known to write letters to make it appear that their paintings are, for instance, much older than they actually are.”
She frowned. “How do you do that—prove a letter is genuine?”
“You look at the paper—parchment, usually, so it has a certain weight, texture, and color. Does it have any embossing or mark indicating the maker or the period in which it was made? Are the edges cut or raw? Then you check the ink—is it the sort of ink that comes from the time in which the letter was supposedly written? Has it faded as one might expect? Then you look at the writing itself—the style, the flourishes—and ultimately, you look at the words used. The use of some words is strongly associated with certain historical periods.” He smiled. “And if everything looks right, then you can be fairly certain that all is well and the document is genuine.”
“I see.” Maggie looked at the documents stacked at his elbow. “Are our documents genuine?”
“Thus far, I’ve seen nothing that makes me think otherwise.” He followed her gaze. “In fact, I’m prepared to swear that all the documents I’ve properly scrutinized are, indeed, genuine.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? For the sale of our painting?”
“Yes, very good.” He didn’t want her asking any more probing questions; as it was, it was hard enough keeping his welling excitement suitably restrained. He shook out the paper. “I wonder whether it’s snowed in London.”
Maggie took the hint and rose. “I’ll leave you in peace. Ellie will be up shortly—she had to have a meeting with Mrs. Kemp.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you for bringing up the papers.”
Maggie smiled and turned away. Then she turned back. “Oh—I meant to tell you. As riders have reached us, Masterton has left—he rode away to Ripon just as I came up the stairs.”
That was good news. Godfrey raised his gaze to Maggie’s face, and she promptly went on, “Mr. Morris and Mr. Pyne are still with us—they won’t be able to leave until the roads clear enough to let carriages through. Ellie mentioned the letters about the painting, and Mr. Pyne immediately suggested he and Masterton should come up to see you, supposedly to save you from boredom, but it was plain he was really interested in the letters.”
“Was he?”
Maggie nodded. “Ellie quashed the notion—she said they shouldn’t distract you from your work for the gallery.”
He studied Maggie’s impish face; she’d just told him that Ellie—knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the interruption—had effectively leapt to his defense. He smiled. “Thank you for telling me.”
Maggie grinned and headed for the door.
Godfrey watched her go. When the door shut behind her, still smiling, he shook his head and returned his attention to The Times. Although his gaze settled on the page, he didn’t immediately read.
His relief on hearing of Masterton’s departure was not a surprise. There was nothing he could hold against the man—other than him having made an offer for Ellie’s hand and, compounding that, to this point refusing to accept her rejection of his suit. No matter how personable and even likeable Masterton might be, those acts, especially the latter, were sufficient to guarantee Godfrey’s animus.
Pursuing a lady after she’d refused one was not the act of a gentleman.
As matters stood, Godfrey expected to feel negatively toward any man who set his sights on Ellie. Morris, therefore, was another who had earned Godfrey’s disapproval, but as long as the fellow didn’t actively importune Ellie, Godfrey was willing to overlook his sins.
The fact was that while he didn’t view Morris as any sort of rival—and was therefore willing to ignore him—Masterton was another kettle of fish. Until Masterton accepted Ellie’s dismissal, Godfrey would remain on guard.
Much like a dog with a bone.
The analogy made him wince, but…
He prodded the protective and distinctly possessive feelings that Ellie—simply by existing—had caused to burgeon and grow. “Compulsive” didn’t come close to adequately describing their power.
It occurred to him that Masterton might be similarly afflicted. If so, perhaps he should cut the fellow some slack.
Dwelling on that, he tried to see Masterton and himself through Ellie’s eyes. Tried to weigh their relative pros and cons from her point of view.
He didn’t know Masterton well enough to make a viable comparison, but if the opinions of London’s grandes dames, hostesses, and matchmakers were worth any consideration at all, then all presumptuousness and arrogance aside, he felt cautiously optimistic that, once he was free to openly woo her and give her the choice, Ellie would choose him.
That was his goal,