A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(33)
I moved to stand next to Charlotte, who glowed with happiness. I’d not had time to even think about, let alone ask her about, her concerns over the governess and her father, and I was relieved to see they didn’t seem to be troubling her then. Of course, that didn’t mean they were resolved, but at least she wasn’t letting them steal her joy over the upcoming celebration.
She turned her radiant smile on me before reaching out to thread her arm through mine. I squeezed it in affection as she tilted her head to the side, resting it on my shoulder.
Chapter 10
Since I’d spent much of the past two days distracted by the art forgeries, I deliberately banished them from my thoughts that evening and the next day, and focused my attention alternately on Charlotte and baby Emma. I would be lying if I said that part of me wasn’t also doing it in retaliation for Lord Barbreck not sharing everything he knew about the frauds with us. If he wished to know the truth, then he needed to stop keeping things from us.
Dinner that second evening was spent segregated, with the men inhabiting the library, study, and drawing room in the southern wing of the castle and the ladies cloistered in the rose parlor and morning room to the north. Though none of the ladies anticipated actual harm from the gentlemen toasting Rye with copious amounts of Rum Punch, we knew our men well enough to realize that mischief was not out of the question. So as an unspoken rule, we kept well clear of their impromptu party.
However, that did not stop us from making merry ourselves. Morven and Poppy confiscated multiple bottles of wine and porter from Barbreck’s extensive cellars, and we gathered before the hearth in the rose parlor to toast Charlotte with much laughter and delight. At the edges of the room were scattered the fruits of our labor in preparing for the wedding, but in the warm glow of the fire, we amused ourselves with songs and stories and discussions that would likely have shocked the men—the spirits and company loosening our tongues and hearts in more than one way.
A companionable lull fell over the gathering at one point—one that I was more attuned to, as I’d chosen to limit the amount I imbibed. After all, I had a wriggling infant to nurse in a few hours. As such, I found it impossible to ignore the sight of Poppy and Morven with their heads bent together giggling nearly uncontrollably.
“What on earth is so funny?” I asked them with a smile.
“We’re just expressing our appreciation for Great-Uncle’s art,” Poppy managed to reply before she began tittering again, nearly spilling her wine down her pale blue gown.
“Especially the painting of Mars,” Morven concurred. “Or is it Ares?” She waved her hand through the air as if to brush the question aside. “One can’t help but admire his attributes.” A wicked grin split her face as she shared a look with Poppy. “Or is that arse-tributes.”
This set both women off into peals of laughter, and their hilarity spread to Lady Bearsden and then Charlotte, who snickered into her glass. Even Aunt Cait chuckled after rather half-heartedly chiding her daughter for such a joke. I had no trouble deducing what they were referring to, but I wasn’t certain I’d yet seen this particular piece of art.
“Where is that painting hung?”
“Very well,” Poppy quipped before dissolving into another fit of mirth.
I shook my head at her ribald humor before persisting. “Who’s the artist?”
“It’s in the long gallery,” Morven replied with a gasp. “Surely you’ve seen it.”
“Oh, I do hope it’s not a forgery,” Aunt Cait said, her voice taut with concern. “Not that it matters. It’s still an exquisitely rendered painting.”
At this pronouncement, Lady Bearsden began guffawing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. Charlotte tripped on her skirts, struggling to control her own hilarity as she tried to help her great-aunt.
I laughed. “You’re chirping merry, the whole lot of you.”
“Aye, well, only you, cousin dear, wouldn’t notice such an . . . an exquisitely rendered piece,” Morven managed to retort with a titter, consciously repeating her mother’s words. “Too lost in the brushstrokes and glazing and high impasto.”
I couldn’t help but smile, for I had been waxing on rather poetically about such things to her the other day. The painting of Mars must have hung among the artworks on the side of the long gallery I’d yet to examine. However, I wasn’t about to let Morven’s remark go unchallenged. “Well, I hardly need to look at a painting to see a spectacular male form.”
This set everyone off again into gales of laughter, and for once my cousin did not insist upon having the final say. Instead she tipped her glass to me. “Touché.”
We fell quiet again, long enough to hear the faint echo of male voices on the other side of the manor. Aunt Cait sat forward as if she meant to rise. “I do hope they’re not damaging anything.” Then she lapsed back in her chair with a sigh.
The fire crackled in the hearth, silk rustled, and a servant could be heard passing quietly along the corridor outside, but no more was heard from the men. However, a vague sense of unease suddenly stole over me—just a momentary ruffling of my nerves—but unsettling, nonetheless. I reclined deeper into my corner of the sofa, listening to the others with half an ear as I tried to identify the source of my sudden twinge of worry.