Page 76 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“’Tis for the best, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve a visitor in the parlor.”
“Tell whoever it is to wait. I’ve had a bit of a day.” He put the two paintings down, leaning them against the wall. “I need rest.”
“He says he’s here about a Rubens, and you told me I was not to send anyone away if that was their reason for visiting. In fact, Lord Lysander, you told me to keep them here by any means necessary excluding death.”
“Right.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell. Very well.” Let the man meet with him as he was—paint-splattered, blood-matted, and rather odiferous. Barnett marched outside, and Zander marched into the parlor.
A man stood from a low couch like a released spring, his arms folded behind his back. “Are you Lord Lysander Bromley?”
Lysander rocked back two steps, almost into the hallway again. “Could you, eh, show me your hands? The last time a man asked me that question, he smashed me in the back of the head with a statue, and I’d rather not repeat that experience.”
The man slowly, and with a perplexed brow, unfolded his arms and showed Zander his hands. Empty.
“Excellent,” Zander said, striding into the room and falling into a cushioned chair. “Excellent. Yes, I am Lord Lysander Bromley, and I’m told you came about a Rubens?”
“Yes, I have.” The man sat slowly with a straight back.
“There are no bloody Rubens here or with anyone in my family,” a deep voice said from behind Zander.
Zander jumped to his feet and turned. “Raph! What are you doing here?”
“What areyoudoing here?” He left the frame of the doorway and sauntered more fully into the room, his large frame filling it. “I was told you were missing.”
“Is that why you’re here? Found out I’d mucked it all up again and came to ring a peal over my head?”
“No, I did not come because of any perceived fault of your own. I came because my brother is—was—missing.” He flicked a blue-eyed glance at the other man. “You may leave.”
“I think not,” the other man said with a sniff. “You may save your family spats for later. I came to inquire about a—”
“And as I already said,” Raph snapped, “we have none. I need to speak with my brother alone, and you will leave.”
The man rose slowly to his feet, thrusting his shoulders back and his chest forward. “Who are you to—”
Raph’s eyes glinted menace. “The Marquess of Waneborough.” He nodded at Zander without taking his gaze from the other man. “His brother.”
Zander rolled his eyes. Raph liked throwing fists, liked a little drama at times, and he’d had enough drama for the day. “Ah, Raph.” Zander lifted a finger. “We do, actually. Have a Rubens. Six of them. You could sell yours right now if you’d like.”
Raph snapped his gaze toward Zander, eyes wide, and Zander pushed himself to standing, legs almost refusing to do so. He took the other man’s shoulders and pushed him into the hallway. “Come back tomorrow, sir. If you insist on staying, my brother over there will likely physically kick you from the house, and as someone who’s so recently been manhandled himself, I’d like to save you that ignominy.”
The man scowled and brushed Zander’s hands off his shoulders, but he left, and Zander slammed the parlor door shut, fell onto a nearby couch with such a heavy thud the thing shuddered and creaked.
“Explain. Were you really about to sell that man afake?”
Zander found just enough strength to grit his teeth. “No. Never.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could scrub away his brother’s justified distrust. “I was missing. That’s why you’re here. And the fellow who bashed me over the head with a statue and abducted me”—he sighed, loud and long—“is the same fellow who stole the original paintings Lady Balantine had been keeping for us.” In a halting rhythm, he completed the story.
At first, Raph paced, hands clasped behind his back, boots thudding on the floor. Then he sank into a chair, slumped over, fingers scratching through hair as dark as Zander’s, the heavy weight he always wore across his shoulders… lifted. Just a bit.
Or was that merely Zander’s imagination? His hope? It made him feel lighter, too, though.
When Zander finally stopped his narration, Raph said, “How much does the baroness want? To get them back?”
“Nothing. She feels bad they were stolen to begin with. Claims it was her fault, and that she owes us.”
“We should not allow it.”
“We should allow it.” There was pride, and then there was stupidity.
Raph fell into the back of the chair. “We will.”
