Page 64 of Oddity of the Ton
She glanced around her environment, at the colors milling about, the sparkling jewels and feathered headdresses.
“Or perhaps you might show me the painting you spoke of earlier—in the hallway. I’m anxious to resume our conversation about art.”
“In the hallway?” Lady Marlow asked. “Is that proper?”
“For a gentleman and his betrothed to engage in a private conversation?” Monty said. “What could be more proper?”
“The presence of a chaperone, that’s what,” Lady Marlow said. She rose, then drew in a sharp breath and lifted her hand to her mouth.
“My love?” Lord Marlow asked. “Are you well?”
“Peregrine, don’t fuss,” she said. Then she swayed to one side.
Marlow caught her in his arms. “That settles it. You’re to remain seated until you’re feeling better.”
Miss Howard watched the exchange, her brow furrowed in pain.
Propriety be damned.
Monty took her hand. “Miss Howard?”
She rose and let him lead her out of the ballroom. They passed the dining room, where a number of guests were helping themselves to the buffet.
“Would you like something to eat, Miss Howard?” he asked.
She glanced at the people milling about, then shook her head.
“I’m not hungry either,” Monty said. “Now—where’s that painting?”
They moved along the hallway, and as soon as they were alone, her body relaxed.
About halfway along, he spotted the painting—an enormous picture of a stallion rearing up as if it were about to embark on a race on which its life depended. Or perhaps the animal had scented a mare in heat, given the hungry stare in its wide, dark eyes, their whites gleaming as if the beast were on the brink of madness. It was a look Monty had seen in countless men hellbent on seduction.
At the bottom of the painting was the inscription:G. Stubbs 1796.
“What do you think?” Miss Howard asked, her voice a soft whisper.
“It’s very good.”
“You don’t see the flaws? It’s certainly not a Stubbs.”
“It’ssignedG. Stubbs.”
“A forger’s hardly likely to sign hisownname if he’s trying to pass his work off as a Stubbs, Your Grace,” she said. “Besides—the signature’s all wrong. He shortened his name in his signatures, but rarely used his initial. And he often wrotepinxitbefore the date.”
“Pinxit? What the devil’s that?”
“It’s Latin,” she said. “It means he painted it.” She gestured toward the painting. “But Stubbs certainly did not paint this. It’s a passable effort, but the proportions are wrong.”
“It looks all right to me.”
“The back legs are too long. Can you not see?”
Monty glanced at the rear end of the horse. Now she’d pointed it out, the legsdidlook a little long. But horses came in all different shapes and sizes, surely?
“Perhaps the horse had particularly long back legs,” he said.
“Not if it’s a thoroughbred,” she replied. “Any horse breeder would have addressed an imbalance in shape. And look at the pelt. It’s too flat. There’s no indication of the muscles and tendons beneath the skin.”
