Yes, yes. She would be fine once she reached home.Every painting destroyed?
Brandon was in trouble. He would never have besieged her with so much of his work otherwise. Doubts that he’d made it to the Continent seeped into her muddled brain.
Thorne strode through the door Oswald held, Brock on his heels. “How is Lady Kimpton?” he demanded.
“I believe she is better, my lord.”
He tossed Oswald his hat. “Tell her I will visit momentarily.”
“Of course, sir. I will inform her as soon as she returns.”
Thorne stopped. “Returns from where?”
“Lady Dankworth’s tea, my lord.”
“Lady Dankworth is having a tea?” He swallowed a groan. If Lorelei was unaware of his talk with Rowena Hollerfield before, she would be well informed by the time she returned home. This did not bode well. With a scowl, he barked, “Come, Brock. We must make the most of our time.”
Thorne took the stairs two at a time. At least a couple of Harlowe’s paintings were in Lorelei’s suite of rooms. He knocked sharply, then peered around the door. The room was in order, and thankfully empty. The bed was made with no sign of his presence lingering from the night before. Not that he’d shed a single item of clothing. The silent admittance was disappointing.
“Over here,” he said to Brock, pointed above the hearth. The colors of the painting were brilliant with rich blues and greens. Seeing the work up close was somewhat shocking. The scene appeared biblical. Something he’d never quite associated with Harlowe, the poet; Harlowe, the artist; Harlowe, the scoundrel. It was a bit of a stretch. Perhaps not the scoundrel aspect.
“I never considered your wife’s brother as… er… devout, did you?” Brock asked.
“No. It’s odd indeed.”
Thorne sensed a theme emerging—one of betrayal—in this case, Judas kissing Christ.
“Are you certain this work is of his hand?” Brock leaned forward and studied the right hand corner. “His signature is present, in any event.”
“I’ve seen enough of his work to recognize the technique. And look?” Thorne ran his finger over an image of a shortened handle topped with a large, curved blade. “What does this appear like to you?” The object was drawn within the folds of Judas’s long robe, only a shade darker. Thorne stood back from the work, but it was still difficult to make out.
“Looks like a scythe to me. Was he involved in dark arts, do you suppose?”
“I couldn’t begin to venture a guess. I’m sure I have some volume in the library that can help us with details on any symbolism. From my days at Eton, I fear.” Thorne grimaced, spinning around. A few smaller works covered another wall. “Most of these are his as well, but they look to have been painted much earlier than the ones he recently started sending to Lorelei.”
Brock walked over and studied the smaller paintings. “I see what you mean. The brushstrokes look similar, but do not appear as mature as those in the Judas work. The detail is fascinating.”
A bark of laughter burst from Thorne. “I had no idea you were such a connoisseur.” He glanced at the time. “Hm. Some of the more recent paintings he sent over are too vile to hang just anywhere. Lorelei must have placed them elsewhere in the house. He has a studio on the third floor.” They needed to vacate her bedchamber. If were she to return and find himandBrock loitering he probably couldn’t pay her enough to stay. “I’ll admit I did not pay much attention. And as none have shown up in my study…” He shrugged. “I would have noticedthat. We’d best leave.” Thorne led the way back to the stairs. “I seemed to recall a couple of more works hanging in the dining room.”
He darted quickly past servants going about their daily duties. Once he reached the formal dining hall, he shooed them out. The room was crowded with large ornate furnishings. The table itself seated thirty at full capacity. Then there was the sideboard. Each piece of furniture was elaborately carved out of the finest mahogany. Wainscoting in a dark paneling covered the lower half of the walls, and the wallpaper matched the deep red of fine wine. The dark hue of the gloomy room set off Harlowe’s works to perfection. Thorne counted six paintings. Again, rich colors with varied subject matters. And not a single biblical figure was featured.
In fact, Thorne could not discern a common theme between the one in Lorelei’s chamber and any of these that lined the dining room walls. One boasted a grand sunset off cliffs, reminiscent of Cornwall. Another showcased naval ships at Dover set to launch for Calais. Soldiers waved to a crowd below, while others said their farewells to loved ones. Another depicted a surprising country scene—a grassy meadow with a pond and animals grazing.
The one at the far end of the chamber was especially intriguing. A simple scene, really, of a young woman sipping her tea, her pretty smile coy, her velvet-brown eyes full of dreams and hope. It was…sweet.An oversized hat covered a portion of her face. It was clear Harlowe had painted his subject with a loving hand. Thorne was amazed. How had he neglected to spot the man’s talent?
He studied the lavish background that pricked his memory. It seemed intimately familiar, but Thorne couldn’t imagine where he’d encountered such. A ruby ring of obscene proportion adorned the third finger of the young woman’s left hand, the one holding her cup. Was it possible Harlowe had fallen in love with the model? It was a frequent enough occurrence.Shecertainly appeared smitten.
“Here,” Brock said. Thorne’s head snapped around. Brock was pointing to the Dover picture. “Look at this couple.”
He strolled over and grunted. “A lovely young woman held by her fellow going off to war?” He shrugged. “What about it?” He leaned in for a closer look. Hmm, her eyes and smile rested over the shoulder of the gentleman she embraced.
Brock snapped his fingers, jerking Thorne’s gaze to the folds of the woman’s green skirts.
“Another scythe? Definitely a coincidence,” he murmured. “Too much so, in my opinion. Let’s remove this one and any others we find with that symbol to my study. I’ll send Andrews up for the one in Lorelei’s chamber.” They each took an end and lifted the painting from the wall.
A disturbance sounded from the foyer.
“What the devil?” Thorne relinquished the art piece to Brock’s possession and glanced out the door. “Andrews?” The discomfort on the footman’s face kept Thorne from punching first and asking questions later.
