Page 69 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Balantine kicked the door open again and entered holding a painting. A small one, but one that made Zander’s heart slam against his ribs.
“There you are. A Rubens.” Balantine tossed the painting to the floor.
Zander dove for it and caught it, but not before the corner bounced against the wood. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Zander stood, holding the painting with trembling fingers. He had to calm himself. He could not give away the true meaning of the paintings, how important it was. “You want to sell it, yes? You’ll decrease its value by at least half if you damage it.”
Balantine’s brows shot toward his hairline. Had he really not known? Worse and worse. If he had no sense of how to care for valuable artworks… where was he keeping them? And how?
Zander swallowed a groan and focused on the painting. He’d never really liked it. But in this moment, he wanted to hug it. “This will do. Thank you. The style is easy to view and should be easy to imitate.” For Fiona perhaps. For him?
He took a steady breath.
Now or never. He placed the painting on the floor behind him, leaned it against the wall. Felt wrong. Every muscle screamed not to do it, but he couldn’t risk damaging it. And now he knew where it was, he would come back. For it and for the others. Hopefully Balantine had not had the opportunity to sell any of them yet. That his attempt to sell one thing had ended up in the discovery of one of the baronesses forged pieces gave Zander hope. Perhaps that had been his first attempt, and he’d not moved past that complication yet. The art world was close knit and difficult to break into.
Balantine turned on his heel and made for the door.
Zander trotted after him. “Wait.”
“What is it now?” He didn’t even turn to look at Zander.
Damn. That was exactly what Zander needed. He’d have to be flexible with this plan. He passed the other man, holding his upper body steady, hoping Balantine did not notice the giant bulge by his left ribs.
“I was just wondering,” Zander said, “whether or not you’d prepared for us to eat?” They’d had nothing but crusty bread brought from London.
“No. Paint or starve,” Balantine sneered.
“Hm.” Zander held the paint bladder he’d been cradling in his hands up between them. “Not filled with wine, you know, and neither brain nor body can exist without sustenance.” He flattened his palm, curling his fingertips toward the floor, and let the bladder balance there. “It’s a precarious thing, the artistic temperament. Unless it’s well-fed…” He took a half step back, rocking onto his heels, and let the bladder fall.
An explosion of paint sprayed upward, but Zander had closed his eyes, and he ran now, counting the steps toward the staircase and keeping on the side of the wall to avoid the canvases he’d dropped there earlier.
From the top of the hallway, Balantine screamed. Paint burned a bit when you got it in the eyes. The scream turned into a gurgle, punctuated by a volley of footsteps down the hall behind Zander. Then one step sounded off. Softer. He’d found the canvas.
A crash. Another scream.
Zander risked a glance behind him. Balantine lay still, sprawled across the top several steps, the entire front of his body covered in deep-green paint.
Zander grinned, wiping the paint off his face. Green and goopy and covering his legs and his chest as well as his cheeks. He might have just killed a man, but the thought didn’t kill his grin. He’d need to consider that when he had more time. Spoke to some deep moral failing he’d always known was there but hadn’t known went so… dark.
He yanked at his cravat, remembering the last time it had been loosened, Fiona’s fingers, long and strong and fluttering against his skin. He raced around the corner, yanking the length of linen completely off and ducking into the first room off the hallway. He held his breath and listened.
Heavy breathing. A groan. Not dead yet, then. Footsteps, uneven, plodding, getting closer to the bottom of the stairs, then echoing down the dark hallway. Zander wrapped the cravat’s ends tight around both fists and held his breath, waited until he saw a flash of movement past the doorway. Then he lunged.
Twenty-Two
It would be truer to say Fiona bounced the coach with her shaking feet than that the coach bounced her. And, all captives of their own thoughts, none of the other passengers in the conveyance seemed to notice. Lord Theodore stared out the window as if he saw nothing but horrors there, tight-lipped and white-knuckled. Lady Balantine gabbed away as if anyone was listening. Thankfully, she did not need another participant to have a full conversation.
She’d kept her head turned to one side so she did not have to contemplate Lord Theodore’s gloom or the dowager’s nerves. Her neck hurt now. But it would be worth it if they found Lysander, saved him. And they would. They had to.
“How much longer?” Fiona asked, whipping her head around to face the dowager.
Lady Balantine pressed her nose against the glass window. “Oh! We’re turning into the drive.”
Fiona exhaled, deflating into the seat. “Thank heavens.”
“The drive is so very rutted,” Lady Balantine exclaimed. “How remiss of Herbert to neglect it.”
Perhaps that explained the increased jolting Fiona had experienced. It hadn’t been her at all. It had been neglect. She sat on her hands to keep from flinging open the door and throwing herself from it. Surely she could move faster than the coach currently traveled.
Lord Theodore blinked out of his focused state and turned his death stare out the window. He’d asked few questions about her on the journey here, given nothing but a tight nod. How had the same family produced two such different men, one all frowns and the other always with easy grins? Perhaps they’d produced Zander because they’d needed him, needed his quips and fancy to combat his brother’s grimness. No. Wait. Was not Lord Theodore Zander’s younger brother?
