“Come now, Roz.” Dante Augustus Montague glared at his sister. “You needn’t be so dramatic. It’s not as if I’m asking you to go to the far corners of the world. To some uncivilized, untamed region populated with headhunters and cannibals and deadly vipers. I’m talking about Paris and Monte Carlo and Venice and Rome.”
“I don’t want to go either,” her daughter, Harriet, added. At age eighteen, Harriet had just completed her first, and judging by her mother’s comments, extremely successful season. She had, as well—at least in her uncle’s eyes—become more than a little conceited and most annoying. In many ways, exactly like his sister.
“I understand that, brother dear.” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “But what you are proposing is not a trip for the purposes of education and refinement and culture. You are planning nothing less than a farce.”
“A French farce really,” Harriet said with a smug smile. She looked from her mother to her uncle. “A French farce? Because the tour includes Paris?”
“Ah yes, quite.” Dante offered a perfunctory smile.
Someone had told Harriet she was a natural wit and she’d considered herself most amusing ever since. Dante suspected the culprit responsible had been trying to curry favor with the lovely young woman. His sister had mentioned their drawing room was as often as not filled with suitors eager to win the hand of Lady Harriet. Roz was both proud and a bit taken aback by the social success of her only daughter.
“It’s not at all a farce.” Dante resisted the urge to roll his eyes toward the ceiling but that would only serve to irritate his sister. Some five years younger than Roz, even as an adult, Dante never tired of annoying her. Under other circumstances he would find that most enjoyable. Today, however, he needed her help. “Perhaps you don’t understand how important this is. Perhaps I should explain it again.”
“I believe we are both well aware of how important you think this is,” Roz said. “There is no need for you to expound yet again.”
“Goodness, Uncle Dante, we’re not idiots.” Harriet sighed and ticked the points off on her fingers. “One—a valuable painting that belonged to great-grandfather was replaced longer ago than anyone can remember with a copy and no one apparently noticed until you recently did. Two—the records of Montague House make no mention of the substitution of the original—a Portinari I believe—which has led you to suspect it was not legitimately replaced and might even have been stolen. Three—you have discovered through the efforts of an investigator that the original painting was at one time in the possession of the Viscount Bascombe who is unfortunately dead.”
“God rest his soul,” Roz said firmly.
“God rest his soul,” Harriet echoed and continued. “Four—that same investigator learned the painting was used as collateral for a loan between the viscount and some man in Venice. Five—the widowed Lady Bascombe is about to lead a group of American debutants and their mothers on a trip to Italy, among other places, and you believe she intends to reclaim the painting as part of settling her husband’s affairs or something like that. And six—you wish for Mother and I to join this tour so that you too may come along because you certainly can’t join it by yourself. Is that correct?”
Dante stared. “I had no idea you listened to me.”
“We listen to you constantly,” Roz said. “It’s impossible not to. Ever since you discovered the substitution of the painting—”
“Ever since you took over management of Montague House,” Harriet added.
“—you’ve rarely spoken of anything else. You’ve become quite dull.”
“I have not.” Dante scoffed but even to his own ears it did not ring quite true. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
His grandfather, the Marquess of Haverstead, had divided his nonentailed assets upon his death, leaving them equally to his three sons. His youngest son—Dante and Roz’s father—had proved surprisingly gifted at all matters financial and, through shrewd investments and sound business endeavors, doubled it. Dante had taken after his father in this respect and at the age of thirty-three had amassed a fortune significantly greater than his father’s. Which was all well and good but there was more to life than the acquisition of funds—an edict his grandfather had lived his life by.
Dante only vaguely remembered Grandfather as he had passed on when Dante was six years of age but he never forgot the old gentleman explaining the importance of art and beauty, whether they be depicted in painting or marble or by the fine hand of a master craftsman in a pottery urn created thousands of years ago. “Art,” he had once told his grandson, “is man’s very soul made manifest.”
When the marquess died, his will decreed his grand London house become a private museum, open only to scholars and those with a deep appreciation of art and antiquities and willing to purchase a subscription to help defray costs. He left, as well, a trust to maintain his collections. A curator was hired to catalog the late marquess’s acquisitions, organize and display the house’s contents, and manage membership as well as all the other varied and sundry details an endeavor of this nature required. Through the years there was another director and another—all with various skills in the management of small museums and Montague House took its place among the lesser sights of London.
Unfortunately, the only one of Lord Haverstead’s numerous offspring who shared his fascination with fine art or the remnants of antiquity was Dante. He spent much of his boyhood at Montague House studying the works of Renaissance masters or paging through ancient volumes in the well-stocked library or trying to decipher the Greek or Latin inscriptions on the ancient coins and other metalwork kept behind glass doors. The influence of Montague House lingered through Dante’s school years and he considered becoming a scholar of art and antiquities until business and finance proved to be a passion every bit as strong and far more challenging.
“I am not the least bit dull,” he said staunchly.
Roz and her daughter traded knowing glances.
“I know that look.” He glared at his sister. “Go on, say what you’re thinking.”
“We’re not saying that you’ve become dull only because you’ve thrown yourself into Montague House,” Roz began.
“Although you have taken up residence in the flat on the upper floor,” Harriet said under her breath.
“It’s most convenient.” He huffed. “Besides, it’s where the facility director has always lived.”
With only cursory family notice paid to Montague House, it was inevitable the museum would fall prey to mismanagement. A state of affairs only discovered some two years ago. In spite of the trust, the enterprise was losing money. Hemorrhaging it really, one of the uncles pointed out. Between maintenance of the building and care of the works it housed, it would be insolvent in no time. And then it would either have to become fully open to the public—an idea that made the more conservative members of the family shudder—or it would be closed and Grandfather’s life’s work dispersed.
Dante’s uncle, the current marquess, assembled his brothers and their children to discuss the fate of Montague House. While none of them wished to see their father’s, or grandfather’s, wishes ignored, they did realize something needed to be done and perhaps trusting someone outside of the family was not wise.
Upon reflection, Dante wasn’t certain who had first raised the idea of his taking over supervision of Montague House. After all, he did have an excellent head for management and business enterprises as well as firm appreciation and understanding of the world of art and antiquities. In certain circles he was considered something of an expert. Certainly he could put Montague House back on solid financial footing and establish a respectable reputation in the process. If not, perhaps it was time to donate Grandfather’s collections to a more venerable institution