The Art of Deception

and up the stairs.

Chapter 8
    K irby switched on the rose-tinted bedside lamp before she poured brandy. After handing Adam a snifter, she kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed. She watched as he ripped off the wrapping and examined the painting.
    Frowning, he studied the brush strokes, the use of color, the Venetian technique that had been Titian’s. Fascinating, he thought. Absolutely fascinating. “This is a copy?”
    She had to smile. She warmed the brandy between her hands but didn’t drink. “Papa’s mark’s on the frame.”
    Adam saw the red circle but didn’t find it conclusive. “I’d swear it was authentic.”
    “So would anyone.”
    He propped the painting against the wall and turned to her. She looked like an Indian priestess—the nightfall of hair against the virgin white silk. With an enigmatic smile, she continued to sit in the lotus position, the brandy cupped in both hands.
    “How many other paintings in your father’s collection are copies?”
    Slowly she lifted the snifter and sipped. She had to work at not being annoyed by the question, telling herself he was entitled to ask. “All of the paintings in Papa’s collection are authentic. Excepting now this Titian.” She moved her shoulders carelessly. It hardly mattered at this point.
    “When you spoke of his technique in treating paints for age, you didn’t give the impression he’d only used it on one painting.”
    What had given her the idea he wouldn’t catch on to a chance remark like that one? she wondered. The fat’s in the fire in any case, she reminded herself. And she was tired of trying to dance around it. She swirled her drink and red and amber lights glinted against the glass.
    “I trust you,” she murmured, surprising them both. “But I don’t want to involve you, Adam, in something you’ll regret knowing about. I really want you to understand that. Once I tell you, it’ll be too late for regrets.”
    He didn’t care for the surge of guilt. Who was deceiving whom now? his conscience demanded of him. And who’d pay the price in the end? “Let me worry about that,” he stated, dealing with Kirby now and saving his conscience for later. He swallowed brandy and let the heat ease through him. “How many copies has your father done?”
    “Ten—no, eleven,” she corrected, and ignored his quick oath. “Eleven, not counting the Titian, which falls into a different category.”
    “A different category,” he murmured. Crossing the room, he splashed more brandy into his glass. He was certain to need it. “How is this different?”
    “The Titian was a personal agreement between Harriet and Papa. Merely a way to avoid bad feelings.”
    “And the others?” He sat on a fussily elegant Queen Anne chair. “What sort of arrangements did they entail?”
    “Each is individual, naturally.” She hesitated as she studied him. If they’d met a month from now, would things have been different? Perhaps. Timing again, she mused and sipped the warming brandy. “To simplify matters, Papa painted them, then sold them to interested parties.”
    “Sold them?” He stood because he couldn’t be still. Wishing it had been possible to stop her before she’d begun, he started to pace the room. “Good God, Kirby. Don’t you understand what he’s done? What he’s doing? It’s fraud, plain and simple.”
    “I wouldn’t call it fraud,” she countered, giving her brandy a contemplative study. It was, after all, something she’d given a great deal of thought to. “And certainly not plain or simple.”
    “What then?” If he’d had a choice, he’d have taken her away then and there—left the Titian, the Rembrandt and her crazy father in the ridiculous castle and taken off. Somewhere. Anywhere.
    “Fudging,” Kirby decided with a half smile.
    “Fudging,” he repeated in a quiet voice. He’d forgotten she was mad as well. “Fudging. Selling counterfeit paintings for large sums of money to the unsuspecting is fudging? Fixing a parking ticket’s fudging.” He paced another moment, looking for answers. “Damn it, his work’s worth a fortune. Why does he do it?”
    “Because he can,” she said simply. She spread one hand, palm out. “Papa’s a genius, Adam. I don’t say that just as his daughter, but as a fellow artist. With the genius comes a bit of eccentricity, perhaps.” Ignoring the sharp sound of derision, she went on. “To Papa, painting’s not just a vocation. Art and life are one,