Page 31 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Zander tried not to accidentally brush against the paintings and stood still as the statue placed carelessly on the corner of the table he and Mr. Katsky leaned over. There’d be less of a bonus if he broke something.
The bigger bonus was the expression on Mr. Katsky’s face as he gazed at the sketch unrolled on the table before them. Not a Rubens but in the same style. Likely one of his students who would have been expected to copy his styles and techniques to perfection before producing work in a style of their own. He should remember to tell Fiona that, that she wasn’t a forger so much as a student doing what a student must to become a master. Would that ease her guilt a little?
Hell.He wouldn’t think of her, wouldn’t put back little bits and pieces he wanted to share with her, wouldn’t crave to ease her way in the world. Wouldn’t relive that most innocent of kisses, that most erotic of gasps when he’d pulled her lip between his teeth. But he couldn’t seem to help it. He’d been doing it all week. So much so that he suspected he’d become infatuated. He had, at some point during their short acquaintance, developed a schoolboy crush on the jeweler’s daughter. Started thinking of her as Fiona, too. This wouldn’t have happened if they’d kissed.Reallykissed. Not that soft prelude, but the full promise of the action, the fireworks leaping beneath his skin, the ravaging of her mouth, extension of the kiss to other places just as soft, just as warm.
If they’d kissed like that, this fixation would have found its release in learning the taste of her tongue. But now the unknown questions of her body plagued him as well as the little hints she’d given him. The memory of her gasp could make him hard, curse it all. It hung over him, chained him to the unknown, drove him to imagine and dream and wonder what it was like when he should know by now. And the knowing would release him, and—
“Lord Lysander,” Mr. Katsky said, “you have once more proved your value. Such an exquisite piece, and such a steal.” Yes, it had rather felt like stealing. Still sat heavy in his gut. Mr. Katsky’s face fell, and his shoulders sagged. “It is a shame, though. That it’s only a student’s work.”
“I don’t know. If the student proves as skilled as the master, there’s no shame at all. The brush strokes—”
“Brush strokes? Who cares about those? It’s the name that matters, Lord Lysander.” He grunted. “You know that. Better than most of us, I suppose.”
An opportunity. Zander seized it. “True. Do you know, I’ve a real Rubens for sale.”
Mr. Katsky’s head popped up so quickly Zander feared it might snap right off his neck. “A real one?”
Zander rolled up the sketch and replaced it in its protective tubing. “Yes. My father’s. Mine now. Soon to belong to someone else entirely. If I can just find the right buyer.” He gave a white-toothed grin that would make Fiona roll her eyes. “Naturally.”
Miss Frampton. And why should he care what made her roll her eyes? He shouldn’t. But he did. Like a green boy after his first time laying his body alongside a woman’s. Yet they’d laid nothing beside one another but hands. And, for a brief, breathless moment, their bellies when he’d pulled her close.
“Who is interested?” Mr. Katsky asked.
Zander listed names he would know, names that would incite his jealousy and… he named the dowager.
“Her?” Mr. Katsky’s brow furrowed. “I’ve not seen her for months. Thought she’d hied off to the Continent for entertainment.”
Zander shrugged. “She’s interested.” Perhaps silly to throw her name in the ring, but if she was merely gallivanting, paintings in tow, hearing her name in a ring she’d not tossed it into might bring her home. “Areyouinterested?”
He scratched his chin and lifted his glasses to the top of his head. “Perhaps, perhaps… Depends. I’ll let you know in two days’ time. I’m attending an auction. Secret of course, a bit of an… event.”
“I’ve heard of no auction.” And he heard of everything in the art world.
“As I said—it’s a secret. An event solely forcollectors,not curators and procurers like yourself.”
“Ah.” He’d get no more information on it, then.
Mr. Katsky wiggled his brows. “A masquerade.”
Scratch that. Zander lifted his own glasses to the top of his head and leaned a hip against the table, waiting. Not long, either.
“Lord Currington is hard up, and he wants to sell his collection, but he doesn’t want it to seem like a desperate move, so he’s invited only those of us with the deepest pockets to attend, all in disguise. Dominos too, even. Guests required. To help with the charade, I suppose.” He snorted. “As if we don’t see through it. He claims to be bored and in need of a good time. The man just needs blunt. But”—he hooked his thumbs in the suspenders showing in the gap between the bottom of his waistcoat and the top of his trousers—“a good time shall be had nonetheless.” He laughed and winked. “The mistress is looking forward to a night out on my arm.”
“Hm. Of course.” Scoundrel. Men who cheated on their wives were the worst sort. As far as Zander was concerned, one of the few things his father had ever gotten right was adoring his mother. Love was precious, and if discovered on this wretched earth, should be protected. Of course, many did not marry for love. Marriage was a contract in which two people bettered the circumstances of their pocketbook or of their social sphere.
Zander knew it. He might have to bow to it. Didn’t mean he wanted to.
“I only tell you because Currington has a Rubens I’m interested in, as well as a few others. The wife won’t mind if I procure one, perhaps two more, this month. But if I drain our accounts more than that, everyone in London will hear her wrath.”
“I don’t wish such a sound lecture on you, Mr. Katsky.” Frankly, he didn’t wish this man on his wife, but he could do nothing about that.
“You’ll understand one day, Lord Lysander. Just stay out of the leg shackles as long as you can.”
“I shall certainly try.”
“I’ll pay your fee today.” Mr. Katsky popped the top of the tube and released the sketch into his hands.
Zander waved the words away as he took his leave. He never discussed payment. He was a marquess’s son who worked in trade. Worked in a shady trade at that. The least he could do to save his pride, the social standing that gave him value in his client’s eyes, was to act like the money didn’t matter. When it alone mattered.
