The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,74
Albertinelli that prompted him to tap me on the shoulder.”
Ellie shifted. “You mean he—Eastlake—already suspected that our painting might be a forgery?”
Godfrey nodded. “It’s possible. He wouldn’t have said anything to me—he would have wanted me to form my own opinion.” If so, that testified as to how highly Eastlake valued his expertise. “But,” he went on, following the thread to its logical conclusion, “that also means it’s possible that Eastlake himself has some inkling as to who has the Albertinelli now.”
Mr. Hinckley had been watching them. When they both fell silent, he asked, “Is that good? Eastlake knowing?”
With rising enthusiasm taking hold, Godfrey met the older man’s eyes. “It might very well be. As soon as I get back to town, I’ll call on him and see what he can tell us. He hasn’t seen your provenance yet. Once I lay it before him, I can guarantee he’ll be hot to help you reclaim the Albertinelli”—he grinned—“if for no other reason than ultimately to acquire it for the gallery. The gallery’s collection is Eastlake’s passion.”
Just as detecting forgeries was his. Ellie looked at her father and saw that he, too, had seen the passion and commitment Godfrey devoted to his avowed obsession; it showed in his focus, in the intensity he brought to the question of righting the wrong of the forgery. In his unwavering determination to help them reclaim what was theirs.
Her father nodded to her, then transferred his gaze to Godfrey. “Right, then, Mr. Cavanaugh. If you’re willing, I hope you’ll guide us in this matter.”
Godfrey’s eyes lit. “I would, quite literally, be honored to do so, sir. And please—call me Godfrey.”
Her father smiled. “Well, then, Godfrey. What’s your advice as to our next step?”
Godfrey tipped his head in thought, then offered, “I believe the next step is for me to write my report for Eastlake, stating that the painting the family currently holds is a Hendall forgery, switched for the original approximately three years ago, but that the family holds conclusive provenance that the original Albertinelli belongs to the family, and I believe a concerted effort should be made to reclaim the Albertinelli from whomever holds it now.”
He looked up, a grin dawning as he glanced from her father to her. “I’ll include a description of the various documents your family holds. I believe I can guarantee that will elicit Eastlake’s support and his full cooperation.”
Her father nodded. “Very well, my boy. You have my blessing to pursue our painting to the top of your bent.”
Godfrey’s smile was transparently genuine. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
Chapter 11
Late that night, with the house quiet about her, Ellie stood at the window in her bedroom and stared out at the starlit sky.
How many women had stood as she was, pondering the same topic—men?
In large measure, life had passed her by—or she had passed life by, consciously, because of the decisions forced upon her.
When her mother had died, she’d stepped into the role of pseudo-mother to her siblings and, soon after, had also assumed responsibility for the tasks that fell to the lady of the house. Those hadn’t been decisions taken after discussion and consideration, yet the effect—the impact on her life—had been the same. In most respects, her childhood had ended with her mother’s death.
The second time she’d turned aside from life—from living the life she should have had—had been her own decision, one she’d taken without hesitation and over which she still felt no regret. When her father had fallen and damaged his spine, Harry and Maggie had needed her, and so had her father. He’d been in dire straits for months; it had been over a year before he’d progressed to sitting in his chair for most of the day.
If she hadn’t turned her back on her London Season and come home, the family, the household, and the estate would have fallen apart. At no time had she—or anyone else—doubted that. Her return had been critical to everyone’s survival over those long, distressing, chaotic weeks.
So, no regrets. Yet…
She was still a woman. Beneath her capable, pragmatic, and assured outer shell, her heart still harbored the dreams she’d set aside, the ones she’d never had a chance to reach for. Children of her own, a family—a home. Given how deeply her roots ran at the Hall, it might be said that she’d achieved the last aspect at least, yet although she loved the place, it lacked the one thing necessary to anchor her dreams.