That was when Lawrence glimpsed the painting. It would not have registered, had Father not seemed more concerned about its safety than the state of his fractured limb. Lawrence summoned a surgeon to inspect the injured leg. Father seemed fine. Once his leg was splinted, he took the framed painting into his study and did not emerge for hours.
By the third morning the old man could barely speak. He was drowsy and nauseated, and his limbs had swollen alarmingly. The sore leg was not the gravest concern after all. When the horse kicked Father’s midsection, organs began to fail inside. There was nothing the surgeon could do. That night, Father was gone.
The painting must still be in his study.
Lawrence strode from the library to investigate at once.
The study had been dusted and swept but otherwise it was still the way Father had left it. A pile of journals here, a deck of cards there, a stoppered bottle of brandy next to an empty glass. The bare shelf where the cherub vase had once stood. Nothing on the walls.
He turned in a circle. Father had taken the painting without permission. He would have hidden it from view. Perhaps even removed the canvas from its frame.
Lawrence would find it.
Blood rushing in his ears, he lit every candle and sconce in the room. He was no longer willing to live beneath his father’s shadow.
He flung open drawers, yanked tables aside, tossed papers about. The study was not a shrine. He could tear down the walls with his bare hands if he wished.
But he didn’t have to.
Lawrence pulled up short and sent a considering glance toward the escritoire.
Years earlier he had glimpsed one of his father’s hiding places on one of his many childhood visits. Lawrence had sat unnoticed in the corner, attempting to be close to a father who would rather find his pleasures anywhere but at home.
This had to be it. He moved the old duke’s chair out of the way and dropped to the worn floor beneath the large walnut desk.
It had been handcrafted specifically for Father. There was a writing shelf that rolled out just above one’s knees, and behind that a narrow compartment only six inches wide, sealed with a hidden sliding lock.
With searching fingers, Lawrence pushed the moving parts until the lock disengaged. A narrow door swung open. A handful of papers fell to the floor, followed by a rolled canvas tied with twine.
He had found it!
His heart pounded as he collected the fallen objects and withdrew from beneath the desk. He placed them all on the mahogany surface.
Painting first.
He untied the twine and unrolled the canvas. It looked exactly like the one he’d given to Miss York. Almost exactly. There were a few subtle differences—so subtle, Lawrence might never have noticed them had he not spent every spare moment of his time in the library, studying its remaining works of art. He tied the canvas up in a neat scroll once more and reached for the topmost parchment. It was a letter.
Any guilt he felt over reading his father’s correspondence had disappeared eight months before, when Lawrence inherited the dukedom and the extent of his father’s debts came to light. He hoped these weren’t more debts waiting to be repaid.
He scanned the letter’s contents in growing horror.
Your Grace,
Where are the papers of provenance? You said I would have them within three weeks, and it has been two years. I would not have made a fuss, but Albus Roth has made a name for himself in artistic circles. I may one day wish to sell “The Three Witches of Macbeth” at a profit, and will not be able to do so without the appropriate documentation. I implore you to surrender those papers at once.
Mr. John Wagner
Ribblesdale
Lawrence’s fingers trembled. Mr. Wagner could not possessThe Three Witches ofMacbeth. The framed canvas was hanging on the library wall.
Where are the papers of provenance?
Lawrence pushed the rest of the letters aside and picked up one of the documents. Documents of provenance forTitus Andronicus. He grabbed another. Provenance forRobin Goodfellow in the Forest with Fairies. He reached for the next.The Three Witches ofMacbeth.
That blackguard! Lawrence’s father hadn’t sold redundant pieces of art. His father had been sellingforgeries.
That was why the paintings had been hidden behind the sideboard and the papers of provenance were tucked away in a secret drawer. His flesh went cold. He stared down at the letter.
