When they arrived at the town house, Gregory supervised the entrance of the painting himself, carrying it, still draped, past the footmen and setting it on the floor of the main salon by the fireplace. Then he waited as Hope called for her grandmother and an explanation.
The Dowager entered the room and gave the pair of them a curious look.
‘We have found the painting you sold,’ Hope said, frowning at her in disapproval. ‘But now, what are we to do with it?’
He walked to the painting and, being careful not to look down at the canvas, pulled a corner of the holland cloth that covered it. When this did not result in a response, he pulled the rest away.
At the sight of it, the older woman clasped her hands over her bosom with a sigh of delight. ‘I have not seen this in ages. Wherever did you find it?’
‘Where you left it, Grandmama. At an art dealer in Seven Dials.’
‘I?’ She laughed. ‘I would have not parted with this for the world. How often does one have such a vivid reminder of the joys of youth? I can remember the days I posed for this.’ She wrapped a hand behind her neck, arching her back until her breasts pointed towards the ceiling. Then she looked back at them and dropped the pose with a chuckle. ‘My arm fell asleep. It was most fatiguing. But you must admit, the results were worth the effort.’
‘We did not bring this here for a reminiscence of your sordid past,’ her granddaughter said with a huff. ‘We have brought it home to you to complete the entail. Now where are we to put it so that no one sees?’
‘The entail?’ The Dowager laughed. ‘My dear, this does not belong to the earldom. This was a gift from me to your grandfather. It was his pride and joy until he lost it in a card game to one of my admirers. We had quite the row over that, at the time. But that was many years ago. I have not thought of it for ages.’
‘You said you sold a blue painting,’ Hope said, pointing at the drape in the painting. ‘We were searching for it when we found this.’
The Dowager focused in the present for only a moment. ‘Oh, that. The painting I sold is nothing like this, I assure you.’
‘You remember it?’ Hope said, exasperated. ‘Then perhaps you can give us a better description than,blue. Is it of a blue sea? A blue sky? A blue dress?’
‘Was that what you thought I meant?’ Her grandmother laughed. ‘It is not a painting of something blue. It is a portrait of the Blue Earl.’
‘And which one was that?’ interrupted Gregory, intrigued.
The Dowager’s brow furrowed. ‘The third or fourth, I should think. He was sickly pale and quite ugly, with grey skin and ice-blue lips. Something in the blood, they thought. He did not live to marry. It is just as well. God knows what his children might have looked like. The title fell to a cousin and there have been no further problems.’
‘You sold a portrait of a Comstock?’ Hope said, amazed.
‘The ugliest one,’ the Dowager said, defensively. ‘I do not think we have to count him. He did not last much longer than the time it took to complete his likeness. Your grandfather kept the thing behind a door in the portrait gallery because he could not stand to look at it.’
‘But the new Earl will most assuredly notice when the succession of his ancestors jumps from three to five,’ Hope said. ‘How could you think that it would go unremarked?’
‘You did not notice, did you?’
Gregory held up a hand, trying to return the conversation to the salient information. ‘Was the painting labelled in any way?’
‘There is a brass plaque at the bottom,’ the Dowager answered.
‘And his costume?’
‘Jacobean. A rust-coloured leather doublet that makes his skin look truly ghastly.’ She thought for a moment. ‘His hair was thinning as well. Thank the Lord your grandfather came from another branch of the family tree. I loved him dearly, but I do not think I could have stood waking next to him if he’d looked like the Blue Earl.’
As he committed the details to memory, the Dowager went to the bell pull and summoned a pair of footmen, directing them to put the painting in her ‘boudoir’, an apt description of the sort of bedroom inhabited by a woman who would pose for such a picture. It was a credit to the loyalty of the servants in the Comstock household that they did not seem phased by any of it.
Hope Strickland watched the activity, her fists pressed against her temples as if it required physical strength to hold on to her sanity. Once the door had closed, she turned to him, angry and defensive. ‘The Strickland family is one of the oldest in Britain.’
‘I am aware of that,’ he said, though he had no idea what difference it would make to the situation.
‘We are not likeher.’ She pointed in the direction that her grandmother had gone.
‘Of course not,’ he said. The poor girl seemed to think it was possible to divorce herself from the woman who had given her her looks, if not her temperament. The Dowager might not have been born a Strickland, but to deny her as family was an act devoid of logic.
‘If you insist on agreeing with me, you should do a better job of hiding your true feelings,’ she snapped.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said, giving her his most impassive smile. Then he spoiled everything by saying, ‘But would it really be so bad to be like the Countess?’
