Page 94 of Thief of the Ton
“You’re sure?” Peregrine asked. “What about a ginger jar, or a sword?”
The man frowned. “I bought a dagger off someone a few months ago,” he said. “An odd little thing—Moorish in design. But I know the man who sold it to me—a sailor who’s often in with trinkets he’s picked up. He’s as honest as I am.”
Not necessarily the best accolade.
Peregrine gestured toward the packet. “Show me.”
The man pulled out a canvas from the packet and unrolled it on the desk.
Peregrine leaned forward and studied the painting. It was a portrait of a young woman dressed in a gown of pale blue silk, sitting on a bench under an oak tree, the façade of Hythe Manor in the distance. Her hair, an elegant mass of blonde curls, was piled on top of her head and adorned with feathers matching the color of her gown. Two white-stockinged feet peeked out from the hem of her skirt with black, buckled shoes.
He ran his fingertip along the painting, and his cheeks warmed as he traced the neckline of her gown, cut scandalously low, to reveal the swell of her milky-white breasts. Then he traced the outline of her gown, following a line across the ground, until he reached the signature in the corner.
Lely, 1664.
“Well?” Houseman said, pride in his voice. “Have I not succeeded where others have failed?”
Peregrine looked up, fighting the urge to obliterate Houseman’s smug grin with his fist.
“The brushwork is exquisite,” he said. “But, I’m afraid, this isn’t the painting that we’re looking for.”
“Nonsense!” Houseman cried. “It fits the description—and that’s Hythe Manor in the background.”
“I’m not disputing that,” Peregrine said. “Nor am I disputing that this is a painting of the fifth Lady Hythe.”
“I don’t understand,” Houseman said.
“It’s perfectly simple,” Peregrine replied. “This painting is a fake.”
“Awhat?”
“See here?” Peregrine gestured toward the background. “The scenery’s too light in tone. The background of the original was darker. And the blue in the gown is too bright. Modern pigments weren’t available in Lely’s time—the tones of the original were much more muted.” He ran his fingertip along the edge of the canvas. “There’s no fraying around the edge,” he said. “Nor are there any of the marks you’d expect from a canvas that has been removed from its frame. What’s more…” He leaned forward, almost pressing his nose on the canvas, then inhaled deeply. “That confirms it.”
“What the devil are you doing?” Houseman asked.
Peregrine rose and rang the bell for the footman. “I’ll wager it was painted less than a month ago—two, at most. I can still smell the paint.” He rolled the canvas up, then opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a sheaf of notes. “Ten pounds, you say?”
“I’m selling it for twenty,” Camp said.
“Ten pounds,” Peregrine said, “or a visit to the magistrate, Mr. Camp—you decide.”
Camp scowled, but snatched the notes, folding them and stuffing them into his pocket. “Bloody toffs.”
“If you’ll both excuse me, I must pay a visit.”
There was a knock, and the footman appeared.
“This ismyinvestigation,” Houseman protested. “You cannot visit Lord Hythe without me.”
“I’m not visiting Hythe,” Peregrine said, “though whom I visit is none of your business. But you may accompany me when I return the canvas to Lord Hythe—even if it’s not the one he’s looking for. Now—if you’ll excuse me?”
Houseman hesitated, but like all bullies, he was a coward, and at length, he scuttled out of the study, Mr. Camp in his wake.
As soon as they’d gone, Peregrine rang the bell for the carriage. Hythe could wait—but first, he had to pay Heath Moss a visit.
*
“I’m afraid Mr.Moss is out, sir—perhaps you’d like to call another time.”
