An (Un)believably Artful Theft (Love’s Little Helpers #4)

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

E lizabeth watched Mr. Darcy leave, torn between following him and demanding an explanation from her father. She had never seen Papa treat anyone so cruelly or act so harshly. He stood in the doorway of his study, his arms stiff and his face full of thunderclouds. Elizabeth was stunned to see him so irate. What could have transpired between him and Mr. Darcy to provoke so much anger? Not even Mama could do that! Nobody could―not in Elizabeth’s memory.

“You are not to receive that man’s calls should he be foolish enough to attempt to set foot on Longbourn property again. He is not welcome here. You are not to speak to him.”

Mama stepped back, her hand over her heart, tongue-tied. Seizing his opportunity, Papa returned to his study and firmly closed the door behind him.

The floodgates opened in the parlor. Mama wailed she would never see her daughters settled well if Mr. Bennet were to turn all the eligible young gentlemen away. Kitty and Lydia demanded to know whether Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bingley were included in their father’s warning or if it applied only to Mr. Darcy before finally declaring the prohibition unjust and declaring their refusal to abide by it. Mary wrote furiously in her diary, her quill only leaving the page when it needed more ink.

Jane poured tea. “Come, Mama, let us not waste what is left in the teapot.” She stirred the last of their precious sugar into Mama’s cup—the sugar Mama would have generously given to Mr. Darcy in exchange for his good opinion—and held the cup under her mother’s nose so she would inhale the sweetened steam.

Jane’s gaze flickered up at Elizabeth. In that brief look, Elizabeth was reassured that her sister would soothe the ruined hopes in the drawing room, leaving her free to talk to their father.

Slipping out of the parlor, Elizabeth tapped on his door. When she got no reply, she opened it slowly, tentatively stepping inside his sanctuary.

“I mean it, Lizzy. I do not wish to see Mr. Darcy again.”

“Why, Papa? Mr. Darcy is an honorable gentleman—” The flintlike edge in her father’s eye stopped her praise. She wanted to defend Mr. Darcy, to tell her father of all the times the gentleman had come to her aid, how kind he had been to her, and how he had cared for her and for her reputation.

“He is a threat to that which I hold most dear.”

Elizabeth did not understand.

He pulled his chair back and off to the side and looked up at the painting behind his desk.

Was that what he prized above all else? That painting? Elizabeth tried not to be disappointed that her father would value a piece of art over the welfare of his estate or his family. And a copy at that!

Unless… dread awakened within her. “The painting?” she asked in a tight voice.

“It is not just a painting, Lizzy. I have allowed you to believe it is a copy because I feared that if anyone knew the truth, it would no longer be safe here.”

Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair. “It is real? It is a Rembrandt?” She could hardly choke out the words.

“It is. I found it at the marché ouvert in London?—”

“Papa! Why would you risk going to such a place? If Mama knew that was your destination, she would have tied you to your bed!” Elizabeth would have helped her. Her sisters would have helped.

Papa’s eyes misted over. His anger had deflated, and he now looked frail. “It is the only way I could provide for my girls.” He brushed his hands over his face, his voice wavering. “I have failed you in every other way. The estate does not cover our expenses due to the poor decisions I have made, nor can I afford the needed repairs and adjustments to improve our lot. We are hanging on by a thread I pray will not fray until I am gone and the estate is no longer a problem for any of you. This painting, this masterpiece, is mine, purchased with the last of my own money.”

“What does Mr. Darcy have to do with it?”

“He claims that it was stolen from his estate.”

“Was it?”

Papa shrugged. “It does not signify. He knows the rules of the marché ouvert as well as I do.”

“Could you not arrange to sell it to him?”

Papa bristled. “And have ready money for your mother to burn? I have tried to curb her spending, Lizzy, but it comes at too high a price.”

Elizabeth sucked in a breath and bit her tongue. Her father valued peace above everything except, perhaps, his Rembrandt painting. The respect she had held onto for him began to slip. “She will not change her habits once you are gone, Papa. We can only benefit from the proceeds of the painting while you are here to manage the estate and increase our dowries.”

“The Rembrandt is yours . I have already willed it to you, thus ensuring that it is not confused with the paintings belonging to the estate. This painting secures your futures, and I will not allow anyone or anything to convince me to part with it while I am still alive.”

“But Papa, you are strong, and we shall all be on the shelf by the time you die.”

“You know as well as I do how quickly a life can be snuffed out.”

She did, and she knew very well how he had learned that lesson .

“After my death, you are to take it to Sotheby’s, where you will fetch the best price. You will get a small fortune, enough to provide for yourself and your mother and sisters.”

Elizabeth’s bitterness withered and scattered like ashes. It was not the painting that he treasured above all else or he would not be able to speak of her selling it so easily. It was what the painting represented for him that he held on to so steadfastly—his family’s welfare. Her welfare.

Tears welled up in her eyes and choked her throat. She could not so easily defend Mr. Darcy’s right to the painting when she knew what it meant to her father—to her whole family. Mr. Darcy was wealthy and could have any painting he wanted. By comparison, they had nothing. Still, it did not sit right on Elizabeth’s conscience.

“If Mr. Darcy understood that?—”

Papa snapped, “You are not to speak to him, Lizzy. His good opinion means little enough to me if he would deprive my wife and daughters of their only means of security. No, the painting stays here. The less we say about it, the better.”

Elizabeth could not agree. Papa did not know Mr. Darcy as she did. The gentleman would understand if only she could explain why the painting was so important to them. Perhaps she could make a deal with him, maybe offer him the first chance to buy it once it was hers. He might not pay the price she could fetch at the auction house, but she could not rightly demand more from him when the painting had been his in the first place. She did not doubt his assertion that it had been stolen. Mr. Darcy was not a liar.

Nor could she allow Mr. Darcy to believe her father as indifferent and unfeeling as he must have seemed. Elizabeth could not bear that.

Papa’s gaze did not waver. “Say nothing to anyone in the household, not even Jane. Especially not your mother!”

Elizabeth did not like keeping secrets, but this promise she could keep. She promised, already planning how soon she could meet privately with Mr. Darcy.