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“You see, Miss Finch.” He shot her an indulgent look. “You did well to offer your thoughts. As it turns out, Mr. De’Ath was the one who erred in his assumptions.” His mustache twitched. He resembled, suddenly, nothing so much as a happy old walrus. “To err is human,” he intoned. “Mr. De’Ath, it comes as rather a relief to know that you, too, are wrong from time to time.”

“Alas.” De’Ath smiled and stepped back. “I’m not wrong. I’m never wrong. It’s a gift and a curse.” His expression was sardonic as he swept each of the pictures with his gaze. “Fakes.” He proclaimed the word.

Mr. Broughton’s face reminded Nina to school her own features. A happy old walrus speared by an Arctic explorer.

Damn bugger blast.

She pressed her lips together.

“They are wonderful.” De’Ath had derision in his voice. “I’d buy them myself but for that.” He pointed with his cane at the lower right corner of Forge and Oak. The signature was a scrawl, the B distinct. “The forger is talented enough to sell his own work. But, as we all know, a famous name fetches a higher price.”

Mr. Broughton was as white as his hair. “How can—”

“Shall I analyze and compare the styles of these pictures and genuine Berneys?” De’Ath sighed. “I could but I don’t want to delay you. You have your work cut out for you. Canceling the sale, locating Chips Sleaford. If I were you, I’d send someone to Norwich to pay a visit to that convenient descendant.”

Mr. Broughton hesitated.

“You doubt me?” De’Ath whipped up his cane again. “Perhaps this will convince you. These cracks—here. The pattern looks natural, but if you examine these closely, you’ll see ridges. Someone drew them on by dragging a pin through the wet paint.”

Thwack. The notebook had slipped from Nina’s hands, smacked against the marble floor. She crouched to pick it up. Now. Now was the moment to close her eyes tight and wake up in Hensthorpe.

She rose on a deep breath. De’Ath was firming his mouth against the suggestion of a smile. He thought her clumsiness funny, endearing perhaps. Harmless.

For the time being.

“Ready?” he asked her, and glanced at Mr. Broughton. “It seems Mr. Broughton would find a stylistic analysis helpful. Do take this down, Miss Finch.”

Nina opened the notebook. Her fingers were trembling.

“The palette is characteristic of Berney, as is the pictorial organization, even the sensitivity to the details of the natural world.” De’Ath tucked his cane beneath his left arm and removed his spectacles, rubbing the lenses on his sleeve. “But Berney’s figures—human and animal—are crude, almost merging with their surroundings. Background, not foreground. That cow, there, by the farm building, has far too much definition and personality for a Berney cow.” He broke off. “Am I going too quickly?”

“Oh no. Well . . . a bit, rather.” Nina resettled the pencil in her hand. She hadn’t written a word.

She’d lavished too much attention on Mr. Middleton’s cow, Winnifred. She’d known it at the time. But Winnifred wasn’t fashioned for crude representation! She had such a stately demeanor, such long-lashed eyes. Her butter made the best batches of gooseberry tarts.

The Mozart of gooseberry tart.

She could sense her future receding.

“Mr. Broughton.” De’Ath spoke with fastidious politeness. “Would you be so kind as to have a porter bring us stools or a bench? This might take some time. I want to be thorough.”

He shifted silver eyes back to Nina. All her muscles clenched.

“Let me back up. Berney’s techniques.” Again, his words flowed. Descriptions of Berney’s undermodeling, his brushwork, the fullness of his paint. Descriptions of the forger’s deviations, idiosyncrasies, telltale flourishes.

As De’Ath spoke, she saw a picture of herself emerging. Dear God, how could he reconstruct her very posture as she plied her brush, identify everything about her . . . and miss the fact that she, the culprit, stood beside him?

Stood close enough to touch.

“Miss Finch,” murmured De’Ath.

She’d stopped writing again.

“A cramp in my hand.” She blinked. “It’s much better now. Go on.”

She bent her head, gritted her teeth, and recorded every damning word.

Chapter Eight