feeling her gaze, raised his to her face.
She smiled faintly and arched her brows. “Have you completed your assessment yet?”
He stared at her for several seconds, then said, “I grew up in a house with a collection of paintings that inspired in me a love of art. In that regard, I was blessed. But at the same time, my mother, who was definitely no pattern-card for the role, through her own actions, taught me all about deception and deceit and, most especially, the cost of those to others.”
His lips twisted in a self-deprecatory grimace, and his gaze grew distant. “My mother was a truly dreadful person. She was monstrous, in fact, although we didn’t comprehend just how monstrous until the very end. However”—he drew a tight breath—“courtesy of her and her teachings, I developed an eye—and an instinct, as well—for…” Tipping his head, he thought, then went on, “I suppose you could say for anything that strays from the genuine.”
His voice had remained low and even. He seemed to be studying, pondering, something far away, beyond her, beyond the painting. She had to wonder if, in some strange way, it was himself he was examining in an aloof, detached fashion.
“Originally,” he continued, “that instinct was focused on people, on steering me, guiding me, through the shoals of lies and fabrications and self-interested prevarications that abound in the ton. There were times when it seemed deceit and deception were all around me and only by honing and trusting in that instinct would I survive.”
Her father had mentioned Godfrey’s comments about the family dinners he’d endured as a boy. His statement that wealth didn’t buy happiness had clearly been based on experience.
After a moment, he pulled back from whatever vista had held him and, once again, met her gaze. “I didn’t hate my mother so much as truly despise the type of person she was. She was the antithesis of the mother any boy—any child—wants. As I grew older, my antipathy toward all deceits, all attempts to deceive, grew stronger. And stronger. You could say I’ve developed an obsession over exposing deceptions wherever I find them. Wherever my now-well-honed instinct alerts me to them. And nowhere is that more so than with works of art.”
He paused, and his gaze returned to the painting. “I’ve become recognized as an expert authenticator of artworks not so much through being an expert in identifying the genuineness of works but because of my facility for detecting fakes, forgeries, and frauds.”
Ellie’s heart wavered. What was he telling her? When he said nothing more, just stared at the painting, taking her courage in both hands, she asked, “And the Albertinelli?”
His gaze returned to her face, his hawkish eyes clear and hard. “I can’t yet say.” He paused, then added, “I need to be sure.”
She could hardly argue that, especially not now she’d gained some insight into what drove him in his authenticator role. She met his gaze and nodded. “Very well. I’ll let the family know you need more time.”
Godfrey held her gaze and inclined his head. “Thank you. I’ll tell you and your family as soon as I’m able.”
He forced himself to look back at the painting. At the edge of his vision, he saw Ellie study him for a moment, then she turned and retreated up the long room.
On hearing the soft snick of the door shutting behind her, he leaned forward, set his elbows on his thighs, steepled his fingers before his lips, and stared at the painting.
He hadn’t meant to say all that he had. The words had come tumbling out—a stream of thought given voice. But he had heard himself. Restating what had shaped him and fueled the evolution of his present life and, ultimately, brought him there—to the Hinckley Hall conservatory, staring at a painting that shouldn’t have existed—had thrown the challenge confronting him into stark relief.
Could he—just once—accede to this deception and allow Hendall’s Albertinelli to stand as the original, backed by the unshakeable provenance?
For Ellie and the Hinckley family, could he do that?
Could he become what he abhorred more than anything else in life?
Staring fixedly at the painting, he muttered against his fingertips, “Or is there another way?”
On venturing downstairs to breakfast the next day, Godfrey was grateful and hugely relieved to have Matthew Hinckley inform him that in their household, Sunday was deemed a day of rest for all, and thus no one would press him for his decision regarding the Albertinelli.
Mr. Hinckley’s statement was delivered with a pointed