge spanning the River Barbreck veered south over rocky terrain.

The carriage road was forced to divert east, avoiding the large stone crag standing in its way south of Dùn na Ban-òige and its hillfort, and then turn south again to parallel the burn trickling through Kilmartin Glen between the larger ridges. But on horseback we could take this more direct route, skirting the rugged terrain where the base of the crag met the loch, and complete the journey to Poltalloch in half the time.