Page 3 of Artfully Yours

“Light exercise is recommended.” Geoffrey’s eyes glittered. “You pushed him too hard.”

“The lesson included quite a bit of floating.” Not the most exertive activity.

“He was chased by dogs until he wheezed.”

That was one interpretation. Either the nurse, Miss Milford, had given Geoffrey the report he wanted to hear, or else he’d twisted it himself.

“There was a spaniel after a duck.” Alan sighed. “Claud splashed with them in the shallows. He wasn’t wheezing. He was laughing. I don’t wonder the nurse didn’t recognize the sound.” He paused. “Would you?”

Geoffrey’s lips disappeared. “With God’s grace, I intend to raise a duke. Not a clown.”

Alan didn’t take the bait. “How is the future duke today?”

“Poorly,” retorted Geoffrey. “Consider this Friday’s lesson canceled.”

All at once, Alan’s composure snapped. He wanted to smash. Hurl the closest bauble at the equally worthless Rembrandt, right at the head of the introspective old man. Only Geoffrey could do this—shatter his control.

“He’s a child.” Alan fought to keep his voice steady. “Not a bloody bargaining tool.”

“You’re right.” Geoffrey came to his feet. “He’s my child. And I have no interest in striking any kind of bargain.”

Alan rose smoothly and stood without bothering about his cane. It was a good day, for his bones at least. The cane was topped with a heavy gold pommel. If he touched it, he might succumb to temptation and split Geoffrey’s skull.

“Perhaps he’s under the weather,” he said. “We’ll cancel this Friday.” He took a breath. “I’ll look for him next Friday.”

“You’ll look in vain.” Geoffrey squinted, twitching his thumb against his thigh. “I am through indulging your delusions at the expense of my son’s health.”

“How convenient.” Alan sneered. “Make a virtue of your envy and self-interest. I’m deluded? Brother, your life is a lie.”

“Brother?” Geoffrey charged around the table. “If I had any choice in it, you’d be no brother of mine.”

“Pity that you don’t.” Alan stepped to meet him.

—

“They’re yelling and scrapping! The duke and his brother.”

Nina looked up as Clara burst back into the kitchen, still carrying the loaded tea tray.

“I can’t go in there.” Clara was panting. “It’ll be the end of me.”

The duke’s brother. Nina kept creaming castor sugar with butter in the mixing bowl.

Since she’d made her graceless retreat from the drawing room, she’d thought of no one else.

The duke’s brother was Alan De’Ath. The art critic. The most discerning man in England. And the most devoted to Art, with a capital A.

Nightmare development. She’d resorted to blinking extra blinks. Nightmares could be blinked away.

She blinked at Clara as the girl set down the tea tray, and Amy, a scullery maid, set down her stack of dirtied dishes and rushed to her.

“There,” said Amy, touching Clara on the shoulder. “There, now. Don’t be afeard.”

A bowl of beaten eggs appeared at Nina’s elbow, the wraithlike kitchen maid who assisted the cook fading back into the cabinetry. Nina added the eggs mechanically to the creamed butter. She could mix faster now, and her thoughts accelerated with the motion.

When thieves cut a Botticelli from its frame in the National Gallery and replaced it with a copy, Alan De’Ath was the man who noticed the substitution. And in Paris, the directors of the Louvre had had him barred from entry, to prevent further national embarrassments after he published a list of fraudulent artworks.

That was De’Ath. Legendary. All the parvenues, eager to display their taste, quoted from his articles. All the artists thronged him at the galleries, hoping he’d launch their careers with a word. And all the art forgers did their damnedest to ensure their pictures didn’t pass before his eyes.