Page 8 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“Careful,” he said.
Her family swarmed her. Posey sat beside her, and her father stood closer. Her mother sat up taller. Fiona did not deserve their protection. She’d been trying to save them, but she’d quite possibly, ruined them all. Hopefully Newgate was not as horrid as she’d heard. But perhaps they would not imprison her. No. She could very well hang at the end of a rope. She wrapped her hand around her throat, and the world fuzzed a bit at the edges.
Posey’s arm tight around her shoulders. “Fee.”
Lord Lysander stepped closer, his face large, consuming, in her vision. “Going to faint for real this time?” The long line of his mouth tipped up at one corner. Was he… amused? At a time like this?
That snapped her right out of it. “No! You must believe me, Lord Lysander. She assured me she would not sell them, that they were for her own delight. I… I did not mean to fool you. Or anyone. How much did you pay for them?” Oh, merciful heavens. How much had he paid for copies? She’d have to pay it all back, no matter how large the sum. She really might swoon.
“No.” Lord Lysander’s semi-smile melted as he stood. “Shepaidme.For the use of the paintings, for permission to make the copies. But when I saw how perfect the forgeries were, I offered to let her keep the originals. If she paid me a bit more. Still too low a price for the value of the works.”
Hope and relief—twin roses—bloomed in her breast. “What did you do with the copies?”
“They are at my brother’s country seat. Safe.” He sighed. “I am not here to demand a pound of flesh, Miss Frampton. I merely want answers. And, if possible, the original paintings so I can sell them for what they’re truly worth. Do you have them? Or know where they are?”
“No, of course not,” Fiona admitted.
“The copies.” Papa’s voice shook. “You’ll return them to us?”
Lord Lysander nodded. “Once I find the originals.”
“And you’ll not report her?” Mama asked.
“I have no desire to ruin your little forger’s life. I merely want the originals back. You have nothing to fear from me. I am, after all, the orchestrator of the entire debacle.” His voice was hoarse with self-censure.
She turned to her father, touching his cold hand for a moment, but he did not return the embrace. She reached then for her mother but pulled her hand away before skin could comfort skin. Something in her mother’s sharp eyes spoke of knowing, understanding, memory. Only once had Mama asked Fiona how she’d procured such large sums of money, and the weak answer Fiona had provided—that she’d sold her paintings, which wasn’t truly a lie—buzzed in the air between them now. Had she suspected something? Had she lied to Papa for Fiona?
“I must say I am relieved, Lord Lysander, to hear you will keep this information safe,” her mother said. “But… Fiona… why?”
Safe? Were they? From Lord Lysander perhaps, but Fiona had copied more than just the Rubens. Eight more to be precise. And it could be that those circumstances were not as she believed, either. She would likely never be safe again.
She closed her eyes and spoke into the darkness. “Mr. Foggy stole all of our clientele. And then your accident. And then your chair broke, and then…” And so many, manyand thens. “I felt helpless. I’ve only ever been good at one thing.”
“Painting,” Lord Lysander drawled. “You’re damn good at that, Miss Frampton.”
Fiona glared at him. Now was not the time. And she cared for that skill only insofar as it paid for what her family needed.
He held his hands up, palms flat, and backed away. “My apologies. For the compliment.”
Fiona twisted to face her father behind her. “There were so many times I felt helpless to contribute during all our worries. And then Lady Balantine came by the shop. She saw one of the paintings you keep in the showroom, and when I admitted I had painted it, she said I had great talent. Said she wanted to be my patron.” She’d thought the woman sincere. She’d said she only wanted to have copies so she could view her favorite paintings at home as often as she pleased. She’d promised not to sell them, that the owner had given her permission to make copies for her personal use. They were to be destroyed at her death. All the right things to assuage Fiona’s guilt, her fears. “So, she became my patron. Your new chair, Mama. The last work I completed for her provided it. And rent for the shop, the two before that helped there. And—”
“No more. I am… I am all astonishment.” Papa spoke low but the words were bricks, large weights that punctuated the end of the conversation better than any exclamation point. She’d never wanted him to know, never wanted him to feel shame for her, for himself.
She grabbed for his hands, held them fast between her own. “It is not your fault, Papa. I have—”
“Quiet.” His voice shook, an ocean of disappointment in the single word. “You’ve taken the valuable education we provided for you and used it for… this? Forthis!” He raised his gaze to Lord Lysander. “Is that all you’ve come here to say? If so, you may leave now.”
Lord Lysander huffed a laugh. “I came here to say much more, actually. I had thought to find some conniving devil. Thought perhaps you’d—oh, I don’t know—duped the old dowager like some criminal mastermind. And I thought”—he laughed again, this time a harsh bark—“I had planned to bring you to justice and find the missing paintings.” He snapped his chin toward his shoulder. “What a fool I was. There’s nothing here but a series of foolish mistakes much like my own.” His gaze settled on Fiona, connecting them, one desperate fool to another. “I’ll be taking my leave. Good evening.” He strode for the door, pausing to slip a hand into his coat and slap a calling card on a table. “If you hear from Lady Balantine, please let me know.” Then he disappeared into the hallway.
And Fiona could breathe again. The harbinger of her doom had gone for good.
But the destruction he’d wrought, she’d wrought, remained. And there went her lungs’ ability to function once more. She stood on numb legs and found herself somehow before the fire. Was it warm? She could hardly tell.
“I could have provided for us, Fiona,” Papa said from behind her. “What you’ve done is… it is a crime. You could hang.”
She dropped her face into her hands. Her lungs, tight from disuse, exploded in an inhale so ragged it must have ripped her throat open. It ripped open her tears, and she wet her palms with sorrow.
“He will not tell anyone,” Mama said. “I believe him.”
