didn’t have to.
Lawrence pulled up short and sent a considering glance toward the escritoire.
Years earlier he had glimpsed one of his father’s hiding places on one of his many childhood visits. Lawrence had sat unnoticed in the corner, attempting to be close to a father who would rather find his pleasures anywhere but at home.
This had to be it. He moved the old duke’s chair out of the way and dropped to the worn floor beneath the large walnut desk.
It had been handcrafted specifically for Father. There was a writing shelf that rolled out just above one’s knees, and behind that a narrow compartment only six inches wide, sealed with a hidden sliding lock.
With searching fingers, Lawrence pushed the moving parts until the lock disengaged. A narrow door swung open. A handful of papers fell to the floor, followed by a rolled canvas tied with twine.
He had found it!
His heart pounded as he collected the fallen objects and withdrew from beneath the desk. He placed them all on the mahogany surface.
Painting first.
He untied the twine and unrolled the canvas. It looked exactly like the one he’d given to Miss York. Almost exactly. There were a few subtle differences—so subtle, Lawrence might never have noticed them had he not spent every spare moment of his time in the library, studying its remaining works of art. He tied the canvas up in a neat scroll once more and reached for the topmost parchment. It was a letter.
Any guilt he felt over reading his father’s correspondence had disappeared eight months before, when Lawrence inherited the dukedom and the extent of his father’s debts came to light. He hoped these weren’t more debts waiting to be repaid.
He scanned the letter’s contents in growing horror.
Your Grace,
Where are the papers of provenance? You said I would have them within three weeks, and it has been two years. I would not have made a fuss, but Albus Roth has made a name for himself in artistic circles. I may one day wish to sell “The Three Witches of Macbeth” at a profit, and will not be able to do so without the appropriate documentation. I implore you to surrender those papers at once.
Mr. John Wagner
Ribblesdale
Lawrence’s fingers trembled. Mr. Wagner could not possess The Three Witches of Macbeth. The framed canvas was hanging on the library wall.
Where are the papers of provenance?
Lawrence pushed the rest of the letters aside and picked up one of the documents. Documents of provenance for Titus Andronicus. He grabbed another. Provenance for Robin Goodfellow in the Forest with Fairies. He reached for the next. The Three Witches of Macbeth.
That blackguard! Lawrence’s father hadn’t sold redundant pieces of art. His father had been selling forgeries.
That was why the paintings had been hidden behind the sideboard and the papers of provenance were tucked away in a secret drawer. His flesh went cold. He stared down at the letter.
Lawrence had never heard of a Mr. John Wagner.
Ribblesdale was more than two hundred miles away.
Likely that was by design. Father would not have chosen buyers with the means to make his life uncomfortable were the deception uncovered. That he’d involved Baron Vanderbean must have been an act of desperation.
Or was it? Nineteen years ago, the baron had just arrived in England. He was reclusive and eccentric, and, as Lawrence vaguely recalled, the gossips assumed the baron would soon return to Balcovia.
That he had made a home here in London instead would have initially been a blow to Father’s plans, but once it was clear Vanderbean was not fussed in the least about pesky details like provenance, it was no wonder that Father had tried to take advantage of him again and again.
Until Albus Roth hosted his first public exhibition, and the paintings turned important overnight. Each piece of art became evidence of a crime. Father would have been desperate to switch the forgery for the original before the Wynchesters uncovered his deception.
Not just the Wynchesters… all of the innocent people the duke had swindled.
Lawrence scrubbed his face with his hands. The first thing he needed to do was get the papers—and the real paintings—to their rightful owners.
And hope a sincere apology would make up for years of deception.
28
Chloe curled up in her favorite window seat with a copy of Evelina, but her mind was far from the reading circle. Lawrence had said he would return their painting, but days had passed with no sign of him. It was impossible to concentrate on fiction when reality was so