Free Mad for Love by Elizabeth Essex Page B

have taken no insurance on such a work—it is beyond price.”
    “Yes, exactly, sir. A special cover was taken by Sir Joshua Reynolds on behalf of the Royal Academy of Arts, that the artwork be insured against loss or damage in transportation and exhibition, as well as theft, by the Society of Lloyd’s.”
    “Theft, you say?” Papa shot her a glance, perhaps thinking of their own recent encounter with theft, though she had not told him of her subsequent meetings with her gentleman thief.
    The little man nodded ruefully. “There seem to have been rather more robberies of domiciles of late, sir.”
    Papa gave Mignon what she could only call a speaking glance—a glance that told her not to speak. “So we hear,” he said noncommittally.
    “Many of our wealthier citizens have taken to putting iron bars across their windows as a prevention against such thefts.”
    Papa shuddered dramatically. “God forbid. Like living in a gaol.”
    “As you say, sir.” Mr. Ossier was all sad agreement. “But the artwork in question is not housed here, but in the exhibition space of Somerset House, which is where the cover is taken. If I may?” He opened a leather folio. “I shall need to obtain your signature upon the document.”
    “And the cost?” Papa was nothing if not frugal with his ill-gotten gains.
    “At no expense to yourself, sir. All borne by Sir Joshua Reynolds of the Royal Academy, and His Grace the Duke of Bridgewater, patron.” He spread the foolscap on the empty central table. “Once you sign, sir, the work of art is covered until it is returned to this house in good order.”
    “I just have to sign?”
    “Yes, sir, and then it is insured against loss by flood, fire, accident, mischance, looting, sacking, pillaging, act of war, or theft.”
    “How delightfully thorough you English are.”
    At last Mr. Ossier smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
    Papa took up the pen Mignon hastened to bring him from the escritoire , dipped it into the inkwell she also held for him, and signed with his usual careless flourish.  
    Mr. Ossier was pleased—his elfin cheeks turned pink. “I thank you, sir.” He sanded the signature, waved it dry and then carefully folded the policy, put it away in his case, and retrieved his hat from Henri. “By the by, sir.” The clerk paused in the doorway. “Would you like to be present at the examination of authenticity?”
    Papa stopped stock still in the middle of the Aubusson rug. “Examination of …?”
    “Authenticity, sir. Yes, Lloyd’s now require it for artwork, due to the current fluidity of the markets due to the bad business in France, if you’ll pardon my saying.”
    “Of course.” Papa waved away the entirety of the Revolution—he had more pressing problems.
    “And, of course, you have just authorized the examination with your signature, so your most valuable work will be protected in such troubled times.”
    “Have I?” Poor papa’s voice cracked, as if he had a cat in his throat.
    “Yes, thank you.” Mr. Ossier made another smart bow. “A mere formality. A specialist, the Honorable Mr. Cathcart, the Earl of Cathcart’s youngest son, is an authority, I’m told. He is a Scotsman, but also a connoisseur, so they say, in the Old Masters, and has been engaged to conduct the examination Monday next.”
    Papa was too stunned to speak, and Mignon feared the two of them were gaping quite rudely at the poor clerk, who seemed to sense his visit was at an end. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, sir. I’ll see myself out.”
    Papa and Mignon said and did nothing until they heard Henri close the door behind the man. At which point Papa collapsed into a chair. “ Bon dieu .”  
    Good God was only the beginning of the decidedly blue curse Mignon had been formulating. And even though she had warned her father of this exact sort of thing befalling him, she felt not even a smidgeon of satisfaction—only overwhelming worry. “This Mr. Cathcart, have you heard of