The pressure of Perry’s fingers on his arm brought him back. She nudged him around facing her.
“Tell me.”
“I copied it.”
Her brows drew together. “Youforgedit?”
Not a pretty word and not apt for what he’d done. “Yes. I was there, working on your mother’s portrait when the ransom demand came in. She…she lost her composure that day. The painting had been an early gift from your father and she treasured it.” She had cried. Lady Shaldon had cried at her husband’s peril and at the demand for the painting. He shook his head. “Why your father’s captor wanted it wasn’t clear. The painter, Lopez de Arteaga, had created the work in Mexico. As far as she knew, the painting had never been in San Sebastian’s hands.”
Perry’s gaze held him, her eyes shining with an intensity and strength that was hers alone. She would be a formidable woman, if she didn’t get herself killed first.
“Go on, Fox.”
She would be as strong as her mother. She could handle the whole story, or at least as much as he knew of it. “Copying a great work is not unusual. I’d had commissions like that. And all art students copy the masters—it’s how we learn. And I was good at it. So, I offered to copy it for her, in order that she would at least have that much.”
“Oh, Fox.” She swallowed and her eyes grew shiny. “Mother’s was the last portrait, and you completed it so quickly—I had no idea.” She shook her head. “I thought you were avoiding us. That you were anxious to get away. I had no idea you were working on two paintings.” She bit her lip. “But that space on Mother’s wall holds a different painting. Where is the copy?”
He looked out the window. There’d be a few more hours of light, but the moonless night would draw out free traders. They needed to finish this talk so he could be about his business.
“I don’t know. Maybe it washed out to sea when she died.”
Her frown deepened, her confusion evident.
“She brought both paintings here. I believe she was dithering about whether to gamble.”
“She loved that ragged old painting,” Perry said sadly.
“Yes.” And ragged it had been, darkened and cracked from rough care during its journey from New Spain to England. “Before the ransom demand, she’d asked me about sending it out for a careful restoration. But she told me the rough condition was part of the charm for her.”
“As if it was as antiquated as the subjects depicted, she always said.” Perry lifted her chin. “And was your copy cracked and darkened?”
“Not enough, I suppose, though I tried.”
Perry inhaled sharply. “But…Mama was deciding whether to gamble? What do you mean?”
“She rolled up both paintings and then she waited until the very last minute to decide which to send. Whichever one she kept landed on the rocks with her and all of her baggage and was taken away by the tide.” He waved a hand. “And if so, it’s out there, somewhere, at the bottom of the sea, ruined.”
“No.” Perry released him and pounded a fist on the wooden jamb. “Howcouldshe have risked that?”
She paced to the cold fireplace and back, stopping in front of him. “And the rest of the story? After Father’s release, did the Duque discover a forgery and imprison my mother’s courier?”
The shadowy light softened her strong features into the lines of an Athena. She’d shoved all the other women he’d known—lovers, models, even his first love, the woman who’d become his brother’s wife—to the distant past. No matter where he went, or what he was painting, her face would be the one he remembered.
“I don’t know that the Duque has ever investigated the painting’s authenticity. But I’m quite sure he thought it was real when he unrolled it. And then, he locked the courier up with your father and turned both of them over to the French. He never meant to send your father home at all.”
“How did Father—”
“He escaped.”
Her gaze skittered across the room, hands knotting together again. She gave her head a little shake. “Escaped. And left Kincaid in a French jail?”
Kincaid?
She bit her lips. “Father wouldn’t do that. Kincaid is his right-hand man.”
He took a deep breath. She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t. Only Shaldon and Kincaid and a few others knew.
“Perry, it’s understood that sometimes not everyonecanescape. Your father’s survival was the more important. He had great responsibilities to your country, and your mother was waiting for him here. And,” He took a deep breath, “It wasn’t Kincaid who brought the painting to the Continent.”
