CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later...
“GOODNESS, DANTE.” ROSALIND, Lady Richfield, heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I have no desire to spend a month in the country, let alone travel Europe. I can’t imagine why you think I would wish to do such a thing.”
“Come now, Roz.” Dante Augustus Montague glared at his sister. “You needn’t be so dramatic. It’s not as if I’m asking you to go to the far corners of the world. To some uncivilized, untamed region populated with headhunters and cannibals and deadly vipers. I’m talking about Paris and Monte Carlo and Venice and Rome.”
“I don’t want to go either,” her daughter, Harriet, added. At age eighteen, Harriet had just completed her first, and judging by her mother’s comments, extremely successful season. She had, as well—at least in her uncle’s eyes—become more than a little conceited and most annoying. In many ways, exactly like his sister.
“I understand that, brother dear.” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “But what you are proposing is not a trip for the purposes of education and refinement and culture. You are planning nothing less than a farce.”
“A French farce really,” Harriet said with a smug smile. She looked from her mother to her uncle. “A French farce? Because the tour includes Paris?”
“Ah yes, quite.” Dante offered a perfunctory smile.
Someone had told Harriet she was a natural wit and she’d considered herself most amusing ever since. Dante suspected the culprit responsible had been trying to curry favor with the lovely young woman. His sister had mentioned their drawing room was as often as not filled with suitors eager to win the hand of Lady Harriet. Roz was both proud and a bit taken aback by the social success of her only daughter.
“It’s not at all a farce.” Dante resisted the urge to roll his eyes toward the ceiling but that would only serve to irritate his sister. Some five years younger than Roz, even as an adult, Dante never tired of annoying her. Under other circumstances he would find that most enjoyable. Today, however, he needed her help. “Perhaps you don’t understand how important this is. Perhaps I should explain it again.”
“I believe we are both well aware of how important you think this is,” Roz said. “There is no need for you to expound yet again.”
“Goodness, Uncle Dante, we’re not idiots.” Harriet sighed and ticked the points off on her fingers. “One—a valuable painting that belonged to great-grandfather was replaced longer ago than anyone can remember with a copy and no one apparently noticed until you recently did. Two—the records of Montague House make no mention of the substitution of the original—a Portinari I believe—which has led you to suspect it was not legitimately replaced and might even have been stolen. Three—you have discovered through the efforts of an investigator that the original painting was at one time in the possession of the Viscount Bascombe who is unfortunately dead.”
“God rest his soul,” Roz said firmly.
“God rest his soul,” Harriet echoed and continued. “Four—that same investigator learned the painting was used as collateral for a loan between the viscount and some man in Venice. Five—the widowed Lady Bascombe is about to lead a group of American debutants and their mothers on a trip to Italy, among other places, and you believe she intends to reclaim the painting as part of settling her husband’s affairs or something like that. And six—you wish for Mother and I to join this tour so that you too may come along because you certainly can’t join it by yourself. Is that correct?”
Dante stared. “I had no idea you listened to me.”
“We listen to you constantly,” Roz said. “It’s impossible not to. Ever since you discovered the substitution of the painting—”
“Ever since you took over management of Montague House,” Harriet added.
“—you’ve rarely spoken of anything else. You’ve become quite dull.”
“I have not.” Dante scoffed but even to his own ears it did not ring quite true. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
His grandfather, the Marquess of Haverstead, had divided his nonentailed assets upon his death, leaving them equally to his three sons. His youngest son—Dante and Roz’s father—had proved surprisingly gifted at all matters financial and, through shrewd investments and sound business endeavors, doubled it. Dante had taken after his father in this respect and at the age of thirty-three had amassed a fortune significantly greater than his father’s. Which was all well and good but there was more to life than the acquisition of funds—an edict his grandfather had lived his life by.
Dante only vaguely remembered Grandfather as he had passed on when Dante was six years of age but he never forgot the old gentleman explaining the importance of art and beauty, whether they be depicted in painting or marble or by the fine hand of a master craftsman in a pottery urn created thousands of years ago. “Art,” he had once told his grandson, “is man’s very soul made manifest.”
When the marquess died, his will decreed his grand London house become a private museum, open only to scholars and those with a deep appreciation of art and antiquities and willing to purchase a subscription to help defray costs. He left, as well, a trust to maintain his collections. A curator was hired to catalog the late marquess’s acquisitions, organize and display the house’s contents, and manage membership as well as all the other varied and sundry details an endeavor of this nature required. Through the years there was another director and another—all with various skills in the management of small museums and Montague House took its place among the lesser sights of London.
Unfortunately, the only one of Lord Haverstead’s numerous offspring who shared his fascination with fine art or the remnants of antiquity was Dante. He spent much of his boyhood at Montague House studying the works of Renaissance masters or paging through ancient volumes in the well-stocked library or trying to decipher the Greek or Latin inscriptions on the ancient coins and other metalwork kept behind glass doors. The influence of Montague House lingered through Dante’s school years and he considered becoming a scholar of art and antiquities until business and finance proved to be a passion every bit as strong and far more challenging.
“I am not the least bit dull,” he said staunchly.
Roz and her daughter traded knowing glances.
“I know that look.” He glared at his sister. “Go on, say what you’re thinking.”
“We’re not saying that you’ve become dull only because you’ve thrown yourself into Montague House,” Roz began.
“Although you have taken up residence in the flat on the upper floor,” Harriet said under her breath.
“It’s most convenient.” He huffed. “Besides, it’s where the facility director has always lived.”
With only cursory family notice paid to Montague House, it was inevitable the museum would fall prey to mismanagement. A state of affairs only discovered some two years ago. In spite of the trust, the enterprise was losing money. Hemorrhaging it really, one of the uncles pointed out. Between maintenance of the building and care of the works it housed, it would be insolvent in no time. And then it would either have to become fully open to the public—an idea that made the more conservative members of the family shudder—or it would be closed and Grandfather’s life’s work dispersed.
Dante’s uncle, the current marquess, assembled his brothers and their children to discuss the fate of Montague House. While none of them wished to see their father’s, or grandfather’s, wishes ignored, they did realize something needed to be done and perhaps trusting someone outside of the family was not wise.
Upon reflection, Dante wasn’t certain who had first raised the idea of his taking over supervision of Montague House. After all, he did have an excellent head for management and business enterprises as well as firm appreciation and understanding of the world of art and antiquities. In certain circles he was considered something of an expert. Certainly he could put Montague House back on solid financial footing and establish a respectable reputation in the process. If not, perhaps it was time to donate Grandfather’s collections to a more venerable institution and sell the house. Or use it as the residence it was originally intended to be. Several of Dante’s cousins expressed interest in that possibility. Obviously the only one who could—or was willing—to save Grandfather’s legacy was the only son of his youngest son.
“We are simply pointing out that it seems the oddest sort of coincidence that you took up residence at Montague House at very nearly the same time you were publically rebuffed by Miss Pauling.”
“It is indeed a coincidence and I was not publically rebuffed.”
“You were according to what I heard.” Harriet shrugged. “Everyone said so.”
“Gossip rarely has anything to do with truth,” Dante said sharply. “And I was not rebuffed as I was not especially interested in Miss Pauling.”
Admittedly, he—along with very nearly every other single man in London—had found Juliet Pauling lovely and exciting. One never knew what to expect from her. She was adventurous and daring and exhilarating. He had indeed called on her several times but eventually realized she had her sights set on bigger fish than the untitled grandson of a marquess. Regrettably, she was as calculating as she was charming, as designing as she was delightful. Which was why it took him far too long to realize he was little more than a pawn in her quest for a title, a means to make a better catch jealous. Unfortunately, thanks to the unrelenting gossip of people exactly like his sister, his name had been linked with hers. When her betrothal to the son of a duke was announced, it came as a surprise to nearly everyone in society and to no one more than to Dante. He hadn’t thought she was quite so devious as to not give him even a glimmer of warning.
“We shouldn’t tease you about this,” Roz said in a sincere manner he didn’t believe for a moment. “A broken heart is nothing to make fun of.”
“It is dreadfully sad though.” Harriet heaved the sort of sigh only a romantic young woman could manage. “The love of your life throwing you over for another man even if he was the son of a duke.”
“She was not the love of my life. Nor did she break my heart.”
“Obviously a mistake on my part.” Amusement shone in his sister’s eye. “Silly of me to confuse a broken heart with badly bruised pride.”
“I’m quite sure I have mentioned this before, any number of times by my count, but neither my heart nor my pride was broken or bruised,” Dante said firmly. Only to himself would he acknowledge that a broken heart was a fate he had narrowly averted and there might possibly have been the slightest bruising of his pride. “Furthermore, that was two years ago.”
“And in these past two years you have become something of a recluse,” Roz said pointedly. “When you’re not engaged in the management of your businesses, you have buried yourself in the Herculean task of setting all in order at Montague House. You have completely ignored any kind of social encounter that wasn’t required. And those for the most part have been family obligations.”
“For the hundredth time, sister dear.” Dante struggled to keep his temper in check. It wasn’t easy. Roz refused to accept that between Montague House and his business interests, his life was inordinately full. He had no time for frivolity and no interest at the moment in pursuing anything of a romantic nature. “I have a great deal to attend to and other pursuits are simply going to have to wait.”
“Pursuits such as finding a wife?”
“Exactly,” he snapped. “I have neither the time nor the inclination right now for romantic entanglements.”
Still, responding to his sister’s obvious efforts to irritate him would not get him anywhere. Nor did it help to know she only had his best interests at heart as did his mother and every other female member of his family. None of them seemed to understand that while he had no particular aversion to marriage, he did not think it was crucial to his life. At least not currently.
He drew a calming breath. “As you know, the family has given me three years to rebuild, or rather build, Montague House’s reputation and put the collections in order. I have accomplished a great deal toward that goal. I have recovered a number of objects that had either been lost in the attics, moved to other family properties or disappeared from the house altogether. The latter at no little expense. It has not been easy.” He absently paced the room. “The missing Portinari is the center of a triptych, essentially a three-part painting.”
“We know what a triptych is, Uncle Dante,” Harriet said in the long-suffering manner of the young.
“What you may not know is that Galasso Portinari was a student of Titian and a painter in his workshop. A sixteenth-century biography of Titian says he considered Portinari his greatest student and predicted he would one day surpass even the master’s skill. Unfortunately, he died quite young—plague possibly but the details on that are vague. His original work is exceedingly rare. While students of Titian’s—including Portinari—often copied his work, there is no record of more than a handful of any other original Portinaris. Therefore ours are exceptionally valuable. These three paintings are the sorts of things that will make a museum’s reputation.”
“Then why haven’t they done so?” A challenge sounded in Roz’s voice. While not as passionate about Grandfather’s legacy as her brother, Dante had thought she was somewhat neutral on the question of the fate of Montague House. Although he now recalled there was a gleam of interest in her eyes when the idea of returning the mansion to a private residence had been raised. “It’s not as if they have just been acquired. Hadn’t they been in the collection long before the house became a museum?”
“Yes, but previous curators apparently didn’t understand what they had. For one thing, the paintings weren’t displayed properly. They were hanging in the library on three different walls, separated by bookshelves and one barely noticed them. But they were designed to hang together to create one continuous work. When done so, one can see the continuity between the pieces, the story the painter was trying to tell. All of that—as well as the brilliance of the artist himself—is lost when they are not displayed together.” Dante shook his head. “I’m not sure even grandfather knew what he had. He had an excellent eye but he tended to buy what appealed to him rather than what might be a good investment. In fact, I’m not sure any of those we’ve employed to curate the museum understood the potential value of the Portinaris. Indeed, it’s only been in recent years that his work has been recognized. Each painting by itself is brilliant but all three together are nothing short of a masterpiece.”
Roz frowned. “I don’t even remember them.”
“They’re relatively small—each is a mere twelve by eighteen inches. And, as I said, they were in the library. It’s been kept clean, of course, dusted and swept and all, but little additional attention paid to it. As if valuable first editions could take care of themselves.” He scoffed.
His sister traded glances with her daughter.
“According to the house records, the first director started to catalog the contents of the library but then turned his attention to other matters. The second picked up where the first let off but accomplished little.” He couldn’t keep the hard edge from his voice. The lack of attention paid to the collections in the house by previous management was nothing short of criminal. One did wonder how his uncle’s solicitors—charged with arranging for the engagement of the house staff—managed to find such utter incompetents. “None of the subsequent curators did anything at all toward organizing and cataloging the books or anything else in the library.”
It never failed to annoy him that in the quarter of a century between his grandfather’s death and Dante’s assuming directorship of the museum, no one in his family had paid the least bit of attention to what was occurring. There were gaps in the financial statements and other records that not only pointed to mismanagement but outright fraud and perhaps even theft. Much of which he doubted he would ever be able to reconcile. In many ways it was fortunate the Portinaris were overlooked. Otherwise all three of the originals might be missing.
“So what you’re trying to say in that long and tedious way you have is that recovering the painting is crucial to Montague House.” Roz eyed her brother thoughtfully. “That this is exactly what you need to increase prestige and credibility. Essentially to save Montague House.”
“What we need,” he said firmly.
“I still don’t see why we have to flit around Europe.” Harriet huffed. “Why don’t you just offer to buy the painting once Lady Bascombe has it?”
“Although I daresay to convince her to sell, you will have to do something about your, well, your demeanor,” Roz said.
He frowned. “What’s wrong with my demeanor?”
“You’re curt, you tend to be condescending, especially when you think you’re right or you’re the most intelligent person in the room, and you are entirely too arrogant.” Harriet glanced at her mother.
“Well, yes,” Roz agreed. “But it would have been nice to phrase it a bit more tactfully.”
Harriet shrugged. “I phrased it exactly the way I’ve heard you say it.” She cast an apologetic look at her uncle. “Sorry, Uncle Dante.”
He stared at his sister. “I am not any of those things.”
Roz grimaced.
“Am I really?” Admittedly, he might be the tiniest bit patronizing when he knew he was right and possibly more impatient than he should be and there was the distinct possibility that he did have no more than a mere touch of arrogance. “Yes, well, perhaps some of that might not be entirely inaccurate.”
“However,” Roz said, “you can be quite charming when you set your mind to it. Indeed, although it has been some time, I’ve watched you charm any number of unsuspecting females.”
His brow shot upward. “Unsuspecting?”
“That might not have been the right word,” Roz murmured. “But you are a handsome devil, as well, in a quiet sort of way, and I’ve never seen you look less than perfect. In addition, your wealth is most impressive. You are a catch, Dante. Women are naturally attracted to you. I don’t know why you don’t take advantage of that.”
“I think it’s foolish to depend on one’s appearance and fortune rather than one’s intelligence.”
“What’s foolish is your not taking advantage of both,” Harriet noted under her breath. “And yet it explains so much.”
He ignored her. “Regardless, your point is taken. I shall do my best to be as charming as I possibly can.”
Harriet snorted.
“As I was saying, I have considered attempting to purchase the Portinari but I will not make an offer until its true ownership is determined.” His jaw tightened. “I would prefer not to have to pay for something that rightfully belongs to this family.”
Harriet cast him a skeptical look. “And how will you determine ownership?”
“I have collected every record, every invoice, every bit of correspondence I can find—Father and the uncles have helped with that—in an effort to find some statement as to the disposition of the Portinari. I have the original bill of sale for all three paintings and, at the moment, I have nothing to indicate any of them were sold or ownership transferred in any way. I have studied everything myself and I’ve hired a firm with expertise in such matters to examine all the records as well as investigators searching for more. I cannot confront Lady Bascombe until I have solid evidence regarding ownership. Once I do, I can demand her proof of provenance. But it scarcely matters until she recovers the painting.” He paused. “I intend to be present when she does. Now that I know exactly where the painting is, I will not allow it to vanish from sight again.”
Roz frowned. “You don’t trust her?”
“I don’t know her,” he said. “But I do know of her. Her reputation does not inspire confidence.”
Roz’s brow furrowed in confusion then her expression cleared. “Oh. You’re speaking of Wilhelmina Bascombe?”
“Is there another Lady Bascombe?” Harriet asked.
“I don’t think so.” Dante studied his sister. “Do you know her?”
“I wouldn’t say I know her but I believe we met once in passing although it was some time ago.” Roz thought for a moment. “I rather liked her if I recall. You’re right though—she and her husband were part of a fast crowd always engaged in some sort of outing or entertainment or activity verging on the edge of outright scandal. There was talk about her husband’s indiscretions, as well, although I don’t recall ever hearing anything about her. Still, in that particular group... Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve heard anything at all about her since her husband died and that must be at least two years ago.”
“Apparently, she was in seclusion until recently.” A fact Dante’s investigator had included in the dossier he had prepared. He had also uncovered information about Lady Bascombe’s finances. It appeared the widow was forced to sell her country house and various other items to settle her husband’s debts and had very little left, although Dante assumed she had reserved enough to pay off the loan and take possession of the Portinari. Her financial state also explained why she was leading a tour rather than simply traveling to Venice on her own.
“One can scarcely blame her for wishing to leave the country for a bit,” Roz said. “Put the past behind her and reminders of her husband, that sort of thing. Although shepherding a group of Americans sounds rather daunting to me.”
“I believe this is in the manner of a favor to an elderly relative who founded some sort of travel society for ladies. It is my understanding that without the presence of Lady Bascombe the tour was in jeopardy of not proceeding at all.”
“It’s quite kind of her, then, isn’t it?” Roz nodded thoughtfully. “But I suppose it would indeed serve to take her mind off her loss.”
“I would imagine. Difficult time for her, I would think. Not at all the time to confront her about the painting,” Dante added with an appropriately concerned frown. It was not entirely feigned. The more he’d learned about Lady Bascombe the more she intrigued him. But surely she couldn’t be as interesting as she sounded. More likely she shared a great deal in common with Miss Pauling, at least when it came to character. And that was not the least bit interesting. At least not to him.
“Poor woman,” Roz murmured.
“Poor woman?” Harriet stared at her mother. “The lady and her husband were obviously engaged in all sorts of improprieties to have been the subject of so much gossip. There is always an element of truth behind any morsel of rumor—that’s what you always say.”
“Yes,” Roz began, “but—”
“Furthermore, one has only oneself to blame when one’s husband wanders.” Harriet pinned her mother with a firm look. “Don’t you say that, as well?”
“I might have said something like that.” The oddest look of panic showed in Roz’s eyes.
“And haven’t you warned me my entire life that dreadful things can happen to those who misbehave, so it is important that one’s behavior be exemplary?” Harriet aimed the words at her mother with the directness of an inquisitor questioning a heretic.
“Well, yes, but—”
“It seems to me this is simply the price of fast living,” Harriet said in a lofty manner.
“Good Lord, what have I done?” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “Regardless of how one chooses to behave, there are few things worse in this life for a woman than losing her husband. Unless one’s husband leaves a great deal of money, the finances of a widow are precarious at best. As I said, I don’t really know Lady Bascombe but I would suspect if she has remained in seclusion and only recently returned to London—” she glanced at her brother and he nodded “—then she must have cared a great deal for her husband.”
“‘The wages of sin is death.’” Harriet smirked.
“Only in the bible, dear,” Roz snapped. “And while I am pleased that you have obviously listened to every bit of wisdom I have ever imparted, I am hoping you have heard me when I have talked about compassion or sympathy, as well. Especially among fellow women, whether we are acquainted with them or not.”
Harriet had the good grace to blush in spite of her defiant attitude. “I suppose.”
“Perhaps,” Dante said casually, “it might be beneficial for Harriet to make the acquaintance of a new circle of young women. And see a bit of the world in the process.”
“Dante.” Roz blew a long breath. “I have a great deal to do and no time to go off wandering Europe.”
“Besides, Mr. Goodwin promised to call on me.” Harriet breathed a dreamy sigh, obviously in the throes of delighted anticipation.
Roz frowned. “Bertram Goodwin?”
“Yes.” Harriet dimpled. “He’s quite dashing and very clever.”
“He’s the third son of an earl with no prospects whatsoever and a questionable reputation. And when I say questionable...I am being kind.” Roz stared. “And his mother is...well, suffice it to say she is not one of my favorite people. And I like nearly everyone.”
“Nonsense, Mother. You’re just being stuffy.” Harriet sniffed. “Mr. Goodwin’s reputation is no worse than most young men of my acquaintance. But he is amusing and handsome and...” Her chin raised in a determined manner. “And I like him. I like him quite a lot. Why, I might even be in love with him.”
“You’ll be no such thing. He is entirely inappropriate and a very bad influence.” Roz’s gaze locked with her daughter’s. “I will not permit him to call on you.”
“Regardless.” Harriet crossed her arms over her chest. “I fully intend to see him whenever possible.”
Mother and daughter glared at each other. Tension hung in the air and Dante resisted the urge to step back, out of range of whatever might happen next. He’d never witnessed a confrontation between these two before. His gaze shifted from his sister to his niece and back. Regardless of how much he wished to recover the Portinari, was it wise to join a group made up of mothers and daughters? Still, one did what was necessary. He braced himself.
“Did I mention I would be paying for everything? I will take care of all expenses,” he said in what he thought was a helpful manner.
“Your father will like that.” Roz’s gaze never left her daughter’s.
“Father will never make me go if I don’t want to.” Challenge colored Harriet’s words.
“My dear child, you are his daughter.” A triumphant gleam sparked in Roz’s eyes. “I am his wife.” Roz adopted a wicked smile he had seen any number of times in their youth when she’d had the upper hand and knew it. “Dante.” Her gaze never wavered from her offspring. “When do we leave?”