The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,24

to check on my horse and noticed your pair. Their lines are superb and so perfectly matched—the stable lads are in raptures. We rarely see such prime horseflesh around here.”

Godfrey grinned. “One of my vices, I fear. I enjoy driving—and riding—and my family have a connection to the Cynsters, and through them, we have access to the best of the best.” Godfrey coughed again, thankful when it proved a single cough rather than the beginning of a paroxysm; presumably, the broth was working its magic.

“Masterton’s report sent me and Morris—another family friend trapped here—trudging out to the stable, too,” Pyne confided. “While your horses are very fine, we were taken with your curricle. Sleek, sir—very sleek. It’s a new design, isn’t it?”

Godfrey nodded. “From Gillingham’s in Long Acre. He was apprenticed to Hatchett, but has gone out on his own, specializing in quality and the latest designs. He’s making quite a name for himself.”

For the next ten minutes, the conversation meandered through the usual gentlemanly interests of riding, hunting, and shooting. After a discussion of the latest hunting rifles, Pyne seemed to recollect himself. “But enough of such mundane matters. You’re here to examine the old painting. Have you seen it yet?”

“No, not yet.” Resigned, Godfrey explained, “Miss Hinckley is adamant that I recover first before viewing it, on the grounds that it’s in her family’s best interests that my judgment isn’t affected by illness when I form my first impressions.”

“How, exactly, do you do that?” Masterton asked. “Form your impressions?”

Godfrey paused, then said, “It’s not easy to explain to those not involved in the art world, but one’s eye is educated through experience—through viewing many paintings by the various masters. One comes to know what to expect—what to look for, what ought to be there. That’s the simplest way to put it.”

Pyne’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “So if you see the things you expect to see in this fellow Albertinelli’s paintings in the painting here, that means the painting is authentic and the gallery can buy it?”

Godfrey waggled his head. “More or less.”

“Assuming the painting is as expected,” Pyne pressed, “what are your thoughts on its worth?”

Godfrey assumed his professional mien. “As to that, I can’t say—I merely report on its authenticity, not its value. That’s something the curators at the gallery will determine.” His cough returned, causing him to lose his breath for a moment. His lungs were starting to feel tight.

When he lowered the hand he’d raised to his face and refocused on his visitors, he caught Pyne exchanging a weighted glance with Masterton. Then both men looked at Godfrey, and Pyne smiled. “So how did you come to be involved in this art business?”

Behind his amiable mask, Godfrey wondered why they wanted to know, because judging by the steadiness of Masterton’s blue gaze, he, too, was interested. Godfrey mentally shrugged. “As a child, I became interested in art. It was something I was willing to study, and all else flowed from that.” He wasn’t about to mention the inspiration of the Raventhorne Abbey collection that one of his ancestors had amassed or the encouragement he’d received from his masters at Eton and Oxford. “I more or less fell into my current role—it’s really all about having a good eye.”

Pyne frowned. “Did you have to do an apprenticeship or something like that?”

Godfrey studied Pyne’s intent expression, then glanced at Masterton, who was rather more impassive. Godfrey couldn’t believe either of his visitors had any real interest in how one became an authenticator of artworks. Are they questioning my ability to assess the Hinckley painting?

“One is either born with a good eye or not—it’s not a skill that can be taught, only refined.”

“So how did the gallery come to choose you?” Masterton asked.

That, Godfrey suspected, was what they really wanted to know; at least Masterton had come out and asked directly.

“It’s a matter of reputation—of museum curators and private collectors learning of your skill in detecting fraudulent works and, over many years, coming to trust your judgment. It’s those curators and collectors who decide whether to enlist my services.”

Increasingly irritated by the not-so-subtle inquisition, this time, when a cough threatened, Godfrey didn’t fight to suppress it. The hacking in his chest had definitely got worse, and when the cough finally subsided and he raised his head and managed to draw a freer breath, he realized he felt flushed.

His fever was mounting.

The door flew open, and Ellie rushed in; from the way her gaze homed in on him, he