Page 62 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
There did not exist a curse word strong enough to express Zander’s current emotional state. More practical thoughts crowded out the echoing cursing, and one in particular rang like a church bell through crisp winter air.Protect Fiona.
Because if the man had considered for one moment that a woman could be a skilled forger, Fiona would be in this coach going to Kent instead of himself. And he’d die before that happened, die to protect the woman he was bloody well going to marry when he got back to London because… well because he had no other option. And not because he was a scoundrel who’d touched an innocent.
He’d learned anger from his father. And futility. But he’d also learned the value of love, and even though his father’s scheme to will them paintings he knew to be fakes was a daily thorn in Zander’s arse, without it, he would never have found Fiona.
Would never have fallen in love.
That was it. Not infatuation. Not some vague “something more.” Not obligation because of what they’d done, but love… pure and sweet, clear and inevitable. And no damn milksop of a baron would keep Zander from it.
“I admit nothing,” Zander said, leaning back into the squabs and folding his hands over his stomach. He would admit nothing but deny nothing either. Keep the man’s interest off Fiona without implicating himself past the point of no return.
“You do not have to admit anything. You just have to paint.”
Ah. That would be the point of no return. Zander could not paint a single stroke.
“What do you want with a forger, anyhow? From what your mother has said, I thought you hated art.”
“I do,” Balantine snapped, leaning back with a dusty huff. “It’s only good because others find it valuable.”
Ah. That, Zander understood. Balantine wanted paintings, forgeries, for money.
Balantine’s lips twitched. “Who knew my mother had so much of value in her possession?”
Zander stopped breathing.Triple hell. All the hells ever.He’d be dried up of them after this because…
He forced the words out through a chest tight as an iron maiden. “Did… you… steal your mother’s pieces?”
Balantine snorted. “What’s hers is mine. Wasn’t stealing. I reallocated all those funds gathering dust on walls and pedestals and put them to better use.”
“Lining your pockets?”
“Feeding my family.” Each word hard. “I have two small children and a wife and close to nothing left.”
They hit Zander harder than the cursed statue had. What do you know? He had at least one moreHellleft in him, but he kept to himself. Who knew what revelations were yet come?
“I understand,” he said, as his chest loosened a bit. “Believe it or not, I understand.”
“You? An arrogant bachelor and criminal?”
“Oy! Who are you to call me a criminal? You stole and sold off your mother’s art.” Had he? Or did he, by some miracle, still have the Rubens?
“Not all of it. I’ve had… troubles.” Balantine rapped his knuckles on the glass. “You’ll soon see. That’s why I’m taking you to my house in Kent. A dilapidated thing. More curse than inheritance.” He turned his head like it was a cog on a pike and speared Zander with a hard gaze. “How is it fair that a man inherits his father’s debt and the man’s wife keeps all her own possessions. I’ll tell you how. No one knew the wife had those possessions.”
“You inherited massive debt, then?”
Balantine reddened. “No. Not as such. But keeping everything running costs money, and investing is not as easy as it seems.” He wouldn’t look Zander in the eye.
And no wonder. He’d inherited a flush estate and ruined it himself. At least he had the decency to know it even if he wouldn’t say it.
“Perhaps,” Zander said, wincing as the coach wheel hit a rut, “you should have asked your mother for help. I’m sure she would have—”
“No. She would not have. She loves that art more than she ever loved me.”
Hell. There it was. The man’s words could have come from Zander’s own lips.
“Listen,” Zander said, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “I can see, thievery and abduction aside, you’re a decent chap.” A bit of a lie never hurt anyone. “I’d hate for you to get in trouble with the law. Let me go and—”
“And I’ll tell everyone of your great artistic expertise.”
