Harewood moved past him toward the other side of the room, Lady Beaumont on his arm as she exclaimed at the amount of artwork.
As Lady Amelia moved to the next piece of art, he found the will to move.
When he approached, she turned toward him. “That is not an original, but I’m guessing you surmised that.” She didn’t point to the Ruebens, assuming correctly he would know which she referred to.
He simply nodded. That particular bawdy work had been suspect in his own mind. His father had purchased it for the subject, not the artist.
The next one she viewed carefully, even bending over to inspect it closer. Upon rising she sighed. “Though this one is quite good, it is also a forgery.”
She kept staring at it as if impressed with the painter, but his chest tightened. He’d acquired that painting while in Paris and had been assured it was authentic. This did not bode well for him. “Are you sure?”
She nodded before pointing to what was supposed to be a Francoise Dubois. “I noticed an odd shading here. It does not work with the light coming in from this direction, which is why I checked the color of the cloth on the figure. Dubois used carmine in his paintings not rose madder for color. It is a very well-done imitation. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was someone who studied with him.”
That was not what he wished to hear. He wanted to have options, but his own hubris at knowing good artwork may have limited them.
She moved to the next as if she hadn’t just dashed his highest hope. The following painting, which he thought could be a forgery proved to be authentic, which gave him some relief. However, the next five were of no use to him, three he’d obtained and two his father had purchased. The only difference was that his father’s were obviously forgeries. Had he purchased them knowing they were copies because he didn’t wish to expend his funds on his brief hobby?
“Now this is beautiful.” Lady Amelia lifted a small painting from the table it lay upon. “The colors, the lighting, the strokes themselves are magnificent.”
Something in her voice caught his attention far beyond wondering if the artwork was authentic. He stepped forward to view the pastoral scene that had been hanging in his mother’s sitting area adjacent to her bedroom. He’d forgotten about it, having not noticed it since he was a child. It should not have been brought down. Just as his father had his favorite painting, so too did his mother have hers.
He stood next to Lady Amelia to view the piece again. Now that she had pointed out its artistic merits, he could see beyond the simple baby lamb and mother sheep he remembered from childhood.
She studied the signature on the back. “I do not recognize this name.”
“I don’t imagine you would. It was painted by my mother’s sister.”
Her gaze left the painting to stare at him. “Your aunt painted this?” She turned back to view it again, then faced him. “Does your mother have such talent? Do you?”
The excitement filling her voice made him loathe to disappoint her, but there was no help for it. “Alas, neither of us can paint.”
“But have you tried?” Her gaze had turned intense, causing her eyes to darken to a breathtaking violet.
He’d had many of those mystic moments she’d spoken of while they had viewed the moonlight. So many, he’d attempted to capture them. “As much as I hesitate to disappoint you, I have picked up a paintbrush to disastrous results, and so I have instead spent my life collecting great artwork.” He couldn’t hold her gaze. “Only now, I find, my discerning eye for great art was not as keen as I’d thought it.”
“Lord Sommerset.”
When she didn’t continue, he finally looked at her.
“From what I’ve seen thus far, I see two types of forgeries in this collection. Those that barely pretend to be the artist, and those that are so close it takes someone with significant expertise to recognize them as such. I would even hazard to say some art collectors wouldn’t know the difference.”
He raised his brows, not sure why that would have any significance. “How is this important?”
Her lips quirked up. “I apologize, I seem to have forgotten to make the connection between what I was thinking and what I said. What I mean to say is that your eye, your selection, your appreciation is stellar. I would not doubt that.”
He gave her a nod. It was a compliment from an expert, and he took it to heart, even if it did little to change his situation.
She cocked her head, a wisp of hair falling forward which she brushed back with the back of her hand. “My question is, who chose the other forgeries. It cannot be you.”
He grinned at that, both relieved and pleased that she had discerned that fact after only reviewing less than half of what was laid out before her. “It was my father. He grew interested in art one year and set out to purchase whatever took his fancy.”
“Ah, so it was the subject of the paintings that attracted him, not the talent.”
“I must admit that is true.”
Her smile turned devilish. “Your father had a rather…”
He chuckled. “Mundane, common, plebeian taste?”
