“How, exactly, do you do that?” Masterton asked. “Form your impressions?”
Godfrey paused, then said, “It’s not easy to explain to those not involved in the art world, but one’s eye is educated through experience—through viewing many paintings by the various masters. One comes to know what to expect—what to look for, what ought to be there. That’s the simplest way to put it.”
Pyne’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “So if you see the things you expect to see in this fellow Albertinelli’s paintings in the painting here, that means the painting is authentic and the gallery can buy it?”
Godfrey waggled his head. “More or less.”
“Assuming the painting is as expected,” Pyne pressed, “what are your thoughts on its worth?”
Godfrey assumed his professional mien. “As to that, I can’t say—I merely report on its authenticity, not its value. That’s something the curators at the gallery will determine.” His cough returned, causing him to lose his breath for a moment. His lungs were starting to feel tight.
When he lowered the hand he’d raised to his face and refocused on his visitors, he caught Pyne exchanging a weighted glance with Masterton. Then both men looked at Godfrey, and Pyne smiled. “So how did you come to be involved in this art business?”
Behind his amiable mask, Godfrey wondered why they wanted to know, because judging by the steadiness of Masterton’s blue gaze, he, too, was interested. Godfrey mentally shrugged. “As a child, I became interested in art. It was something I was willing to study, and all else flowed from that.” He wasn’t about to mention the inspiration of the Raventhorne Abbey collection that one of his ancestors had amassed or the encouragement he’d received from his masters at Eton and Oxford. “I more or less fell into my current role—it’s really all about having a good eye.”
Pyne frowned. “Did you have to do an apprenticeship or something like that?”
Godfrey studied Pyne’s intent expression, then glanced at Masterton, who was rather more impassive. Godfrey couldn’t believe either of his visitors had any real interest in how one became an authenticator of artworks. Are they questioning my ability to assess the Hinckley painting?
“One is either born with a good eye or not—it’s not a skill that can be taught, only refined.”
“So how did the gallery come to choose you?” Masterton asked.
That, Godfrey suspected, was what they really wanted to know; at least Masterton had come out and asked directly.
“It’s a matter of reputation—of museum curators and private collectors learning of your skill in detecting fraudulent works and, over many years, coming to trust your judgment. It’s those curators and collectors who decide whether to enlist my services.”
Increasingly irritated by the not-so-subtle inquisition, this time, when a cough threatened, Godfrey didn’t fight to suppress it. The hacking in his chest had definitely got worse, and when the cough finally subsided and he raised his head and managed to draw a freer breath, he realized he felt flushed.
His fever was mounting.
The door flew open, and Ellie rushed in; from the way her gaze homed in on him, he surmised she’d heard him coughing. Then she saw Pyne and Masterton and halted. “Oh.” A heartbeat later, her eyes narrowed slightly, and she rallied. “I didn’t know you gentlemen were here.”
Pyne and Masterton had hurriedly come to their feet. Pyne essayed a benevolent smile and gestured to Godfrey. “We were just bearing your patient company, m’dear. Boring being stuck in a bed, what?”
“Yes, I daresay it is.” Her tone suggested being bored was a minor matter and not one she considered worthy of her notice. “But from the sound of his coughing, I believe Mr. Cavanaugh needs to rest quietly if he’s to recover fully and be able to assess Papa’s painting.” She fixed both men with a severe look, doing an excellent imitation of a school ma’am. “That must be our primary goal—to ensure that Mr. Cavanaugh gets better. We’re all keen to hear his opinion on the painting, and the fastest route to that end is to allow him to recover in peace and quiet.”
Godfrey was unsurprised to hear both men murmur their agreement, along with assurances that they had merely been talking, but under Ellie’s pointed and unforgiving gaze, they made their farewells and went to the door.
Pyne quit the room, and Ellie turned to Godfrey. Masterton made to follow the older man but, with his hand on the doorknob, paused and glanced back.
With his strength abruptly waning, Godfrey had slumped against the pillows, irritated by his weakness more than anything else.
With a disapproving humph, Ellie came to his side and set a palm to his forehead.
From beneath his lashes, Godfrey saw Masterton’s gaze fix on Ellie. Although Masterton’s expression remained outwardly urbane, there was a certain calculation in his gaze that Godfrey read with ease.
So Masterton had an interest in Ellie—enough of one to feel he had some rights there.
When Masterton finally turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him, Godfrey shifted his gaze to Ellie’s face. Given the perennial openness of her expression, one quick scan was sufficient to inform him that she was utterly oblivious to Masterton’s regard, to his unstated claim.
There was no awareness of any understanding on her part.
Feeling distinctly reassured, Godfrey let his lids fall and smiled at the feel of Ellie’s palm on his forehead.
Only to have her whisk her hand away and rather accusingly declare, “You have a much higher fever than before.”
He knew she was right. “Hmm.” He should have opened his eyes, caught her hand, kissed her fingers, and thanked her for deliverance. He’d missed that chance, but… “Thank you for saving me.”
He wanted to think about Masterton and Pyne and her and her family…
Ellie stood by the bed and watched her patient slide into slumber. With her gaze, she traced the tight lines in his face, put there by the restlessness of fever and the pain of his congested cough; she watched the lines ease and fade as sleep claimed him.
He was remarkably handsome, even more so in repose. Without the animation of wakefulness, the angles and planes of his face were clean and sharp, blatantly aristocratic in strength and conformation.
She allowed herself to stare as his breathing, a trifle rough, slowed. She held still, waiting to see if another cough or the fever would rouse him, but he slumbered on.
Finally, she surrendered to temptation, raised a hand, and gently brushed back the lock of dark-auburn hair that had fallen across his wide brow—and wondered at the warm, soft, skittery feeling that swelled and danced inside her.
He didn’t stir, and finally convinced he would remain asleep, she stepped back from the bed.
Given the curiosity in the house over their bedridden guest, she shouldn’t have been surprised to find Pyne and Masterton in his room, quizzing him, yet Cavanaugh—Godfrey—wasn’t just any patient. He had come very close to being frozen to death, primarily because of his exertions in hauling his man and his horses along. He’d refused to leave them to their fates, but in saving them, he’d exhausted his strength, depleted it to the point where it wasn’t going to return quickly. That was no reflection on his manliness but an outcome of having pushed himself to the very extremes of endurance.