Derek continued quickly, trying to keep the target in mind. He couldn’t afford to forget why he was here. The walls held far too many distractions. “His European collection is quite extensive, and he’d like to purchase a Verbonnian painting to round it out. He’s particularly interested in getting one from the Fournier period.”
Mr. Cathers smiled. “What luck! We happen to have a Fournier. We hung it just last week. I can’t seem to stop coming in here to stare at it.”
He gestured toward the wall, and all the men turned to look at the depiction of a grand royal caravan riding along the edge of a cliff. The ocean roared far below them, and the sky stretched wide and glorious above. The characteristic blend of clarity and abstract areas gave it that unique feel of a Fournier painting. At any other moment, Derek would have been overjoyed at this opportunity.
But Fournier had barely been mentioned in the diary and always as the teacher, never as the artist. “Fascinating. We’d much rather locate a work by one of The Six, though. The mystery fascinates his lordship.”
William attempted his thoughtful hum and accompanying nod again.
Mr. Cathers sighed as his shoulders slumped a bit, no doubt disappointed at the loss of a potentially hefty commission. “We tried. It was my hope to fill this wall with Verbonnian paintings for our European exhibit. They were once in a single collection, you know. Almost every known work by The Six was in a personal collection in Derbyshire. It was auctioned off about twenty-five years ago.”
Auctions. The death knell for any art lover. It became nearly impossible to follow art once auctions were involved. The auctioneers were too protective of their wealthy and noble customers to provide information freely.
Dismay brought a slump to Derek’s own shoulders. He was going to fail Jess. Mere hours after declaring himself her partner—albeit only in his mind—he was going to fail to provide the one thing he was supposed to have: knowledge of and access to the paintings.
There had to be something else he could do. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like not to know his family was alive and well, living their lives a few miles from Oxford.
No, he couldn’t return to that townhome and tell Jess he’d learned nothing.
“Have you any idea who purchased the pieces?” The odds of Mr. Cathers knowing were slim, but God had been known to work miracles before. All Derek needed right then was a small one.
“Not many,” the short man said with a shake of his head, already appearing to lose interest in the conversation as his attention wandered to the nearby students. “The auction house sent a letter of inquiry for me. Most of them went unanswered, but one solicitor sent me a polite but firm refusal on behalf of two of his clients, the Earl of Woolsby and the Duke of Marshington. Neither of those men is in dire enough straits to sell.”
No, they weren’t, but Derek didn’t really need for them to sell. He only needed them to let him look. With any luck, William could make a few discreet inquiries and get Derek in front of the paintings. It would be a start.
Part of Derek wanted to flee the room immediately and begin discussing plans, but it would be suspicious for two men who loved art as much as they did—or were pretending to in William’s case—to depart the premises without looking about.
They stayed for another half hour, William giving occasional nods and hums while Derek and Mr. Cathers discussed art and mutual acquaintances and occasionally offered guesses as to which of the budding artists paying to work in the presence of their inspirations were going to be successful.
The man standing on a chair to better reach his giant canvas showed a great deal of promise. Certainly more than the girl who had arrived shortly after Derek and William. She’d be asked to leave the Institution within a month, given the bare rudiments of a picture she had managed to produce thus far. The woman on the other side of the girl was moving her brush in short, confident strokes, and the picture coming to life on her canvas was startling. Derek wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, but he was certainly going to remember it.
Eventually enough time passed and they could politely depart. Derek nearly ran for the exit, though he made himself drag his feet, taking a few last looks at paintings he’d only ever heard about. For once the idea of what he was going to do—formulate a new plan on the way home so he could return to Jess a conquering hero—held more appeal than looking at what had already been accomplished.
It was a bit sobering to learn on the ride home that William knew neither the Earl of Woolsby nor the Duke of Marshington. At all. That didn’t mean he couldn’t contact them. He was a marquis, after all, but it did lessen the likelihood of them granting Derek quick and easy access to the paintings. That didn’t give him much to offer Jess to convince her he was an equal partner in this adventure.
He was deep in thought as he handed his hat and greatcoat to William’s butler. There was no sense in putting off the discussion.
“Do you know the whereabouts of—” he cleared his throat—“Miss Smith?”
“Miss Smith, sir?” the butler asked as William’s chuckle echoed in the hall.
“I believe he means Jess, our other guest,” William said. “Smart of you, Derek. I should have foisted a surname onto her months ago. It would have made for considerably fewer awkward moments.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to see what she thinks of it.”
The butler looked between the two men but remained stoic in expression. “I haven’t seen her since breakfast, my lord. Shall I send a maid to her rooms?”
Derek shook his head. He’d see her eventually. Dinner, at the latest. Perhaps he could have something to share by then. If the earl or duke were currently in residence in London, William could contact them this afternoon. If not, that still gave Derek a few hours to come up with something else to offer as a suggested path forward.
While Jess had been the one to request Derek’s help, she likely had a dozen of her own ideas on how to proceed. There was still the diary to translate and the art to inspect and interpret, though. Even if Derek didn’t come up with something this afternoon, she still needed him.
It was rather nice to be needed.
His thoughts whirled, bouncing around from idea to idea. Art had always soothed him, so he strolled between the second-floor rooms, taking in the swirls of color, the captured moments in time. Slowly, he wound his way through the remainder of the house, eventually ending up back in the front hall, staring at a statue tucked into the corner, as if someone had slid it over there temporarily and then forgotten about it.
A brisk knock at the door broke his contemplation of the statue. There wasn’t a servant in the immediate vicinity, so he stepped over to throw the latch and open the door himself.
Jess strode in. When her glance flickered over his, her mouth went slack for the barest of moments before quickly returning to those smooth, perfect, unrevealing lines.
Derek frowned. The same notion of wrongness that had prompted him to examine the old woman in the carriage compelled him to look Jess over a bit more closely now.
Nothing caught his attention. Her brown bonnet was ordinary, as was the blue pelisse that covered the rest of her. The brown gloves were just as plain. She looked like any other woman in London.
Except she was alone.
“Did you go out?”
She lifted a brow and glanced at the door behind her before smirking at him. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
He fought back the desire to roll his eyes at her like his six-year-old nephew. “Smarter than you, apparently. I took William with me when I left the house this morning.”
Even as he said it, he knew the statement was utterly ridiculous. This was why he avoided verbal sparring. He ended up slicing himself more than his foe. He cleared his throat and pressed on. “Where is your chaperon?”
She grinned. “Apparently you needed him more than I did. Relax. I’ve returned safely, haven’t I?”
A maid appeared, poised to accept Jess’s bonnet and pelisse.
Jess brushed the woman away. “I’ll wear them upstairs.”
Derek’s frown deepened, that sense that he was missing something right in front of him growing stronger. “Why?”
“Because that’s the easiest way to carry them.”
“You don’t need to carry them. The maid can do that.”
“I’m going upstairs anyway, so there’s no need for her to make the trip as well.”
It was suddenly imperative that Derek get her to remove the bonnet and coat. Her insistence on doing something memorably out of the norm must mean that his instincts were correct and she was hiding something.
There would also be the satisfaction of coming out on top in a battle of wills.
He cleared his throat. “I thought we could step into the drawing room and I could tell you what I learned this morning.”
Guilt over his lack of anything to actually share nagged at him, but he easily pushed it aside. That fact was irrelevant right then.
“I’ll be happy to meet you there after I’ve had a moment to refresh myself.” Jess folded her hands before her. The maid just stood there, looking back and forth between them.
“What are you hiding, Jess?” There was no sense in Derek participating in a verbal game of which she was a master. Blunt and direct had always served him better.
“What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
“Because you won’t take off the bonnet.”
She turned her back on him and slid the bonnet from her head and over her shoulder before turning back to face him, the fabric hat crushed in her grip. “Happy now?”
He should be. But he wasn’t. “May I see it?”
“You want to see my bonnet?” she asked very slowly.
Now the maid wasn’t looking back and forth; she was simply staring at him, and Derek couldn’t really blame her. Oh well. He was too far gone to stop now. “Yes.”
“I don’t think it will fit you. My head is a great deal smaller than yours.”
“Only in the literal sense.”
It was a gamble which of them was more surprised by his quick return. She recovered her shock faster and grinned at him. “Well done, sir.”
He licked his lips and forged ahead, wondering if perhaps there was a bit more wit stored in that brain of his. “I deserve a boon.”
“It wasn’t that well done,” she laughed.
“The bonnet, Jess?”
She pinched the loose fabric back of the bonnet and shook it at him. “It’s a brown bonnet, Derek. It’s nothing special.”
“Then you won’t mind handing it over.” He really hoped something came of this exchange, or he was going to feel like a veritable idiot and never be able to trust his own instincts again.
She rolled her eyes with such perfect technique his nephew would be in awe, then handed the bonnet over. “Here.”
He took it. Stared at it. Called himself a total fool.
How was he supposed to know if this was a normal bonnet? He’d never had reason nor opportunity to inspect one before, and he had to assume that women’s bonnets were made rather differently than men’s hats.
It was one of those loose bonnets that seemed like a floppy bag with a brim on it. He turned it over to see that the hat had been lined with a pale pink fabric. No one but the servants would ever really see the inside of the hat, so why bother? Why put the pretty color on the inside and show the drab brown to the world?
He turned it in his hand once more, and that was when he saw it.
A second brim. A second set of ties.
He twisted and flipped and pulled, and the bonnet went from being brown with a pink liner to pink with a brown liner.
The same pink a certain inept painter had been wearing at the Institution that morning. How had Jess managed to gain access to the exclusive, high-priced art hall? No, he didn’t care. How she’d done it didn’t matter. What hurt was that she’d been there at all.
“‘Man looketh on the outward appearance. . . .’” Derek mumbled as he ran a hand along the cleverly constructed headwear.
Jess sighed. “Not you, too.”
He didn’t know what she meant, but he was coming to expect that was going to be a normal occurrence if he continued to spend time with her.
That was a very big if. He refused to be a tool she used when convenient.
“It would seem,” he said slowly, “that our meeting to exchange information would be unnecessary.”
He handed the bonnet back and strode from the hall without looking back.
Chapter Eight
The problem with inevitabilities was that no matter how much effort one put into avoiding them, they still happened.
Jess nibbled at the chunk of bread from the dinner tray she’d requested be brought to her room. After this morning’s encounter in the front hall, she hadn’t wanted to sit across the table from Mr. Thornbury, and she rather thought he didn’t want to look at her either.
If only she could avoid other unpleasant encounters with such ease.
From the moment she’d recognized the familiar code in the letter, she’d known that a visit with the author would eventually be necessary.
That didn’t mean she wanted to do it. She’d perfected the art of avoiding the past and the truths that came along with it, but none of her skills could save her now.
She had hoped to know more before visiting her old friend, hoped to have a specific need that would allow her to be professional and succinct. Something that would necessitate she keep the visit as short as possible.
Something that would let her pretend she hadn’t missed him. Them.
If she’d understood three years ago what family really meant, would she still have run? There was no way to know, no way to turn back time and play it differently. Even if she could, she wasn’t sure she would. The people of Haven Manor had taught her what it meant to care for someone no matter the cost. What would have happened to them without her?
Spending precious time contemplating the possibilities was fruitless, as was entertaining the thought that she could possibly repair boats she’d burned. What was done was done and couldn’t be changed. That lesson had been fixed firmly in her at the age of sixteen, and she’d held it like a mantra ever since.
Now the path to her future lay in trudging through her past. There were no other options.
Night fell and the house stilled around her. Had Mr. Thornbury told Chemsford what she’d done? Not that she cared. What would the marquis do? He’d hardly toss her from the premises. His wife would call him out for such an act. No, Chemsford was neither help nor deterrent.
Thornbury, on the other hand, needed to be controlled.
Before she could herd him, though, she needed to know which direction to head.
A glance outside revealed she had a few hours before morning. She could take a short nap and still leave the house before anyone else was awake. When she returned, she would, hopefully, know enough to formulate some sort of plan—one that required minimal reliance on the art historian.
The moon was curving down the other side of the sky when she woke. She dressed with the stealth and speed of one who had departed in the middle of the night more than once before stepping quietly toward the door. Fifteen minutes had been invested earlier in learning the precise angle and pressure to put on the latch in order to leave her room without a sound.
In the quiet of the early hours, those fifteen minutes proved well spent.
As the latch cleared its mooring, she prepared to ease the door back only to have it swing abruptly inward.
She didn’t yelp, but her breath did surge out of her in a rush as the door was followed by the body of a man rolling backward, head plopping onto her feet.
Dim moonlight played over Mr. Thornbury’s face, accenting the sharp angles of his nose, chin, and cheekbones until he looked almost lethal.
His wince and yawn accompanied by a shrug of his dark wool-covered shoulder stilled any idea of him being a threat.
“We
’re off now, then?” he asked in a rough voice that clung to sleep.
Jess narrowed her eyes as he yawned again. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a low whisper.
He grinned up at her, looking half asleep and entirely too proud of himself. “I didn’t trust you to tell me what your next moves were.”
She waited for more but grudgingly gave him a bit of credit when he didn’t point out that his lack of trust had obviously been justified.
“What disguise are you wearing today?” Still prone on the floor, he craned his head back to look at her shoes before lifting his gaze to take in the rest of her clothing. “I’m certain keeping up with you will be easier when I know whom to look for.”
Jess rolled her eyes and offered him a hand up. The observations this man made . . . the War Office should have been hiring artists instead of jaded, hardened spies. “No disguise today.”
“Good,” he said as he straightened his horribly wrinkled clothing. “Then I don’t have to worry about matching. Or calling you the wrong thing when you transform from a grandmother into a street urchin.”
“You don’t have to worry about calling me anything,” Jess bit out. “You aren’t coming with me. My, er, the people I’m visiting won’t take kindly to my bringing a guest.”
“I don’t particularly care.” His mouth flattened, and he stepped out into the corridor to collect his shoes, pulling the black spectacles from one boot. “As your partner in this endeavor, albeit a fairly clueless one, I refuse to remain in the dark any longer.”
“You aren’t my partner,” Jess said, pushing down the bud of panic the idea created. She’d worked with people in the past—other spies, occasional informants—but she’d always been very careful to establish that any such connection was momentary. She didn’t want to become attached to anyone. Not when it was so very easy for the job to take them away.
“One,” he said, holding out his hand and pointing to his finger, “you need my expertise. Two”—he pointed to a second finger—“you brought me into this havoc. And three”—he stabbed at a third finger—“I am putting my professional reputation and possibly more on the line to find whatever this thing is.” He gave up counting his reasons and let his hands fall to his side as he gave another shrug. “And if you refuse to take me with you, I’ll make such a fuss trying to follow you that whoever is looking for you won’t have to try very hard.” He grinned, but it didn’t soften the determination on his face. “See? Partner.”
A Pursuit of Home Page 8