“I left it with Tarrington. I brought the spy back with me. He is a guest of the Home Office now,” Darius said.
“He may not be a spy,” Ambury said.
“The boat held little of value on it. A few kegs of brandy to pretend it made the journey for trade. Four other refugees came, who are dismayed to find themselves guests of the Home Office now too. As for the man in question, he brought nothing personal with him. That is what made Tarrington suspicious. Who would flee his home, perhaps never to return, and not pocket at least one item of value or sentiment?”
“You should have just hanged him,” Kendale said.
“We still have a government, Kendale. It has the authority to hang people, not us.” Ambury spoke casually but anyone who knew him would hear the pointed notes of disapproval. “Your bloodlust against the French is why we do not allow you to do anything on your own. None of us relish the notion of being tried for murder.”
The word bloodlust seemed to check Kendale. He even appeared momentarily chagrined by the lecture.
Ambury became all smooth amiability again. “It was convenient that you were on the coast, Southwaite. It spared me another journey.”
Yes, most convenient to their mission. Most inconvenient to his private purposes for being on the coast in the first place.
He had not seen Emma since her carriage had rolled away from his house. His own return had been delayed two days while he arranged for the transport of the boat’s passengers. Upon finally arriving yesterday, he had flipped through his mail looking in vain for her plain penmanship on a letter.
What had he expected her to write? That she had erred? That of course she would entertain the notion of marriage? It had been a proposal of obligation. In addition to her “everything else,” she was not a woman to accept the obligation that such a marriage would create for her in turn.
“All of this duty is making me feel old,” Ambury mused, while he poured some wine. He looked at the decanter and cocked an eyebrow in Darius’s direction. “It is French. From your cellar, I assume,” he teased.
Kendale looked down at his own glass.
“It is very old, like you feel.”
“We must do something fun, before we forget how,” Ambury said. “Perhaps we should all go to Penthurst’s ball. Were you invited? That was bold of him.”
“Damned bold,” Kendale said.
Darius had been invited. That letter had been waiting upon his return too. It was not clear whether Penthurst had sent it as an attempt at rapprochement, or as a perverse, sardonic whim. He was capable of the latter.
“I say we go,” Ambury said. “We will clean you up, Kendale. If we put you in formal dress and teach you to smile, you should be presentable, at least. I will introduce you to some young ladies who, rumor has it, find you attractive in a somewhat barbaric way.”
“I am not looking for a wife.”
“Nor are they looking for husbands, since they already have them.”
They all laughed, but thoughts of his own ballroom filled Darius’s mind, and of a woman who had never danced in such a chamber, but whose eyes and body and sensual embrace had enchanted him beneath a large chandelier.
“Here he comes,” Cassandra whispered with excitement. “I cannot believe we pulled this off, Emma.”
Nor could Emma believe it. Evidence that they had walked in the auction house door. Herr Ludwig Werner, bedecked in his braided coat and military in his bearing, approached them and bowed.
Obediah bowed even deeper. “We are extremely honored that you have entrusted us with the count’s consignments. We will not disappoint you.”
Herr Werner raised a hand in a gesture to invisible people. A small army of servants began carrying in paintings.
Emma wetted her lips and stepped closer to Obediah. “Titian,” she whispered as a large mythological scene paraded by.
“What a magnificent Titian,” Obediah exclaimed loudly.
Herr Werner smiled indulgently.
“Giovanni Bellini,” she whispered as a small oil passed. “The headdress says it is a Doge of Venice.”
“Ah, Bellini!” Obediah clasped his hands together in joy. “I think that is the finest portrait by him that I have seen. That is a doge, is it not, Herr Werner?”
“Rembrandt, but questionable,” she whispered as an Old Testament scene sped by a tad too fast.
Obediah stopped the servants and peered severely at the painting, then waved it on. Herr Werner would not be surprised if they gave it a less illustrious attribution now.
And so it went for half an hour, as twenty-five paintings came in, were given a first, cursory inspection, then propped against the exhibition hall walls. When all the paintings had entered, three soldiers did as well.
“You will not mind, I am sure, if a few of the count’s house guards remain here until after the auction,” Herr Werner said. “One does not leave treasures without protection.”
Obediah appeared perplexed. Emma inserted herself between them. “We expected nothing less, Herr Werner. I think one of them should stand outside the door, to announce to anyone thinking of theft that a sword waits if such an attempt it made.”
Herr Werner nodded with approval, and said something in German to the guards. One of them retreated to the door to take up his post.
Emma retreated to Cassandra’s side.
“Very shrewd,” Cassandra said. “That uniform standing guard will be more intriguing than all the advertisements and invitations you could arrange.”
“I thought so.”
The delivery completed, Emma expected Herr Werner to leave. She and Cassandra needed to finish planning the grand preview, and she wanted to give these paintings a much closer look.
Instead Herr Werner studied the walls, and the paintings hanging on them. “I am confused,” he said to Obediah. “Where are Lord Southwaite’s contributions?”
Obediah pasted a smile on his face, but glanced to Emma desperately. “Lord Southwaite’s contributions…Yes—that is, they are…”
“I expected them to be here by now. Perhaps I misunderstood when he would bring them.”
“Uhh…yes, I think that perhaps you—”
“You have been in communication with our esteemed collector, Herr Werner?” Emma asked.
He kept frowning at the walls. “He wrote to me and said he intended to consign four important paintings. The patronage of such a man reassured me, of course.” He looked over his shoulder at Obediah and smiled slyly. “Our special arrangements on the commission helped too.”
“We have added a Raphael to the auction recently. It did not come from the Earl of Southwaite, but rather an esteemed gentleman who requires anonymity,” Emma said. “It is an exquisite work, one more than worthy to keep company with the count’s collection. Would you like to see it?”
The mention of a Raphael suitably impressed Herr Werner. He was about to speak when something caught his eye. He abruptly turned toward the door and broke into a big smile. “Ah, here he is. I wrote to say I was bringing the paintings today if he wanted to see them first.”
Southwaite entered like the lord he was and greeted Herr Werner with the hint of condescension expected. He bowed formally to Emma and Cassandra, then turned to Obediah.
“Mr. Riggles, the paintings that I mentioned are being removed from a wagon outside. I trust that you will have a corner where they can be hung, even with the count’s impressive collection in your sale.”
Obediah did not show his surprise, but Emma could read it well enough in his eyes. This was the first he had heard of any consignments from Southwaite.
Herr Werner had eyes for no one except Southwaite now. “You intend to auction more current works, I believe you wrote, Lord Southwaite.” He rubbed his hands together. “A good mix, then. We will not compete with each other.”
The two men chatted while those current works were carried in. A Watteau that Southwaite had bought here at auction came first, then a Gillot and an Italian primitive
of great charm that Emma could not attribute. Finally a large, beautiful Venetian scene by Guardi arrived, carried by three men.
Obediah sidled close to Emma. “Did Lord Southwaite tell you about these consignments?”
“Not one word.” She wondered when he had written to Herr Werner with his intentions. Before they went to Kent, it appeared.
Southwaite had not approved of this sale. He wanted the business sold. She knew now that he even suspected Fairbourne’s of criminal activity. Yet he had taken a step to ensure she received this collection.
Herr Werner came over to take his leave. With a flourish he marched out. Southwaite turned his attention to the count’s paintings.
“I will prepare the papers for these consignments, sir,” Obediah said to Southwaite. “They should be in order in a quarter hour, if you would care to wait, or I will bring them to you if you prefer.”
“I will wait.” He lifted the Bellini to get a closer look.
Cassandra caught Emma’s eye. She nodded her head in Southwaite’s direction and rolled her eyes. Then she walked away and sat in a chair near the entrance and proceeded to flirt with the house guards.
Emma approached Southwaite. She could not blame him if he cut her now, or dismissed her the way he might a servant. He appeared capable of either. She had come to know him so well that she forgot sometimes just how hard he could appear, and how his face and carriage were marked by the prerogatives of his birth and breeding.
“It is a stunning portrait,” she said of the Bellini that he held.
“It is amazing. The clarity of the light makes it very lifelike.”
“Perhaps you will buy it.”
“Perhaps I will.” He set it down and turned to face her with an expression most cool. “When will the sale be?”
“Ten days from now. The invitations were sent this morning for the grand preview. It will be the night before.” The letter from Robert had made holding the sale as soon as possible an imperative. Her fingers had almost bled last night from all the invitations she had written.
“The count’s collection is better than I expected,” he said. “You should do very well.”
“Your help will make it so. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Except for the Guardi, I had tired of them.”
“I do not mean your paintings, but your correspondence with Herr Werner.”
He strolled slowly along the wall, and resumed viewing the paintings lined up at its base. “Well, you were determined to go forward. If it were going to happen at all, Fairbourne’s should make a good showing.”
Of course. He had an investment here, after all. He would indeed want Fairbourne’s to acquit itself well, so its value would not be diminished.
She paced along with him, admiring the collection, proud of just how good a showing it would be and relieved that she might well raise the money to ransom Robert.
“You are being very cool, Emma,” Southwaite said. “Have you nothing to say to me except things about your auction?”
“Forgive me. I do not know the etiquette. I cannot imagine what women and men would say to each other in situations such as this.”
“In your case, you might say that after some thought you realized that only a madwoman would turn down a proposal from an earl.”
She had counted on him never mentioning that. His pride was hurt, still. “It was mad, wasn’t it?”
“Idiotic.”
“But also wise, unfortunately.” She did not like having to say that again. She resented that he required it.
“I disagree. However, for the moment it is convenient. It makes what I am about to say easier to broach.”
“What is that?”
His gaze scanned the exhibition hall, then came to rest on her. “How many lots in this auction will be from esteemed gentlemen who demand discretion?”
She swallowed hard. “Not too many.”
“Make it none.”
“That may not be possible.”
“Make it possible. Return what you cannot attach to a name. It must all go. Today.”
“The consignor of the drawings will not agree to have his name used. Also there is one painting—you have not seen it yet—which must remain even if all else is returned. The Raphael. Word has unaccountably spread that there will be one.”
“Has it, now? Unaccountably, no less.”
“I will not give that up. I promise that its provenance is in order.”
“You can keep the Raphael, and the drawings, but you must obey me on the rest. Do you understand that, Emma? The Guardi alone will replace whatever you might have earned off what you return.”
She nodded, not because she was sure the Guardi would do that, but because she could not find the courage to refuse him. He had taken some pains to arrange things so she would not have to sell illegal goods. She could hardly announce that she would do so anyway, even if a part of her wanted to, in order to prove that she had not surrendered more than she guessed in the ballroom.
She had, however. That was obvious to her now that she was with him again. His closeness affected her body and her heart. With one look and one word he could spin his spell. She hated to admit that she had little defense against it.
He took her hand and bent over it in a bow of farewell. His warm breath titillated her skin and sent trembles up her arm.
His lips briefly touched her skin.
She glanced around, worried that someone might see the deep flush that she felt warming her face, and the rest of her too. Cassandra still sat near the door. The two guards now stood near her, laughing.
Again his lips pressed her hand. He looked up at her and triumph showed in his eyes. He knew about that flush even if no one else did. It was all there, his awareness that she was hardly immune and the power that her surrender had given him. He did not appear to be a man who had accepted her rejection, but then, he had given her fair warning that he would not.
One more kiss, then he walked away.
Cassandra received a bow too. After the earl left, she hurried to where Emma stood. She looked at Emma with anticipation.
“We need to complete the planning of the grand preview,” Emma said, walking toward the storage. “We must decide on the food and drink.”
Cassandra followed. “What a surprise, to have Southwaite bring those paintings.”
“It was very surprising.”
“It will be the finest auction of the year, I think.”
“Your jewels will have the best audience possible.” Emma moved aside the roll of drawings that came to her by way of Marielle Lyon, then set a sheet of paper on the desk. “What should we feed the guests?”
“Better turn your mind to the drink first. That is the costlier provision. Punch?”
“Punch will do, but…” Emma rose and squeezed between the tables toward a far corner where canvas covered a blocky tower.
Southwaite had commanded she return anything without a named consignor. She did not know how to return the goods that had come in the wagon. Nor would she do it.
She needed to raise a good amount of money from this auction. Herr Werner had demanded a much lower seller’s commission, and she would owe Marielle and Cassandra payments too. She would make sure that those books and silver and even the silk and laces had a consignor, though, so he was not exactly disobeyed.
As for the rest, she could always throw it in the river, she supposed. Or…
“Fairbourne’s has some cases of old wine here, Cassandra. Perhaps we should serve that.” She fished under the canvas until her hand felt a bottle’s neck. She pulled it out and made her way back to the desk, holding it high.
“Serve the punch, but definitely offer wine if you have enough.”
“I have enough.” She nipped over to the office and found a screw. “Are you experienced in using one of these?” she asked Cassandra upon returning.
Cassandra went to work on the bottle. “I heard that Southwaite was down in Kent again. At the same time that you
were there.”
“Do tell.”
“Did you see him?”
“Kent is a big county and we hardly have the same circles. We were unlikely to cross paths.”
“It is not so big.” Cassandra put her strength into pulling out the cork. “He kissed your hand when he left.”
“He can be very gallant.”
“It seemed a long kiss to me. Very long. I would describe it as lingering.”
“Tosh! You could not even see it.”
“I could see you blush. That was very apparent to me. As was the way he looked at you when he left.”
“You are boring me now.” Emma wiped out two silver goblets borrowed from the consignments. “Let us taste this, to make sure it will be worthy of my guests.”
They tasted. Cassandra raised her eyebrows, impressed. “It is a very fine claret, nicely aged.”
Emma enjoyed her cup immensely. “It does not seem to have suffered any damage, or turned.”
Cassandra poured them each another cup. “You must bring one bottle home and have Maitland decant it, to be sure. After it breathes it should taste even better. Let us try a bit more, though, to make sure our initial impressions hold.”
Emma’s impressions improved with the second cup. It warmed her, and brought the gentle peace wine could imbue.
“Emma, forgive me for asking, but if I do not, I will burst. Have you been a little naughty?” Cassandra asked between sips. “With Southwaite, I mean.”
“No, I have not been naughty, Cassandra.”
“Oh, that is a relief.” Cassandra pressed her palm to her heart. “When I saw the two of you together today, well, the most astonishing notion came to me.” She laughed at herself. “I am happy that I misunderstood.”
Emma cradled the goblet in her two hands and gazed over its rim at Cassandra. “You certainly have misunderstood. I have not been a little naughty. I have been very, very bad.”
Cassandra’s eyes widened in shock, then narrowed fast. She scrutinized Emma hard. “When you say very bad, do you mean very bad for Emma, who is never bad at all and thus very bad might only mean quite naughty, or do you mean very bad in a generally understood sort of way?”
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 20