A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(8)

I turned to continue up the stairs and around the corner into the long gallery. I knew that Barbreck’s most treasured works of art would hang here, and I was not disappointed. Paintings spanned the length of the gallery, some no larger than my two hands placed side by side, and some large enough to cover the wall from floor to ceiling. Light spilled into the gallery from several high windows, illuminating the white walls and corniced ceiling, and highlighting the paintings and a number of small sculptures and busts. In this space, silence reigned, broken only by the soft click of my own footfalls against the marble floor.

I inched my way down the wall, savoring this feast for my eyes, examining the brushstrokes and colors, the composition and technique, the light and depth and emotion. It was like wading into a pool of euphoric delight. My fingers twitched at my side, eager to grip my specially weighted paintbrushes, impatient to discover whether I could replicate the method. I leaned close to see even the most minute detail and then retreated to marvel at its broader effect.

That is, until something jarred me from my revery.

It wasn’t immediate. Rather it began with merely a whisper of uncertainty, a stirring somewhere inside me that something wasn’t quite right.

I felt it first when I stood in front of the Titian—an artist I was greatly familiar with due to his popularity among Englishmen. I had seen numerous works by Titian, but this painting did not fill me with the same reverence and awe. It portrayed an equestrian astride his steed, bedecked in armor, and yet it was very dark, and the reflective qualities of the metal seemed dull. Most of the works I had seen by Titian boasted lush and luminous colors and masterful light and shadow, even 250 years after his death. Although there were darker, more subtle portraits attributed to him, I reasoned. Or perhaps the varnish was severely discolored with age. But still, my disquiet would not be eased, particularly when I turned my attention to the cloth and draping. I had once stood transfixed by the manner in which Titian had rendered the texture of a quilted sleeve, but this equestrian’s clothing appeared flat and unrealized.

Determined to brush these worries aside as flaws in my own expectations, I moved on to the next portrait of three ladies, only to be nearly overwhelmed by a swirling sensation in my stomach akin to nauseousness. This painting was even worse. The frame stated it to be a Van Dyck, but I was certain it could not be.

As the court portraitist during Charles I’s reign, Sir Anthony Van Dyck had painted during a tumultuous reign filled with uncertainty. But despite—or perhaps because of—that, his portraits were filled with life and drama and movement. He did not simply paint a person, he captured a moment in time. And there was always a sense that there was a story behind the composition of the people, a secret in their eyes, words trembling on their lips.

But this. This held none of that allure. None of that dynamic force that typified Van Dyck. This was stiff and lifeless. Even the pigments were dull, the saturated colors he’d applied—likely learned from studying Titian’s works—nonexistent.

I was stunned. Utterly stunned.

This room held Barbreck’s most prized paintings. He clearly believed this to be a genuine Van Dyck, and yet I could not deny the evidence before me, nor my years of visual and practical study and the instincts they’d honed.

I stood with both hands clasped over my mouth, wondering what on earth I should do, when suddenly a strong pair of arms wrapped around me from behind. I gasped and startled, only to sag back against Gage’s chest at the sound of his deep chuckle.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he murmured into my ear. “I did stomp my way across the room and say your name a few times, but apparently you were lost in your study. As I knew I would find you.”

I exhaled a long breath. “Did you have a good ride?” I asked, smelling the musk of wind and sun and horse clinging to his clothes and skin.

“We did.” He turned me in his arms, arching a single eyebrow. “Though, you were right. Jack enjoys talking about ancient monuments.” His lips quirked. “An interest that my half brother does not share.”

I nodded distractedly, my thoughts still on the alleged Van Dyck hanging behind me.

“At one point I thought I might have to intercede when he started weighing the heft of a rock between his two hands after Jack had waxed on for too long about burial cairns.”

I smiled reflexively at his jest, but evidently it wasn’t convincing, for he lifted his hands to clasp my upper arms.

“Kiera,” he said, waiting for me to look up at him. “You look troubled.” His brow furrowed as his gaze searched mine. “What is it?”

I hesitated, wondering if I should keep my suspicions to myself. But then I realized this was Gage. There was no need to keep such a thing from him. Not when he could help me decide what to do.

“I think . . . I’m fairly sure . . .” I huffed, aggravated with myself for my vacillating, and then looked him squarely in the eye to declare with confidence. “I’m nearly certain this painting is a forgery.”





Chapter 3




I gazed down into Emma’s sweet face, her blue eyes sparkling and alert. “Happier now?” I crooned, dabbing at the milk still lingering in one corner of her mouth. As if in answer, she waved one little fist and kicked. Smiling, I sat her upright in my lap, supporting her chest with one hand while I patted her back with the other.