you?”
He couldn’t hold back a small, entirely unhumorous smile. “Given I’ll be acting for your family and you hold irrefutable evidence that the original is yours…” He tipped his head. “I can think of several types of pressure that might be brought to bear on Hendall. Enough that he will find it much easier to simply tell me who brought him the painting to be copied and, if he knows, who now holds the original.”
She frowned. “Could they be the same man?”
“In this case, that’s unlikely. Whoever stole the painting is almost certainly known to the household—to you and your family. Unless you know any avid collectors of High Renaissance art?”
She shook her head.
“Then the most likely scenario of what happened to the Albertinelli is that whoever stole it sold it to an avid and unscrupulous collector.”
“But why would such a person give us back our painting? Presumably, they’ll have paid the thief and consider the painting theirs.”
He nodded. “But you hold provenance that is undeniable. The painting was yours, and unless whoever holds it now can produce a legitimate bill of sale that transfers the painting from your hands to theirs…legally, they will have to hand it over.” His smile growing more edged, he met her gaze. “And trust me—having a title and the connections that go with it can be extremely useful in certain situations.”
She tipped her head as if studying him through newly opened eyes. “So you’re proposing to act as our family’s agent and travel to Amsterdam to confront this forger?”
He nodded. “If your father agrees.”
Her face darkened. “You’re not going now—this week? At this time of year, the crossing will be dangerous, and you’ll risk having a relapse regardless.” She rose. “Papa might agree to the plan, but I’ll make sure he understands that you can’t go—at least not until the weather and your chest improve.”
Godfrey frowned and was about to protest when he caught her eye, and the notion bloomed in his brain that her obsession with his health was remarkably similar to his obsession with her well-being. With his eyes locked with hers, he hesitated, then conceded, “I’m sure if I asked, my brother Kit would be happy to sail one of his yachts to Amsterdam and ask Hendall a few pointed questions.” The thought made him grin.
“Good.” She seemed relieved. She looked again at the painting—the forgery—then, with an almost puzzled expression, returned her gaze to him. “You agreed to that too readily—what are you planning?”
Despite all, he nearly laughed. Then again, she wasn’t wrong. “I keep mentally tripping over the fact that”—he waved at the forgery—“is here. That it exists at all. Given the isolation of Hinckley Hall and that this particular Albertinelli wasn’t even known to exist, then the risk of a major hue and cry—one that reached farther than the immediate vicinity—was all but nonexistent. If the painting had vanished, you and the local authorities would simply have concluded that someone had stolen it, and that would have been that. Instead”—he gestured again at the forgery—“we have this. Why the…well, deception?”
That was why the forgery’s existence kept niggling so insistently; why perpetrate such a deception on the innocent and unthreatening Hinckleys? “I honestly can’t see why our thief went to the considerable effort and expense of replacing the painting with such a high-class forgery, sufficient for everyone here to think the painting was still at the Hall, where it belonged.” He paused, then grimaced. “As for what I’m planning…I really don’t know, but pursuing an answer to the why of the forgery strikes me as one possible way forward.”
After a moment, he looked at Ellie. “When your father let it be known that he’d decided to contact the National Gallery about selling the Albertinelli, did any of your acquaintance, when they heard of it, display any odd reaction?”
She thought, then slowly shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, but Papa might know more.”
Godfrey nodded and met her eyes. “In that case, unless you would advise otherwise, I think it’s time we spoke with your father.”
Godfrey opened the library door and held it for Ellie, then followed her into the room.
It was heading toward noon, and Mr. Hinckley was seated in his chair beside the fire, reading the newspapers that had been delivered that morning.
At the sounds of their footsteps, he lowered the sheet and smiled at them. “Good morning.” He nodded to Godfrey. “I missed you at breakfast—I heard you were up early.”
“I was.” Godfrey waited until Ellie