CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“WE SERVED NOTICE on Mr. Montague this morning regarding the Portinari,” Mr. Hawkings said in a brisk manner. “He has until three o’clock the day after tomorrow to provide proof of ownership of the painting. If proof is not received before then, we shall open the bids for purchase of the painting precisely at 3:01.”
“Very well.” Willie had contacted Mr. Hawkings as soon as they had arrived in London yesterday afternoon. He had collected the painting from her yesterday evening for perusal by experts representing various potential purchasers. Necessary given there were already at least two known copies in existence.
Willie had called on Aunt Poppy the first thing today. Her godmother had suggested Willie meet with the solicitor here at Poppy’s house, saying she would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings rather than at an impersonal office. Although Willie suspected the older woman knew Willie’s residence looked a bit sparse at the moment as she had also mentioned how it was always better to avoid appearing as if one needed money. Especially if one did.
“I do wish you had mentioned this might be a problem before we offered the painting for bids,” Mr. Hawkings said in a chastising manner.
Willie was in no mood to be chastised. She narrowed her eyes. “If I had known there was a problem, you may rest assured I would have said something.”
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly, distinctly paler than a moment ago but then he should be. She had no patience for masculine superiority today. She wanted—needed—this to go smoothly and quickly. “My apologies, Lady Bascombe, I did not mean to imply that you were trying to hide something.”
“My grandmother did not steal that painting.”
“No, no, I would never think such a thing. Nor do I expect Mr. Montague to claim that.” He paused. “However, if he could provide proof that the painting was indeed stolen, he could say she was innocently duped into accepting or purchasing a stolen item through no fault of her own. No blame would fall on her but the painting would probably be returned to Mr. Montague.”
She glanced at her godmother. Poppy offered her an encouraging nod. As much as Willie hated to cast aspersions on her grandmother’s reputation, Mr. Hawkings did need to know everything. “It was given to her by a gentleman friend. I assume now by Mr. Montague’s grandfather.”
“I see,” the solicitor said. “I don’t suppose you have any proof of this liaison?”
“Grandmother was very discreet.”
Poppy smiled in an overly innocent manner.
“Well, I am confident this will prove to be nothing of consequence and we can proceed with the sale as planned.”
“Excellent, Mr. Hawkings.” Willie rose to her feet in a manner befitting a viscountess, a manner she had been trained in at Miss Bicklesham’s, a manner she had only used once before, with a desk clerk in Monte Carlo. It did seem to work better today. “Then I shall see you at your office the day after tomorrow shortly before three.”
Hawkings stood at once. “Yes, my lady.”
“I assume if there is word from Mr. Montague before then, you will contact me at once.”
“Most definitely.” He nodded. “Without question, the moment I hear anything, you shall be the first to know.”
“Very well.” She offered him a curt nod. “Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore’s butler will see you to the door. Good day.”
“Good day.” Mr. Hawkings nodded a bow and practically scurried toward the door.
“I don’t believe I have ever heard you sound quite so imposing before.” Poppy’s eyes twinkled. “It’s amazing what the adventure of travel can do for a woman.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s what did it.” Willie sank back onto the sofa. “It has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that in providing for my own financial future I may very well be throwing away my only chance for—” love “—a good marriage.”
“Nonsense. There are any number of men in the world you have yet to meet. Why, I was older than you when I met my dear Malcolm.” Poppy poured a cup of tea and handed it to Willie. “Besides, you said Mr. Montague was a vile, despicable beast.”
“And he is. Without question.” Willie scoffed. “But he is...extraordinarily nice.”
“He lied to you.”
“A lie of omission.” She stared at the tea in her cup. “Not acceptable, of course, but somewhat understandable.”
Poppy sipped her tea. “And he deceived you.”
“He did indeed.” Willie set her cup down, stood and paced the room. She was entirely too restless to sit still. The day after tomorrow could not come soon enough. Until then, it was as if she were constantly on edge, waiting for something to happen. Some kind of resolution, good or bad, would be better than this interminable limbo she found herself in.
She was doing exactly as Rosalind suggested and it was exceptionally difficult. But Willie could see the wisdom in Rosalind’s advice. There was nothing more pathetic than a woman giving up everything she wanted and throwing herself on the mercies of a man. How could a man possibly respect a woman who thought so little of herself? And Willie would never be able to respect herself.
She and Dante had barely exchanged more than a handful of words on the entire trip back to London. Nor were they as pleasant to their fellow travelers as perhaps they should have been. She had avoided looking in his direction or walking too closely to him or being caught alone with him. She needn’t have tried so hard as it did seem he was making the same effort. Tension hovered ever present between them, and their fellow travelers were not immune. The return to London was awkward and uncomfortable for all concerned. Willie did hear Tillie mutter something about a strongly worded letter to the Lady Travelers Society.
“Although he didn’t know me when he began his deception. He had no idea what kind of person I was.”
“He knew everything that his investigator could supply. I think you’re being far too kind to him.”
“Indeed I am.” Willie paused. “He was always quite kind to the girls, you know, and he certainly didn’t have to be. He escorted them when necessary and danced with them and never made Emma feel embarrassed when she blatantly flirted with him. And he was very nice to young Bertie.”
Poppy’s brow rose. “The miscreant who followed you around Europe? Two of a kind I’d say.”
“Bertie really is just a boy, Aunt Poppy. You can’t fault him for the mistakes of youth.”
“And yet you fault yourself for your own.”
“Nonsense.” Willie waved off the comment. “I don’t fault myself for my mistakes.” Although Poppy might have a valid point. “I have acknowledged my past errors in judgment and I have moved ahead with my life.”
“And what of your Mr. Montague’s mistakes? He is not a boy.”
“No, he is responsible and respectable and quite, quite wonderful. I wish I could simply give him his painting and be done with it. But...” She shook her head.
“We all wish to make sacrifices for the ones we love.”
Willie glanced at her sharply. “I said he asked me to marry him—”
“And rescinded the offer.”
“But I never said I loved him.”
“You didn’t have to.” Poppy smiled. “You wouldn’t be nearly this distraught if you didn’t care for him.”
“Perhaps but regardless of my feelings, he is the most annoying man I’ve ever met.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Did I tell you he believes Grandmother stole the painting?”
Poppy gasped. “He doesn’t!”
“He didn’t actually say it but it was obvious that’s what he was thinking.” She thought for a moment. “What I need is some kind of definitive proof that his grandfather gave my grandmother that painting.”
“No, you don’t,” Poppy said firmly. “He is the one who needs proof. Mr. Hawkings just said the burden of proof in this case falls on him, not you.”
“He has a very powerful family.”
“So do you.” Poppy straightened in her chair. “You have me and Gwen and Effie as well as the entire Lady Travelers Society. We will never desert you.”
Willie’s heart warmed. “I do so love you, Poppy.”
“And I love you too, dear.”
“But I’m afraid even your indomitable friends and all the lady travelers in the world won’t be of help if he comes up with some way to claim my painting.”
“Don’t be absurd, Wilhelmina. We can be a great deal of help.” Poppy smiled in a somewhat wicked manner. “Especially as we have absolutely no difficulty in not playing fair.”
* * *
“YOU LOOK AWFUL.” Roz settled in the chair in front of Dante’s desk in his office in his spacious quarters on the top floors of Montague House.
“Do I?”
“Yes, rather frightening really. I never see you less than perfectly dressed and you’re positively disheveled.” She pulled off her gloves. “When was the last time you combed your hair?”
He ran his hands absently through his hair. “My appearance is the least of my problems.”
“It’s not like you, it’s not like you at all.”
“I’m so sorry I have failed to live up to your standards.”
“They’re not my standards, they’re yours.” She peered at him closely. “Have you been sleeping?”
“More or less.”
“I see.”
“What?” He narrowed his eyes.
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”
“Good,” he said sharply.
“Now, see here, Dante Augustus Montague.” She glared at her brother. “I will not put up with your foul mood. Remember you are the one who sent for me. If you did so simply to have someone to growl at—”
“No, of course not, my apologies.” He blew a long breath. “You’re right, I have not been sleeping well.” Or at all. “Take a look at this.” He passed her a handwritten page.
“What is it?” Roz scanned the paper.
“It’s a claim against some sort of private insurance policy in which Grandfather says the Portinari was stolen. It was discovered by the firm I hired to examine all of Grandfather’s papers.” He heaved a frustrated sigh. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe it.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Oh, I believe Grandfather claimed the painting was stolen but I would wager he actually gave it to a Lady Grantson.” His gaze met his sister’s. “Willie’s grandmother.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been going through his private journals, back more than forty years ago, and there are a great number of affectionate references to Lady Grantson.”
“We all know Grandfather was quite the devil in his younger days. No doubt, there are any number of women mentioned in his journals.”
Dante snorted. “You’d be surprised. But this was different.” He paused. “He believed himself in love with her. But he was married and, while she was a widow, nothing could come of it. He compared their circumstances to those of Orpheus and Eurydice, a great love but ultimately doomed.”
Roz’s eyes widened. “How very poetic of him.”
“The center painting, the one depicting Orpheus begging for his wife’s return, is the only one of the three that has a suggestion of hope.”
“And he gave it to the woman he loved.” Roz shook her head. “I would imagine Grandmother was livid.”
Their grandmother died long before either he or Roz were born. According to family gossip she was eminently proper, unyielding when it came to correct behavior and not especially pleasant in nature. She was also not overly fond of Grandfather.
“I suspect he had the copy made so she wouldn’t know he had given it to another woman.”
“Then grandfather lied about it being stolen?”
“I think so.”
“Regardless—” she handed the paper back to him “—doesn’t this give you the proof you need regarding ownership of the painting?”
“With this, I can claim the Portinari.”
“And destroy Willie’s future,” Roz said slowly.
He stared at the paper in his hand.
Roz studied him for a long moment. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”
“No.” He stood, strode to the fireplace and tossed the paper into the fire, watching it curl then burst into flames. In less than a minute it had turned to ash. “I am giving up any claim to the painting.”
Roz stared.
“You needn’t look so shocked.” He chuckled.
“There’s no other way to look.” Roz continued to stare as if he had just grown two heads. “You do realize this might mean the end of the museum.”
“I do.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re willing to give up Grandfather’s legacy for her?”
“Apparently.” He returned to his seat.
“Good Lord, Dante.” She grinned. “You really are in love.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” he said wryly. “I, however, have never felt quite so miserable in my life.”
“That’s entirely your fault. You have mucked this up from the beginning. I told you—never mind. It really doesn’t matter now.” Roz stood and waved her brother to his feet. “You need to tell her, right this very instant, that you’ve given up all claim to the painting and she may do with it as she pleases. And then you need to rescind your withdrawal of your proposal of marriage.” She shook her head. “That was not your brightest idea.”
“No.” He settled back in his chair.
“What do you mean no?” Roz sank back down. “Why on earth not?”
“I don’t know exactly.” He had given this a great deal of thought. Indeed, he’d thought about nothing else since he learned of his grandfather’s fraudulent claim. “I think, if I told her this now, she would question my motives. I probably would if I were her.”
“As would I but—”
“I did everything I could to regain her trust.”
“Except what you’re doing now—giving up the painting.”
“I don’t think she can question my trustworthiness in any area except when it comes to the Portinari.”
“This is no doubt the best way to prove your love, as well,” Roz pointed out.
“Possibly.” He met his sister’s gaze directly. “But until that painting is out of our lives, Roz, I don’t think we have a chance together.”
Roz stared. “Then what are you going to do?”
“Nothing, about the painting at least.” He shook his head. “If I do not present proof of prior ownership the day after tomorrow by three o’clock, she intends to sell the painting to the highest bidder. I intend to let her.”
“But you’re not going to tell her about this rather impressive sacrifice you’re making for her?”
“No, I’m not.” He blew a long breath. “After everything that’s happened, I have no idea how she feels about me. If she still cares about me. I might have destroyed everything.”
“You committed larceny for her,” she said indignantly. “I know I’ve never had a man steal for me before.”
“I don’t want her to feel obligated to me.”
“That’s absurd.” She frowned. “And it sounds very much like you are giving up. Are you?”
“Only the painting, Roz.” These past few days without Willie had made clear what he had already known in his heart. Nothing—not the Portinari, not the museum, not his grandfather’s legacy—was more important to him than she was. Now he had to take the advice he had given Bertie. If there was ever a time that called for a grand romantic gesture, this was it. He had until the day after tomorrow to come up with something grand and romantic and brilliant. Pity he had no idea what that might be. “Only the painting.”