CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN it’s not my painting?” Her voice rose. “Of course it’s my painting.”
“No, it’s not.” He picked up the painting and slanted it toward the light. “Your Portinari is nearly four hundred years old. This painting was probably created no more than three years ago.”
“Three years? Three years!”
“Possibly two.”
“That’s impossible. I don’t believe you.”
“Believe whatever you wish.” He tilted the painting one way then another. “But when you try to sell it, it will be exposed as a copy, a forgery, a fraud.” He blew a long breath. “A fake.”
She struggled against a rising sense of panic. “What makes you think so?”
“A number of things, most of which would not be apparent to anyone who was not well studied in the history of art and the techniques of artists through the ages. First of all, the craquelure is wrong.”
“The what?”
“The craquelure—the series of fine cracks in a painting.” He held the painting up at eye level, angling it to catch the light from the window. “Oil paints shrink slightly when they dry, creating a pattern of fine cracks. Those cracks fill with dust and dirt through the years and take on a dark appearance. These cracks look painted on.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps, Portinari did that himself?” Even as the words left her lips, she knew it was an absurd suggestion.
He ignored her. “Furthermore, it takes years for paint to dry to the hardness of an old work. Look at this.” He pressed the tip of his thumbnail into the paint in the corner of the painting leaving a crescent shaped indentation. “That simply couldn’t happen if this was centuries old.”
The tiny little dimple was hard to argue with.
“In addition—”
“There’s more?” she said weakly.
“You noticed this yourself. The colors appear more vivid than you remember and, I might add, far brighter than the other Portinaris. Which makes no sense if they were all painted at the same time. You’ve also commented on the darkness of the paintings we’ve seen at the Louvre and elsewhere. That’s a result of the aging of the varnish because it’s the varnish—meant to protect the paint—that darkens and clouds with age. In addition, you see this blue color...” He pointed to a part of Orpheus’s cloak. “I’m fairly certain that’s Prussian blue. It was not available until the early eighteenth century. Was your husband knowledgeable about works like this?”
She scoffed. “I am better versed than he was and that only because I’ve been listening to you.”
“This was not produced to fool an expert but then it was not expected to be unwrapped until we returned to London.” He lay the painting facedown on the bed and studied it for a minute or two or a lifetime.
What was he looking for? As impatient as she was, it did seem best to allow him to take whatever time he needed to realize he was wrong.
“The canvas itself is dark as it should be. The wood bars used to stabilize the canvas are not original.”
She winced. That did not sound good.
“Neither are the ones on the paintings at Montague House. They were replaced when my grandfather bought the paintings to strengthen the works.” He glanced at her. “Do you have a buttonhook?”
“Of course.” She fetched the implement and handed it to him.
“The Portinaris were among the first works my grandfather bought and he was not as cognizant of the need to preserve works exactly as they were as he was later in his collecting. He placed a small red stamp on the back in the lower right-hand corner. A circle enclosing his initials.” He took the hook and worked at the tacks securing the canvas to the wood. Once he had them all removed, he carefully lifted the wood from the canvas. The canvas was far lighter where the wood had been. He shook his head. “As you can see—”
She stared, she moved closer, she squinted her eyes. “There’s no stamp, is there?”
“I’m afraid not. And it appears the canvas itself has been treated to give more of an aged appearance.”
“I see.” She already knew the answer but wasn’t ready to give up all hope. She drew a deep breath. “You are completely, totally without question certain this is not my painting?”
“As much as I hate to say it—” he met her gaze directly “—yes, I am.”
“Couldn’t you be mistaken?”
“I wish I were.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I have always been fascinated by my grandfather’s collection. I studied the history of art as well as methods of identification, dating and authentication. I considered it my responsibility as the guardian of the collection. And I’m rather good at this.”
“Then the value of this painting,” she said slowly.
“It is a nice-looking copy.”
That was it, then. Her last recourse. The only means she had to regain any semblance of financial solvency. She wanted to throw herself onto the bed and weep. What was she going to do now? She rubbed her temples in an effort to ease an awful throbbing. It didn’t help. “Did you know this when we were at the conte’s?”
“I suspected it.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Despair abruptly gave way to anger. Not really at Dante; it wasn’t his fault. He was simply close at hand. “Why didn’t you do something?”
“First of all,” he said in that annoyingly calm manner men tend to adopt when they think women are being irrational. It was enough to set her teeth on edge. “I couldn’t be entirely certain until I examined it more closely. Second, I had no idea how the conte would respond. We are guests in his country after all. I can think of any number of things he might have said.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Name one.”
“One—” his eyes narrowed “—he could claim he had no idea it was a copy.”
“Do you think he did know?”
“Everything indicates he not only knew, he probably had the copy made. As I said, I would estimate the copy was only made a few years ago.” He paused. “When did the conte give your husband the loan?”
“According to the document I have, five years ago, three years before George died.”
Dante nodded. “Given what we know about the conte’s passion for works created here in Venice, I would suspect he never intended to return the painting as I imagine he never expected your husband to repay the loan.”
“In that he was not alone among George’s creditors.” Willie wrinkled her nose.
“He could have had the copy made as soon as he had the painting in his hands.” Dante thought for a moment. “Or it could have been painted when he heard your husband was dead, on the chance that if anyone came to reclaim it, they would not be knowledgeable enough to recognize it as a fake.”
“And I wouldn’t have been.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “So you think he intended to keep the real Portinari—my Portinari—all along?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Collectors are an odd lot. Extremely passionate and insanely possessive. Especially when national pride is involved, when they believe a work belongs in the country of its origin.”
A horrible thought struck her. “What if my Portinari really was a fake all along?”
He shook his head. “The conte is a collector from a family of collectors in a country and a city that reveres art far more than we do in England. Art is part of the fabric of life here. I would wager my train ticket home that he is as knowledgeable as I am. He never would have agreed to a loan if he wasn’t confident the painting was genuine.”
“We need to go back to the conte’s at once.” She grabbed her hat and gloves. “I repaid the loan. I want my painting.” She yanked open the door.
He reached around her and closed it sharply. “You can’t simply go over there accusing him of trying to cheat you.”
“Then I’ll...” What? “I’ll contact the authorities, that’s what I’ll do. The British embassy or what passes for police here. I’ll tell them—”
“What will you tell them, Willie? That your late husband used a painting that rightfully belonged to you to secure a loan? And that the conte made a copy because he wanted to keep the original? You have no way to prove any of this. As I said, he could claim he had no idea it was a copy.”
“But you and I know it wasn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter what we know, it matters what we can prove. Don’t forget, we are visitors here. No one here is going to take the word of an English viscountess over a Venetian conte whose family has been a part of Venice for hundreds of years.”
“Then what do we do now? How do I get my painting back?” She paced the room. Nothing came to mind. Nothing clever at any rate. Dante was right. They simply couldn’t demand the conte return the Portinari. She paused in midstep. “What if he doesn’t have it?”
“I doubt he would go to all this trouble if he didn’t have it.”
“I have to have that painting, Dante.” Her voice rose and quivered in a horribly embarrassing way. “I kept up George’s end of the bargain. I scraped together enough to repay the loan. I maneuvered nine—now ten—people through all the treacheries of travel without the loss of luggage or life. I prayed with nuns! My future depends on that painting. Without it...” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Dante considered her for a long thoughtful moment. “It seems to me there is only one thing to do. Well, two really.”
“Very well. What are they?”
“First, we have to determine exactly where the Portinari is. And then...” He set his jaw in a determined manner. “We’re going to steal it.”
* * *
“ARE YOU INSANE?” Willie stared at him.
“Possibly.”
The moment the words were out of Dante’s mouth he wondered what on earth he was thinking. He’d never in his life so much as considered larceny. He had always been unfailingly honest. His integrity in business matters was unquestioned. Aside from that one error in judgment of not telling Willie about his claim to the Portinari—and really that could be considered more a simple omission rather than true deceit—he couldn’t recall any time he had done anything dishonest and certainly never anything illegal.
She scoffed. “You’ve never stolen anything in your life.”
“No, I haven’t,” he said sharply. Still, the very idea was oddly exciting. And what better way to prove to the woman he loved that he could be trusted than by stealing a painting for her? The irony of the thought was not lost on him. “Have you?”
“Of course not, but of the two of us I am the one more likely to have done something of this nature.”
“Not something to be proud of, Lady Bascombe.”
“I not especially proud of it but I’m not particularly ashamed about it either. It’s simply a fact.” She shrugged in an offhand manner. “And the fact is that my life has better prepared me for an escapade of a criminal nature.”
“A what?”
“I was trying to spare your eminently proper sensibilities.”
“No, please, go on. I shall brace myself.” He wasn’t sure if this was amusing or insulting.
“Very well then—a robbery, a theft, an act of larceny.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You may choose at random.”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. I was just trying to say that I am better suited to do something like this—or frankly, even to suggest it. After all, your life has been extraordinarily dull.”
“I would more accurately call it respectable.”
“Whereas mine has been somewhat more adventurous.”
“Don’t you mean scandalous?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I mean exciting.”
“Or improper?”
“I would term it amusing. Most amusing. And not the least bit boring.”
“Boring?” He drew his brows together. “You think my life is boring?”
She smirked.
“My life is not boring. Not at all. I have my work and the museum. I have any number of interests—art, antiquities, literature, opera. My life is...reputable. Responsible. Sensible. Well-ordered.” Even to him it did sound, well, boring.
“Stuffy, staid, uninteresting, expected.”
“It hasn’t been the least bit expected since I met you.”
She raised her chin. “Since you digressed from your ever-so-proper life of complete and utter honesty to deceive me, you mean.”
“No, that’s not what I meant but you’re right.” He grabbed her hands, pulled her close and gazed into her eyes. “I never would have so much as considered larceny in any form or by any name before I met you. You, Wilhelmina Bascombe, have changed my life.”
“You’re most welcome,” she said loftily but made no effort to move away.
“Oh, I am indeed grateful. And I find the idea of larceny with you rather exciting.” His gaze dropped to her lips and back to her eyes. “Shockingly so.”
Willie stared. “Do you?”
“You have no idea.” He wanted to kiss her, to pull her tight against him and ravage her mouth until her knees weakened and she was limp in his arms. He was fairly certain right now she would kiss him back with an enthusiasm and desire matching his own. Even so, that was probably not the way to win Willie back permanently. Besides, one kiss was not—would never be—enough. And this was not the time. Without warning he released her and turned to pace the room. “The first thing we need to do is determine exactly where the painting is.”
She stared, disappointment mixed with indignation on her face. “Did I misunderstand?”
“What?”
“Weren’t you going to kiss me?”
“Did you want me to kiss you?”
“No.” She scoffed. “Of course not. The thought never entered my mind. Indeed, I was prepared to slap your face.”
“You might well have slapped me afterward just to prove a point but the thought more than entered your mind. You wanted me to kiss you and you know it as well as I. However, if you wish to pretend you didn’t—” he shrugged “—that’s probably for the best because at the moment we have other matters to consider.”
“You are my partner in this endeavor and this endeavor alone, Mr. Montague, nothing more. You’d do best to remember that. Wanted you to kiss me indeed,” she added under her breath.
He stifled a satisfied grin and resumed pacing. “As I see it, there are several possibilities for the location of the Portinari.”
“Only several?” Her brow arched upward. “It could be anywhere in Venice.”
“It could but Sarafini is a dedicated collector and his favorites are those works by Venetian artists. There is nothing he likes more than seeing the Bellini, the Titians and the Portinari all displayed together. You could see it on his face.”
She frowned. “I thought that was lust.”
“It was but not for you.” He glanced at her. “The man is a fool.”
Her cheeks flushed. He never would have imagined Wilhelmina Bascombe was the type of woman who blushed but she did and each and every time it did something absurd to his heart.
“Very well then.” She thought for a moment. “You said collectors are possessive.”
He nodded. “As a rule.”
“Then, logically, he would have the Portinari nearby. So dare we assume it is in his house or the building that houses the gallery?”
“That makes sense.” Dante considered the problem. He had spent much of his life studying art and one couldn’t really study art and not stumble across the men who coveted rare works. “He had the painting wrapped for travel and obviously assumed we wouldn’t open it until we had returned to London.”
“He said as much.”
“You also told him we could not return to the gallery. Which would mean he would be safe to put the real painting back in its place.”
“Do you think so?”
“I think it’s possible. He really has nothing to lose by doing so.”
“He did strike me as being exceptionally arrogant.”
“And confident. If we accuse him of anything, he could always claim he’d given you the Portinari and kept a copy for himself. Experts would have to decide which painting was which and they would probably be his experts, which might lead to litigation. This could drag on for a long time. And don’t forget the conte has a great deal of influence here.” He shook his head. “It seems to me we have little choice.”
“If it makes you feel better about this bit of larceny—and I must say, I rather like the way that sounds. Larceny.” She grinned. “It has a nice ring to it.”
He snorted.
“As I was saying, you may want to consider this not as larceny—” she drew out the word with a distinct show of delight “—but as a repossession. I repaid the debt. That painting is mine.”
“You’re right.” He grimaced. “I feel much, much better.”
“Try to remember that. It will sound plausible when we’re being led over the Bridge of Sighs to prison.” She paused. “I fear we will need help in this.”
“I’m afraid so.” The last thing he wanted to do was involve his sister or any of the other ladies in this venture that was at best illegal and at worse—possibly dangerous.
“Don’t look so distraught. I suspect our group of lady travelers can best an arrogant Italian conte.”
“With a guidebook in one hand and a sturdy parasol in the other?” he said wryly. “Although I would like to see that.”
She ignored him. “Why, I shall lead them into battle myself.”
“We are not going to storm the palazzo with swords and daggers, you know.”
“I find that a very great pity. And I do realize I am not leading them into an actual battle. More a figurative one.”
“Ah well, as long as you realize that.”
“I am invoking the appropriate spirit.” She straightened her shoulders. “And I have tried to do my very best whether it is in navigating the treacherous waters of French customs agents or an act of larceny.”
He smiled. “I am aware of that.”
“You may, however, have Bertie to lead.”
“I am a lucky man.”
“Yes, Mr. Montague.” She met his gaze firmly. “You are.”
He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant and preferred to consider it in a positive light. But now was probably not the best time to discuss their future. Not until he had her painting. And her trust.
“As are you, Lady Bascombe.” He pulled her into his arms and grinned down at her. “The intrepid hero Allan Quatermain is at your service.”
“You are not Allan Quatermain.” She huffed. “You are not the hero of a novel of adventure.”
“I am something much better.”
“Are you indeed?”
“I am the man who would do anything for you.” He nodded and released her. “And regardless of what it takes, no matter the risk or the danger, I intend to prove it.”
And how could she not trust him then?