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“I wouldn’t want them dining alone and my mother always cooks too much when it’s just the two of them.”
“You’re a good son. I’m sure they appreciate both your company and the lack of waste.” After a moment’s silence, I added, “The dismissal is Lord Bunbury’s doing.”
“Most likely.” He turned sharply to look at me. “Have you suffered any repercussions?”
“No.” Being ostracized for my education wasn’t a repercussion that affected me greatly, and not one I thought worthy of a mention.
“Your family?”
“They’re fine.”
“Good.”
“Why ‘good?’”
“Because family is important.”
It was the perfect opening to ask him about helping Floyd, but I didn’t. Whatever his motive for going to the gambling house, it had ended without success. It was done now and it might only serve to embarrass him if I brought it up.
We arrived at the boarding house but did not go in. We waited opposite and, just as Mrs. Rumble had said, Mr. Underwood slipped out at a quarter to midnight. Harry set off to follow him, but I held back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I want to see inside his room. I’ve got a feeling there’s something in there he doesn’t want anyone to know. You follow him, I’ll catch up.”
“I’m not leaving you.” He watched the retreating form of Mr. Underwood then nodded at the house. “We’ll go in. Your instincts are rarely wrong.”
“I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I crossed the road, leaving him in my wake.
I lit the candle I’d brought with me and kept watch while he used his lock picks to open the door. It took a few minutes, but he managed to get it open with a soft click of the lock. He insisted on going first, peeking through the gap before opening the door wider.
It was dark inside with all the curtains closed and no lights on. With only the light from my candle to guide us, we tiptoed up the stairs to Mr. Underwood’s room. Harry once again picked the lock, and moments later, we were inside.
We didn’t have to look very hard to find what Mr. Underwood was hiding from the landlady. Indeed, we didn’t have to look at all. It was obvious from the smell of turpentine that he painted in the room. The small room contained a bed, trunk and dresser, but instead of a table and chairs, there was an easel, brushes and paint palettes. An incomplete painting occupied the easel while two finished ones leaned against the bed. They looked good to my untrained eye.
We searched through his things but found nothing else of interest and no letters from Ambrose McDonald. We headed back down the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase, Harry suddenly stopped. I bumped into his back and had to catch myself with my hand to his shoulder. He put his finger up, listening.
I heard it too. Voices coming our way. I recognized Mrs. Rumble’s but not her male companion. They would be upon us in moments.
Harry grabbed my hand and pulled me with him. We raced out through the front door and ran along the street, not stopping until we turned a corner. I was breathing heavily, unable to expand my lungs fully thanks to my corset.
Harry propped me against the wall then peered around the corner. “No one is following.” He frowned. “Are you all right?”
“Bloody corset.”
His gaze dipped to my chest. I wished the light had been brighter so I could see if he blushed, but the lamps were few and far between. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”
“I’m all right. Walking is fine.” I set off in what I assumed was the direction of Portland Place. Harry didn’t stop me.
“I think Underwood is the forger, not Smith,” he said as we walked.
“I’m not so sure. He has skill. But that’s the problem, in a way. Someone tried to sell Lady Treloar a fake portrait with poorly done hands. That clearly points to Reggie Smith.”
“The Quornes’ stolen painting was a landscape,” he pointed out. “Do you know what the Bunburys’ forged paintings looked like?”
“All landscapes too, from what I saw.”
“We could have two forgers. The main one, Underwood, painted the landscapes. The other, Smith, painted the portrait.”
