When, goaded, Masterton snapped, “Yes, I damn well do!” Jeffers looked at Masterton.
Jeffers’s features hardened, as did his gaze, and in a voice as unforgiving as granite, he said, “I’m protecting my interests, Masterton. I suggest you focus on your own.”
Jeffers held Masterton’s gaze for several seconds, then looked ahead and urged his horse into a canter.
His face mottling with impotent rage, Masterton reined in his mount. He glared after Jeffers, then swore and, jaw clenching, wheeled his horse for Ripon.
Chapter 10
With his way forward clear in his mind, Godfrey rose early and beat all the Hinckleys to the breakfast table. After more than adequately breaking his fast, before any of the family appeared, he escaped the breakfast parlor and set out to pace the path through the park, the better to prepare his approach—his presentation.
The pervasive stillness of the snowy landscape was conducive to thinking and planning. By the time he returned to the house, he felt ready for what lay before him.
By then, the dining room was empty. The others had all breakfasted and were off about their usual morning occupations. Godfrey knew he would find Mr. Hinckley in the library, but Ellie’s father wasn’t first on his list to be made privy to his news. By dint of asking Kemp, Godfrey tracked Ellie down in the housekeeper’s room.
Judging by the pleased expression on her face and the papers she’d gathered and held in her hands, she’d finished her meeting with Mrs. Kemp and was on the cusp of leaving. She glanced up when he halted in the open doorway.
The smile that lit her face warmed him through and through. She looked at him questioningly. “Did you need me for something?”
Godfrey nodded and found his tongue. “If you have a few minutes?”
Her smile deepened. “Of course.” She walked toward him. “Just let me put these in the morning room.”
He stepped back and waved her on, then trailed her to the front hall and across the tiles to the narrow reception room opposite the drawing room. Entering in her wake, he realized this was her domain.
She crossed to an elegant lady’s desk angled before one window, set down the papers, then, smiling, turned to him. “The menus for the next week. It’s nice to have them done and out of the way.”
He managed a smile in reply, but it felt a trifle strained.
She walked up, halted before him, searched his eyes, then arched her brows. “What do you need?”
He cleared his throat and said, “There’s something I’d like to show you. If you’ll come with me?”
She looked at him curiously. He stepped back and ushered her before him, out of the room, across the hall, and into the corridor leading to the conservatory.
“Oh.” She threw him a glance over her shoulder—one of rising expectation. “The painting?”
Fighting to keep his expression unreadable, he nodded.
He followed her into the huge glassed room, then stepped past her and led the way to where he’d set the painting on a chair, facing the far end of the room. He took her hand and drew her to stand directly before the painting, at the perfect distance for viewing the canvas, bathed as it was in soft, diffused light falling through the glass above and behind them.
He positioned her there, then shifted to stand behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
She twisted her head to look searchingly at him. “Have you completed your assessment?”
He nodded. “I wanted you to be the first to hear it.”
She looked at the painting. “Very well.”
He drew in a slow, unhelpfully tight breath. “I’m going to tell you all I’ve learned about this painting, and I would like you to listen to the whole and, if you can, wait until the end before you react.”
She glanced at him, a touch of uncertainty creeping into her gaze. “All right.”
He looked over her shoulder at the painting. When she followed his gaze, he hauled in a deeper breath. “The provenance your family holds—all the documents—prove unequivocally that the painting that was hanging in your mother’s parlor when she died was an original Albertinelli, exactly as described in your ancestor’s letters.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” From her tone, she’d sensed that all was not well.
“It was, yes. But the painting you’re looking at—the one that’s been hanging in your mother’s parlor for the past three years—isn’t the original Albertinelli your ancestor brought home. This painting is a forgery—albeit a very good forgery—by an artist named Hendrik Hendall.”
It took her a second to absorb that. “What?” She tried to swing around, but he held her in place. Over her shoulder, she demanded, “How can that be?”
“Wait. There’s more to tell.” She quieted, and he continued, “I know beyond question that the work is Hendall’s, and I also know that this copy was created in only the last five years, because Hendall has only been painting forgeries over that time. The nails used to resecure the painting in the frame suggest the copy was put into the frame about three years ago. On top of that, Hendall only creates forgeries with the original before him—he’s a copyist. He needs the original to copy directly from.”
He leaned forward and looked at her face. She was frowning, trying to make sense of what he was telling her.
“So”—he looked once again at the painting—“the situation we’re facing is that you did have the original Albertinelli, but about three years ago, someone entered the house and spirited the Albertinelli away. Hendall would have needed at least three weeks, most likely more, to create this copy, so the frame would have hung empty—or there would have been an empty space on the parlor wall—for at least four weeks, possibly longer.”
He paused, then slowly turned her to face him. He met her eyes; they were full of confusion and burgeoning anxiety. “The first question I have is this: Would it have been possible for the painting to vanish like that, for four or more weeks, without anyone noticing?”
When she blinked at him, he went on, “This house is so large, I can imagine that if a thief took the painting out of the frame, rolled it up, and carried it under his jacket, he might have been able to take the painting out of the house without anyone noticing. But the space on the wall would have been there for weeks.”
Ellie stared into Godfrey’s face. She could barely breathe. After several dizzying moments, she managed to get out, “A forgery!”
Her knees quaked.
Godfrey caught her about her waist and guided her back to the chair she’d last seen him sitting in; it was placed to afford an excellent view of the canvas. She sank down and, utterly baffled, stared at the painting—one she would have sworn was the same one she’d known from birth. Slowly, she shook her head. “I just can’t…take this in.”
He would never have told her it was a forgery if it wasn’t.
That meant it was a forgery, and she couldn’t understand…
He crouched before her and took her hands in his. Concern showed clearly in his usually impassive face. “Ellie?” He chafed her hands. “Darling, this is not the end of the world. Trust me—there are things we can do, steps we can take, to make things right.”