“You have a very impressive and eclectic collection of art and artifacts, Mr. Dailey,” Max said as the two men took their seats.
“That is entirely because I have a very impressive and eclectic collection of clients, Mr. Ithaca. Whereas most dealers in London cater exclusively to those who require nothing more than to sell off decaying portraits of ancestors, and those who wish, in turn, to purchase such paintings to display them as ancestors of their own, I seek out the collectors of the arcane, the exotic and the rare. And yes, indeed, I acquire a few dull ancestors as well.” He laughed at his own wit. “Have you come to me to sell your uncle’s collection? You spoke of his largesse a few minutes ago.”
Now Max laughed, and leaned forward. “It is quite the opposite. I have inherited a great monstrosity of a home in Cornwall, replete with artifacts that do not appeal to my wife or me. I doubt anything on the walls or displayed on the old oak tables are of much value, but we are interested in acquiring things that please us. Cost is of little objection if we find the things we want.”
Mr. Dailey could scarcely disguise his delight. “I am honored to serve you. But do tell me: What does, in fact, please you?”
“I have a particular affection for landscape paintings that remind me of my home. If we are to take up residence along the bleak coast of the Atlantic, it would be a fine thing to be surrounded by visions of warmth and sunshine.”
“You are from Rome, of course,” Mr. Dailey said. “I recognize the insignia of the city on your stickpin.”
“Of course,” Max said, patting it and looking very pleased with himself. He murmured something in Latin, which Dailey recognized and Claire did not. If this interview was to be between two men in a language she did not understand, and if she was to have nothing to do but study a fossil she much desired but could not own, she wondered why she bothered to come at all.
“And are you a citizen of Rome as well, Mrs. Ithaca?” Dailey asked, perhaps sensing her restlessness.
“I have lived in several places, Mr. Dailey,” she said, trying to mimic Max’s Yorkshire pronunciation, but thinking she came off sounding Scottish. “And I do not mind fog and rain nearly as much as my dear husband.”
“Ah, I recognize Yorkshire in your words, madam,” Mr. Dailey said. “I have items in my collection that will be of interest to either or both of you.”
As he excused himself and walked to the door, Max looked at Claire and hissed. “If that is your attempt to imitate my speech you must think I sound like a lisping drunk.”
“Well, I certainly prefer that to someone who sounds like he has spent too much time at the opera. Are you truly speaking Italian, or is Dailey humoring you?” she shot back.
“There is no reason to humor me, as I speak Italian quite fluently. As I do Portuguese, Spanish, French, and Dutch,” Max said.
“Did you forget German?” Claire asked.
“No, I never forget my German,” he replied, looking smug. “But I am not nearly as conversant in that language.”
Claire said something under her breath in plain English, which Max heard perfectly well. This man managed to intrigue her from her first glimpse of him in Armadale’s ballroom, and it appeared she still had a lot to learn about him. The damaged recluse was but a memory now, if, indeed, he ever existed.
She quickly amended her thinking. Indeed, he had been troubled and as blind in his own way as was Camille. And yet, as was also true of his sister, he made his way through the world with extraordinary competence. Claire sat back in her seat and stared at him, wondering of what else he was perfectly capable and she was unaware.
“I should be happy to teach you what I know,” Max said. “I am somewhat generous in that regard.”
“Indeed you are. But I do not know where you imagine I might use such skills.” Certainly he did not intend to include her on his errands for Armadale, where one might be pushed off a dock or suffer other injuries. And yet, here they were in disguise, in a place Max thought might be dangerous.
“I have several places in mind, and none of them are in rugged Cornwall,” he said, sounding convincingly like a Cornishman. “I thought we might enjoy an extended wedding journey through much of the Continent.”
Claire caught her breath and forgot to breathe. She had not yet agreed to marry him—at least, she thought she had not—and he was already planning an adventure for them. And she had never once said—at least, she thought she had not—that she longed for such a journey nearly all her life, her dreams of it whetted by Marissa’s stories. It was nearly too wonderful to be possible, and she said so.
“What will happen to Camille? Will she accompany us?” Claire asked, questioning the details, rather than the main point.
“My love, I appreciate your devotion to my family. But surely you do not think I intend to travel on my wedding journey with my sister in tow?” Max leaned towards her. “We shall have to see her safely married first.”
This, then, was his proposal and his prospect for their future together. He said he was no romantic, and indeed here they were, in another man’s office, in disguise, and using false names. It was all perfectly wonderful.
Until Mr. Dailey coughed.
“I have asked two of my assistants to bring us some paintings that might be of interest,” he said, looking curiously at them. “I have a fine oil of the Forum, but it is on a rather grand scale, befitting a ballroom. More modest in size, but finer in craftsmanship, are two paintings of a Yorkshire estate. They came to me many years ago, but I have been reluctant to sell them. I cannot tell you why, for I do not quite understand it myself. But as you express a distinct interest in the art of that region, I thought you might be interested. If they bring you comfort in Cornwall, Mrs. Ithaca, I shall consider it reason enough for holding onto them all these years.”
Mr. Dailey’s polished bit of salesmanship was interrupted by the entrance of two men carrying a massive canvas between them. Wisely, they placed it at the far end of the room so that it looked to be a natural view, with the sense that one could simply walk over and step into the Forum. Claire flushed, imagining doing the same with Max at her side, under the hot Italian sun. Max glanced at her, raising his brows, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking.
He turned back to Dailey. “Do you know the artist’s name?” Max asked, and then repeated the question in Italian.
Dailey gave him that information and a good deal more: the date of composition, of delivery to England, restoration on the damaged frame, the first several owners, the manner of transit from one estate to another, the cost and the possibility of a discount if one was to buy several works.
“You keep detailed records of your transactions, I see,” Max said casually.
Dailey looked affronted. “I would not have the reputation I do if I were to be careless in such matters. One wants authentication on paintings of such value, of course. And, as there are those who profit by dishonest means, I must be exceedingly careful in all my dealings.”
“Has it ever happened that a painting was sold with all good intentions, but posed problems after the deed?” Max asked.
“It is very rare, sir, but it does occur. I recently purchased a Greek figurine from a gentleman who told me he found it among the ruins at Delphi. I then learned he found it among the books in another gentleman’s library. Such things happen in our business.” Mr. Dailey shook his head. “It is why I endeavor to deal with men I already know and trust.”
“Then you know everyone who has ever offered you a painting for purchase?”
“In almost all cases, I do.” Mr. Dailey spoke as if he had delivered such reassurances many times before. “Ah, here are our English paintings. I do not have as much information on them, though they were painted so much closer to home. But they were sold on behalf of the family of a gentleman who died, in order to pay off his debts. I dealt with the
representative of his estate.”
A young woman dressed in serviceable clothing came into the room, her arms braced around a scene of farmers working a field at the edge of a wood. In the background, through the trees, stood a large home over which a flock of birds flew in a formation similar to a pennant. Max leaned forward, studying every inch of it.
“I see you appreciate this artist, Mr. Ithaca. In that case, you will enjoy its companion piece even more,” Mr. Dailey said.
Another woman entered with a canvas that was somewhat unwieldy for her. She brought it to an easel Claire had not noticed before and carefully displayed it. Mr. Dailey was correct that this landscape was even finer, for the home was in the foreground, set among acres of manicured bushes and well-shaped trees. The flock of geese, if that is what they were, had settled on a small lake, where dark blue waters reflected the great house itself.
“They are signed by Benjamin West, the American,” Mr. Dailey said, as he pointed to a corner of the canvas. “For years, I intended to speak to him about these paintings, for they are somewhat different from his popular historical scenes. And yet it might be said that these, too, preserve a moment in time.”
“I have met Mr. West,” said Claire. “And as he is rather elderly, you will want to interview him before it is too late.”
She looked at Max, so she might explain what she knew of the man who left his homeland to eventually become president of the Royal Academy. But Max seemed uninterested in anything she might have to say, for his attention was all for the painting. He was out of his chair and halfway towards the easel before she could say another word.
Chapter 10
“Mr. Ithaca! Do not trouble yourself to leave your seat, for we can move the easel closer for your examination,” said Dailey. “And some paintings improve upon greater distance.”
Max looked back at him, but did not stop. “And some paintings improve upon greater proximity,” he said.
“Max?” Claire asked, with an edge to her voice. If anyone noticed her error, he remained silent about it. “What is it you see?”
“Yes, Mr. Ithaca,” Dailey said, clearly pleased. “What do you appreciate about the painting? It is certainly of the highest quality, and the subject is rather elegant, and I can think of many things to recommend it, but you appear particularly intrigued. Have you seen it before?”
“Yes, I believe I have,” Max said. In fact, he had seen it many times before, though not for these twenty years. “If not, it is similar to another painting I enjoyed as a child.”
He looked from the painting to Claire and wished her eyes were not hidden behind the black veil, for he wanted to be sure she understood precisely what was happening.
He could not act too quickly, for it would only arouse suspicion; since he had no reason to doubt Dailey, it would not do to accuse him of that of which he was truly innocent. But this painting had been acquired from someone who did not rightfully possess it, which was precisely what Max hoped to discover.
That the painting was of Brook Hall when it was home to a family and a showplace for all the neighborhood, was more than he had reason to believe possible. It had been his, and would be again. And once his, he could attempt to uncover the mysteries that had plagued him for most of his life.
Max made a great show of studying the canvas, examining irregularities in the paint and details in the design. He circled it several times, tapping the frame and acting as if assessing its proportions.
“You seem interested, sir,” said Mr. Dailey, handing him a measuring stick.
“I believe I am,” Max said. “Please name your price.”
Mr. Dailey did so, and when Max said nothing, the man said, “Let me remind you that the artist is president of the Royal Society and influences the careers of many painters. His paintings hang in all the best houses of England.”
“I presume the documents you possess on this painting pass along with the sale?” Max asked, knowing that this one did indeed hang in one of the best houses.
“Yes, of course. I deliver them upon payment.”
“Very well. We have an arrangement, sir,” Max said, shaking Dailey’s hand.
“Shall I have it delivered to your address?” the man asked.
“I prefer to send someone to handle it for me. Is tomorrow too soon, if I pay you today?” Max carried an abundance of notes with him, precisely for this purpose. He preferred to leave no trail to his banker or his home.
Dailey was visibly delighted. “I shall have it wrapped and ready for your men when they arrive.”
“Excellent,” Max said. “I shall send them by afternoon. I daresay they will manage by carriage.”
Dailey nodded. “And what of the other paintings?”
Max paused in his counting of the notes and looked at him.
“The Forum and the Yorkshire farm,” Dailey said. “The farm is a companion piece, you understand.”
“Ah, yes. I shall have to consider it another time,” said Max. “The house will have to do for now. Do you happen to know the name of the estate?”
Dailey looked down at a sheaf of papers that one of the women had handed to him moments before. “I do not, sir. But perhaps I can make enquiries of Mr. Doyle, who sold it to me.”
“Mr. Doyle, you say? I believe I have heard the name before,” Max said casually, but his heart was racing. “Do you frequently do business with the man?”
“From time to time, yes. I have known him for many years, but have always suspected he conducts business only when necessary. I may not see him for years, and then he arrives in London with two or three fine works, quite ready to conduct business,” Dailey said. “I daresay the practice is not nearly as common as ladies selling their diamonds, but can prove just as lucrative.”
“He must appreciate your patronage, Mr. Dailey,” Max said. “And perhaps his name is familiar to me because I have met him before. Is he a short fellow with blue eyes and pale hair?”
Max knew of no one in particular with such attributes, but thought he might wring out a description by offering it.
Dailey looked at him appraisingly, before providing Max with precisely what he wished. “You must be thinking of another man, sir. Mr. Doyle is perhaps your height, though bent a bit with age. But for all that, his features are not so different from your own, aside from your impressive beard.”
Max sucked in his breath. “Perhaps one day I shall have the opportunity to meet this good-looking gentleman.”
“It might not be possible, Mr. Ithaca. At our last meeting Mr. Doyle mentioned he contemplated emigrating to America, or perhaps Australia. He was often vague about when I might expect him to call again, but his indecision here seems to be of greater magnitude. The two places are nowhere near each other, you understand.”
“I understand,” Max said, patiently. “I am a bit of a traveler myself, and it helps to know one’s final destination.”
Dailey laughed. “Of course. You, of all men, would appreciate this.”
“I beg your pardon,” Max said. Beside him, Claire coughed discreetly.
“Because of your name, sir,” Dailey reminded him. And then, surely happy to overlook some slight forgetfulness on the part of a customer who paid in cash, added, “Thank you, Mr. Ithaca. Here are the documents that now belong in your possession.”
“You are very welcome, sir. I hope we will do further business in the future.” Max shook hands with the man, and started towards the door.
“At any time, sir,” Mr. Dailey said, holding his earnings in one hand, and the painting’s frame just as possessively with the other. “And Mr. Ithaca?”
Max stopped short, and turned back to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Your English has remarkably improved in the time since you arrived here. You should come more often.”
Max grinn
ed a little too broadly, feeling like a fool. He put his hand on the door latch but met with a soft kid-covered glove instead.
“And do not forget to leave with your wife next time,” Claire hissed. Even though her face was still covered by the black veil, he knew she scowled at him.
He followed her out the door, appalled at how far he had come to forget himself. While he carelessly showed off his various talents, he managed to commit indiscretions that could have placed them both in danger. If he ever did such a thing while in service to his cousin, Armadale would have his head. He studied Claire’s gentle sway as she walked in front of him, and realized how much more he had to lose if anything happened to her. And how whatever he already knew of guilt would pale by comparison.
He caught up to her with a couple of hurried steps. “How much of that did you understand?” he asked.
“You must think me an idiot, Mr. Ithaca. I understood everything, once you stopped talking like a gigolo.”
“What do you know of gigolos, Mrs. Ithaca?”
“One need not know so much as imagine,” she said loftily. She allowed him to stand between her and a passing carriage. “However, I do not believe I imagined there was a proposal of marriage embedded in all that nonsense.”
“I hope you did not think it nonsense as well,” he said.
She stopped and turned up her head to him so that he could see the faint curve of her cheek and the tip of her nose beneath her veil. But he could not see her eyes, as he very much wanted to do.
“I never take a man’s promise frivolously, but it is somewhat cutting to be put back in my place by a landscape painting, no matter how beautiful. I will guess that you knew that painting, knew that house . . . ,” her voice wavered, and he did not have to see her face now to know precisely what she was thinking. “It is Brook Hall, of course.”
Max caught her arm and pulled her down the street at a brisk pace. There was much he wished to discuss with her, and this was not the place to do it. And as she sensed that as well, she did not complain. She said nothing at all until they returned to Middlebrook House, and closed the door on his library.
Sharon Sobel Page 25
