He started to rise, to turn and face Masterton.
The back of his skull exploded with pain.
He fell, and blackness swallowed him.
Consciousness dripped into Godfrey’s brain, not steadily but in fits and starts.
His head pounded, but instinct held him still. He kept his eyes closed and, as the fog shrouding his senses thinned, tried to get his bearings—tried to recall where he was and what had happened.
Then he remembered. Everything.
He sent his senses searching. He was lying on his back, presumably on the attic floor.
He heard a sound, then heavy footsteps approached. Remaining limp and unmoving was surprisingly easy; none of his muscles seemed to be working. He couldn’t even raise his lids enough to squint through his lashes.
Someone, some man—Masterton?—crouched beside him, and he felt large hands roughly seize his, pulling his arms across his chest, then some silky material was wound tightly about his wrists, lashing them together.
“There,” the man said, and yes, it was Masterton. He dropped Godfrey’s bound wrists onto his chest, but remained crouched alongside.
Godfrey felt Masterton’s gaze on his face, then Masterton muttered, “You brought down this fate on your own head.” Accusation rang in his tone as he went on, “You’re too damned clever by half. Bad enough you recognized Hendall’s work, but to go and ask the blighter who commissioned the Albertinelli copy—”
Even in his present state, Godfrey made the logical deduction.
“—obviously, I couldn’t allow that!”
Equally obviously, I no longer need to visit Amsterdam.
Surreptitiously, Godfrey tried to tense his fingers, but couldn’t manage even that much.
Abruptly, Masterton stood. “Ever since you came, everything’s gone wrong.”
Godfrey continued to lie unmoving as Masterton stalked away, then he turned and came raging back. The veneer the man had adopted earlier had cracked and fallen apart; barely suppressed panic rang in his voice as he all but hissed, “It’s getting too complicated, and obviously, I can’t have you poaching on my patch. I can’t let you give Ellie ideas. She’s my pawn—she’ll marry me eventually, once she loses all hope of anything more to her taste. I can’t have you jeopardizing that!”
Godfrey almost frowned but, just in time, froze his features. Was the motivation behind Masterton’s attack Ellie or the forgery?
Or was it both?
He would have sworn Masterton felt nothing for Ellie, yet he’d offered for her hand and, now, seemed in a genuine state over Godfrey stealing her away or even swaying her to look farther afield for a husband. And what did Masterton mean by referring to Ellie as his pawn?
Godfrey couldn’t see how any of that connected with the forgery, but Masterton was still raving, so he forced himself to focus and listen.
“And as for you helping Matthew get the original painting back so he can sell it to the gallery and repair his finances, that would completely scupper my plan!”
Godfrey wished he could open his eyes and demand to be told exactly what Masterton’s overly complicated plan actually was.
“Obviously, Matthew and Ellie need to turn to me! Me—their cousin—not some poncy wealthy lord!”
Could he manage to speak and ask why?
“Damn it!”
Godfrey finally managed to ease his lids up enough to view a sliver of room through the fringe of his lashes. At first, he saw nothing more than distant rafters, but then Masterton paced into sight.
The man appeared at his wits’ end, as if wrestling with some irreconcilable dilemma; he’d buried both hands in his hair and was clenching them. “God knows, I’ve been patient. Four and more years of buttering up Matthew. Four and more years of waiting for Ellie to see the light, swallow her damned pride, and agree to marry me. That’s all I ask—all I need! But with that bastard Cawley selling out, I’m going to need the funds from selling Hinckley Hall sooner rather than later.” Masterton released his hair, swung around, and his face contorting with fury, came striding back to Godfrey. He drew back his booted foot and kicked Godfrey in the calf. Eyes closing, Godfrey only just managed not to react, but he needn’t have worried—Masterton was already striding away again, declaring in a voice that sounded as if he was appealing to the heavens, “And I absolutely cannot afford to have some puffed-up lord get in the way of that!”
All Masterton’s disparate utterances whirled one last time in Godfrey’s mind, then tumbled into place—into a pattern—and finally, he saw the full picture of Masterton’s scheme. Chill fingers clamped about Godfrey’s nape as he studied the whole.
It was Masterton who had taken the Albertinelli—presumably because, for whatever reason, he’d needed the money. He’d had it copied so the Hinckleys wouldn’t raise a hue and cry—presumably because if the authorities had got involved, Masterton might have fallen under suspicion and, ultimately, been caught.
But whatever cash Masterton had got from the sale hadn’t been enough. He was in debt, presumably to a moneylender, and having ingratiated himself with the Hinckleys and noting the family’s relative isolation, he’d seen an opportunity. Harry wasn’t of age and wouldn’t be for another five years. If Masterton succeeded in marrying Ellie, then if anything subsequently happened to Matthew Hinckley, the most obvious hands into which the reins of the estate would fall would be Masterton’s—Matthew’s cousin and, in legal terms more importantly, his son-in-law.
Masterton’s push to marry Ellie—and to ensure she didn’t marry anyone else—was purely a step in that wider scheme, albeit a crucial one.
Godfrey almost laughed. He’d already scuppered Masterton’s plan, did the blighter but know it.
Of course, to actually scupper Masterton’s plan, Godfrey had to remain alive.
The thought instantly sobered him; he tried again to tense his fingers and, this time, managed to curl them. Relief crept through him; he’d started to worry that the blow to his head might have done permanent damage. He tested his toes and found he could curl them more or less normally. Next, he tried to lift his ankle and managed an inch before the weight of his foot became too much for his weakened leg to bear.
Masterton had been pacing at some distance, but now he came striding back.
Godfrey lay still and fought not to show any sign of consciousness.
Masterton halted beside him and nudged Godfrey’s arm with his booted toe, clearly testing if he was still unconscious.
Godfrey remained limp, his features lax.
Masterton humphed, crouched, grabbed the material wrapped about Godfrey’s wrists, and pulled the knot even tighter. “There.” He released the material and patted the knot. “That should hold you, even if you wake up—at least until I get back.” Masterton paused, then went on, “And if you do manage to get to your feet and attempt to get down those stairs, with your hands tied—”
Although unable to see it, Godfrey heard the smile in Masterton’s voice.
“—you’ll fall and break your neck, and I won’t have to do anything more drastic to remove you from my path.”
Masterton rose and, again, stood looking down at Godfrey. “You, my lord, have left me no choice. I have to get my plan back on track, and the only way to do that is to remove you entirely. That will solve everything.”