A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,64

art world’s pantheon.”

Flattery was an art demanding every bit as much skill as forgery. A light, sincerely complimentary hand was needed, along with a dollop of ruthlessness.

“I am done with your schemes, Longacre,” de Beauharnais said, taking a more moderate taste of his brandy. “I am talented, I am hardworking. Everybody comes to you for suggestions when they seek to hire an artist. You consign me to your dirty little projects when you could instead refer paying commissions to me.”

Richard set aside his brandy, fished a quizzing glass out of the library’s desk drawer, and moved to stand before the general’s portrait. The old boy would have to spend a few weeks gathering dust and the scent of mildew in the attics, but he’d serve his intended purpose more than adequately.

“I did refer you a paying commission just last week. Mrs. Hambleton Finchley must have a portrait of her twin daughters as they prepare to leave the schoolroom. Bring Tolliver along as your assistant for the commission contemplates that expense. Your fee will be timely and handsomely paid, and she’ll have you back next summer to paint her favorite hunter or canary.”

Tolliver might someday be useful. No reason not to toss a few coins his way.

“Mrs. Finchley left a card just yesterday,” de Beauharnais said. “I’m to call on her.”

Richard peered very closely at the brushwork that constituted the subject’s powdered wig in the “Shackleton” portrait. Shackleton, a court painter in the previous century, had been a conservative talent, happy to paint within the conventions of his day. For the most part, de Beauharnais had copied Shackleton’s style quite well, though the brushwork was just a touch too extravagant—too modern—for perfection.

Not that the buyer would notice.

“Mrs. Finchley is a highly social creature,” Richard said, studying the signature again. “Her daughters will make their come outs just as next year’s Summer Exhibition opens. Choose a study of her twins as your submission to the exhibit, and you will find more commissions readily in hand.”

“The signature’s perfect, Longacre. You need not pretend otherwise.”

“The whole work is exquisite,” Richard said, examining the embroidery on the subject’s ornate frock coat. “Utterly impressive, de Beauharnais. You truly do have a gift.”

He would render a likeness of the Finchley twins that would convey whatever lovely qualities they had without unduly obscuring their imperfections. Of all the ironies, de Beauharnais was an honest, compassionate portraitist.

“I have a gift,” de Beauharnais replied, beginning a circuit of the library, “but I do not have money. The Finchley commission is all well and good, but it’s not sovereigns in hand. Town has emptied out for the summer, and you’ve yet to pay me for yonder general.”

The general was a great-uncle to a wealthy maiden lady dwelling in the north. When Richard had informed her that a long-lost Shackleton portrait of her great-uncle had been unearthed in a late friend’s effects, she had been more than willing to pay for such a treasure. The friend’s effects had, in fact, included a workmanlike portrait of the old fellow done by some obscure hand. De Beauharnais’s forgery was thus an exercise in copying content from one source and style from another.

And he had executed that challenge brilliantly.

“I will pay you, my friend. You are pockets to let?” Richard asked, shifting to study the rings on the general’s hand.

“I am perpetually pockets to let, and you know it. London is too bloody expensive, and appearances must be maintained.”

That, they did. “I do have another little project, if you’re interested.”

De Beauharnais held his drink up to the window light. “Not another Shackleton, pray God.”

“Something more modern, something I won’t have to put in an old frame. A painting that will allow your talent a greater chance to shine.”

De Beauharnais paused before the portrait Dirk Channing had done of his young daughter, Catherine. The painting had been a gift to Richard, perhaps an apology. The girl was about eight, a darling, smiling little child climbing onto the lap of a mother who’d already gone to her reward at the time the painting had been finished.

The mother was present mostly in shadow, her skirts evident, not her features. She grasped the climbing child with graceful hands, and the little girl was ecstatic to be scrambling up into her mother’s embrace.

Perhaps Channing had been unable to look upon the thing.

“You want me to copy this?” de Beauharnais asked, peering at the signature.

“Dirk Channing was talented,” Richard said, putting the quizzing glass in his pocket and joining de Beauharnais