A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(65)

At first it seemed he wouldn’t answer, having returned to his sulk, but then he grumbled as he turned away, “I’ll have Wheaton show you.”

I studied his profile, wondering what other secrets he might be keeping from us, what other lies of omission he might have made. But I knew any further pressing on our part would only be met with stony silence.

Gage pulled me toward the door, but as we reached the entrance, I couldn’t resist one last glance over my shoulder. Barbreck still sat in the same posture, but the anger that had seemed to radiate from him seconds before had dampened to something weaker. His eyes were trained on the portrait I had painted—the one of the woman who looked much like Miss Campbell. Whatever he continued to protest about his brother’s innocence and honorability, I could tell that, privately, doubts had begun to creep in.

An unwanted pulse of sympathy clenched my heart before I pushed it away in irritation. While Alisdair might very well have deceived him, Barbreck still could have chosen to handle things differently. He was the one who had allowed his own pride to blind him for so long and cost himself and others so much. I could only hope he didn’t allow that same hubris to cost those around him even more.



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*

I met Anderley in the long gallery three-quarters of an hour later after I’d tended to Emma. I was determined to make the most of our time, and the gallery seemed like the logical place to start. As I’d requested, he’d brought paper and pencil so that we might begin a list of the paintings.

“I think our best course of action is to begin by making a note of all the pieces of art we find suspect and their location,” I told him. “Then we can compare the list to Barbreck’s records before returning to the paintings for further examination and testing, as needed.” This would both save us time and spare the paintings any of the damage those tests might cause no matter the care I took.

A swift look over Anderley’s arm showed me he’d already anticipated just such an undertaking, marking the Titian and Van Dyck down on the paper. We circled the room clockwise from those paintings, adding the alleged Gainsborough, Saloman van Ruisdael, and two Zoffany pieces I re-examined that I’d taken notice of earlier that day. Anderley also suggested we add a Filippo Lippi painting to the list, and when he pulled the small piece away from the wall, we both agreed the back of the panel on which the image was painted appeared too fresh and new.

Having finished in the long gallery, we progressed through the corridors and into other chambers, working through the house from top to bottom. Despite the fraught nature of our task, I discovered I was enjoying myself. It wasn’t often that I was able to debate the merits of a painting with someone who had more than a rudimentary knowledge of art. It also allowed me to witness a side of my husband’s valet I normally wouldn’t be permitted to see. Anderley possessed a love for argument and debate. One that sparked in his eyes whenever we deliberated a piece’s techniques and merit. At times, I even suspected he was playing devil’s advocate, simply to rile me and spur on further discourse.

I began to feel empathy for Bree if this was a game he often played, but I knew my lady’s maid could more than hold her own. Truth be told, I wondered if she might have derived as much enjoyment out of it as he did. Anderley’s dark good looks were certainly heightened rather than diminished while making an impassioned argument, his entire body—arms, face, and feet—entering into the appeal.

And then there were times when we both found ourselves arrested by the splendor of a painting, falling silent as we stood side by side to appreciate its beauty and mastery. It was during one of these moments when my attention shifted to the man beside me, pondering the mystery he continued to present. “I wish I’d known how much you appreciate art,” I remarked lightly.

He turned to look at me and then shrugged. “I enjoy it, but it is not a passion. Not like it is for you.”

“But you’re so well-informed.” I gestured to the Velázquez hanging before us. “This is not the first time you’ve studied such works.”

“I’m Italian,” he replied, as if this justified it all, and I felt a pulse of amusement. But then he paused, perhaps recognizing that did not fully explain it. “And . . . I have a love of art, of beauty running through my veins.”

I nodded, recognizing what he was trying to convey. Gage had told me his mother had been a soprano—and a successful one—before her marriage to Anderley’s father. Had Napoleon not come trampling through the country, and the war had not ravaged the fragile economies of the Italian states, then it was unlikely there ever would have been a need for his family to apprentice him to the padrone, believing he was joining a traveling theater troupe. I had heard his rich tenor singing voice and wondered if he would have followed his mother onto the stage.

“What is your great passion, then?” I asked as we moved on to the next painting. “Music?”

He shook his head. “No. Not like . . . Mamma.” There was a slight hesitation in his voice, as if he wasn’t accustomed to allowing himself to speak her name or invoke her memory. “I’m not sure I have a great passion. I’m not sure there is room in my life for one.”

I wasn’t certain how to respond to this. Sometimes I forgot how the life of a servant, of anyone who was reliant on the sweat of their brow for their daily bread, could not be beholden to the whims of their desires and passions. The number of people who were able and allowed to follow such pursuits were few and far between. Even as a woman doing so, I was in the minority, for Gage, as my husband, could forbid it at any moment. Not that he would ever do such a thing. But the fact remained that he could.