Chapter Nineteen
The Aetherlight Gallery was, in fact, rather lovely.
Verity had always enjoyed visiting, since the way it had been created allowed visitors to wander from display to display on a whim.
For those in favour of the softer paintings, gentle flowers, birds, animals, children, and so on, there were pale walls near the natural light of the windows, and featuring art created by artists who excelled at that sort of thing.
For others who might prefer their art with a rougher and more vivid edge, there were rooms with darker walls and elegant lanterns hanging from the ceiling, highlighting the textural brushstrokes of ocean storms, rough mountain hillsides, or airships flying through bad weather.
The portrait galleries, always popular, featured a blend of both light and dark backgrounds, with windows at one end and lights at the other.
In the past, she had indulged in one or two paintings and was always on the lookout for something that caught her eye. However, today, might not be a good day to even think about buying anything.
Albermarle de Montclair’s exhibit filled several walls at the rear of the gallery.
The artist himself, sat in the farthest nook, apparently lost in the creation of his latest masterpiece—a striking canvas alleged to be the sun reflecting off five brass gears lying in a field. To be titled, at its conclusion, “The Lightness of the Machine”.
At leastly that’s what the program said.
Verity stood for a few minutes, attempting to follow de Montclair’s style. This little section was reserved for the artists themselves. Some simply enjoyed discussing their work and art in general, and then there was de Montclair.
He was dramatic in his movements—Verity barely managed to avoid a splatter of paint as he exuberantly splashed yellow on his canvas.
The assembled audience was, apparently, impressed, and the “ooohs” and “aaahs” were clearly audible, obviously emanating from the group that had avoided being dappled with yellow blobs.
Far enough away to avoid being part of the exhibit, Verity watched de Montclair.
She doubted he was an artist. He just didn’t fit the mould for her.
There was no care, no concentration or focus that she could see.
Every now and again he’d pause, put the back of his hand against his forehead, and close his eyes for a minute or two, which had the desired result.
A hush—a reverent silence—fell, only to be broken when de Montclair recovered himself and continued throwing paints at his canvas.
In her eyes, he had missed his vocation, since he was better at acting than painting.
She had noticed that the front of the gallery featured his “works”, if you could dignify them with such an appellation. Even beautifully framed, and positioned in exactly the right spot to collect the light from outside? They were hideous.
“These are abysmal.”
A soft voice whispered in her ear, and she swung around to find Lucas close behind her.
Words died in her throat as she looked at him, his clothing strikingly elegant, his eyes holding her captive.
“Hullo.”
She had to clear her throat. “Hullo.” Finding her breath, she smiled at him. “I’m glad to see you, Lucas.”
It was honest, straight from the heart, and she saw the answering warmth as his lips curved, those lips...every single thought in her head fainted, and all she wanted to do was to feel his coat, to see if it was as soft as it looked and then strip if off him as soon as possible.
Blushing at the shiver that thought brought her, she fought for composure. “I wasn’t sure you would be able to make it.”
“I couldn’t have missed the opportunity to see such a great artist at work.”
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Amused, Verity took the arm he extended and let him lead her along the galleries.
“Very,” Lucas answered. “With what one might call a ‘regressional technique’”.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “Really?”
“Didn’t you ever splash paint around when you were three?”
She had a hard time choking back her laughter. “You’re quite dreadful.”
“So’s Albermarle de Montclair.”
That laugh she couldn’t hold back, and it took a few minutes for her to regain any sort of appropriate countenance.
Fortunately there were fewer attendees around them, so she was able to catch her breath.
“Great coggles, you’re an impudent man this afternoon.
” She surveyed him. “And I have to say your clothing today is...”
“Is what?”
“Most becoming.”
“Thank God. I’d have had to take a hammer to Edgar if you’d said otherwise.”
Arm-in-arm they sauntered, no particular destination in mind, just enjoying each other and the afternoon.
If anyone had told Verity she’d feel this way, she’d have told them to stop being ridiculous.
And yet here she was, enjoying the warmth of a strong male body next to hers, sharing his humour, and—probably unsurprisingly—his taste in art.
They paused before a portrait, a woman with long, dark hair drifting loosely over her shoulders. She sat on a rock staring out to sea, the sunlight on the waves and her hair, her flimsy garment drifting in the water around her.
“Now this,” whispered Verity, “this is my idea of art.”
“I cannot argue with you. She is special, isn’t she? I wonder if she’s waiting for a sailor who left port months ago with the promise he’d return. And yet...”
“She waits,” finished Verity, lost in the image. “She doesn’t know if she’ll ever see him again, but he’s found a place in her heart. She will never forget him.”
They were both silent as a ray of sunshine moved slowly across the portrait.
“That could have been me,” murmured Verity.
He turned his head, frowning. “You’re waiting for someone to return home?”
She smiled back. “Yes. And now you’re here.”
Lucas breathed in.
“Halloo...”
A call distracted them both, and Verity found her cheeks warm. She moved away from Lucas a little and turned to see Lady Beatrice bearing down on them with a wide smile.
“Dear Verity,” she held out her hands, “and Sir Lucas. How delightful. You must both tell me what you think of our special guest.” She waved toward de Montclair. “Isn’t he the most fascinating man?”
Sparing them the need to invent some platitude, she released Verity’s hands at once. “Oh bother. I must go and welcome our special guest. Countess LaNigaud promised to attend. She’s visiting from Fourdain, and it’s a real coup for us to have her in attendance.”
“Of course,” nodded Verity.
“She’ll boost our sales considerably,” whispered Beatrice before she departed. “It looks like there’ll be a hefty deposit in the charity fund tonight. Isn’t that exciting? Should I be doing anything about that?”
“Very exciting,” replied Verity, wishing the woman would just leave so that she could have Lucas all to herself. “But you needn’t worry, Beatrice. I assure you we have everything in hand.”
“So good to know, dear. Now I can rest easy. I’ll definitely talk to you later.” She moved away, waving her hand in the air. “Yoohoo, Madame la Contesse...”
Lucas sighed and took Verity’s arm again. “How soon can we leave?”
*~~*~~*
It was not an idle question on Lucas’s part. He wanted to leave, to sweep her out of there and into his house and his bed. He wanted it so badly he could damn near taste it. But he also knew that one didn’t always get what one wanted.
“I’d like to go right now,” sighed Verity. “But...”
“I know. You’re needed here.”
“I am, unfortunately.” She checked the little timepiece fastened to her cuff.
“The pre-show business should be concluded very shortly. Then there will be refreshments, an announcement of which pictures have been purchased and by whom, and then those pictures will be labelled as ‘sold’. They will be on display in that almost empty gallery to the left of the entrance.”
“With appropriate signage, to point everyone that way, so that the buyers’ names will be displayed and their obvious appreciation for fine art can be discussed over teacups for at least the next month?”
“Something like that,” sighed Verity. “It all sounds very shallow, doesn’t it?”
“It is shallow. For them. But they’re in the minority. And their money, wasted on a terrible painting or not, will augment your charity funds a bit.”
“After expenses, yes. Lady Beatrice made that clear earlier.” She put her hand on Lucas’s arm. “I have something I need to tell you.”
He glanced around. “Over there, by that table. They haven’t put the food out yet, so we may have a few minutes to ourselves.”
Quietly the two of them made their way through the throng, smiling, nodding, greeting people—that was Verity, and trying not to scowl at anyone—that was Lucas.
“Right.” They found their corner, and he dragged two chairs over so that they could sit for a moment or two.
“Lucas,” began Verity. “I found something else.” She looked at him, raising one eyebrow slightly.
“That’s odd,” he murmured. “So did I. But you go first.”
Her eyes widened, and she leaned toward him, quietly telling him of the discrepancy on the bank statement, that she’d discovered.
He listened intently, knowing she would not make a story out of it, but give him the unvarnished facts. And when she was done, he frowned.
“Hmm,” he leaned closer. “I pulled some information through my mirror engine. It was off. Definitely off.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. How could it be so cleverly handled for so long, and yet all of a sudden, we’re seeing obvious evidence of it?”
He thought about that. “The only thing I can think of is that now, we’re looking for it. We know what to watch for, Verity. I’ll wager that if we hadn’t taken those steps in the last few days, and if it hadn’t been all of us together? We probably still wouldn’t know.”
She bit her lip. “You may be right. That makes sense.” She glanced around at the crowd. “They’re going to be heading this way shortly. We should wander.”
He nodded, rose, and held out his hand. “You don’t mind us being seen together?”
She took his hand and stood. But instead of releasing it she tucked their arms together. “I am proud to be seen with you, Sir Lucas Ashcombe. It’s an honour, and bedamned to anyone who thinks otherwise.”
He had to take a moment to get control of his emotions. It hadn’t been easy for him to return. It hadn’t been easy to face Silas again, to see Alastair, and Julian. Coming back to Arcvale hadn’t really seemed like coming home, until...until Verity.
“Let’s go.”
“I have to talk to Tabby first. She’s going to deposit the proceeds from the pre-art sale for me. She has all the account information with her, and I...” she waved her tiny reticule, “I didn’t have room for it.”
“So another hour or so, then?” sighed Lucas.
“I’m afraid so.” She shrugged. “But on the positive side, there is food. And I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” he gazed at her lips. “But not for cogstick biscuits, slices of Arcvale blue cheese, or weak tea.”
She blushed, and he grinned. He never realised she could blush quite like that, and he enjoyed it immensely.
“All right. I feel that way as well. As soon as I’ve discharged all my duties, and squared away everything with Tabby, we’ll leave.”
“And go to my cottage.” He squeezed her hand.
“Yes please.”