It was a cursed thing, the human heart. It knew no sense, no discipline. It led one to love what could destroy it, and did not know the difference between joy and pain.
***
The next morning, after learning nothing of interest in his conversation with Clifford, Gareth rode out to Ramsgate with Ives to talk to the owner of the transport company that had carried the pictures north. The man appeared honest enough,and Ives and he agreed that if something had gone wrong in transit, he was probably not involved.
Upon returning to the house in mid-afternoon, all was quiet. The preparations for the ball no doubt were under way. He doubted Eva would emerge from Sarah’s chambers until it was time for the coach.
His own preparations had to wait. Lance had left a summons for him with the butler. He went above and found Lance being groomed for the day. Another man sat in the dressing room, sipping wine and looking impatient. Gareth knew him. Viscount Demmiwood had been friends with Lance until he had married and given up his more reckless, rakish habits.
The intervening years had not been kind to the viscount. While Lance looked to be on the older side of young, Demmiwood appeared more the younger side of old. A paunch of contentment stretched his waistcoat. The fair curls tousling forward over his forehead did not hide a receding hairline.
Right now that forehead showed the pink tint and sheen of sweat that indicated the viscount experienced distress. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs.
Lance interrupted his hated shave to greet Gareth. “You know Demmiwood. He has come to me with an extraordinary tale. I told him you and Ives should hear it, but the footman sent to Ives’s apartment came back saying he was not home.”
“We both went out of town. He should be back now. Send for him again.”
“I’ve no time for this,” Demmiwood said. “I have to prepare for the DeVere ball.”
“As does Gareth,” Lance said. “No time to waste, then. Tell him, Demmiwood.”
The viscount set down his wine. Gareth gave his attention.
“Two days ago, a picture seller who has been known at times to get his hands on excellent pictures, wrote and asked to callon me. He had something very special, he said. Very choice. Secretive, he was, as if he dared not be specific because others might get in before me if the details were made known. From his excitement, I guessed it would be a Gainsborough. I, like my father before me, am well known as a collector of his work. Finding ones that are not portraits is difficult, of course.”
“So you were interested.”
“Certainly. I may not have my father’s eye, but I am known as a connoisseur.”
Actually, Demmiwood was known as an easy mark. His willingness to pay good money for weak work was infamous. He had amassed one of the finest collections of second-rate art in England. Gareth had been tempted to unload the less satisfactory remnants of one of his brokered collections on him, but did not out of respect for Demmiwood’s old friendship with Lance.
“So I met with this man. He presented me with this.” Demmiwood reached down beside the divan on which he sat and lifted a small picture with a gilt plaster frame. “‘Gainsborough,’ he said. Normally I would have been delighted. However, with one look I knew all was not right.”
“It is forgery, that is certain. A very good one, but still a forgery.”
“I told you Gareth was good,” Lance said. “He spotted a problem from fifteen paces.”
“It is not only a forgery,” Demmiwood said, his agitation growing. “It is acopy. The original used to hang in the gallery of my estate. That is my father.” He pointed at one of the figures. “This is a portrait of him and his brothers when they were boys.”
Gareth went over, took the painting, and retreated to a window to examine it in the light.
“Hell of a thing,” Demmiwood said. “To be offered a forged copy of your own painting!”
“Did you accuse the picture seller of attempting fraud?”
“I did not. I swallowed my outrage, and asked him to leave it with me for a few days while I decided. I did not want to alert him that I knew his game and have him hop a packet.”
“I am grateful you did not alert him. You said this used to hang in your gallery—”
“Demmiwood’s county seat is in Sussex, of course,” Lance said, meaningfully. “Gareth knows all about the missing pictures, Demmiwood.”
“Then he may not be surprised that the original was among them. Packed up and shipped to safety, or so we all thought. Now, this.” His hand flourished at the picture in Gareth’s hands.
Gareth rubbed his thumb along the low corner. Still tacky. The painting had not been done long ago. More likely just months had passed.
Which meant whoever painted this had the original available very recently. It was the first mistake of whoever stole those pictures. With luck it would be all that was needed.
“When does this picture seller expect this back?”
