Miss Brent went on. “I mean to see if one could carry off the idea of claiming a true Rembrandt was a forgery.” She had such a charming way of leaning toward him as she spoke, as if confiding a secret. He stayed where he was, close enough to count the gold flecks in her browneyes, enjoying the exquisite torture. He nodded in answer to her question.
He might have considered flirting with her as a way of distracting her from Crenshaw’s possible suit, but at the moment he was doing it solely because she was irresistible. Later, he told himself, later he would come to his senses, but for now discussing Rembrandt and forgery was far more innocent than it sounded and the dinner table was a perfectly safe place to allow himself to be captivated.
“The problem is,” Belmont spoke, ending the reverie, “one would have to be an expert on Rembrandt and willing to jeopardize one’s own reputation if the trick did not work.”
“Only if you were caught, my lord.” Beatrice looked from one of them to the other. “I would think that the risk would be part of the fun.”
Belmont raised his eyebrows yet again, which Jess read as an unwillingness to commit himself one way or the other.
Jess nodded slowly as it occurred to him that this gently reared young woman may have a good bit of her brother’s wildness in her, very carefully tamped down, which made him think of any number of things it would be “fun” to do with her.
“Exactly how would you undertake the fraud?” Lord Belmont asked. Jess feared that a question like that was similar to lighting a fuse.
This time Beatrice ate some of the pâté before speaking, though Jess was willing to wager she had no idea what she was chewing so thoroughly. He watched her expression as her clever brain worked out the perfect crime. From puzzlement to idea to wicked certainty.
He glanced at Belmont, who was watching her too, but with a smile that could only be called avuncular.
“I would choose someone who is not well schooled in art, someone who only bought the Rembrandt painting to impress others.”
She must know many who fit that description among the circle of newly rich mill owners in Birmingham, Jess thought.
“Then I would hire a competent forger to create a copy. I would confront the owner of the original about its authenticity, using my knowledge, which would certainly be far superior to his. I suppose that is prideful to say, but do you not think that someone who has spent years pursuing an interest is naturally more informed than a newcomer?”
“Yes, I do,” Jess agreed, thinking of his passion for gaming and the way he was torn between educating newcomers or taking all their money.
“That’s true for many of us at this very table,” Lord Belmont said with a serious face. “Your father when it comes to business, the baron and fisticuffs, Lord Destry and riding, the countess and entertaining. I do not know your sister well enough to guess what her expertise is, but it is the rare person who does not excel in some area.”
“Thank you, my lord. Somehow that is very reassuring to me. Lord Jess, what is your area of expertise?”
“Gaming,” he said, and waited to see how she would react.
“Yes, you and Ellis shared that interest for a while, but you did bring my brother back to us. For that I am grateful.” She searched his eyes as if she was trying tofind that goodness. Generosity and guilt she might find, but very little goodness.
“So you are now confronting the owner of the Rembrandt and are about to convince him it is a fake,” Lord Belmont reminded her. Jess was grateful to have her vivid imagination focused on her “clever construct,” as she phrased it, and away from his virtue or lack thereof.
“I will not bore you with the technical details but I could easily convince him that someone had duped him. His pride would be savaged by the thought and he would willingly let me take it away for further study.” She paused and gave them a
He might have considered flirting with her as a way of distracting her from Crenshaw’s possible suit, but at the moment he was doing it solely because she was irresistible. Later, he told himself, later he would come to his senses, but for now discussing Rembrandt and forgery was far more innocent than it sounded and the dinner table was a perfectly safe place to allow himself to be captivated.
“The problem is,” Belmont spoke, ending the reverie, “one would have to be an expert on Rembrandt and willing to jeopardize one’s own reputation if the trick did not work.”
“Only if you were caught, my lord.” Beatrice looked from one of them to the other. “I would think that the risk would be part of the fun.”
Belmont raised his eyebrows yet again, which Jess read as an unwillingness to commit himself one way or the other.
Jess nodded slowly as it occurred to him that this gently reared young woman may have a good bit of her brother’s wildness in her, very carefully tamped down, which made him think of any number of things it would be “fun” to do with her.
“Exactly how would you undertake the fraud?” Lord Belmont asked. Jess feared that a question like that was similar to lighting a fuse.
This time Beatrice ate some of the pâté before speaking, though Jess was willing to wager she had no idea what she was chewing so thoroughly. He watched her expression as her clever brain worked out the perfect crime. From puzzlement to idea to wicked certainty.
He glanced at Belmont, who was watching her too, but with a smile that could only be called avuncular.
“I would choose someone who is not well schooled in art, someone who only bought the Rembrandt painting to impress others.”
She must know many who fit that description among the circle of newly rich mill owners in Birmingham, Jess thought.
“Then I would hire a competent forger to create a copy. I would confront the owner of the original about its authenticity, using my knowledge, which would certainly be far superior to his. I suppose that is prideful to say, but do you not think that someone who has spent years pursuing an interest is naturally more informed than a newcomer?”
“Yes, I do,” Jess agreed, thinking of his passion for gaming and the way he was torn between educating newcomers or taking all their money.
“That’s true for many of us at this very table,” Lord Belmont said with a serious face. “Your father when it comes to business, the baron and fisticuffs, Lord Destry and riding, the countess and entertaining. I do not know your sister well enough to guess what her expertise is, but it is the rare person who does not excel in some area.”
“Thank you, my lord. Somehow that is very reassuring to me. Lord Jess, what is your area of expertise?”
“Gaming,” he said, and waited to see how she would react.
“Yes, you and Ellis shared that interest for a while, but you did bring my brother back to us. For that I am grateful.” She searched his eyes as if she was trying tofind that goodness. Generosity and guilt she might find, but very little goodness.
“So you are now confronting the owner of the Rembrandt and are about to convince him it is a fake,” Lord Belmont reminded her. Jess was grateful to have her vivid imagination focused on her “clever construct,” as she phrased it, and away from his virtue or lack thereof.
“I will not bore you with the technical details but I could easily convince him that someone had duped him. His pride would be savaged by the thought and he would willingly let me take it away for further study.” She paused and gave them a
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