The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,69
did his gaze, and in a voice as unforgiving as granite, he said, “I’m protecting my interests, Masterton. I suggest you focus on your own.”
Jeffers held Masterton’s gaze for several seconds, then looked ahead and urged his horse into a canter.
His face mottling with impotent rage, Masterton reined in his mount. He glared after Jeffers, then swore and, jaw clenching, wheeled his horse for Ripon.
Chapter 10
With his way forward clear in his mind, Godfrey rose early and beat all the Hinckleys to the breakfast table. After more than adequately breaking his fast, before any of the family appeared, he escaped the breakfast parlor and set out to pace the path through the park, the better to prepare his approach—his presentation.
The pervasive stillness of the snowy landscape was conducive to thinking and planning. By the time he returned to the house, he felt ready for what lay before him.
By then, the dining room was empty. The others had all breakfasted and were off about their usual morning occupations. Godfrey knew he would find Mr. Hinckley in the library, but Ellie’s father wasn’t first on his list to be made privy to his news. By dint of asking Kemp, Godfrey tracked Ellie down in the housekeeper’s room.
Judging by the pleased expression on her face and the papers she’d gathered and held in her hands, she’d finished her meeting with Mrs. Kemp and was on the cusp of leaving. She glanced up when he halted in the open doorway.
The smile that lit her face warmed him through and through. She looked at him questioningly. “Did you need me for something?”
Godfrey nodded and found his tongue. “If you have a few minutes?”
Her smile deepened. “Of course.” She walked toward him. “Just let me put these in the morning room.”
He stepped back and waved her on, then trailed her to the front hall and across the tiles to the narrow reception room opposite the drawing room. Entering in her wake, he realized this was her domain.
She crossed to an elegant lady’s desk angled before one window, set down the papers, then, smiling, turned to him. “The menus for the next week. It’s nice to have them done and out of the way.”
He managed a smile in reply, but it felt a trifle strained.
She walked up, halted before him, searched his eyes, then arched her brows. “What do you need?”
He cleared his throat and said, “There’s something I’d like to show you. If you’ll come with me?”
She looked at him curiously. He stepped back and ushered her before him, out of the room, across the hall, and into the corridor leading to the conservatory.
“Oh.” She threw him a glance over her shoulder—one of rising expectation. “The painting?”
Fighting to keep his expression unreadable, he nodded.
He followed her into the huge glassed room, then stepped past her and led the way to where he’d set the painting on a chair, facing the far end of the room. He took her hand and drew her to stand directly before the painting, at the perfect distance for viewing the canvas, bathed as it was in soft, diffused light falling through the glass above and behind them.
He positioned her there, then shifted to stand behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
She twisted her head to look searchingly at him. “Have you completed your assessment?”
He nodded. “I wanted you to be the first to hear it.”
She looked at the painting. “Very well.”
He drew in a slow, unhelpfully tight breath. “I’m going to tell you all I’ve learned about this painting, and I would like you to listen to the whole and, if you can, wait until the end before you react.”
She glanced at him, a touch of uncertainty creeping into her gaze. “All right.”
He looked over her shoulder at the painting. When she followed his gaze, he hauled in a deeper breath. “The provenance your family holds—all the documents—prove unequivocally that the painting that was hanging in your mother’s parlor when she died was an original Albertinelli, exactly as described in your ancestor’s letters.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” From her tone, she’d sensed that all was not well.
“It was, yes. But the painting you’re looking at—the one that’s been hanging in your mother’s parlor for the past three years—isn’t the original Albertinelli your ancestor brought home. This painting is a forgery—albeit a very good forgery—by an artist named Hendrik Hendall.”
It took her a second to absorb that. “What?” She tried to swing around, but he held her in place. Over her