Part 8 (1/2)
”You're most welcome, signora.” He knew that grazie meant ”thank you,” and the rest she'd said after that meant ”dear sir.” He liked the sound of dear sir, even in Italian, and especially from her. ” 'Twas no trouble at all, I a.s.sure you.”
”Ah, how well you play the gallant, my lord!” She sighed, and curtseyed, twirling the end of the shawl around her wrist. ”But I cannot keep you from your duties any longer. How could my poor conscience endure it?”
She was right, of course. He did have a hundred matters pressing. Even sitting in a safe harbor, the Centaur and her crew demanded his attention. Any day, and with no notice, the orders could come that would send them back to sea or to battle. He had to be ready, and standing here mooning over a pretty young woman in a red shawl was hardly productive.
He should go; he must go. And yet something stronger inside him urged him to stay, to linger just a little longer in the glow of her company.
”The paintings that were stolen,” he said, purposefully moving past her to study the wall. ”It won't take you long to redo them, will you? At least as I recall, nothing here was near the quality of those drawings you showed me last night.”
From the corner of his eye he saw her scurry to stand beside him, though this time she kept her hands inside the shawl and not on him. ”They must be replaced, not redone. They weren't by my hand, you know.”
He glanced down at her skeptically. ”But not by the great masters you'd like me to believe, either.”
”Well, no,” she admitted. ”I won't claim otherwise, not with you. But the artists who did paint them live in Rome, and since the French invaded, it's been impossible to send anything in or out of the city. I've been waiting for an eternity to be paid by a dealer there for three paintings of my own. Good-sized canvases, too, that I know perfectly well he's sold. War is quite bothersome to people in my trade, you know, and I rather wish the people in your trade would be done with it.”
”Aye, signora, so would I.” So she thought war was ”bothersome.” Like most Neapolitans, she'd clearly no experience with the awful reality and destruction of war, and he'd pray she never did. ”But why don't you sell your own paintings here?”
”Oh, it is not the custom,” she answered glibly. ”Besides, my specialities are lady-portraits in the style of Raphael, and no buyer would expect to find a true Raphael in Naples. But in Rome, an Englishman can be persuaded that an elderly marchesa in embarra.s.sed circ.u.mstances has been forced to part with a family treasure, and che miracolo! Everyone is satisfied.”
”Including the Englishman who's been cheated?” he asked incredulously.
”It is not a cheat, my lord,” she said firmly. ”It is a business. The Englishman has bought a beautiful painting that will make him proud and give him pleasure, and will make him the envy of his friends at home. He might even feel doubly pleased that he coaxed the painting from that poor old marchesa for such a pittance. So I ask you, my lord captain, where is the cheat in that, the mistificazione?”
”But what of the truth?” he demanded righteously. ”What of honesty?”
”And what of making an honest living?” she retorted. ”My paintings will not fade away or grow less beautiful with time, any more than the Englishman's pride in it will lessen. Surely the exchange is a fair one, my lord.”
Edward frowned, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back while he considered. Truth had always meant a great deal to him, and he'd never had much patience with anyone who juggled right against wrong. But Francesca Robin was being far more logical than he'd expected any woman to be, and grudgingly he could see how her argument made a certain sense.
”But if the gentleman truly treasures his painting,” he countered, ”he would also be devastated to learn it is false.”
”Then do not tell him,” she said with a shrug that slipped the shawl from her shoulders. ”Why destroy his contentment with your smug little truth? Poor dear Raphael died when he was but thirty-seven. He could never have painted a tenth of the paintings you English lords crave.”
”Thirty-seven?” He hadn't known that. One more gentlemanly bit of knowledge, he supposed sourly, that he'd missed learning when he was packed off to sea from the schoolroom.
”It is, however, entirely possible that this English gentleman's treasure is a true work of Raphael's genius.” She sighed, but with the sly hint of a smile. ”Or my father's. Or even mine. Who can tell for sure, eh?”
”Then show me,” he commanded. ”If your work is so d.a.m.ned fine, then show it to me.”
Her eyes widened warily, and she drew back a step. ”Alas, my lord captain, that is something I do not do,” she demurred uneasily. ”It is not my practice to display my own work.”
”Why the devil not?” He didn't know why it suddenly mattered so much that he see the paintings. Was it only because he wanted to confront this careless deceit regarding her art, or because he wanted to regain that intimacy, that private glimpse into her true feelings, he'd experienced last night when he'd seen her drawings at the amba.s.sador's palazzo?
She took another step away, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her body. ”The only two canvases I have here are unfinished, and not fit to be viewed. But if you wish, my lord, I could show you the paintings in the Oculus instead. Praise the saints, the thieves didn't touch them.”
”The Oculus?” He knew he'd heard the word somewhere, but couldn't quite place it.
Francesca nodded vigorously, clearly eager to distract him. ”The Oculus Amorandi, my lord! The paintings you and your lieutenant first came to me to see-the paintings that are among the most celebrated in all the Two Sicilies! The crowning works of my father's ill.u.s.trious life!”
”I want to see your paintings, not his.” Why didn't she want him to, anyway? ”Unless you're ashamed of them. Unless they're not as good as you claim they are.”