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Chapter One
May 1885
Alan pointed to the painting on the drawing room wall.
“Fake,” he said. The maid dropped the tea tray with a crash, so he repeated himself, in case his brother hadn’t heard.
“That painting. It’s a fake, not a Rembrandt. It’s no more Dutch than the devil. Or perhaps the devil is Dutch.” He shrugged. “I’ve always pictured him as an English aristocrat. Better the devil you know, as they say.”
“Your devilry is my only concern of the moment.” Geoffrey sat rigid in his chair, face as starched as his collar. “Lord Death.”
“De’Ath,” corrected Alan absently, still eyeing the picture. He’d adopted his nom de plume thirteen years ago while a student at Oxford, the same summer their father died and Geoffrey himself assumed a new name. Duke of Umfreville.
All of Alan’s enemies called him Lord Death. Geoffrey was as original as . . . well, that bloody Rembrandt.
A ringing thud. The maid had fetched up the silver sugar pot only to let it slip again. Judging from the sound and the sugar pot’s location on the floor, Alan surmised that it had struck the edge of the marble tabletop on the way down.
“Leave that alone,” barked Geoffrey. The maid was on her knees, scooping the sugar back into the pot. She scrambled up. All around her feet, the Turkish carpet glittered with crystals.
“Send a competent parlormaid to clean up,” said Geoffrey. “And see that she brings a fresh tray.”
Alan leaned over the curved arm of the settee and felt for the teacup he’d seen bounce toward the flower stand. He hooked the bone china handle with his finger, set the cup on the table, and smiled at the maid.
“Don’t mind him.” He tipped his head toward Geoffrey. “His dander’s up about his sham masterpiece.”
Among other things, none of which pertained to a bumbled tea tray.
Upon inspection, the maid appeared less mortified than Alan had expected. She was staring at Geoffrey with open hostility. She had the sort of round, short-nosed face associated with angelic sweetness. And yet her expression left no doubt. There was more than one devil in the room.
“Now,” said Geoffrey, and the maid wiped her sugar-coated hands on her tea-splashed apron, turned on her heel, and marched out.
“She’s new.” Geoffrey inspected his cuff as though his very proximity to the mess might have left a smudge. “She won’t last long.”
“I’m sure she won’t,” murmured Alan. Geoffrey and his wife, Fanny, went through maids and footmen faster than they went through flower arrangements.
“In any case.” Geoffrey lowered his hand with a frown. “You didn’t call to discuss my domestics. Or my art.”
“It’s not art,” said Alan automatically. “Your Rembrandt is a forgery, which, in fact, degrades art.”
He’d called to discuss money. But presented with such an opportunity, Alan couldn’t resist.
He unfolded himself from the settee and crossed to the painting, avoiding the scattered saucers and spoons. It was only a few paces, but he leaned on his stick, a slim ebony baton with a flared gold knob. A dress cane. The sort an antiquarian gentleman might tuck beneath his arm. Brandish for emphasis. Wield in menace. Combined with his side-whiskers, spectacles, and velvet frock coat, the stick seemed a sartorial flourish. Its function was hidden in plain sight.
Alan De’Ath. The consummate persona. His performance was finer than most he saw upon the stage.
“Behold.” He whipped up his cane, hovering the ferrule an inch from the painted panel. “No glaring errors. Plausible wood. Plausible subject. Too plausible, perhaps. Introspective old man is the lowest common denominator of Rembrandts. But never mind that.” He glanced at Geoffrey and back at the panel. “Look closely. The brushstrokes are too smooth. The drawing itself is too blurry. Rembrandt was rough, but Rembrandt was precise. That was his particular paradoxical magic. This picture has no magic whatsoever. Because the forger, however talented a draftsman, painted to order, without a trace of vision.”
Geoffrey laughed. “Alan De’Ath.” He spread his arms and addressed an imaginary audience. “He even criticizes Rembrandt for being too much like Rembrandt.” He stood and strode to Alan’s side, pushing down the cane, fixing the picture with his ice blue gaze. After a moment, he gave a sage shake of his head.
“Authentic,” he pronounced.
“Ah.” Alan smiled with mock deference and sketched a bow. “So you’re the expert now?”
“I don’t need to be an expert.” Geoffrey bristled. “I bought it from Chips Sleaford, a highly reputable dealer. He represents a reclusive collector, in Friesland. Sells the finest golden-age pictures on the market.”
“Reclusive collector,” echoed Alan, and brightened his smile. “The lowest common denominator of provenances.”
“The provenance is impeccable.” Geoffrey wheeled about to face him. They were inches apart. Alan could smell his brother’s cologne, mixed with another odor, rank and gamy. Male anger.
