A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(29)
“However, there doesn’t appear to be any evidence that the Campbells had anything to do with the Van Dyck. Nothing, that is, except the fact that Barbreck believes they did.”
Gage kicked at a tuft of moss with the toe of his riding boot. “Barbreck claims that the Van Dyck must have been switched, but when exactly in the last fifty-odd years does he allege that happened? And why did no one notice?”
I frowned. “They should have. He should have. If he had ever truly owned a Van Dyck, he would have seen the difference.” I tilted my head. “Though I do wonder when he actually acquired the Van Dyck. We know Lord Alisdair brought the Titian back from a trip to the continent sometime shortly before Barbreck and Miss Campbell’s broken engagement, but we don’t know when Lord Alisdair returned with the Van Dyck.”
“True. It might be a more recent acquisition.”
“I find myself curious about Lord Alisdair,” Henry admitted, echoing my thoughts. “How long ago did he die?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But that’s one of many things we need to find out. And the best source for that information, while admittedly biased, is Barbreck.”
“Then I suppose it’s time we return to Barbreck Manor. You also need to see to Emma soon, don’t you?” Gage asked, tracking my movements as I checked the watch pinned to my bodice.
“Yes. Though there’s no need to rush.” I moved forward to take hold of the strong arm he held out to me to help me down from the outcropping. I steeled my resolve. “Then we’ll speak with Barbreck.”
Chapter 9
After feeding and settling Emma, I found the men waiting for me in Barbreck’s study. Contrary to the dark wood-paneled affair most gentlemen seemed to prefer for their inner enclaves, the room was light and airy, just like the rest of the house. High ceilings gave over to white walls covered in landscape paintings of Highland scenes. I arrived to find Lord Barbreck, Gage, and Henry ensconced in the leather chairs and sofas at the center of the room, cradling glasses of amber liquid in their hands.
I’d opened my mouth to apologize for my delay when the portrait hanging between the two tall windows above the sideboard arrested my steps. It was one of mine. One of the paintings I’d created at Gairloch Castle following my first husband’s death and the ensuing scandal. While most of my past works were painted from subjects who posed for me, this one was from a series of portraits I’d created largely from my imagination. Sometimes the people portrayed were drawn from my memories of interesting faces I’d seen in a park or a village street, but other times they were pure whim, as was this one.
I had named each painting after the emotion depicted by the subject—a title that only I, the broker, and the owner would know unless the owner chose to reveal it. In this instance, it was Portrait of a Woman Scorned. Her body swathed in a deep forest green gown was painted in three-quarter profile, as if she were moving away from the viewer, but her head had turned back to look directly out of the canvas. Snapping eyes, their depths stormy with emotion, captured your attention, as well as the defiant, upturned chin perched above the woman’s long, regal neck. It was not a comfortable painting, for it fairly throbbed with tension and repressed fury. It made my skin flush hot and hollowed the pit of my stomach just looking at it and recalling the memories I’d poured into creating it.
My first thought after my initial surprise was to wonder why Barbreck had it, and whether he even realized it was mine. Most of my paintings from that period of my life had been sold under the name K. A. Elwick. While that alternate identity was not so secretive now, as portraits under my own name had increased in popularity, that didn’t mean everyone was aware of the connection.
One look at his almost defiant expression as he stared back at me told me the answer. Yes, he knew I had painted it, and no, he didn’t want me to comment on it. Or perhaps he didn’t want me to draw the connection I was beginning to make. My gaze flicked back up to the woman, who I now realized reminded me of Miss Campbell, or rather how she must have looked when she was younger. Barbreck’s eyes promised retribution if I remarked on it, and that more than anything told me I was right.
“My apologies for the delay,” I said instead, sinking down onto the sofa next to Gage and settling my skirts. “What have I missed?”
“Nothing but Barbreck’s grunts of impatience,” Gage replied, the twinkle in his pale blue eyes telling me he had enjoyed provoking the marquess.
“Aye, weel, I’ve waited all day for your report, so let’s get on wi’ it,” he growled.
I arched my eyebrows in mild chastisement at this curt demand, but the vee between Barbreck’s winged eyebrows only grew deeper. “We spoke to Miss Campbell and her sister, Miss Margaret,” I confirmed. “But before we can determine anything, we need some more information.” Barbreck appeared as if he was about to argue, so I charged ahead before he could do so. “We understand the alleged Titian was acquired by your brother, Lord Alisdair, in continental Europe sometime in 1777 or 1778. And he acquired it specifically for Sir James Campbell. Is that correct?”
“Aye.” He frowned. “At least . . .” He broke off, considering something. But whatever it was he quickly discarded it. “Aye, that’s correct.”
I eyed him askance, wondering if I should press him about whatever had caused him to pause, but then Gage pressed on.