That did not suit Darcy at all, nor did the likely consequences of what he must say next. “There is no need. I wish to speak with him privately.”
“A private word with Mr. Bennet?” Mrs. Bennet repeated, her complexion pink with pleasure. Before Darcy could disabuse her of her obvious assumption, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall. “How wonderful! Of course, you will have it immediately. Mr. Bennet is quite at his leisure and will be happy to receive you.”
She pounded on the door at the end of the hall, not stopping until Mr. Bennet opened it, and then she shoved Darcy inside. He imagined her crouching on the other side of the door, her ear pressed against the keyhole.
The Master of Longbourn stood, bowed, and gestured to a chair. “Mr. Darcy, welcome to my inner sanctuary. It is an honor, albeit an unexpected one, to receive you. Again. I do hope you are prepared to suffer the consequences of your call?”
It struck Darcy that the man did not believe this call might stem from a romantic inclination. The thought might be unwarranted and unhelpful toward hispurpose, but it did not sit well with him. Did Mr. Bennet not believe his own daughters marriageable? Was their situation so desperate that the prospect of a suitor was inconceivable? Was it not the gentleman’s priority to see them securely settled?
Mr. Bennet might make light of his daughters’ futures, but Darcy would not. He motioned at the piece of art. “It is a rare household who can boast a Rembrandt.”
Miss Elizabeth had inherited Mrs. Bennet’s curls and cinnamon-brown eyes, but her smile and the spark in her eye came from her father. “You know Rembrandt, Mr. Darcy? I have only my Lizzy with whom to share my appreciation of art, and even she mistook it for a copy. To her credit, she has only seen pictures of the masters in the books in this library.”
“My family had a Rembrandt in our art gallery. I would recognize his work anywhere.”
Mr. Bennet did not pale or flinch. He turned toward the painting, his posture relaxed and his voice reverent. “It is a masterpiece.”
It occurred to Darcy that securing the painting might not be as simple as he had thought. He prepared to loosen the strings of his money pouch.
Mr. Bennet continued excitedly. “It is no surprise that an artist who devoted himself to portraiture would include the features of the face in his landscape. One might consider this particular work to be a self-portrait of Rembrandt himself. The eyes”—he stood to point at the bridge arches, one in light on the left andthe other on the right in shadow—“his hair like these clouds swooping over the bridge.”
These were observations Darcy had only heard from other professional artists before. The more Mr. Bennet spoke, the less confident Darcy felt that he would convince the man to part with the painting… even for a sizable sum.
Returning to his chair, Mr. Bennet sighed contentedly. “Every day I lose myself in this painting, and every day I see a new symbolism.”
Miss Elizabeth had said that her father taught her how to draw, and now Darcy understood how qualified the gentleman was to give instruction. The freeness with which he spoke about the Rembrandt lent Darcy to believe him honest. Darcy tested him further. “How did you come to possess such a piece?”
“Themarché ouvert!”he replied with a chuckle. “It is not a place I frequent, nor do I intend ever to return. It took a week to get the stench of the place out of my coat.”
Darcy nodded. He needed more information, seeking an opening he could use to make his offer. “If you do not frequent the market, how did you know to find it there?”
“A clerk in a pawn shop near my brother-in-law’s warehouses in Cheapside told him about it. His employer foolishly dismissed its worth, too sore about how he had been taken in by a charming young gentleman dressed in a fine coat.”
Wickham.Darcy’s pulse quickened, but hemaintained a cool demeanor. “I daresay the shopkeeper was not the first to be fooled by such a man.”
“He must have had a silver tongue to convince a man whose expertise lay in weaponry and jewelry to purchase a piece of art. The shop owner sold it to the old woman I purchased it from, a woman who did not appear to have two pennies to rub together. I suppose he was happy to be rid of it and the sour memory its sight conjured. I, of course, was overjoyed to give the painting a proper place.”
Darcy considered how best to proceed. “If a gentleman were to offer you a considerable sum, would you sell it?”
“Never! No amount of money could persuade me to part with it.”
Darcy had expected a refusal, but not one so vehement. He attempted another approach. “Surely your estate would benefit, as would your daughters.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. Gone was the light-hearted instructor, replaced by a hard-nosed protector. “To what do I credit your interest in my painting, sir? I assure you, it is not for sale.”
It felt as though Darcy stared at the ends of two revolver muzzles. There was nothing to do but speak directly and to the point. “That painting, the one on your wall, has been the property of the Darcy family for the past two centuries. I have the original bill of sale and have only to write to my man of business in London for him to send the proof.”
“Nonsense.”
Darcy did not expect Mr. Bennet to believe him without irrefutable proof. The man was not a simpleton. “That charming young man who sold it to the pawnshopstoleit from my estate.”
Mr. Bennet shifted his weight in his chair, but the steely resolve in his eyes did not soften. Not wishing him to feel threatened, Darcy added, “I realize that your purchase in themarché ouvertwas made in good faith, but I assure you that I in no way sanctioned the sale of my family’s Rembrandt. Therefore, I am willing to pay a handsome price to restore what was lost to its rightful place.”
Mr. Bennet stood, his face red. “Its rightful place is here.”
“Pray, think of the improvements you could make to your estate.” Darcy kept his tone calm.
“Longbourn is dead to me,” was the dismissive answer.
