A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(59)
There were also a number of Zoffany paintings I found suspect. Barbreck was plainly an admirer, but I had never particularly cared for that artist. He’d had great aptitude and had undoubtedly been capable of excellence, but his body of work was also riddled with clumsy efforts, skewed perspectives, and other symptoms of an undisciplined or indifferent creator. Such things made it difficult to tell whether the paintings hanging in the long gallery were forgeries or simply mediocre efforts by Zoffany himself.
The only thing that was clear was that the Titian and Van Dyck were not the sole forgeries in Barbreck’s collection. How many potential forgeries there were and how endemic the problem was could not possibly be known until a full inventory was made. A task that would have to fall to me.
I closed my eyes for a moment as the dull ache behind them intensified. A pang of hunger reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and now it was nearly three o’clock. No wonder I felt out of sorts. I decided to return to my chamber and ring for Bree. She could bring me a tray and track down Gage and the others. It was high time we compared notes and formed a plan of attack.
Chapter 17
Upon returning to my bedchamber, I discovered there was no need to ring for Bree. I could hear her raised voice clearly through the connecting door to the dressing room, and it was far from pleased.
“You dinna get to have a say in who I spend my time wi’,” she declared shrilly.
The answering voice was more muffled through the wood, but I had no trouble making out the words or who the speaker was. “Maybe not. But the man is an ass,” Anderley stated starkly. “Didn’t you once say that men and women can be blinded to the faults of the opposite sex? That we often hold greater insights into our own gender?”
My eyebrows arched at this reiteration of a debate they must have previously had.
“Well, I thought you should know that Callum might be pretty to look at, but he’s a selfish, unprincipled oaf,” he finished scathingly.
“Look at you. Canna take the advice, but ye can dish it back,” Bree retorted. “Do ye honestly think me so shallow as to only care aboot a person’s looks? If that was the case, then you and I would still be courtin’.”
I turned away from the wall shared with the dressing room, suddenly feeling my cheeks heat with guilt over listening to their conversation. But it wasn’t as if I had a choice. I didn’t even have to strain to hear their voices.
“Dinna get all puffed up, noo. ’Twasn’t a compliment.”
Frustration strangled Anderley’s voice. “All I’m trying to say, as a . . . a friend, is that you should be wary of him.”
“And all I’m tryin’ to say, for the third time, is I’m no’ a gudgeon, nor a green girl. I can look after myself.”
At this, I could hear her footsteps crossing the floor, but there wasn’t time to react before she threw open the door and came sailing into the bedchamber. I stood arrested by my own embarrassment, but also by the high color in her cheeks and the fiery flash in her eyes. Coupled with her strawberry blond hair, several wisps of which had tumbled loose about her face, she looked magnificent. All I could think was that it was no wonder Anderley had picked a fight. My fingers twitched at my side, anxious to capture her image in charcoal or, better yet, paint. Portrait of a Woman in a Righteous Fury.
When Bree caught sight of me standing near the outer door—for I’d taken no more than three steps into the room before the argument had distracted me—she flushed crimson from her neckline to her hairline. There was nothing I could say to ease either of our mortifications, so instead I decided to pretend nothing had happened.
“Bree, I’ve just realized I haven’t eaten since this morning. Would you bring a tray up?”
“O’ course, m’lady,” she said, sounding relieved, even as her brow crumpled in concern. “You need to keep your strength up, ’specially while nursin’ the bairn.”
“I know. With everything going on, I simply lost track of the time.” I crossed toward the writing desk, opening the drawer to look for paper. “Bring the tray to Mr. Gage’s chamber and send for him, Lord Henry, and Anderley to meet us there.” I looked up to meet her gaze. “I’ve learned a few things in the last hour, and I imagine others will also have news to share.”
“Aye.” She dipped a curtsy and then left.
I sat at the desk and jotted off a list of questions and points to consider, as well as a number of tasks to be completed, partly to organize my mind and partly to allow plenty of time for Anderley to retreat from the dressing chamber before I crossed it to reach the bedchamber that had been assigned to Gage on the other side. When I judged it to be sufficient, I picked up the list and strode toward the connecting door. I had to force myself to take a bracing breath for courage before rapping on the door. When no one answered, I opened it and, to my relief, found it empty. Gage’s bedchamber was also unoccupied, and I made myself comfortable at the twin to my writing desk, angled near one of the tall windows, to continue reviewing my list.
I allowed my gaze to play over the contents of the room as I pondered. As Gage only used this room to change, sleeping in my bedchamber, I had not yet entered it, but I found its aspect to be pleasing. Deep blue drapes framed the windows and highlighted the intricate scrolling design etched in nearly the same shade of blue on the silvery gray wallpaper. In fact, the same blue chased itself around the room, in the toile bedspread, the coil-patterned rug, and the handsome Louis Quatorze chairs positioned before the hearth. Rather than a painting, a large mirror in a carved wooden frame had been hung above the fireplace, reflecting the light.