Page 44 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“Focus, Fiona. That is why we must abstain. I need your mind at its quickest, its sharpest. And I fear I’ve already muddled it enough for the evening.” He looked down at her like he’d like to muddle her some more, like he would do so if they were not crowded round by others.
The others. She began to peer past masks, looking for familiar faces. No matter the revelations of the last half hour, there were bigger problems to attend to tonight. Focus was indeed necessary.
“How does this work?” she asked.
“It appears as if Currington is going to run it like a larger auction house would. Usually, they open the house a few days before the actual auction to those who wish to purchase something. At that time, buyers decide what they want and how much they’re willing to pay for it. It seems tonight is to be the walk-through.”
“Have you ever attended one? A walk-through?”
“Yes. To procure pieces for clients. Usually, it’s crucial to hold your tongue when viewing the art. Stay no longer than ten seconds before each piece and never speak of a piece unless it’s to criticize.”
“Why?”
“The footmen are listening. They’ll report back to Currington, tell him who wants what and how desperately, and he’ll know exactly where to apply pressure, exactly how far he can extend his victims’ pockets when they extend an offer.”
Fionatsked. “Appalling.”
He threaded their fingers together and squeezed her hand. “Oh, my little fraud? Is it appalling? Tell me how.”
She sniffed. “Perhaps it’s not so appalling.” She would not add hypocrisy to her sins. “What should we do?”
“The Rubens are over there.” He nodded his head to the side without looking.
She stepped in that direction.
He held her firm in place. “We cannot get too close. My current client will recognize me. He has an eye on those pieces and is sure to be hovering in that direction.”
“Do you think he’s—”
“No. He’s not who we’re looking for. He’s so much money that procuring items through any other means will not have occurred to him.”
“Right, then. We’re looking for someone who’s in need of funds.”
“Perhaps. Or someone who is such an art connoisseur the act of owning the art is all that matters, and they will procure it however they can. Anyone here tonight could have stolen the dowager’s paintings.”
“Including the dowager,” Fiona mumbled.
“Including her. Keep your ears open, especially when we pass by the Rubens. Any mumbled aside could be a clue. Keep the titles of my originals firm in your mind, and listen for them in the whispers in the air. Listen, also for any mention of secret collections like the dowager’s and whispers of paintings for sale that should not be.” Lysander escorted her around the room, stopping here and there, spending a bit more time looking at pieces not crowded round by others, standing with their backs to large groups, but close enough to hear their conversation.
“Hell,” he hissed, peering at a tiny gold-flecked icon.
She leaned closer to the painting. “What is it?”
“It is a fake.” Each word clipped. “And at least three people are eyeing it, willing to pay with their children’s lives for it, too, I’ve no doubt. Hell. Stay here.” He bolted off before she could answer him.
She inspected the icon more closely. It appeared to be of the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus, faded round the edges. Typical for such an old piece. She looked for the telltale signs of forgery, of aging a piece to make it look older, but she could not find them. How could Lysander tell? She flashed him a glance where he stood shoulder to shoulder with another man. Neither of them looked at the other, but their lips moved lightly in conversation, then Lysander spoke to another man and another, before joining her once more.
“There,” he said, “they know now. Currington will not be pleased. But none of those buyers could afford the price he’d push it up to, and the only thing that would run them off is the truth of its authenticity. They’d beggar their children before they gave up the hunt.” More than a sneer there—outright disgust.
“How did you know it’s a forgery?” she asked.
He pointed to a corner. “Do you see this color? Not used in true icons. Only developed in the last ten years, actually.”
“Why”—she blinked up at him—“that’s brilliant.”
He grinned. “Me or the concept of only using period-correct colors to forge?”
She shrugged. Let him think what he would when the only correct answer was him. He was brilliant. Not only his knowledge and sharp eye, but also his empathy. If those men would not look out for their families, he would—and even at the risk of angering another.
