Page 68 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Fiona and Lady Balantine stood tall together, one weeping for the betrayal of her son, the other weeping for the man she loved.
Twenty-One
Zander paced the long gallery, stepping from sunshine to shadow as he passed by each window. A large room, empty and filled with light. Excellent for painting. If Zander painted. The entire house was empty and large. Reminded him of Briarcliff at its worst moments, when Raph sold off anything he could grab as soon as their father turned his back for a breath. And that suspicious patch of roof in the corner, drooping and cracking? That reminded him of Briarcliff, too. The sale of Raph’s inherited Rubens was supposed to have gone to fixing the roof, but that had gone south quickly, and here was the result of the entire intrigue—Zander abducted and shuffled off to an abandoned property somewhere east of London. Zander holding his fists close instead of letting them fly because doing so might put attention where he refused to have it.
On Fiona.
He’d been here for five days and hadn’t painted a thing yet. Thankfully. Because as soon as he did, the trick would be done, and the baron would know the truth. Or he would shoot Zander. Neither optimal possibilities.
Did he have a gun? He’d not shown one yet, but Zander operated as if he might. Safer to assume. He must figure out a means of escape quickly, though. The baron grew angrier by the hour.
Good thing artists had reputations for being difficult in regards to their art.
Good thing Zander had plenty of time observing artists and their ways.
He’d considered running last night as the baron slept. But then what would happen? He might get back to London in enough time to warn Fiona, get her on a ship to who knew where. Somewhere safe. But the baron would be close behind him, would scream forgery to the very tip of London’s rooftops, and even if Zander cried abduction and thievery to cover it up, the damage would be done. The art would be inspected.
Fiona’s life would be at risk.
So Zander remained. Only to bide his time, to find a way to escape that wouldn’t cost Fiona her life, cost her family their reputation, their livelihood.
The door to the gallery slammed open, hitting the wall, and Lord Balantine crashed in. “Nothing? Nothing! You’ve had hours. I’ve had enough.” He pointed to a pile of painting supplies in the corner. “You’ve not even set anything up!”
Zander pretended calm, clasped his hands behind his back, and tamed his face into a somber expression. “There are so many things currently wrong. I could never paint.” He sighed loud and long. “Where do I even begin to explain?”
“What else is wrong?” the baron screamed. “You’ve rejected every room in the house, demanded specific types of supplies, and insisted on eastern light that only lasts an hour. You are delaying!”
Zander shrugged. “You do not understand the artistic temperament, my lord. You cannot make demands of the muse. She’ll never listen. She’ll go fluttering away. Besides, what if I do paint and it rains?” He held a hand toward the sagging corner of the roof, palm up. “It could be ruined in a single night while we sleep. And another thing”—he stepped closer—“you have not provided me with a painting to copy.” That was the main point, the point he kept trying to strike through the man’s head. Because if he did, perhaps he would be shown Lord Balantine’s hidden stash of art, and hopefully that stash would include Zander’s paintings.
“No. I’ve told you. You must create an entirely new scene in the style of another painter. That seems the safest bet. I already ran into trouble with one of my mother’s pieces. Didn’t know it was a forgery, did I? But the man I tried to sell it to did. Do you want to know why?”
Zander shrugged. “I don’t really care.”
“He knew because he owned the original!” His voice nearly shook down the cracking roof. “No more copies. Only originals good enough to pass for pieces by a dead painter’s hand.”
Could Fiona do that? He’d only seen the copies she’d made for him, not the ones that had been stolen by this buffoon.
Zander stood at the window and considered the tangled landscape beyond the glass. Worse than Briarcliff out there. Raph, at least, had learned the work of the gardener when they’d had to let theirs go, had tried his best to keep the estate as tidy and profitable as possible. This man had simply… done nothing it seemed, had let everything rot. He understood Balantine’s desperation, but he didn’t understand him in other ways.
He swung back around to face him, lifting his arms wide. “Bring me something. I must have a painting to understand the style to paint in. The thickness of the paint, the composition. I can’t create it out of my imagination. I need an example to work from. I admit the light in here is passable, but without the proper tools”—he scoffed—“you’ll have nothing from me.”
Balantine’s hands balled into fists, and his face turned apple red. “You have been abducted, and you dare to—”
“Youshould not have abducted an artist. You clearly have little experience with them. We have very little control over our muse. She comes and goes as she pleases, and really only comes when we seduce her a bit. A stretched canvas here, a proper paint bladder there. An example to work from.” He tried to loosen his jaw so his frustration did not grind out between his words. He observed Balantine with as cool a gaze as he could manage
The man might explode. His cheeks puffed out and he fairly vibrated. He stamped a foot into the floor, and the sound vibrated across the empty space. “Very well. I’ll bring you a painting.” He stomped out of the room.
Zander yelled after him, “A Rubens, if you have one! I’m particularly good at those!” Then he melted against the doorframe. Odds of the man returning with one of his family’s paintings was low, but perhaps he’d not wish to risk scaring off Zander’s muse by bringing something other than requested.
The ruse would soon be over. He wouldn’t be able to pass himself off as the forger much longer. He needed another plan, but escape to London was not an option if he wished to protect Fiona, and he had little at his disposal. He slid back into the room, ruffling his hair. “Think. What would Raph do?” How had his brother kept an estate running with so little? All Zander needed to do was get his own feet running before the man discovered he could not paint a fluffy cloud let alone mimic a masterpiece.
He paced the length of the gallery again. What did he have at his disposal? An empty house. No one to hear the other man scream. Good. The clothes on his body. Cravats could be deadly if given the chance. Yes, something he could work with. A coach and team rested in the dilapidated stables, but Balantine would notice him missing before he had them harnessed. Perhaps if he took just one of the horses. And Balantine would take the other, and Zander would lead him straight to Fiona. No good.
His only other resources were the art supplies in the corner. Better to wield them as weapons than to attempt to use them for their intended purpose. He knelt near the piles of canvases—stretched and unstretched, paint bladders, watercolor cakes, crayon, and brushes. The man had been thorough. Some colorman had profited well, but where had Balantine gotten the funds for it, if he was so hard up? Anger cracked Zander’s bones as surely as a hammer would. It was common practice in the ton to accumulate debts, but when those debts would never be paid… there was the crime. And against people who worked hard and did not deserve it.
He picked up a canvas in each hand and snuck into the hallway. He left them both at the top of the stairs, just below the landing to obscure their presence. A tumble down the stairs might kill the man, but Zander didn’t particularly care at the moment. His work done, he returned to the gallery and gingerly stuffed one paint bladder into his half unbuttoned waistcoat. He’d seen too many of the things explode to take risks, but that’s exactly what would make the volatile little things so useful. He held the other like a precious jewel shaped by Fiona’s hand and waited.
But not long.
