Chapter 1
January 16, 1850. On the road west of Ripon, North Yorkshire
Lord Godfrey Cavanaugh flicked his whip at his leader’s ear, encouraging his matched bays to increase their pace. The road ahead was straight and adequately surfaced, while the wind strafing him and Wally, his groom, was howling like a banshee. Winter in North Yorkshire; he’d been warned it would be arctic, and the blast slicing through his greatcoat and worming icy fingers past the scarf around his neck was the definition of frigid. As they bowled west, deeper into the countryside, and the chill intensified, he was rethinking his decision not to halt at the Unicorn Hotel, which they’d passed on their way through Ripon’s Market Square, but it was only midafternoon, and his hosts were expecting him.
Their directions replayed in his head. Apparently, if he followed this road, then about a mile and a half out of Ripon, he should come upon a lane on the right, signposted to Galphay. He scanned the line of hedgerows ahead and was pleased to see an opening on the right, with a weathered signpost pointing that way.
“Won’t be long, now.” He slowed his horses.
The signpost was, indeed, for Galphay. With relief, he turned his pair and set them briskly trotting. To either side, the fields, clutched tight in winter’s grip, lay brown and sere. The land stretched close to flat in all directions, the monotony broken by low hedges and occasional stands of trees, all presently bare, their skeletal branches rattling in the wind.
Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he called, “We’ve around two miles to go. We should see the drive on the right, before we come to the River Laver. If we reach the river, we’ll have gone too far.”
Perched behind Godfrey, Wally grunted.
Godfrey grinned. He and Wally went back a long way. Throughout his childhood, Godfrey had done his best to avoid his parents’ notice; with two older brothers, an older sister, and an even older half brother, he hadn’t found it difficult to play least in sight and slip away to explore. On such clandestine excursions, Wally—although five years older—had been Godfrey’s shadow. An abiding trust and unstated friendship had developed between the young lordling son-of-the-house and the gangling stable boy tasked with keeping said lordling from harm. The connection had survived Godfrey’s years of tutors and university so that when it had come time for him to choose a manservant, he hadn’t hesitated by so much as a second in installing Wally in the role.
Other lords of the haut ton might prefer gentlemen’s gentlemen who could turn them out in sartorial style, but Godfrey preferred to have someone he could trust at his back. As his chosen occupation of authenticating artworks involved significant travel, including on the Continent, having a man who could deal with almost any situation left Godfrey free to concentrate on his passion—the art.
He’d grown up running along corridors lined with paintings by various masters. At some point, he’d halted and looked, and a flash of insight into the construction of the painting—the brush strokes, the canvas, the paints, and more—had piqued his interest. Subsequently, he’d started examining all the paintings and sculptures he came upon; given his birth and social connections, their number had been legion. Once he’d come of age, he’d gone traveling on the Continent, looking and studying and learning.
He’d stumbled on his first forged sculpture in Florence. Months later, he’d exposed a fraudulent Da Vinci sketch the Conte de Milan had been about to buy for a considerable sum.
The art world wasn’t that large, and word had got around. Subsequently, others—collectors and museum curators alike—had invited Godfrey to pass judgment on this acquisition or that.
Over time, his reputation had grown.
A month ago, he’d been contacted by the recently knighted Sir Charles Eastlake, president of the Birmingham Society of Artists, newly elected president of the Royal Academy, and erstwhile Keeper of the Paintings and longtime advisor to the National Gallery.
To Godfrey, Eastlake was something of a legend, a man whose status Godfrey aspired to and whose goodwill he knew he would be wise to court—indeed, it would not be overstating the case to say he craved it. Earning Eastlake’s imprimatur would be a milestone in Godfrey’s life.
On behalf of the National Gallery, Eastlake had commissioned Godfrey to examine the painting a Mr. Hinckley of Hinckley Hall, North Yorkshire, had offered to sell to the gallery. The painting was purportedly by Mariotto Albertinelli, a master painter of the High Renaissance, the period of artworks on which the gallery focused.
Eastlake and the gallery directors were eager to finalize the acquisition before the end of February; Godfrey assumed they hoped to include the painting as a drawcard in their spring exhibition. Consequently, he’d set out to brave the gauntlet of Yorkshire in the height of winter. He’d debated driving his curricle north from London or taking the train to York and hiring a conveyance there. After consulting with Wally, he’d elected to drive; they’d made decent time along the Great North Road, halting at Stilton the first night and spending the second at Doncaster before setting out early this morning and traveling through Boroughbridge to Ripon and out along the lanes toward Hinckley Hall.
Although the skies had been overcast throughout the journey, the clouds hadn’t thickened to ominous until the turnoff to York.
A vicious gust of wind caused the bays to skitter; Godfrey steadied them, then urged them on with a flick of the reins.
“Guv, I really don’t like the looks of them clouds.”
Godfrey raised his gaze to the gray and cloudy but otherwise unthreatening horizon. He frowned. “Which clouds?”
“The ones racing up behind us.”
“What?” Swiveling on the seat, Godfrey looked back—at the roiling mass of charcoal gray swallowing the sky and bearing down on them. He knew the worst storms in the area came from the east, racing in off the North Sea. “Damn!” He faced forward, but given the uncertain surface of the minor lane, the horses were going as fast as he dared run them. Having one break a leg wouldn’t help. “We’ll just have to hope we make it in time.”
A minute later, Wally said, “There’s snow, and the storm’s bowling straight for us.”
Second by second, the light dimmed, fading to a portentous gloom. Godfrey felt the curricle shift as Wally resettled his scarf and coat, no doubt hauling the collar high and buttoning it all the way up.
“Here.” Wally reached over, mittened hands gesturing. “Gimme the reins and get yourself buttoned up. There’s no escaping it.”
Grim-faced, Godfrey complied. As he buttoned the collar of his greatcoat, the first snowflakes whirled about them.
Ten seconds later, the blizzard struck in full force.
Within two minutes, the road ahead was blanketed in white, and the surrounding fields had vanished behind a veil of driven flakes. The air turned freezing, sharp and biting against any exposed skin, while the wind raged, gusting and roaring; it wasn’t hard to imagine the storm as a ravening wolf that saw them as its prey.
Squinting ahead, Godfrey held his team steady, but despite his best efforts, the horses shook their heads, then hung them and slowed.
Wally leaned forward and shouted over the unholy din, “We’ll have to get down and lead them. Should we turn back?”