Page 26 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
He winced. “We should restart our acquaintance.”
“But why?” The sincerity of her question settled about the room, and a lock of yellow hair rested in the curve between shoulder and neck Zander always found irresistible, his favorite part of the female body. On Miss Frampton it was doubly arousing.
He dropped his head and raked his fingers through his hair. “I feel bad for all that—the insults and the ill-timed revelations. I’d like to make amends. You’re friends with a duke. Do you think you can be friends with an art curator?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t want to work with me a week ago.”
“And I’ve come around, haven’t I?” More like his willpower to keep the woman distant had crumbled entirely. “I’m still hesitant about the entire thing, but it’s your life and your fate as much as it is mine. Of course you must take part. On an”—he growled a bit as he finished up—“active level. More than notes.” And he’d just have to do anything and everything to keep her safe. And to keep her father from getting ideas about their relationship.
Her nod came slow as dripping honey.
Honey—the color of her hair, though now in the deepening shadows it seemed even darker than that.
“I suppose we can be friends,” she finally said. She smiled, a barely-there expression that very nearly knocked him unconscious.
What had they been talking about? Where in hell was he? Did he even have a name? He took a deep breath then cleared his throat.
“We should focus.” He pushed the bottle of wine away despite his urge to grab it up and take a giant slug of the liquid.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Lord Lysander.”
“Of course, you can’t paint another forgery. That idea is right off the table.”
“I think you’re correct. I had determined some time ago not to copy any longer. That bit of my note was one of my less-practical fancies.”
“You can’t forge something new, but there’s no reason we can’t let everyone think we have a painting we don’t have. Only a few people knew the true extent of my father’s art collection. Collectors will easily believe I’ve got something they want.”
“Yes. Very fine indeed. But it has to be something Lady Balantine wants. Or something her captor wants.”
“Captor?” He scratched an invisible line into the weathered tabletop. “You think she’s been abducted?”
“What else? You don’t think that?”
“I’ve considered it.” Feared it even. “But we’ve no proof. She’s eccentric. I grew up in a house of eccentrics, and I know what they’re like. She could have merely decided to up and move elsewhere.”
“With no notice to anyone?” She leaned away from him. “Without alerting her friends or providing a new address?”
He shrugged.
“I disagree.”
He reached for the bottle, poured himself another glass. Odder things had happened in the art world than the abduction of a woman who owned priceless paintings. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to think. It’s more likely she realized she didn’t want to return the original Rubens and so ran off with them.”
Miss Frampton shook her head. “I do not think she would do that. Though you call yourself her friend, you clearly do not know her very well.”
“And you did?”
“Ido. Please do not speak of her in the past tense.” She tapped the side of her wineglass with a long, slender finger, and he could not help but remember how talented those fingers were. He’d seen her work. It had possibly fooled his father for a time. But not forever. The stipulations of the will said all. He’d known.
“Well then.” He needed more wine after all. “Tell me why I’m wrong.”
“She’s thoughtful. She gives to several charities. She supports an orphanage or two. She has one son, of course, but you already know he’s awful. He dislikes her. She has no family other than him and his wife, but he refuses any sort of close connection. So she delights in helping other families.”
The description was plausible. It would explain why she provided Miss Frampton steady—even if questionable—work. It would explain her willingness to buy the paintings from Zander and return them one day at a lower price, but… “Even with all that, she can still be greedy when it comes to art. The fact she has a personal gallery no one but you has ever seen proves that. And, if no one has seen this gallery, as you suggest, then who is there to know what art she has, to abduct her for it or to steal it from her?”
Miss Frampton’s teeth tore at her lip again.
“Many art collectors are drawn to rare objects, Miss Frampton. They are drawn to things valuable not because of their monetary worth but because they are one of a kind.” He slipped his hand into his greatcoat pocket and clasped the broken locket. He pulled the locket out and tapped it on the table in a steady rhythm.
