“I imagine so.” Helen allowed herself a brief vision of the handsome earl, his arms around her guiding her over the ballroom floor as Miss Brown placed the gray-blue silk with the camellias on her head. “No, I don’t care for this. It’s a little drab,” Helen said.
“And much too old for you,” Diana observed.
“Dancing must be a little like making love.” Diana leaned forward to closely examine the stitching that held the blue flowers in place. “Mama said that after she danced with Papa she made up her mind to marry him.”
Miss Brown hovered with an emerald green poke bonnet in her hands, and her mouth dropped open.
“Hush.” Helen recalled her own horrible experiences at the hands of nasty gossips. “You would not want anyone to think you fast, Diana, before you’ve even stepped out into Society.” She glanced at Miss Brown, obviously bursting to relate the tale to the owner of the establishment. “I know we feel we can be quite comfortable here and can rely on the discretion of Madam Marchant and her staff. Is that not so, Miss Brown?”
“Oh, indeed it is,” Miss Brown said with a bob.
Helen smiled. “I believe we’ll take that lovely straw. And I do like that emerald green velvet. It will match my new pelisse perfectly. How very clever of you to bring it.”
Helen nodded her approval as Miss Brown arranged the bonnet over her hair. Diana’s interest in Peyton had not waned. Her sister was so vibrant and full of life. What man could resist her?
When they reached home laden with packages, the hatboxes piled up in Jeremy’s arms, Mama greeted them in the hall. She waved a letter. “Your father is delayed once again,” she said in a vexed tone. “Business has kept him in Liverpool. Some shipment has gone missing. But a consignment from Egypt arrived this morning. Mr. Thorburn is dealing with it in the library.”
“But Papa will be here in time for my ball?” Diana cried.
“As if your papa would miss that!” Mama wrapped an arm around Diana’s waist and led her into the morning room. She sat with her on the sofa while Jeremy brought in their shopping. “Show me what you’ve bought.”
Helen slipped away intent on going to the library while Mama and Diana examined their purchases and discussed fashion. Plato ambushed her in the corridor, and she swept him up. Mr. Thorburn, his face flushed, was on his hands and knees on the library floor as she entered, pulling straw out of several big boxes. Intriguing artifacts and other pieces unfathomable to her unpracticed eye lay on the carpet around him.
He looked up and blinked behind his glasses. “Oh, Lady Helen. Such things your father has sent home! They fair take my breath away!”
“Can I be of help, Mr. Thorburn?” As fascinated as he, Helen put the cat down. She yearned to travel to Eastern climes with her father and discover such things for herself. But Papa would never consider taking her. Not since the ball. She was bitterly aware that he viewed her as too nervous for such a venture. Even though it was no longer true. She had regained her strength and could tackle anything that came her way and could only hope that, in time, she could change his mind.
“I should be most grateful if you could help me to group them for cataloging,” Mr. Thorburn said. “Just a preliminary list at this stage, you understand.”
“I shall be pleased to.” Helen sat behind the desk. As she selected pen and paper, she noticed a letter from Alexandro Volta at the top of the pile awaiting her father’s perusal. “Is Mr. Volta a friend of my father’s?”
Mr. Thorburn’s head whipped up, his features tight. He rose and came to the desk. “I don’t believe so. I meant to put that letter away.”
She watched as he took the letter and slipped it inside a leather-bound portfolio.
His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he returned to kneel beside the wooden crate. “Now, shall we begin?”
He began to pull out straw, murmuring with delight over the objects he found within the crate. He carefully placed a granite statue of a proudly erect cat on the floor beside him. “Bastet, protectress of cats. The Ancient Egyptians had great respect for the animals,” he murmured. “Killing a cat was punishable by death.”
“That should be an English law, too.”
He looked up and grinned. “Cats protected the grain from mice and rats. If a cat died, the family would mourn it by shaving their eyebrows.”
“I’m sure you would agree, wouldn’t you, Plato?” she asked the cat, who was flicking a piece of straw about with its paws.
She turned her attention back to Thorburn, hunched over the box. Why didn’t he wish her to see Volta’s letter? Might he be hiding something? Or did he think that she, as a woman, should not involve herself too deeply in her father’s work? She dabbed the pen in the inkwell and began to list the items when the secretary named them. But her pulse still raced. Perhaps the secrets she and Peyton sought resided in that portfolio. As soon as the secretary left the library, she would return.
When Thorburn left the house, Helen continued her examination of the portfolio. She was so intent on its contents she didn’t hear the door open, only sensed that someone had stepped into the room.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Helen. I thought the library was empty. One of the maids has lost her workbox. I’m sure she’d forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck.”
“I haven’t seen it here, Mrs. Chance, but please look around.”
The housekeeper’s gaze swept around the room. “No, not here.”
When the door closed again, Helen returned to the fascinating contents of the portfolio.
Chapter Thirteen
At the Mayfair art gallery, Baron Bianchi appeared eager to gain Jason’s support. “I sell very few paintings from my collection, although I donate some to art galleries. But this patron was so keen I didn’t wish to disappoint him, and the drawing was not a particular favorite of mine.” He shook his head. “I should have sensed something was wrong. Now I must be on my guard, Lord Peyton. I fear I’ve been the subject of a hoax.”
“Your buyer is returning with the drawing today?”
“I expect him any moment. It distresses me that you must witness it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you. I certainly can’t offer you a critical opinion.”
The baron placed a hand on Jason’s arm. “But that was never my intention, Lord Peyton! As you will soon observe, I have sought expert advice.” He shrugged and rolled his dark eyes. Smiling warmly at Lizzie, he placed his arm at her back to lead her forward. “I am like an eager youth wishing for you to see my art collection. Please take your brother around the room, Lady Greywood.” He waved his hand. “Your opinion is keenly sought. Do you feel I have displayed my paintings to advantage?”
Jason had already circled the room once with Lizzie and was about to do so again. He glanced at the impressive works of art. Several of the paintings were breathtaking and worth a good deal of money. “A magnificent collection, Baron.”
The hairs on the back of his neck only stirred when something, yet to reveal itself, disturbed him. Perhaps it was the baron’s overly familiar manner toward Lizzie. They were not betrothed. The way that he guided Lizzie around with a hand at her waist was not acceptable behavior in England. But perhaps the baron did not know that. Jason was aware that Italian culture was different.
He examined the reason for his strong dislike. Was he being unreasonable? Or just resistant to the idea of Bianchi snatching his sister away from England? He turned to study Bianchi, who was laughingly rearranging Lizzie’s shawl. She would not marry him until he was quite sure the man was sound.
A slight, nervous fellow entered the gallery with a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string tucked under his arm. He hurried over to them. “Baron Bianchi, I have brought the drawing.” Breathing heavily, he began to tug at the strings.
Bianchi put out a hand to prevent him. “My expert, Mr. Barrett, has not yet arrived, Mr. Gillies. Please allow me to introduce my good friend, Lord Peyton. His sister, Lady
Greywood, you met yesterday. Do look around the room at your leisure, and we shall discuss this matter when Mr. Barrett arrives.”
As Gillies wandered reluctantly away, Bianchi turned to Jason, his dark eyes hard as granite. “This is an embarrassment for which I must apologize. I did not wish to involve you, Lord Peyton. But I shall have to deal with it. I have engaged a table for luncheon at the hotel across the street and should be delighted if you would join me there.”
Jason accepted, determined to learn more.
“I won’t keep you now. Please go, enjoy a glass of wine, and I will join you as soon as I have finished. The work is genuine. It will take but a moment to establish the fact.”
Jason took Lizzie’s arm. She resisted as he guided her toward the door, but he firmly drew her out into the street.
She glared at him. “I want to see what occurs.”
“Lord Bianchi will tell us in his own time. Be patient, Lizzie.”
A waiter led them to a table near the window, and Jason ordered wine. Across the street, a dark-haired man entered the gallery, carrying a valise. Through the long windows, he saw Bianchi welcoming him and introducing him to Mr. Gillies.
“What’s happening?” Lizzie frowned, her view obscured by a pillar.
“They have gone into another room,” Jason said. “Sherry?”
Lizzie looked pale, her large eyes strained. “Thank you, I feel the need of one.”
Jason signaled the waiter. His sister wasn’t lacking in perception. Had she begun to suspect Bianchi was not quite what he appeared? Questions filled his mind. Why had the baron wanted him here? Was it merely to lend him some measure of credibility? Who was this so-called expert he’d called in? Jason would question Bianchi more closely than perhaps the baron would like when he joined them for luncheon.
He opened the menu. “Scalloped oysters or some cold chicken?”
“I couldn’t eat a bite.” Lizzie pleated the linen napkin in her fingers.
“You aren’t committed to this man, Lizzie,” Jason said carefully. “If you’ve changed your mind about him, you have only to say.”
Her worried green eyes met his. “I was happy with him, Jas. Life in England has been trying since Greywood died. I see a future for myself with him.”
Widowhood could be hard on women. He could almost hear Helen observing how men could marry again immediately, but women were isolated from society and forced to dress in drab clothing. With a pang, he patted Lizzie’s hand. “You’re assured of an excellent future without him in it. There are many men, dozens,” he added with a wink, “eager to make you happy, should you let them.”
She sighed. “At my age, a widower with children, I suppose. English peers only wed when they have to and seldom to someone my age.”
“That’s true of some, but not all.”
“Oh? Look at you, almost thirty-three and still not married.” She leaned forward. “And with no intention of it. Oh, but you feel the Peyton line is secure with Charlie, don’t you?”
No intention of it? Jason turned his wine glass in his fingers, watching it catch the light. “Yes, it is. But I wouldn’t say that I never intend to tie the knot.”
Lizzie’s eyes brightened. “It’s one of the Kinsey girls. I knew it as soon as I received an invitation to Lady Diana’s ball. I’ve heard she’s a beauty.”
Jason was saved from answering by Bianchi, who came bustling through the door. All smiles, he greeted them formally and took a seat at the table. “The matter is at an end. Utter nonsense! Mr. Barrett soon confirmed the drawing was genuine.”
“That is excellent news,” Lizzie said gaily.
Jason echoed her response, in a soberer tone, and glanced through the window to where Mr. Gillies scurried away, head down, clutching his package. He did not appear to be happy to discover his drawing was genuine. Jason decided to write again to Vale in Florence.
“Shall we order champagne?” Bianchi smiled and patted Lizzie’s hand. “I believe it’s called for in the circumstances.”
“I’ll stick to wine thank you,” Jason said. “Tell me, Baron, are you confident that Mr. Barrett has the right qualifications to make such a judgment? Art forgeries are sometimes extremely difficult to detect. Especially Dürer, who has been copied many times since the sixteenth century.”
“The woodcuts certainly. But there is no doubt this drawing was done by the artist on blue paper.” Bianchi’s smile dimmed, and he turned to signal the waiter. “I have complete faith in Mr. Barrett. I’ve consulted him on several occasions.”
“Where did you purchase the drawing?”
“From a respected gallery in Venice. That city is where Dürer lived for a time.” Bianchi picked up his napkin and lowered his head as he settled the linen over his lap. “I have shown the receipt of my purchase to both Mr. Barrett and Mr. Gillies.” He smiled at Lizzie. “The oysters are always very fresh here, Lady Greywood. I wonder if you can be tempted?”
As Lizzie demurred, Jason wondered why Bianchi employed an Englishman. Why not an expert from Italy or France or even Germany? He had not exhibited his art in London before. While he drank his wine, he decided to locate Mr. Gillies and check the credentials of this Mr. Barrett, to ensure all was as the baron said. The matter had been resolved too hastily for his liking. Shouldn’t the drawing be studied with more care? And compared with Dürer’s other works?
“I’m afraid I must leave you directly after luncheon,” he said, aware that he would not be missed because Lizzie and the baron were now sharing a private smile. He would return to the Lamb and Flag and call again at the Kinsey’s afterward, hopefully with news.
***
After Mr. Thorburn had left the house, Helen slipped into the library. She opened the portfolio and sat down to read through the pile of letters, drawings, and her father’s notes. She could understand little of the correspondence from Mr. Volta, as the man’s hand was a scrawl and Italian was not one of the languages in which she was proficient. What she did discern made her cheeks flush with excitement. She couldn’t wait to show this to Peyton.
A knock at the door made her hastily return the letters to the portfolio. She was inspecting one of the new additions to her father’s collection when Mrs. Chance came in.
“Yes, Mrs. Chance?”
“Milady, we will be short one housemaid for the weekend of the ball.”
“Oh? Who have we lost, Mrs. Chance? And why?”
“It’s Alice. She is unwell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the matter?”
“A stomach complaint. Fiske plans to ask your mother when she comes home if Mr. Belvedere can be called. But Alice may have recovered by tomorrow.”
Helen’s chest tightened. “Has anyone else been ill?”
“No. It seems an isolated case.”
Helen jumped up. “I’ll go and see her.”
“Should another maid be employed in the interim, milady? I would ask Lady Kinsey, but she’s been away all day, and with the ball approaching…”
“An excellent idea. Send Jeremy to the employment agency please, Mrs. Chance. It’s short notice, but please try anyway.”
Helen hurried up to Alice’s room. She found the maid hunched over in her bed, her face startlingly pale.
“What is the matter, Alice?” she asked with another lurch of fear.
“I don’t know what it can be, Lady Helen. I haven’t felt myself for a week, but the pains are worse today.”
“Do you think you might have eaten something that upset you?”
“No. Just the regular meals Cook serves us.”
Helen sat on the bed. “We’ll have you well in no time. The doctor will be here soon.”
“Oh, milady! I can’t have him looking at me stomach. It’s not proper.”
“I shall ensure another woman is present in the room, Alice. Mr. Belvedere is an experienced and discreet doctor and will behave in a perfectly correct manner.”
A spasm of pain crossed her face. “
If you’re sure, Lady Helen.”
Helen squeezed Alice’s hand. “I am. The doctor will give you something to make you feel better. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Alice lay back weakly. “I do hope so. With the ball in a week and guests coming to stay. Who will do me work?”
“That has already been taken care of. You are not to worry about the ball, Alice. Just rest.”
Helen left the attic room eager for her mother to return. A chill washed over her. She needed her father. But even more, although she had no right to wish it, she needed Peyton, his strength, his warmth, his reassuring smile.
Chapter Fourteen
Jason had no trouble locating Mr. Gillies. The small thin gentleman lived in a respectable part of town. He stood for a moment on the street wondering why he was pursuing the matter. Did he suspect Bianchi was guilty of fraud, or did he just wish him to be? He had to admit that his feelings for the Baron were decidedly antipathetic.
“I was left some money by a relative,” Mr. Gillies explained over a glass of wine and biscuits in his sitting room. “It is my long-held dream to fill my house with beautiful art. This is my first purchase.” He nodded toward the framed sketch of a pair of male hands pressed together in prayer on blue paper, purported to be by Dürer, where it hung in pride of place on the wall. If it was a copy, it was very well done.
“When did you purchase this from Baron Bianchi?” Jason asked.
“About two months ago here in London.”
Jason took a sip of wine, finding it a good vintage. “What made you suspect the work is a forgery?”
“A friend of mine who is a collector has seen what he believes to be the original in a gallery in Vienna.”
“Perhaps this is that drawing?”
Gillies shook his head. “My friend has only just returned.”
“Then is it possible, perhaps, that the one your friend saw is a forgery?”
Unmasking Lady Helen: The Kinsey Family (The Kinsey Family Series Book 1) Page 12
