Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 45

“You can’t take it!” Sergei cried.

“I agree. That’s outrageous!” Count Lieven crossed his arms and stuck out his chin.

The crowd began talking madly.

Please, Poppy begged the universe, please make sure we get Mama’s painting back in the family. It belongs with us.

The countess raised her hand. “Stop everything,” she said. “Let us show the company the painting first. It is why we held the ball.”

Nicholas unveiled the portrait, and there was a collective sigh of admiration from the crowd in the ballroom.

Poppy could look at the painting all day if she had to. It was that wonderful.

“It’s lovely, no?” said the countess. “Revnik was a master.”

“Indeed he was,” said Poppy, echoing the murmurings of approval from the ballroom floor. She yearned to put that portrait in her father’s library above the mantel so he could see it every time he looked up from writing one of his speeches.

Nicholas and Lord Derby were both staring, transfixed, at the canvas.

“Th-that’s my wife,” said Lord Derby.

“It is, Papa.” Poppy had tears in her eyes. “And that’s you, facing her. See your special cuff links?”

He peered closer. “I do.”

Nicholas met Poppy’s eyes. His were full of something glad and determined.

Could he have uncovered the identity of the mole? She hoped so, but from what she could see, it was simply a painting … of her parents on an extraordinary night.

Papa cleared his throat and addressed the company. “My wife must have commissioned the painting when we lived in St. Petersburg. We went to a magnificent ball at the Winter Palace.”

Poppy laid a hand on his arm. “Mama wanted to remember that night with you.”

Lord Wyatt stepped forward. “Nevertheless, the portrait is now in the custody of the Prince Regent’s government, and I will take it.”

“No, you won’t,” Nicholas intervened, his voice steely and his expression intimidating. “Who are you to say Lady Poppy’s receipt is faked?”

Lord Wyatt’s mouth thinned. He had no answer.

Nicholas held up the receipt. “It’s perfectly proper. I have no doubt we can compare this signature of Revnik’s to another genuine one and it will be a clear match. Now get out of our way. The painting belongs to a private party. England will have to negotiate with Lord Derby and his daughter Poppy for access to it.”

“You’re mad!” Sergei stood before Nicholas. “May I remind you the painting belongs to me and my sister? And I’m determined we should depart with it right now.”

“No, Sergei,” Poppy cried. “My intuition is very good—like my mother’s. And I’m sure she commissioned this painting.”

“Dear Lady Poppy,” Count Lieven said kindly, “both you and the English government still have offered no real proof that the painting belongs to either of you. The government says your receipt is fake. You deny it. Who are we supposed to believe? At the very least, an inquiry will have to be made into this painting’s provenance.”

Lord Derby put his hand on Poppy’s shoulder. “My dear, he’s right. We have no proof beyond your receipt, which is in dispute. I suggest the painting remain in the possession of the Lievens, who will guard it until the matter is settled fairly.”

Poppy couldn’t bear to part with the painting.

But it was slipping away. She just knew it! Lord Wyatt had an almost fanatical look in his eye. He was determined to get it. And so was Sergei. He was flexing his hands as if at the first opportunity he would grab it and run.

She looked at Nicholas.

His eyes were warm, loving, and … and—

She looked at the portrait. She wanted it, yes. For Papa and for her.

But …

She didn’t need it. She needed to cling to the people in her life that she still had. She needed to love them, and let them love her. She needed to immerse herself in life.

With Nicholas.

We’re not going to get it, are we? she said with her eyes.

He took her hand and squeezed it. Don’t give up hope, his gaze said back.

But then Aunt Charlotte appeared at the edge of the crowd. “I believe I can prove who the portrait belongs to,” she said, her voice ringing throughout the room.

Aunt Charlotte?

Everyone turned to her beloved chaperone.

“What gives you the right to say that?” the countess demanded.

Poppy’s heart lurched. Her aunt looked so serious, so afraid, yet so determined when she gazed around the room, her white wig slightly askew on her head.

“A Spinster,” Aunt Charlotte began in her most confident voice, “never reveals details of her private life if she can help it. You see”—she smiled knowingly—“it’s usually much more interesting than other people’s, which can lead to a fair amount of jealousy. But tonight—luckily for you—must be the exception to that rule.”

“Go on, then, sister,” said Lord Derby, who’d walked to Aunt Charlotte’s side and held her hand.

Aunt Charlotte took a deep breath. “As much as I’ve tried these past weeks—amid all the hoopla about his art—to forget Revnik ever existed, I must admit that he was one of my great loves.” She looked up at her little brother. “I met him in St. Petersburg, Archie, when I came to stay with you for a month. In fact, I met him when I was with Marianna the day she commissioned the painting. She told him she wanted it painted for you. I accompanied her on many sittings to Revnik’s studio, which is how our affair developed. But it ended abruptly, as love affairs are wont to do.”

Poppy moved next to her father and held his hand tightly.

Aunt Charlotte gave them both a sad smile. “He saw you together that night at the ball at the Winter Palace. He told me he wanted to capture that moment, when Marianna looked up at you and … love shone from her eyes. Those were his exact words.”

Papa was silent, struggling under the weight of strong emotion. Poppy squeezed his hand harder.

Aunt Charlotte perked up. “I went back to London. My life was there, and I was determined to put Revnik behind me. Marianna wrote me and told me he was almost finished painting her portrait—for you, Archie, she told me once more—but I never saw it. I assumed he’d never finished it and that it was lost to us.”

Poppy’s heart filled with more hope. “Do you have her letters, aunt?”

Aunt Charlotte nodded, tears in her eyes. “I most certainly do, dear. And I’ll share them with whoever needs to see them, if it will help establish the Derby claim to the painting.”

The crowd started talking again, loudly, about who owned the painting.

Aunt Charlotte raised her hand.

“You may speak,” said another of Lord Derby’s Parliamentary friends, who nodded in her direction.

“I tell people when they can speak,” asserted Countess Lieven.

“I was only adjusting my wig,” Aunt Charlotte said. “No one tells me when I may speak.”

And she glared at both Lord Derby’s Parliamentary crowd and at the countess.

Poppy was so proud of her.

“I believe my letters from Marianna are enough,” Aunt Charlotte went on, as blithely as if she hadn’t cut down Very Important People mere seconds before, “but there’s one more possibility.” She paused. “While Revnik and I were lovers, he told me something he claimed he’d told no one else: he sometimes left a message somewhere on his paintings, usually in a mirror.”

Everyone gasped. There was a small mirror in the background of the portrait.

Poppy looked at Nicholas. Was his instinct telling him the same thing hers was?

She was sure that painted mirror held an important message.