“Well, of course, grief is natural.”
“I’m not talking about grief—I meant the position, the expectations and responsibilities. I wanted none of that.”
“Not even the income?” she said cynically.
He snorted. “I told you I have private means, enough for my needs anyway. No, it was the loss of my freedom that upset me most. Inheriting the title and estates tied me down.”
“But surely you could do what you want anyway?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve known enough fellows who shrugged off their responsibilities and lived a life of ease and pleasure—at the expense of their tenants and those who depended on them. I couldn’t do that. When I was living as a vagabond painter I could do as I pleased and hurt nobody, but when I became the earl, it all changed.”
“I see.” It all sounded very noble, and yet when she’d met him he’d been exactly that—a carefree vagabond artist. She pointed that out, and he gave a rueful chuckle.
“And there my grandmother comes into the story.” He settled back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “Grandmama has been ruling the Foxton roost ever since her only daughter married my father. He was deep in debt, you see, and Mama brought a fortune with her. But Grandmama holds the real moneybags and soon had my father, and later my brother, firmly under her thumb. And dancing to her tune—and for that mangling of metaphors, I apologize.”
“But she doesn’t hold you under her thumb?”
“No, as I said, I have a private income.” He looked at her as if to gauge her interest, then continued. “It started with a bequest from a spinster great-aunt on my father’s side. She loved to paint and wished to encourage me in my ambitions. A school friend with whom I used to stay during schoolholidays came from a business background—which meant our schoolfellows gave him hell. His father, appreciative of our friendship and quite appalled that no provision had been made for me as a younger son, heard about my small legacy and taught me how to invest my money. It was a whole new world to me, and that modest sum has grown and grown. I’ve been investing in various endeavors ever since. He still advises me occasionally, and it’s given me the independence I never would have had otherwise.” He broke off, frowning. “How did we get onto this? I’m sorry for rambling on, Vita. You’re too good a listener. Now, where were we?”
These snippets about his life were fascinating. He was supposed to be explaining about the paintings, but she wanted to know more about him. “You were explaining that your title and responsibilities oppressed you.”
“Oh yes. Well, Grandmama, having ruled the roost all those years, is determined to rule me as well. She’s quite a forceful lady. And despite coming from a mercantile background herself, she has very firm ideas on how members of the aristocracy should behave. Very firm ideas.” He shot her a grin. “And traveling from place to place in a Romany caravan, painting portraits of the lower orders isnother idea of proper earlish behavior.”
She laughed. “I can imagine.”
“But though she drives me to distraction at times, I am fond of the old tartar, so I made a deal with her. For nine months of the year I’d be a proper earl, and for the other three months I’d do what I want. I didn’t explain exactly what I was doing. If she knew, she’d probably have a fit. But as long as whatever it is I am doing is done abroad, she can turn a blind eye.”
Zoë pondered his tale. “I can see why you’d prefer to escape your responsibilities for part of the year, but where does the trading of valuable old paintings come into it? You haven’t explained that, just that you don’t need the money from that.”
“Oh yes, we were interrupted by the rain, weren’t we? Well, simply told, I retrieve paintings that were looted from grand houses and châteaux during the Revolution and take them to a gallery in Paris. Gaston, who runs the gallery, keeps a ledger into which he lists the artworks retrieved and also the artworks that various families have reported missing. When he finds a match, he gets in touch with the family concerned—or the closest surviving relatives he can find. They can then purchase the paintings at a reasonable cost—sometimes merely a nominal cost, depending on their situation. Gaston takes a small commission, and the rest goes to support a charitable orphanage.”
He chuckled. “Poor Gaston, it breaks his heart contemplating what some of those paintings could fetch if sold on the open market.”
Zoë was stunned. “Is that really what you do?”
“Yes.”
She thought about it. It made sense. “You mean all those paintings I saw, they would have belonged to my family, the de Chantonney family?”
“Undoubtedly. Every year we target the villages closest to some great house or château that was attacked and looted during the Troubles. It is surprising how many of the paintings—statues, too—remain in the district, even so many years afterward. As I told you back then, farmers don’t have any idea how to sell them. And knowing they were stolen in the first place, they’re probably reluctant to take them to Paris, where they might be brought to the attention of the authorities. But swapping them with a vagabond painter who lives in an old caravan? There’s no danger in that.”
She was silent a long time. It fitted with everything she knew about him. All those people she’d met—and liked. The paintings they’d traded had been looted from her family home, if not by the actual people she knew, probably by their parents or grandparents. It was a hard truth to swallow.
She recalled how Madame LeBlanc had said that her father-in-law had given her the painting as a wedding gift, and how she didn’t want it in her house and was glad to get rid of it. She obviously knew where the painting had come from in the first place and felt guilty about it.
“If you contact Gaston, I’m sure he’ll send you a list of the paintings that are rightfully yours. And the price for you would be very nominal,” he said gently.
She shook her head. “No, they won’t be considered rightfully mine. My mother’s, yes, but not mine.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t understand.”
She took a deep breath. “Can I rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.”
Not that it would make much difference. He had it in his power to ruin her anyway—all he needed to do was reveal that she’d spent more than a week in his company, day and night, unchaperoned. But this also affected her sisters.
“Your word of honor?”
