After shrugging her work apron from her shoulders, she retrieved her pocket watch and clicked its latch. Time was of the essence if she wanted adequate time to prepare for the ball. She smoothed her hair into place and drew a fortifying breath. Perhaps she was setting herself up for trouble by meeting him, but if she didn’t, she might always regret it.
Chapter29
Lucas fully understood the implication of sending MissBrannon a message directly. Normally, secret notes sent at a house party were tokens of love or romantic intention, but how else could he get a message to her on such short notice? Then the library door creaked open slowly, and she appeared.
And the risk had been worth it.
MissBrannon was clad in a simple, drab, printed calico gown with long sleeves and a high neckline. The modest design boasted no ribbons, no frills, and her hair was gathered low in a chignon at the base of her neck. But even in the darkness, her eyes were vibrant and alert, and the angular shadows that fell on her face accentuated the fullness of her lips, her high cheekbones, and the dimple in her cheek that appeared with every facial movement. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but she seemed more beautiful now than when dressed in her dinner finery.
He cleared his throat and refocused his thoughts. “You received my note, I take it.”
“I did.” She let the door close behind her.
“I’m glad, for I want to show you something.” He motioned for her to follow him to a long rectangular table centered beneath the window. He drew back the curtain, and a silver light tumbled through the rain-streaked windows onto the dozens of counterfeit pieces he’d encountered.
At first she said nothing. She lifted one of the bowls with her slender fingers, held it to the light, then turned it over to examine the bottom of it. “Areallof these bone China?”
“I’m afraid so. And if you’ll notice, most of these pieces are small and of a fairly simple design. Even so, whoever made these knew enough about Chinese art to capture all the pertinent details.”
She moved down the table, picking up pieces and studying them. “They are all a remarkable likeness, aren’t they? I wonder where it all came from.”
“And I can’t help but wonder where the original pieces are.” He retrieved the portfolio he’d placed on the table’s edge and handed it to her. “I located Mr.Milton’s chinoiserie inventory list, and each of the pieces on this table matches a visual description on a sales sheet.”
She lowered the bowl back to the table, accepted the portfolio, and opened it. As she thumbed through the papers, her movements slowed. She stopped, read the paper more carefully, and then touched one of the signatures at the bottom of the page.
Her father’s signature.
“My father would be sickened by this. He never would have sold pieces that were not authentic. Whatever happened here happened after my father sold them.”
Lucas reached out to take the portfolio back. “I think so too.”
And it was true. Edward Brannon was known for his honesty and integrity.
Unlike his own father.
Her brow suddenly furrowed, and she turned on her heel. “Do you remember the story about the artwork at Bentcress Manor from a few years back?”
“Bentcress Manor? I don’t recall it.”
“It’s a large estate in the very south of Devon, with an impressive collection of Italian artwork. A young artist, I think his name was Fallow, learned about this collection, and when the family was in London for the Season, he broke into the house and stole a single piece of art, frame and all. He then painted a duplicate image, placed it in the original frame, and returned it before the family returned in late summer. Then he sold the original. No one noticed. This went on for a number of years until a friend of the family encountered one of the original paintings in a sale. One clever agent connected the two and the forger was eventually arrested.”
“I’d not heard that.” Lucas considered the story as he picked up one of the pieces. “I’m not aware of anyone in England who would have the skill to re-create this chinoiserie. It’s beautiful. But unfortunately for Wainbridge, it’s utterly useless.”
She folded her arms over her midsection. “When are you going to tell him?”
“I plan to wait until after the ball. I’d like to finish assessing some of the other pieces so I have pleasant news to counter the bad.”
Silence fell over the darkened room until only the crackling fire and the rain pattering on the windows could be heard. The candles in the lantern sputtered, flickering their light over the contents and mingling with the afternoon’s moody light.
She bent her head over the table again, and he was struck afresh by her demureness. Her loveliness. The sentiment prevailed over concerns of chinoiserie or an upset client.
“I’m glad you came to meet me.” He stepped closer to her. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
She flicked her topaz gaze toward him. “Why would I not?”
“Well, I can think of a couple of reasons, but the most likely is that our families have not been on speaking terms for over a decade.”
She shook her head—completely unaware of how the candlelight glinted on the glossy strands of her hair—and grinned. “I can’t help but wonder what our fathers would say if they saw us here, in the Cloverton library, looking at a collection of counterfeit chinoiserie.”
