by Jo Goodman
“I am very glad to hear it, though I expect you were tempted.”
“No, I wasn’t. I want to see the painting, but I would rather that Mr. Charters was not present when I do it.”
“I’m not certain what you’re suggesting.”
“Frankly, I am not certain myself. I thought you might conceive an idea.”
“If you want to examine the painting outside of Charters’s presence, then we shall have to make certain he is gone from home. That is the easiest way. How long will you require?”
“As little as a quarter of an hour.”
“Then it is easily arranged. We will arrive at his home on the pretext of an invitation to do so. Since he will be away, there will be some confusion, naturally, on the part of his butler, but we will persevere and insist on being shown to the gallery to wait for Charters. You will make your examination, and we will linger a proper amount of time, then we’ll take our leave long before Charters returns home.”
“But he will find out later that we were there. I don’t think I want him to know. It would be difficult to explain, wouldn’t it?”
“Awkward, mayhap, but not difficult. Still, if you would rather there be no awkwardness, then we will endeavor to slip in and out unnoticed.”
“We can do that?”
“I can. I do not know if I can do it with you in tow.”
“What will happen if we are found out?”
“Now that will be awkward. You know Charters better than I. What will he want to do?”
“Well, I don’t imagine that he will draw pistols on us.”
Restell could not help but wonder if Emma was being hopeful. “That is good to hear,” he said. “How soon will you want to make your examination?”
“As soon as it can be arranged.”
Restell’s eyebrows rose. “What is it you expect to find, Emma? You have not been clear on that count.”
“Do you mind if I see the painting first? I shall feel very foolish if I am wrong.”
“If that’s what you want, then I have no objection.”
Emma’s smile gently chided him. “I’m sure you have many objections, but your curiosity in every way exceeds my own.”
Restell laughed. He could not deny it. When the carriage stopped, he stepped out first, then lifted Emma down. Taking her hand, he led her into the house and straightaway to their bedroom where he satisfied much more than his curiosity.
Almost a sennight later, Restell and Emma entered Neven Charters’s home through a door propped open by one of the kitchen maids. The young woman was in expectation of an assignation with one of Restell’s footmen, and when she slipped out to meet McCleod at the appointed hour, Restell and Emma slipped inside.
No one was stirring in the house, but they proceeded cautiously and quietly just the same. “This is perfect madness,” Emma whispered as she followed closely in Restell’s footsteps.
He stopped under a lighted candle sconce and glanced at her over his shoulder. His look was one of patent disbelief that she was only now arriving at that conclusion.
As the one receiving that incredulous expression, Emma was hard-pressed not to laugh. The response would have been wholly hysterical. Her nerves were stretched so tautly that she imagined plucking one would jangle all the others. She might very well collapse in convulsions. The vision of this did not calm her in the least, and above the hand she’d clamped over her mouth her eyes were stricken with something between fear and excitement.
Restell turned, took her by the shoulders, and pressed his forehead to hers. “Breathe,” he said. “Just breathe.”
She nodded. Her nostrils pinched as she took a deep breath through her nose.
Afraid she meant to hold it, Restell gently pried her hand away from her mouth. “Let it out slowly. Good.” He kissed her puckered lips, then released her shoulders and pressed on.
There was nothing for it but that Emma should follow. She knew what to expect; Restell had explained every part of what they must do. He’d reviewed it with her many times in the days while they were waiting for McCleod to be successful with drawing out the kitchen maid. She’d thought his preparation had been overdone, but now she was glad of it. It eased her mind—as much as it could be eased—that he knew how to negotiate the servants’ hall and staircase to bring them to the ground floor. He had remembered a surprising number of details from his previous visit and was careful to avoid bumping the marble-topped table in the hall or shouldering the ornate gilt mirror that reflected their silent passage.
Restell paused at the entrance to the gallery and listened. He nodded to Emma, removed a lighted candle from one of the sconces and held it up as he carefully pushed against one of the pocket doors.
It didn’t move.
“What is it?” Emma asked, looking around his bent shoulder.
“It’s locked.”
Her heart sank. “It never occurred to me.”
But it had occurred to Restell. He gave her the candle to hold, encouraging her to be careful not to burn herself, then told her where to keep it to give him the best light. He hunkered in front of the double doors and pulled a palm-sized, soft leather case out of his frock coat. Opening it, Restell examined the four picks and hooks before he made his selection. He inserted the steel pick into the lock, poked a few times, and gave it a twist. When he removed the pick and pushed the doors, they separated almost soundlessly.
A bead of hot wax dripped on the ball of Emma’s thumb as she jerked in surprise. The light flickered wildly, but she didn’t drop the candle, and she didn’t make a sound as dripping wax burned her skin.
She was all admiration as he ushered her inside the gallery. “Did you never aspire to be a thief?” she asked. “I think you have the talent for it.”
“Thank you.” He closed the doors. “You burned your hand, didn’t you?” He took the candle from her and examined her hand, peeling away the flat patch of cold wax.
“I don’t know that I even felt it,” she said. “I was quite overcome by your skill.”
Restell arched one eyebrow. “I look forward to hearing you say so again, but first there is the matter of what brought us here.” He held up the candle. “It is your turn, Emma. Find the painting.”
The gallery was every bit as garish as Emma remembered. Few of the fine treasures that Neven Charters had amassed were shown to their best advantage. While the quality of the pieces was not in doubt, the crowded confines convinced Emma that Neven cared at least as much for the vastness of his collection as he did for its value.
Standing at the center of the room, she turned slowly, eyeing the paintings on the walls. Larger works had been hung high, their frames only a foot or so below the ceiling. Smaller paintings, usually the more intimate portraits, were arranged close together at eye level. The Eden seascape was of a size that was between the others, and it was not the first painting to catch her complete attention.
Emma tugged on the sleeve of Restell’s frock coat. “Do you recall our conversation with Mr. Charters in this room?” She coaxed him toward the north wall and nudged his elbow higher so candlelight bathed the painting she was studying. “I spoke to him about a painting he appraised for Mrs. Stuart. The Tintoretto. Do you remember?”
“I recall your speech quite well. You took Charters to task for describing Mrs. Stuart as a Philistine.”
“Yes.” She pointed to the sun-drenched villa depicted in the painting above her. “That is the Tintoretto we were discussing, the one Mrs. Stuart purchased because the yellows matched the wall covering in her morning room.”
“So Charters bought it from her?” Restell frowned as he made his own examination of the painting. “Why would he do that? He knew it was a copy.”
“He would not purchase a copy. Not knowingly.”
“Then this is the original,” Restell said.
Emma nodded. “The question in my mind is whether this is also the one Mrs. Stuart owned.” She tugged on Restell’s frock coat again, moving them away f
rom the wall as she continued her careful appraisal of the gallery’s contents. She stopped suddenly when she faced the south wall. “There it is.” She pointed to the right of the mantel and more than four feet above it. “It’s too high, Restell. I can’t see it properly from here.”
“A moment, Emma.” Restell used his candle to light one of the table lamps. He adjusted the wick, then blew out the candle and set it aside. He carried the lamp to the mantel and made room for it among the jade, porcelain, and onyx figurines, then he lifted one of the upholstered Queen Anne chairs away from its conversational setting and placed it beside the fireplace’s marble apron. “Come here,” he bid Emma, holding out his hand. “The solution is to give you higher footing.”
Emma took Restell’s hand and supported herself as she climbed onto the chair. The painting was still too high, but before she commented on this fact, Restell was clearing a space for her feet on the mantel. The step she was required to make between the seat of the chair and the mantel was too large for her to negotiate on her own. Restell climbed on the chair behind Emma and placed his hands securely around her waist. He gave her only a moment’s warning before he lifted her. She found her footing and grabbed the ornate scrollwork and plaster rosettes that defined the decorative upper reaches of the fireplace.
Now that she was at eye level with the painting, she only needed to lean to one side to make her inspection. “I require the lamp,” she told Restell.
He regarded her precarious position, wondering how it might be improved upon, then passed her the lamp before she attempted to reach for it herself. He had an unhappy vision of her setting herself on fire.
Emma thanked him for the lamp, never knowing that she received it only because Restell meant to avert catastrophe. Holding the lamp securely in one hand, Emma gripped one of the rosettes in the other and leaned to the side at a forty-five degree angle. Below her, Restell held up his hands, prepared to catch her.
“It would be better, I think,” Emma said, “if you were to catch the lamp.” She smiled when Restell merely grunted. They both fell quiet as she made her examination. Her eyes followed the bold, sweeping brush strokes, the light imagined by the artist on the crest of the waves. She spent several long minutes taking in the whole of the work, just as she had at Lady Rivendale’s, and when she finished, she lowered the lamp toward Restell. “You will have to take this now. I need to make a scraping.”
Emma did not use her own nail this time. She had a small knife tucked in the pocket of her apron, wrapped in a handkerchief for safety. She fiddled with it, removing it from the handkerchief before she took it from the pocket. Below her, she thought she heard Restell mutter something under his breath. Undaunted, Emma slipped the knife under the edge of the frame, took her scraping, then studied the tip of the blade. The flakes were very different from what she had observed under her nail.
Emma replaced the knife in her pocket and wrapped it as best she could, trying to save the flakes. She pulled herself up so she was standing perpendiular to the mantel, then waited for Restell to put the lamp away so he could help her down. They replaced the chair, relighted their single candle, and extinguished the lamp after putting it back on the table. Restell rearranged the figurines on the mantel, hoping that he approximated their orginal positions so Charters would not immediately notice they had been moved.
He gave the gallery a final survey for signs of their intrusion before he followed Emma into the hall. As she had before, she held the candle while Restell used his pick, this time to lock the pocket doors. They retraced their steps down the hallway and through the servants’ quarters, then left by the same door they’d used to enter.
Emma felt the breath rush from her body and only realized when they were safely crossing the street how often she’d held it during their retreat. Whittier was waiting for them two blocks away, driving a nondescript hack that Restell had hired for this foray.
Neither Restell nor Emma spoke until they were inside and the carriage was moving. Emma fanned herself with her hand. “I should not like to do that every evening. I must say, though, I am coming to respect the collective nerve of those who regularly practice a criminal trade.”
Restell was compelled to point out, “We didn’t steal anything.”
“But we could have. Sneaksmen, I have heard them called. Really, it was quite exciting. You are very good to indulge me, Restell.”
“I would rather you were satisfied with a string of pearls or a diamond choker.”
“Then you should have proposed to Marisol.”
He made an uncomplimentary, gutteral sound that communicated perfectly what he thought of Emma’s observation. His eyes dropped to the pocket of her apron. Her right hand had disappeared inside, and he could see that she was turning over the knife. “Will you tell me now what it was all in aid of? What did you find on the point of your blade?”
“Proof that it is the original Eden.”
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“I suspected it, but I wasn’t certain that it was the same one that used to hang in Lady Rivendale’s music room. Now I am.”
“What?” A small vertical crease appeared between Restell’s eyebrows. “How can that be?”
“I’m very much afraid that Mr. Charters is a sneaksman,” she said. “Moreover, that he is an art forger.”
Restell blinked. The truth of it set in slowly, but when it did, Restell threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. The sound of it was loud enough to startle the horse pulling the hack. The cab rolled jerkily for a moment and Emma was rocked back in her seat.
“Are you quite all right?” asked Emma. “It would perhaps be better if you were somewhat appalled, after all he is a gentleman of your set and he is practically family. You might show some sympathy for Marisol and Uncle Arthur if you have none at all for Mr. Charters.”
“Forgive me.” Even to his own ears, Restell did not sound contrite. Indeed, the corners of his mouth were still twitching and the lantern light revealed a suspicious moisture on the rim of his eyelashes that could only have been residue of tears of mirth. “It is an interesting turn, is it not?”
“Disappointing,” Emma said. “At least to me.”
“Yes, I can see how that would be the case. You have listened to him pontificate on any number of occasions as to the value of a particular work of art. He speaks as an expert, and perhaps he is, but he demonstrates the remarkable nerve of the criminals that you admired earlier when he speaks of his contribution in reducing fraud. It seems he has found a perfect venue for perpetuating it.”
Emma offered no argument. “I think you are right,” she said quietly. “And it gives me no pleasure to have proven it.”
Restell was quiet a moment, then he offered gently. “I’m not certain that you have proven it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve proven it to your own satisfaction, but if you mean to make a public accusation, you will have to find a way to prove it to others. Then there is the matter of what it is exactly that you will prove. I am not aware that Charters misrepresented the paintings. He told you that they were fakes. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, but—”
“He told you he owned the original Eden, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but he—”
“I realize he didn’t mention that he owned the Tintoretto, but he could make the point that he did not want to draw attention to it.” He saw Emma was about to object. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I am merely saying that he could defend himself.”
Emma sank back against the hard cushions. “But I know Lady Rivendale owned the painting that was in his gallery. I studied it every day I was there trying to see what caused Mr. Charters to claim it was a copy. I have seen a good many pieces done by Eden. He is an English artist, after all, not like Tintoretto. I’ve never seen but two examples of the Italian’s work. It is not unusual to find an Eden hanging at the country estates of the same people who patronize my
uncle’s paintings.”
“So you are certain about the Eden,” Restell said. “I understand. Is Lady Rivendale, though? Would she know if her painting had been exchanged?”
“She might. She has a good eye if she knows what she’s looking for.”
“What about Sir Arthur? He should be able to tell the difference.”
Emma hesitated. “I don’t think he’ll want to involve himself. He has a fondness for Mr. Charters.”
“Because of Marisol.”
“I suspect that’s so. He wants to know that she’ll be settled well.”
“There are any number of young gentlemen that she might choose with pockets as deep as her fiancé’s.”
“Perhaps, but she’s already made her choice. She might lead him about from time to time, but she has no intention of cutting the tether. She would not thank me for telling her what he’s done.”
“What is it you want to do, Emma?”
“He stole from Lady Rivendale and most probably from Mrs. Stuart. He should have to make that right. That’s what I want, Restell. I want him to act honorably and make it right.”
Restell made no reply. They finished their ride home in silence and continued in that manner as they readied for bed. He poured Emma a small glass of wine while she sat at the foot of the bed brushing out her hair. She yawned widely as she accepted it. Restell smiled and took the brush from her hand. He chuckled when she regarded him and the brush warily, remembering very well what he had wrought the last time he’d held it.
“Set your mind at ease,” he said. “I am all for sleep.”
She nodded and sipped her wine.
Restell returned the brush to the dressing room, then crawled into bed. He yanked on his nightshirt when it impeded his progress. The evening was cool but not so much so that a fire was needed, and he slid between the sheets and tugged on the coverlet. Emma continued to sit pensively at his feet.
“You look as if the very weight of the world rests on your shoulders,” he said. “Will you not unburden yourself?”
“Perhaps later, when I understand the nature of what I’m feeling. I did not consider this consequence, Restell. I wanted to prove to myself that what I observed was in every sense real. I did that for me. I did not allow myself to think past that to what it would mean or what might come of it.”
