A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(57)
“And who’s to say whether these murder investigations you’ve undertaken would ever have been solved.” She tapped my knee. “I know Charlotte is glad you put your experiences to good use. And so is Rye.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but it did remind me about what had happened in the drawing room a short time ago. “If only we can convince Lord Ledbury of that, as well as the suitability of their match.”
Aunt Cait’s mouth pursed with displeasure as she adjusted the neckline of her gown striped in alternating patterns. As always, she was dressed in the first stare of fashion. At least that was something Ledbury couldn’t disapprove of. When she looked up after gathering herself, her blue eyes snapped with repressed ire. “I know Lord Ledbury is a bit of a stickler for propriety, and frankly a pretentious bore, but I would have thought he’d learned from the tragedy of his daughter’s first marriage that greater rank does not necessarily equate to greater quality in terms of the character of men. Apparently, I gave him more credit for good sense than he deserves.”
She tugged at the lace trimming of her gigot sleeve. “In any case, Rye’s lineage is nothing to sniff at. He is already the grandson of a baron, and someday he will be the son of a marquess. Not his heir, no, but there is plenty of wealth to go around. He’s already been given use of, and the income from, one of Barbreck’s estates in Midlothian for the perpetuity of his lifetime and that of his son’s.”
It was clear my aunt had been insulted, and I couldn’t fault her for her outrage. Lord Ledbury had been unaccountably rude. I only hoped that if he could not be brought around, Charlotte would not bow to his pressure. But I also knew how much Charlotte disliked conflict. It tied her stomach in knots and gave her megrims. I wished her father could be more considerate of her. Surely, he must realize how happy she was with Rye and how flustered his disapproval made her.
But then, like Aunt Cait, perhaps I gave him too much credit. All I had witnessed thus far showed me he was a selfish man focused solely on his own vanity and consequence. That did not bode well for his support of Charlotte or her enjoyment of the days to follow.
“Did you learn anything helpful about Mairi MacCowan from the Campbells and their staff?” my aunt asked, breaking into my ruminations.
“Yes and no,” I replied, forcing my thoughts along a different track. “Do you know if any rhubarb is grown at Barbreck?”
“Rhubarb? Probably.” She gasped. “The leaves! Is that what poisoned her?”
“Maybe. Though it seems doubtful. As I understand it, she would have needed to ingest pounds of them before they would have killed her.”
“True. I’ve only heard of people suffering severe stomach upset.”
And yet, we still had no evidence Mairi had exhibited that symptom.
I turned to watch the rain running in rivulets down the glass of the nearest window. “Did you know Lord Alisdair resided in a cottage south of here rather than at the estate?”
“Yes,” she replied, clearly cognizant that I was aware she must have known. Barbreck’s youngest brother had not died until five years earlier. “But let me guess, no one told you that either.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh in answer to the shake of my head. “My apologies, Kiera. Considering the fact he asked you to solve the riddle of these forgeries and figure out what happened to Mairi, I had hoped Barbreck was being far more forthcoming with you, but it appears I was wrong.” She rolled her eyes before turning to me. “I’ll be certain you’re given the key and granted access.”
“Thank you.”
Her head tilted to the side, and her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Did he tell you about Lord Alisdair’s Italian friend? The painter who came to stay with him from time to time.”
I sat forward in my seat. “No!”
Aunt Cait closed her eyes and shook her head in disappointment. I suspected Barbreck was going to be shown the sharp side of her tongue in short order, and well he deserved it.
“Signor Pellegrini.” It rolled off her tongue with a trill. “That was his name. He dined with us from time to time, and he was very charming. But I know you must be wondering now why Barbreck did not mention his existence before. I assume, like you, it’s because Signor Pellegrini would be an obvious suspect for who created those forgeries.”
“Did you ever see any of Signor Pellegrini’s artwork?”
She crossed one leg behind the other. “As I understood it, he mainly painted murals. There are a few inside Uncle Alisdair’s cottage.” Her expression turned wry. “But that is not to say he did not, or could not, paint on canvas.”
I turned to scowl into the hearth, wondering what to make of this revelation. My aunt was right. Barbreck had clearly kept it from me because he knew Signor Pellegrini would be a suspect. But that did not mean the Italian was the forger. Although, thus far, the only artists whom I had been made aware of who may have had the necessary skills to be our potential forger and the proximity to Barbreck Manor were Lord Alisdair—despite Barbreck’s assertions to the contrary—and his Italian friend. The way I saw it, the forgeries were either created before they reached Scotland, or Lord Alisdair and Signor Pellegrini were our culprits. The likelihood of yet another gifted artist suddenly popping up nearby—close enough to gain access to the paintings in the long gallery—was incredibly slim.