CHAPTER 23
Yes. Right here. This would do very well.
Eva threw down a small blanket on the little hill.
She sat and made herself comfortable. The lake stretched out in front of her, and the sun had begun descending to her left, casting shadows that broke and formed as the water’s surface moved.
A line of houses marred the lake’s shore close to her, where the village had begun to spill into the countryside, but she would leave them out.
She opened her sketchbook and paged to find a clean sheet. She would need a new book soon.
Her hand paused when a page turn revealed the drawing of Gareth.
As she intended, her few lines indicating his face proved enough to revive the memory of looking at him in that beautiful light.
Nostalgia squeezed her heart while she remembered that day.
Sadder emotions hurt her when her thoughts turned to the night of the ball.
Had he returned to Albany Lodge? She had not seen Erasmus or Harold in the village when she walked there, so perhaps he had. Still, he had not called on her. After what she said the last time they saw each other, she could not blame him.
It was for the best. They never could be only friends.
Not when her stomach did little flips at the sight of him.
Not when she yearned for the intimacy and pleasure more than she worried about her reputation and future.
If he still wanted her, she would succumb, gladly, perhaps even encouraging it as she had the last time.
Then with time it would become known they were lovers, and she would be scorned, and Rebecca would never find a husband, and—
She found a clean page. She began drawing the view, with an eye to using her lines and notes to help her plan a painting.
The time passed quickly. Only the sun suddenly shining right in her eyes alerted her to how long she had been there.
She emerged out of her reverie and eyed her page.
The drawing captured the perspective well, and the shape and shadings of that stand of trees on the left shore.
A closer tree, right down from where she sat, she had depicted in more detail, especially the way its branches framed part of her view.
“Impressive. Will it be a painting?”
She looked over her shoulder. Gareth stood behind her, close enough to see the drawing. Her stomach flipped and flipped. Her heart filled with so much emotion it briefly made her dumb.
“Yes,” she said. “That is why it is not very finished.”
“Notes and reminders, you mean. Not a final draft.”
“That is what I mean.” She made to stand. He offered his hand to help. She tried not to allow the brief touch to affect her, but it did. “What are you doing here?”
“I called at your house. Your sister said you had come here. I decided you would need a ride home.”
“I do not think it wise to ride through the village on your horse with you.”
“Not a horse. Come with me. I will show you.”
He brought her to the lane that ran along this side of the lake. A fine carriage with a matched pair stood there.
“I had some business that required a carriage,” he explained. “Lance has at least four now, so I borrowed this one.”
He stopped walking and faced her.
“Before we take another step, I want to explain something, Eva. My mother was a butler’s daughter, and she herself would have gone into service if my father had not favored her.
Not a bad life, and a respectable one. She did not even know him.
He was the duke she glimpsed sometimes. But she took what he offered because it provided a security to her and her children better than anything she might otherwise know.
So I do not see these arrangements as scandalous at all. ”
“Yes, you have explained that. I understand.”
He looked away, his hands on his hips, exasperated with her. “I did not like it, if that is what you think. I did not encourage Whitmere. Quite the opposite. You had demanded that promise from me, however, so I had no right to interfere with your own decision.”
“Of course. You do not have to explain. I should not have accused you as I did, or behaved so emotionally. I was tired and embarrassed. Let us not dwell on it.”
He led her to the carriage and handed her in. She looked out the window as they rolled through the lanes of Langdon End. The village looked different from the seat of an expensive carriage.
When they reached the road that connected their properties, the carriage did not turn left toward hers. Rather it aimed toward his.
“Do not worry. I have no dishonorable intentions. I want to show you something.”
Despite the way joy hummed inside her, she believed him about the intentions. Gareth could not be called cold today, but he remained distant in subtle but unmistakable ways.
“Have you made some amazing improvement? The roof is done?”
“I would not abduct you for that. This is far more interesting. While I was in London, I bought some art. The lodge’s walls are too empty, don’t you agree?
I decided to purchase some pictures that are fitting to its heritage and the bloodline that runs through me.
You will like them, and can come study them if you choose.
If you are very nice to me, maybe I will let you copy them the way academy students copy old masters. ”
A breeze of misgiving made her nape prickle.
“That would mean spending a lot of time at Albany Lodge.”
“It is a big house. You will not disturb me. If you are concerned that there would be talk, you can bring your sister or a friend.”
She had not thought about there being talk. She had hoped to see a few wicked lights in his eyes to indicate he calculated having her in his house, vulnerable to his powers.
At the house, he handed her out. “The pictures are in the library. I will join you in a minute.” He walked toward the coachman.
She entered the house and turned into the library. And froze.
Facing her, propped on chairs and mantel and against the wall, were the pictures Gareth had brought back from London.
Her pictures.
She strode from one to the other, hoping she was wrong, knowing she was not. She stood in their midst, unable to think. He knew. He must know. This could not be some coincidence. Unless he came upon the man who had bought them all from Mr. Stevenson—
“They are very fine, don’t you think?”
She pivoted. Gareth stood at the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the jamb, watching her. Intently. Darkly.
She had never feared him before, but for a moment now she did.
“Most of them came from a Mr. Zwilliger in London. He said they were by masters like Gainsborough and Cuyp.” He pointed at the three boys at the fountain, and the still life she had last seen at Christie’s. “Or Carracci over here. He gave a good name to each of them. Quite an opportunity, it was.”
“Did you pay the prices such artists would command?”
“That would have been stupid. After all, they are all forgeries.” He walked toward her. “Aren’t they, Eva?”
She wanted to die. Yes, he knew. He had guessed the truth, and suspected worse.
“They were not intended to be forgeries. I never expected anyone to be fooled. I am not that good.”
“You are very good. Most people would be fooled.”
“They were exercises, and a way to earn a few shillings. I would paint a copy and give it to a man in Birmingham, and he would try to sell it and give me half the money if he did. I never said they were by any masters. I do not think he did either. I said they were mine, and he sold them as in a master’s style, but not by his hand.
I see how it looks, however. If you think I was in league with this Mr. Zwilliger, I am not sure I can prove I was not. ”
He shed his topcoat, threw it on a chair, and sat on the divan. “Sit here with me, Eva. I want to make sure we hear each other clearly, and there are no misunderstandings.”
She obeyed, sick to the depths of her being.
“Eva, are you saying you had no idea that your copies were being sold as originals? None at all? Did you never think they might be?”
“They were not good enough. I always saw them with the originals, and what they lacked was obvious.” She hesitated, but forged on.
“I did see that one in the auction house, given to Cuyp. I told them I had painted it, but the man ignored me like I was some addled fool. And, yes, I will admit that when that happened, it did occur to me that perhaps, after they were sold, there had been a misunderstanding about them.”
“That is the wrong word. This was deliberate. In the chain between your handing off the pictures, and my finding them, someone chose to present them as originals knowing full well they were not.”
She stared at her lap, too embarrassed to look at him. She did not want to see his thoughts in his eyes. The best excuse she had was stupidity and ignorance. So much for her fine character. Nor would this get better. More questions would come that would show her in even a worse light.
She wondered if Sarah would take Rebecca in if she were arrested. Probably so. Forgery was a serious crime. They might transport her. She wondered if forging paintings carried the same sentence as forging documents and such. Men had been hanged for that. The thought sent a shudder down her back.
“Eva, how these came to be sold in London as originals can wait to be sorted out. Right now I need you to tell me where the originals are.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You do not know? I thought you did. Why else would you have bought these exact works?”
“Because I have been looking for the originals, and these copies might be a way to find them.”
She wanted to laugh. His dark expression, totally without humor, stopped her.
“How did you come to copy these particular works, Eva?”
“Because they were all that were available to me. The originals are all right here, Gareth. They are up in your attic.”
* * *
Shit.
The pictures had been right under his nose all this time. He felt like an idiot.