Chapter 4
The smitten Groom of Mount Street has purchased his Lady a country Cottage in Buckinghamshire where she hosts charity Garden Fetes now that the weather has grown warm and Town swelters. The great and the good attend these parties and speak of nothing else.
—July 1875
Crane spluttered, but Mac couldn’t summon up much anger for the little man. Mac’s entire awareness centered on Isabella standing near him as resplendently beautiful in a brown-and-cream day dress as she had been in her elegant satin ball gown and diamonds.
If Mac were to paint her in this costume he’d use the palest of yellows for the trim, cream and umber for the bodice, darker brown for the shadows. For her skin, tints of cream and pink. Darkened red for her lips, which would be the only color on her face, rippling red orange for the curls under her hat. Eyes a suggestion of black and green, in shadow.
“Mac, I was just explaining . . .”
Mac didn’t hear her. Or rather, he couldn’t hear Isabella’s words—he heard only her voice, low, musical, designed to make his heart dance.
“Your lordship.” Crane rubbed his hands together in that irritating manner he had. “You brought me the paintings yourself.”
“Paintings?” Mac’s brows rose. “You mean, there’s been more than one?”
“Of course. I have another here.” Crane minced his way into a back room and came out with a framed canvas almost as tall as himself. Mac laid his walking stick and hat on a table helped Crane lift the painting to a hook on the wall.
It was a Venice picture. Two men worked a gondola in the foreground, with the buildings of the Grand Canal fading into the mist, the merest suggestion of reflections of them in the murky water.
“One of your best, your lordship,” Crane said. “From your Venetian Period.”
The painting was damned good, Mac had to say that. The composition was finely balanced, the colors just right, light and shadow precise without being dull. Mac had painted quite few a pictures of canals while he’d been wallowing in self-pity after Isabella’s departure. But he hadn’t painted this one.
Isabella rolled her lower lip under her teeth, rendering it red and kissable. She shot Mac a worried look. “It is a forgery, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t paint that, Crane. Someone’s having you on.”
Mr. Crane pointed at the corner of the painting. “But you signed it.”
Mac leaned close to see the words Mac Mackenzie scrawled in the corner in his usual lazy style. “That does look like my signature.” He stepped back and regarded the picture fully. “Mind you, it isn’t bad.”
“Isn’t bad?” Isabella burst forth like a fury. “Mac, it’s a forgery.”
“Yes, and a damned good one. The fellow paints better than I do.”
Crane looked horrified. He glanced over his shoulder as though the police might come flooding in any moment to drag him away to a dank, dark dungeon. “But, your lordship, my assistant swore you brought it in yourself.”
“Mr. Crane,” Isabella began.
Mac cut her off. “Don’t blame him, love. If I didn’t know better, I couldn’t tell the difference myself.”
“Well, I could.”
“Because you have an eye for it. How many of these did you take, Crane?”
“Just the two,” Crane said in a small voice. “But I’m afraid I asked for more.”
Mac burst out laughing. Isabella looked indignant, but Mac couldn’t help himself. It was too idiotic. He hadn’t been able to paint anything decent in years, and this upstart not only painted better than Mac did, he gave Mac the credit for it.
“Out of curiosity, how much did Mrs. Leigh-Waters pay you?” Mac asked.
“A thousand guineas, my lord,” Crane whispered.
Mac whistled then laughed harder.
Isabella glared at him. “That’s criminal.”
Mac wiped his eyes. “Good Lord, Crane, I’m sure you were happy with that commission. What became of her payment, by the way? I’m sure this ‘Mac Mackenzie’ didn’t let go of his share.”
Crane looked troubled. “Funny thing, my lord. He’s never come for it. And he left no address or name of a bank where we could send it on. That was three months ago.”
“Hmm,” Mac said. “Well, if ever he does come ’round—”
“You must contact his lordship at once,” Isabella said.
“I was going to say, let the fellow have the cash. He’s obviously desperate for money.”
“Mac . . .”
“He did the work, after all.”
Mac wasn’t sure whether Isabella was more beautiful when she smiled or when she was bloody furious. Her cheeks were red, her eyes shone with green fire, and her br**sts rose delightfully inside her tight bodice.
“What about Mrs. Leigh-Waters?” Crane’s face was ashen. “I should tell her what I’ve done.”
Mac shrugged. “Why? She likes the painting—praised it to the skies, my wife tells me. If Mrs. Leigh-Waters is happy, why spoil it for her?” He took up his stick and hat. “But if any more Mac Mackenzies turn up to sell you paintings, be warned. I never sell mine. I see no reason to charge people for my worthless drivel.”
“Drivel?” Crane cast him an indignant look. “Your lordship, they call you the English Manet.”
“Do they? Well, you know my opinion of ‘them.’ ”