Miranda Jarrett - The Adventurous Bride

Doubt flooded her face, exactly as he’d intended. “I’m not certain I’m either.”

John smiled, his suspicions confirmed. Of course the foreign words would be unfamiliar to her; likely she was as willfully ignorant as every other English lady, and couldn’t tell a bonjour from a buongiorno.

“Ah, well, no matter,” he said expansively. “It was unfair of me to ask.”

“I’m perfectly aware of my own ignorance, Lord Fitzgerald,” she said, bristling at the condescension that he hadn’t quite bothered to keep from his voice. “My father has always been afraid I’d become too educated and unattractive to gentlemen, so what I do know has been slipped to me on the sly by Miss Wood, like sweets stolen from the kitchen.”

“Forgive me, Lady Mary,” he began, thankful that she wouldn’t realize how easy it was for his wicked old mind to jump from stolen sweets to lost innocence. “I didn’t intend—”

“I rather think you did,” she insisted. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not pretending,” he protested, though even he knew he was. “I’m being perfectly honest.”

“Oh, yes, as honest as Monsieur Dumont.” She tapped her gloved fingers on the counter, a muted little thump of vindication. “So you see, Lord Fitzgerald, that while I do possess the interest to become a dilettante, I’ve too imperfect a store of knowledge to reinforce that interest, and as for being a connoisseur—why, until I’ve visited the galleries in Paris and Rome and seen the works of the great masters with my own eyes, I could scarce pretend to be a connoisseur.”

“No,” admitted John. She’d just beaten him at his own game, but he liked her for it—liked her far more, in fact, than when she’d been merely another pretty young lady with skin like sweet country cream. “Not under the circumstances.”

“Indeed not,” she said, and at last she smiled. “All I am at present is a humble small collector, buying pictures that please me, rather than those of value or significance. Which is why I want this one so vastly much.”

“You’ll have it.” He wanted to make her smile at him again. Her teeth were small and white, with the front two overlapping a fraction with intriguing imperfection. “Dumont, the picture.”

But the Frenchman only shook his head as doggedly as before, his jowls trembling. “I regret to tell you the same, too, my lord. I cannot sell that painting, not to the lady nor to you.”

“At least you can let me see what you’re hiding.” In one swift motion, John leaned over the counter and seized the painting by the frame.

“No, no, my lord, I beg you, please!” cried Dumont frantically as John held the picture high out of his reach. “It is not for you!”

“Mind you, my lord, I saw it first!” The girl hurried to John’s side, hovering as if she feared he’d try to escape with the picture. “I’m willing to pay whatever he wants!”

“Of course you are.” John turned the frame toward the window’s light. For the first time he could see the painted image, and the sight was enough to make him whistle low with appreciation. This was no common forgery, no piecework daub made up to sell to some ignoramus on his Grand Tour, nor was it the sentimental tripe John had expected the girl to choose.

The picture was undeniably old, at least three hundred years, and painted on a wood panel instead of framed canvas. Italian, most likely Florentine; no Northern artists painted like this. The angel was kneeling, the feathers of his multicolored wings fanned over his back and a sword of orange flames in his hands. His halo was thick with gold leaf, his rainment the particular brilliant blue that came only from ground lapis. But the angel’s face was the real jewel, his expression fiercely intense—a militant guardian angel.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Lady Mary said, leaning closer to see the picture over John’s arm. “It’s been cut down quite shamefully from something bigger, of course, perhaps an altarpiece, and the frame may be newer.”

John raised one brow with surprise. “Would you venture its provenance?”

She was too intent upon the painting itself to realize she was being tested. “Florentine for certain, from the 1400s. The paint’s that odd eggy stuff, tempera, not oils—you can tell by how smooth it is, without any brushstrokes. Perhaps a Giotto, or a work from the studio of Fra Angelico, if not by the master’s very brush.”

“Most Englishmen would prefer the later work of Guido, or Titian. They’d find earlier paintings like this one too crude.”

She raised her chin: determined, not stubborn. “Then most Englishmen are fools who cannot see the merits of what’s set before them.”

An admirable answer, thought John. “How do you know it’s not a fake?”

Her gaze slid from the painting to John. “I don’t,” she admitted reluctantly. “It could have been made last week by some artful criminal, and I’d be none the wiser. All I know is what I’ve read, and the engravings I’ve seen in books, and a handful of old Italian paintings that a neighbor of ours had brought back from his Grand Tour. That’s how I know the difference between tempera paints and oil.”

“That’s all?” he asked, surprised again. If that truly was the sum of her scholarship, then she’d guessed very well indeed. “Only what you’ve learned from books and your neighbor’s souvenirs?”

She nodded, and smiled wistfully, a small smile that didn’t show her teeth. “Likely you’ll laugh at me for admitting this, but I know what the painting itself tells me, too. The colors, and the angel’s expression, even the patterning along the hem of his raiment and across his wings—it all seemed so magical that I feel certain it’s real. How could anyone make a forgery of that?”

John didn’t laugh. How could he, when she looked up at him with such honesty and conviction from beneath those thick, sooty black lashes?

“So much for pleading beginner’s ignorance, my lady,” he said softly. “A painting only speaks to a connoisseur’s ear, and despite your inexperience, you already had the wisdom to listen.”

“There now, my lord, you see why I cannot sell this picture!” Dumont made another futile grab at the painting, still well beyond his reach. “Even this young lady recognizes its value, its significance!”

“What this lady recognizes, sir, is that the picture is mine,” she said with fresh determination. “Or it will be, as soon as we settle on a price.”

“Name it, Dumont,” John said. “I’ll pay whatever you ask and make a gift of the picture to the lady.”

She gasped, her eyes indignantly round. “I’ve no intention of accepting such a gift from you, Lord John! I mean to buy the picture myself, honorably and respectably!”

“We can quarrel over that once Dumont’s set the price.” Purposefully John frowned down at the Frenchman, hoping to intimidate him into compliance. He was sure that Dumont had mentally ticked the asking price higher and higher with each attribute that Lady Mary had described, and it was up to John to tick it back down again. “Be as honest as you claim, Dumont. You know you’d have the devil of a time selling this painting. Most of your customers will think it’s ugly as sin.”

“It’s not ugly!” protested the girl. “It’s—”

“It’s unfashionable, Dumont, and you know it,” John said firmly, ignoring the girl for now. “Her ladyship is simply being an enthusiastic amateur, and you know that, too. I’ll give you ten livres for it.”

Dumont scowled back. “Why won’t you believe me, my lord? The picture’s not for sale.”

John sighed wearily. He was already offering more than the picture was worth, yet for some incomprehensible reason it had become very important to him to buy it for the girl. “Very well, then, Dumont. Eleven livres, and that’s being deuced generous.”