Page 20 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“It seems the footmen cannot tell you everything.” She smirked, but the expression hid a maelstrom of sincere emotions roiling in her gut. Were the paintings here? When he’d announced so confidently in their parlor that horrid evening that the paintings were gone, she’d assumed he had knowledge of this place. He did not, though.
Everything safe then. All her forged work still here, and in half an hour’s time, she’d have it all gathered up and tossed into a fireplace, ignited and burned to ash.
Seven
Sunlight was a dusty thing gathering in pale pools in a room used to darkness. On the very edge of one beam stood Miss Fiona looking pleased and hopeful and with bright-pink cheeks likely lended to her by the whisky.
But she always seemed to be pink-cheeked, so perhaps not. And currently, Zander wanted to hug her, not just laugh at her, which until now had been his predominant reaction.
“Yes,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, “the footmen didn’t tell me all. I can admit when I’m wrong. Thank you, Miss Fiona, for the revelation. I’d very much like a tour.”
And to so easily find the originals, after all these months… relief almost dropped him to his knees.
She turned in slow circles, her gaze caressing the room as she clasped her hands before her, a curiously appealing movement that swept her skirts against her hips and tightened the bodice of her gown across her breasts.
Things he should not be noticing.
“The entire house,” she said, taking a gliding step forward, “is an art museum, you see. No one lives here, sleeps here, or eats here. As far as I know, other than Lady Balantine, I’m the only one who’s been here. Until now, of course. I do hope she won’t be terribly put out with me for bringing you here, but needs must, I suppose.” She stopped beside the fireplace and flattened a palm on the wall, her gaze caressing up and down the length of it, from floor to ceiling. “Each room has a theme, focusing on a particular type of art. This room is tapestries.”
Zander came to stand beside her and touched his fingertips to the wall, felt the fine weave of silk. “I didn’t notice.” He turned in a circle now, looking closely. Drop cloths covered the furniture, but the walls had not been covered, and each one held a different tapestry. “How old are these?”
“I can’t be sure. They could be authentic. But… of course…”
“They might not be.” He leaned closer for a better view. “See this?” He pointed to a long faded spot. “The fading’s not from light. The weave has been worn thin here, and in a pattern suggesting the tapestry’s been folded. For decades. I say it’s authentic. If it is forged, the forger has done as good a job as you. That crackling you painted on the Rubens… perfection.”
She ducked her head and blushed. “I should not be pleased at such a compliment, but it seems I cannot help myself. It’s a devil’s talent, I’m afraid.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Still a talent, and a rather large one. Show me the gallery.”
“You don’t want a full tour?”
“Maybe some other day.” His feet itched to find the Rubens. Surely they were here. The electricity of a discovery zipped through him, the same feeling he got when he procured a particularly valuable piece for a particularly grateful and wealthy client. Success. Funds. Helping the family. More than success—victory.
He slipped his hand into his pocket to find the broken locket there and rubbed its edge. The action soothed him so he could follow her into the hallway without bouncing about like an ill-trained puppy.
Miss Fiona flashed him a look over her shoulder. “The hallways were left entirely blank, she said, to encourage contemplation.”
“Odd woman, wasn’t she? My mother would love her.”
“Shewasodd.” She shook her head. “Sheisodd. But I admire her. She always treated me well. Like she valued my help. She is odd, but she isgood.” An edge to her voice that dared him to disagree with her.
No point in that, though.
She found the stairs and made her way up.
He meant to climb silently beside her, but he found himself saying, “I feel like pins and needles are pricking me all over.”
“Yes. Me as well.” She grinned, and there in her flash of white teeth, he saw his own excitement mirrored. She understood what this could mean better than anyone. Deliverance.
“If you knew this place existed,” he said, “and if you were so worried, why wait till now to visit it?”
“I did not have a key, now did I? And I confess, I never considered breaking and entering.”
He chuckled as they reached the top of the stairs. “Fair.”
She sailed forward without stopping and pushed open a door at the very end of the hall. He followed her inside with one long stride only to bump into her when she stopped abruptly with a gasp and a strangled cry. She wobbled, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her.
A prickle of awareness—slim waist, curvy hip, tantalizing ribs just below things he was better off not thinking of—woke his every nerve, called his body into acute awareness. Of her. He yanked his arm away as soon as her feet were rooted strong to the floor. But he could not look away from her—the slightly parted lips, one long-fingered hand fluttering to her chest, her usually pink cheeks drained of color. A pretty woman indeed and an upset woman as well.
