by Cara Elliott
“I didn’t think you had anything to hide.”
“That’s not the point,” he snapped. Scowling, he carefully lifted a letter off the corner of the watercolor sketch by Linden. “I have valuable art sitting here, which apparently escaped your notice.”
“On the contrary, I had a good look at it.” A pause. “I daresay the artist has a high regard for its value as well.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment,” answered Cameron. “What do you know about this Linden?”
For a moment, Gryff was tempted to tell his friend to go to the devil. He was touchy enough about this part of his life without having Cameron’s caustic comments making him even more uncomfortable.
“There’s a reason I’m asking.” His friend sounded more serious than usual. “But I’d rather get a few facts straight before I explain.”
The candle flames quivered, and Gryff watched a tiny drip of molten wax slide down one of the tapers. The faint scent of honey mingled with the earthier smells of parchment and leather.
“I know nothing about Linden,” he admitted. “Save for the fact that the person in question is a damn fine artist.”
“A rare talent, from what little I’ve seen.” Cameron rose and came over to have another look. “Have you any other examples of Linden’s work?”
“No, not yet. But Watkins does.”
“I should like to have a closer look at them.”
“I could arrange that, I suppose.” Gryff smoothed down the curling corner of the thick laid paper. “Assuming I agree with your reasons for asking.”
“I could, you know, simply arrange to get at them on my own.”
“What makes you think that Watkins will let you see them?”
“What makes you think I would ask him?” countered Cameron.
“You…” Smack. “Are a Bloody…” Smack. “Pain in the Arse.” Smack.
The whack of his palms to the polished pearwood helped release some of his pent-up frustration. The pointed innuendos from his friend had only exacerbated his own unsettled emotions. “I am in no mood for playing your taunting little guessing games.”
“So I see.” Cameron had placed a hand on Gryff’s shoulder, and now exerted a light pressure to push him back down in his seat. “I told you I would explain.”
“Then please do so. Before you find yourself forced to extract your teeth from your gullet.”
Seating himself on the tufted arm of the facing leather chair, Cameron made a quick inspection of his well-buffed nails. “Who would lose his ivories is a matter of debate. But we’ll leave that discussion for another day.”
“Yes.” Gryff gazed down at the confident brushstrokes, the delicate detailing, the subtle washes of color. “Let’s stick to the subject of art.”
The case clock ticked off several long moments before his friend began.
“I can see that you’ve acquired an eye for the nuances of artistic style. I suspect you’ve spent many hours studying landscape and botanical works from both the past and the present.”
“You’re correct,” replied Gryff tersely. “I consider myself fairly knowledgeable in the field of prints and watercolors. Perhaps not an expert, but close enough.”
“I, too, consider myself well educated in that particular subject. So when I saw an original watercolor painting by Maria Sibylla Merian being offered for sale—at a very high price—I was naturally interested in having a close look at the master’s technique.”
Despite the blazing fire at his back, Gryff felt a chill steal down his spine. Very few of the Swiss artist’s original paintings had survived from the seventeenth century, and those that had were collector’s items. He knew, for he had recently inquired about obtaining one himself, only to be told by the dealer that none were available at the moment.
“I really can’t see where this is going, Cam,” he muttered, hoping his premonition was wrong.
“Patience, Gryff. I’m getting there.” His friend shifted to a more comfortable position on the chair. “As you know, Merian is now recognized as one of the first true masters of botanical illustration.”
“Along with her rendering of insects,” mused Gryff. “Her ability to render lifelike detail is quite astounding.”
“Indeed. Merian’s talents are even more extraordinary considering that she was a woman. Females in the 1600s were not exactly encouraged to develop their God-given gifts.”
“Nor are they today,” growled Gryff.
“A good point, but one that is irrelevant to the discussion.”
“What is your point?”
“That the painting I saw for sale was a forgery.” Cameron held up a hand to cut off Gryff’s sarcastic retort. “I know, I know, items for sale in the flash houses do not come with the most reliable of provenances. There are often forgeries offered. However, what caught my eye was that the painting was among a group of items that also contained a rare book from Lord Leete’s library. And before you demand how I know that, it’s because of the bookplate.”
Gryff sat up straighter.
“Now, it’s not uncommon for a gentleman to sell off such items under the table, so to speak, especially if the contents of the library are under the entail. But the fact that it’s being offered with a forgery piqued my attention.” He rose and went to the desk. “As you know, I am always curious about what illegal activities are going on here in Town. So I borrowed the forgery—”
“What you really mean to say is you stole it,” snapped Gryff.
Cameron made a pained face. “Actually I didn’t have to. The owner of the flash house is a friend. He trusted me to return it.” Seeing Gryff’s expression darken, he hurried on. “To make a long story short, I happened to spot Linden’s sketch on your desk and was struck by the similarities in style to the forgery. My suspicion is that both works were done by the same artist.”
“You think Linden is a criminal?” For some reason, Gryff felt as if he had been punched in the gut. The art had struck a chord inside him, and he had come to think of the unknown artist as a friend. “I don’t believe it. You’re not an expert in art.”
“I have more experience that you might think,” countered his friend. “However, you are correct. I do not wish to make a final pronouncement based on a single sketch. That’s why I’d like to see several more examples.”
When Gryff didn’t answer, Cameron added, “It’s not that I give a damn whether someone gets fleeced in making a purchase of the painting. When one deals at the flash houses, it’s buyer beware.” He touched a finger to the Linden sketch. “What I do care about is that your first book not be tainted by any scandal, Gryff.”
It took a moment for the clench of conflicting emotion to loosen in his throat. “I am grateful for that, Cam. But ye gods, this comes as a damnable shock. I greatly admire Linden’s style, and think it a perfect complement to my writing.” He let out a mirthless laugh. “I know it sounds ridiculous, yet I can’t help feeling betrayed.”
“That’s why I want to be very sure of things,” said Cameron. “If you can get the rest of Linden’s sketches from Watkins, I’ll have a much better idea of whether I’m right. Then we can decide what to do.”
“I’ll go back to the offices now.”
Cameron held up a hand in warning. “I’d advise you to say nothing about the real reason you want them. Let’s keep this quiet until we are sure of what we are dealing with.”
Something in his friend’s tone set off another alarm bell in his head. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
A vague wave dismissed the question. “Nothing other than a hunch. Let’s just say, if I were you, I’d avoid having anything to do with Leete or anyone associated with him.”
“Leete isn’t clever enough to be a criminal,” muttered Gryff. As for his sister…
Impossible.
“I agree,” answered Cameron. “But several of his gentlemen cronies are thoroughly dirty dishes.”
G
ryff pushed up out of his chair. “Then let’s get to the bottom of this, before it soils the whole damn project. According to Watkins, timing is of the essence.” Slanting a sidelong look at the sketch on his desk, he expelled a sharp sigh, finding himself conflicted on how he should feel. “If you are right, what the devil are we going to do about it?”
“I have a few ideas,” said Cameron. “But first things first. I’m anxious to get my hands on the sketches as quickly as possible, for I have to return the forgery to my friend before I leave Town. Why don’t we meet at a spot close to the publisher, and you can pass me the portfolio.”
Gryff gave a grudging nod. “Grosvenor Square is just a short stroll away from Watkins & Harold…”
Chapter Fourteen
Eliza plucked nervously at the hem of her glove.
“Shall I fetch you a glass of lemonade, milady?” asked her childhood friend’s abigail, who had accompanied her to the fashionable tea shop.
“Thank you, but no,” she replied tersely, her stomach too unsettled for food or drink. “My brother should be arriving shortly.” Assuming he wasn’t too jugbitten to remember the appointment. “I shall wait.”
She didn’t have long to fret, for with uncharacteristic promptness, Harry strolled into Gunter’s at the appointed hour.
“Ah, ’Liza,” he called with forced joviality. “You are looking exceeding well this afternoon. Is that a new bonnet?”
Harry not only on time but also offering compliments on her appearance? Her insides clenched…and then tightened into a hard knot when she saw that he wasn’t alone.
Her brother and Lord Brighton seated themselves at the table.
“Please buy yourself a sorbet, Symonds. I shall find you when I am finished here.” Eliza passed the maid several coins and waited until the girl had moved off before offering a clipped greeting to her brother. “What Important News have you to tell me?” she asked, accentuating the heavily underlined words of his letter.
Harry bared his teeth in a weak semblance of a smile. “Oh, come, let us get you some of shop’s special ices first. The sweets here are very popular with the ladies.”
“I’m not hungry for sweets, Harry.” Her gaze flicked to Brighton, who in contrast to her brother looked completely relaxed in his chair as he brushed a speck of dust from the hat in his lap. “I would rather you explain the reason for your urgent summons to Town.”
“What-ho, can’t a man miss his lovely sister?”
She stared unblinking, and after a moment he dropped his eyes. “Things is, ’Liza, I’ve got some excellent news.”
Her sense of foreboding grew more pronounced.
“Which is?” she asked softly.
“Can’t come to Gunter’s without having their famous ices and some pastries,” Harry said abruptly. “Let me go choose a few for you, along with a dish of burnt filbert sorbet. I know how fond you are of nuts.”
He rose and walked—or rather, fled—toward the ornate glass display case in the front of the café.
“I assume you have some idea of what Harry’s momentous news is, sir,” said Eliza to Brighton.
His mouth curled up at the suggestion. “I do, Lady Brentford. But let us not rush our enjoyment of the afternoon.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve associated the words ‘enjoyment’ and ‘Harry’ with each other,” she said.
Unlike her brother, Brighton did not flinch from eye contact. “Perhaps that is about to change.”
A flutter of unease quickened her breath. “I don’t see how.”
Harry returned with a plate of lemon tarts and a large fluted glass of nut-studded sorbet.
“Seeing as it’s a lovely afternoon, why don’t we take a stroll around the square while you consume your treat,” said Brighton smoothly as he picked up two spoons and gestured at the large front window. “As you see, it’s quite popular to do so.”
Eliza rose without a word. Much as she resented being maneuvered into accepting the proposal, to protest would only stir an embarrassing scene. Stepping outside, she hurried across the wide street and entered the center garden before turning to confront Harry and his friend. To her dismay, only Brighton had followed.
“Allow me.” He offered his arm and started to move, giving Eliza no choice but to place her hand on his sleeve. “You really should try this confection before it melts, Lady Brentford.”
She accepted the sweet. “I’m sure it’s delicious. However, at the moment I have no stomach for pleasantries. Harry has commanded my presence here in London, at no small inconvenience and expense to his household, I might add. And now he skulks behind a platter of lemon tarts while sending you to walk me around and ply me with sweets.” The glass was cold against her gloved palm, and as she looked down at the creamy confection, she couldn’t help thinking of warm custard.
Swallowing hard, Eliza took a quick breath to compose her emotions and went on. “I assume you are going to tell me why.”
“You have a tart tongue, Lady Brentford.” Brighton’s tone was faintly mocking. “You might want to consider exercising more discretion in voicing your opinions. It would make you more attractive.”
“You wish for me to sprinkle sugar on my sentiments so that they can feed a gentleman’s hubris?” Eliza tried to keep a grip on her fraying temper. “Thank you, but as I couldn’t care less about winning the regard of the opposite sex, I have the luxury of saying what I think.”
He gave a curt laugh. “Plain speaking, indeed.” He cocked a brow. “So, you don’t wish to remarry?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I most certainly do not.”
Still smiling, Brighton turned down one of the graveled walkways and continued on at the same leisurely pace. Rather than take offense at her deliberate rudeness, he drew her a touch closer.
She stiffened, ruing the fact that anyone watching from afar might assume there was an intimacy between them.
“What a pity you feel that way, seeing as I was counting on you to consent to becoming my bride.”
Eliza stumbled, and would have dropped the sorbet, had he not caught her and steadied her hand.
“Careful.” He leaned down and licked a small splash from her wrist.
From him, the gesture was faintly repulsive. She tried to pull away but his hold was surprisingly strong. “I suggest you don’t make a scene,” he warned. “It would not reflect well on any of us.”
She went very still. “Is this some sort of jest, Lord Brighton? A wager put in the betting book at White’s that I am supposed to go along with?”
“I assure you, I am quite serious.”
“But why?” Eliza felt her throat constrict. “No, wait, you need not answer that. The reason doesn’t matter, for whatever it is, my answer is no.”
Brighton’s eyes were opaque, emotionless. “Some men might take offense at that.”
“But this is absurd,” protested Eliza. “We hardly know each other, and…and I cannot see that we have anything in common. There is no earthly reason for a match between us. So, please, whatever your game, let us put an end to it. I have no intention of agreeing to your proposal.” She drew in a gulp of air. “And that is final.”
“Have you finished expressing your sentiments?” he asked softly.
She nodded, not trusting herself to say more.
“Excellent.” Brighton drew her beneath the shade of a linden tree. The long, leafy shadows accentuated the sharp angles of his face and lines of dissipation around his full-lipped mouth.
“Excellent,” he repeated. “Now it’s my turn to be frank, Lady Brentford. As you know, your brother has developed a number of profligate habits here in Town and has gotten himself into deep financial trouble. He owes a great deal of money, mostly to me.” Brighton let his words sink in for a moment before continuing. “I am willing to forgive his gaming debts and loans. But only on the condition that you agree to become my wife.”
Eliza’s legs suddenly felt as if they were made of blanche mange. The fear c
rept up her limbs and to keep her hand from shaking she gripped the glass so tightly that she feared it might crack. “I—I don’t understand. This makes no sense. Why would you want me, of all females? I’m not a stunning beauty, I’m not a wealthy heiress.”
“No, but you are an exceedingly talented artist.”
Spotting Cameron standing by the square’s east gate, Gryff cut between two carriages and hurried across the cobbled way.
“Any trouble?” asked his friend, straightening from his slouch against the wrought iron curlicues.
“Perhaps I should become your partner in crime,” he muttered as he followed Cameron into the gardens. “I seem to have a skill in duplicitous deceptions.”
“You’ve a knack for seducing favors,” agreed Cameron. “But as for the darker aspects…” He let his words trail off in a cryptic shrug. “How many examples did you manage to obtain?”
“A half dozen, which was all that Watkins had.” He passed over the small portfolio of paintings. “Damnation, don’t lose them.”
“I shall be extremely careful.” Keeping his gaze locked straight ahead, his friend circled around the central fountain and cut down one of the shaded side pathways. “Nothing would please me more than to discover I am wrong about my suspicions.”
“But you don’t think you are,” said Gryff after several silent strides.
“No, I don’t.”
A pair of pugs growled and snapped at Gryff’s boots as he kicked up a scattering of gravel. “Sorry,” he apologized to the irate owner, who added a grumble of her own.
“Hmmph! You young gentlemen are always in such a confounded hurry.” Her cane jabbed at the border bushes. “You ought to learn to stop and smell the roses.”
If only the plantings included Christmas roses, which signified “relieve my anxiety.”
Gryff inhaled sharply but waited until they were out of earshot before saying, “When will you have a chance to compare the artwork and come to a decision, Cam?”
“Hard to say. My contact is sometimes a bit difficult to track down. I’ll be in touch as quickly as I can.” His friend paused at a fork in the walkways. “In the meantime…” Cameron hesitated as his gaze followed the curve of the pruned bushes to the far end of the garden. “I’d avoid rubbing shoulders with Leete and his cronies, if I were you. You have naught to gain but a soiled coat by associating with the likes of Brighton.”