Perfect brushwork, glorious vibrant crimson, the caress of the girl’s fingers upon neck, other fist in her skirt – beautiful, sublime, and to all intents and purposes, Sir Henry’s work. The more he studied it, the more he dismissed the notion of it being a counterfeit.
And yet…
Whenever he dared lay his eyes upon that face, he felt a clout to his gizzards as though some heathen had desecrated a tombstone. She was pretty, yes, but with a ruthless shimmer. Those lips would scoff, mock and spit words that scorned life, not determined in the face of adversity but sour.
She may be the same age as the defiant beauty in his painting, but life had twisted her, poverty and hardship leaving its stain.
With a hearty exhale, he approached the two artworks, sought to tamp raw emotion and purely compare the physical.
In the second painting, the cheek was too thin and not high enough. His young woman also had a hint of pointedness to the chin, the other did not.
Why was the face different?
Why would Sir Henry paint a different woman if this had been intended as a companion work toThe Veiled Fall of Innocence?
A conundrum.
Not unlike Mrs Swift.
Where had she come from?
A model? Or…admirer of Sir Henry Pearce’s?
Casper had never run with the artistic set, and during Sir Henry’s short-lived fame, he’d been too busy working to take note of the fellow’s devotees.
But no, for her to be so duplicitous must signal some more sinister connection and he narrowed his eyes. Tricksters loitered in every shadow, ready to part a duke from his coin.
Tonight, before the arrival of Cousin Lydia, he’d ordered they partake of dinner within the safety of their chambers, although half of Grosvenor had doubtless witnessed their arrival, noses twitching behind silk curtains, and tomorrow they’d have to smuggle the chaperone through the back door.
The other conundrum remained this rampant desire for Mrs Swift.
To seduce the truth from her would be rather difficult with Cousin Lydia waving her deaf horn, Uncle Virgil’s smug winks and Ernest arriving unannoun–
“I say, Casp, do you realise there are female chatters coming from the Camellia and Daisy bedchambers. Have you bought me a present? Or have you taken a wife…or two, without telling me?”
“Neither. Cousin Lydia is arriving to chaperone at first light and they are simply here for a day or so until suitable lodgings can be located.”
Ernest pottered over to stare at the portrait on the chair, his previous temper having waned with time as it usually did. “Ah, so they had that other painting you were obsessed with owning?”
“I was not…” Well, perhaps. “I do not believe it is of the same female.”
“Hmm. Perhaps she died between portraits.”
A low blow to the gut and Casper scowled. “Anyhow, that anomaly is why they are here.” He’d best not recount the scuffle with the landlord as it was hardly the manners of a responsible mentor.
“And do you know there’s also a cat sitting on your finest blue tailcoat?”
Yes, he did.
Thus far, he’d refused to acknowledge The Thing’s presence and so watched in disgust as Ernest petted it beneath the neck, producing a purr akin to thunder. It rolled around, distributing hairs over the costly material and displaying a furry belly for similar mollycoddling, its trust in his brother implicit. Ernest had always possessed an uncanny skill with animals.
“Was there anything else?” Hell, today had been exhausting and he merely wished to be left alone with an excellent decanter and await his final appointment of the day.
“No, no. I’m off to Harry’s for a reading of De Grosse’sHorrid Mysteriesbut I cannot wait to meet our guests tomorrow.”
Casper closed his eyes. What had he done?
“Oh, and by the way, Horatio has told everyone about you trouncing some bestial landlord with a single fist to the jaw, and a strange new maid is calling you Sir Lancelot.” He threw a hand through his blond Brutus coiffure. “I’m almost tempted to stay home, as recently this place has become more exciting than any Gothic novel.”
