“I mean very bad the way you might mean it.”
“Emma, are you saying that Southwaite seduced you?”
Emma nodded, drank her wine, and waited for Cassandra’s congratulations.
“Oh, dear,” Cassandra muttered, stunned.
“I thought you would approve. You encouraged me to practice with him.”
“Flirting, Emma. I encouraged you to practice flirting with him.”
At six o’clock that evening, Emma still remained at Fairbourne’s. Other than the house guards, she was alone.
Cassandra had left in a state of shock. Emma refused to give the details of that tryst with Southwaite, but Cassandra had surmised enough to know just how bad Emma had been. After swearing her to secrecy, Emma had revealed the proposal too, but only because Cassandra had taken umbrage at Southwaite’s behavior and called him a scoundrel.
Cassandra had understood why Emma could not accept such an offer. At least, she claimed she had. If Cassandra had thought the reasons less than clear, it was because she did not know all the reasons.
Emma gazed at the bottle of wine they had shared. If she did not auction the wine, or the other contents of that wagon, could she claim she had not done anything wrong? In providing those paintings that would cover the loss of commissions if she obeyed Southwaite, had he also provided a balm to her conscience? It would be nice not to betray him by passing illegal goods right under his nose, through a business in which he possessed a troublesome partnership.
If no more wagons arrived secretly, if she could win the prize with a favor that did not compromise Fairbourne’s or him, if she could be done with all of this in a week, perhaps—
The second cup of wine had made her merry, but its effects were fading fast. All of her “ifs” sounded foolish to her mind. They were the voices of a woman grasping for hope that perhaps she might finish this game unscathed. She did not really think that would happen. Her own character and honor would be stained, even if no one else ever knew it.
She went out to the exhibition hall. The house guards still stood at their posts, and the third remained outside. Perhaps they waited for her to depart so they could sit down.
The paintings faced her from where they had been set against the wall. She had a lot of work to do in the next week. She would be very busy. Too busy, perhaps, to think about Southwaite.
The door to the street opened. The guards immediately flanked the threshold. A man in an ill-fitting coat and flat-brimmed hat entered. The guard posted outside grabbed him by the collar and began to pull him back out.
“Allow him in,” she called. “He is here to see me.”
The guard released her caller. The man whom she had met at St. Paul’s walked to her, head tilted so he could see the paintings high on the wall.
“I was wondering how to find you again,” she said. “I will have the payment soon, but do not know how to deliver it.”
“That’s what I am for. Deliveries and such, back and forth. I’m here to explain how it is done, seein’ as how yer father doesn’t seem to have told ye.”
“I hope you are not saying that I am supposed to hand the money to you.”
He drew back, insulted. “I do not like the way ye said that. Ye will do it just as I say when it happens.”
“Then tell your master that I’ll be wanting that prize immediately.”
“Ye expect to be that rich so soon?” He pushed back his hat and stared up at the paintings in wonder. “Are these daubings worth so much? That is why ye have those soldiers here, I guess.”
“That is why. So deliver my expectations to whoever sent you. Tell him that I will be waiting to hear his plans for receiving the payment and delivering the prize. The auction is ten days hence. I want to settle this two days after that.”
He turned to her with a perplexed frown. “Did ye not hear me the last time, about watching that sharp tongue? I’ll say it nicer for ye, so it ain’t taken wrong.”
“Say it however you like, as long as you say it plainly enough to be heard right. Now I must lock this building, and those guards appear to think thrashing you would be fun, so you should probably leave.”
He left quickly enough, skirting around the guards as best he could while keeping a cautious eye on them. Emma waited until the door closed, then ran to it and opened it a crack to peer out.
She saw her visitor walking down the street at a casual saunter. She bid farewell to the guards, then nipped into her waiting carriage. She opened the panel behind the coachman.
“Mr. Dillon, do you see that man that just left, walking up ahead of you? Can you follow him, but at enough distance that he does not suspect you are on his trail?”
“I can try, Miss Fairbourne.”
“Then do try, please. I would like to know where he is going.”
They plodded along at a very slow pace. Emma resisted the urge to hang out the window to keep the man in view.
She saw the buildings of the Strand for a long while, then those that indicated they were in the City. It seemed to her that they turned north, but it was hard to tell in the winding streets of the old sections of London. She also saw the light changing, as evening stretched on toward night.
It must have been almost two hours of incremental movement before the carriage stopped completely.
“I fear that I have lost him, Miss Fairbourne. He turned down this street, then disappeared. Could be he entered one of these houses,” Mr. Dillon said.
Emma finally stuck her head to the window and looked out. Mr. Dillon angled around from his seat at the ribbons.
“You are sure he came here?” she asked, studying the houses.
“I’m sure. He might have suspected us, and nipped through a garden to another street, of course.”
She supposed so. She wished something about one of these houses indicated he had entered, though. They were average homes, narrow and tall, and appeared familiar in a general way. The people walking this street looked like so many others in the City—not poor, but far from comfortably situated too.
“Not as crowded this time,” Mr. Dillon said. “Even ne’er-do-wells have to eat supper.”
She looked up at him. “This time? Have you been here before?”
“Not here exactly. The next street over. Remember? That house with the blue door that I took you to—it is right down there, over one street.”
No wonder this neighborhood looked familiar. She was sitting within two hundred yards of Marielle Lyon’s printmaking studio.
Chapter 22
Torches flamed on both sides of Albemarle Street, illuminating the carriages lined up to release their occupants. Inside Fairbourne’s, Obediah Riggles prepared to perform as both auctioneer and exhibition hall manager.
Emma kept reassuring him that he would excel at the latter role, but a grand preview was not the night to find out if that were true. She hoped the presence of Herr Werner, who was not too proud to do a bit of hawking of his master’s paintings, would avoid having Obediah ever be stumped by questions he could not answer.
Society began entering the auction house. First a trickle, then a stream. Ladies in artistic turbans and narrow, diaphanous evening dresses posed on the arms of gentlemen dressed with more variety. Some wigs could still be seen among older men, as well as colorful frock coats. The younger ones sported the subdued garments and the short, classical Roman–cropped hair promoted by republican sentiments.
Emma wore a dress of dusty lavender with long full sleeves, and no jewels or feathers. This was not a social occasion for her, as such. Mourning did not prohibit her attendance, but she sought to appear appropriately sedate.
Cassandra had not been so constrained. Her jewels were a highlight of the auction, and she wore one of the most magnificent on her neck. The reds and blues of her new turban wrapped her dark crown, all of it set off by a huge white feather. She stood near the case holding the other jewels, smugly enjoying how society’s matrons had to acknowledge her in order to peer at the ric
hes.
Emma spied a large party outside the door. A man with them entered first. Tall, dark, and unnaturally beautiful, he held the door for the rest. He shared smiles and laughs with them while he eased the happy knot toward the walls, then turned and signaled for a member of the staff to bring them wine.
Leaving the party as smoothly as he had joined it, he approached Emma and bowed.
“Miss Fairbourne, you look to be triumphant tonight.”
“How nice of you to say so, Mr. Nightingale.”
He turned his attention to the mosaic of paintings. “They are as fine as your father ever procured.” He cocked his head, still watching that wall. “Mr. Riggles is having difficulties, however. I just heard him refer to the small portrait as by Gentile Bellini, not Giovanni.”
“An understandable error.”
“Not with a crowd such as this. I think that you badly need an experienced exhibition hall manager tonight.”
Pride made her want to disagree. She did not want Mr. Nightingale to be right about anything he had said to her after the last auction.
She looked for Obediah, and saw him surrounded by patrons. A most respected collector pointed at the Titian while he spoke. Obediah tried valiantly to appear confident and expert, but Emma could read the desperation in his eyes.
“Two guineas,” she offered. “For tonight and the auction. Also, while I may need a manager with this crush, I do not need a husband, Mr. Nightingale. I trust that your return means that you understand that.”
He laughed as if she had made a great joke. He appeared to have forgotten that he had ever proposed.
He turned and welcomed a viscountess who had always been one of his favorite rich birds. The flatteries flowed like molten sugar in both directions, but Emma suddenly lost all interest in the show. A most illustrious collector had just entered the auction house, and he commanded all of her attention.
Her heart rose to her throat. It remained there, blocking her breath. She had been waiting all night for Southwaite to arrive. She realized she had been waiting all week to see him again. The excitement that had maddened her today had not been only because of this party.
He was not alone. Two men accompanied him. One was the handsome man with blue eyes from the first auction. The other looked familiar too, but Emma could not remember where she had seen him.
Cassandra left her post by the jewels and hurried over. “You must be very charming to him, Emma, no matter what you think of his scandalous behavior toward you. He has brought two of his friends, and elevated the party in doing so.”
“Who are they?”
“The friendly one is Viscount Ambury, heir to the Earl of Highburton. The scowling, unpleasant one is Viscount Kendale.” Cassandra froze, and quickly turned her back on the trio. “Oh, dear. He is coming this way. Be brave, Emma.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, dear.” She hurried away.
Oh, dear. That was what Cassandra had said after learning about the ballroom. Three times she had said it. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.
Southwaite moved in Emma’s direction. He made slow progress. His name was on the catalogue sheets as a consignor, so he was one of the actors in this show even if the absent Count von Kardstadt was the leading man. Everyone wanted a word with him.
With each of his steps, a delicious anticipation took a stronger hold of her. Oh, dear.
“I trust you are not going to cut me this time,” he said when he finally greeted her.
“I never cut patrons who consign four superb paintings.”
“You only cut partners with a vested interest in what you are doing, then.”
“Only partners who might interfere with what I am doing.” She looked out on the crowd in the hall. “It may be the finest grand preview Fairbourne’s has seen. The count’s collection helped, as did the house guard standing outside all week, but I think many thanks go to you. Did you encourage attendance tonight?”
“I may have mentioned the auction in the course of conversation with some people, but curiosity about the doings here had a life of its own.” He accepted a glass of wine from one of the servants offering it to the guests. He sipped, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. He glanced to his left. “I see Mr. Nightingale has returned.”
“Only for tonight. He arrived when it was apparent the attendance would be in the hundreds, and poor Obediah could not manage, so I hired him on the spot.”
“You do not have to explain to me.”
As if he heard their conversation, Mr. Nightingale looked their way, caught Southwaite’s eye, and nodded, as if answering some question.
“That was odd. Did you tell him to come here this evening, Southwaite?” Emma asked.
“I might have suggested that he show up, and grovel a bit.”
“I would have preferred if you had spoken to me first. He left for a reason and—”
“Oh, good. A row. I have missed them.” He took her arm and guided her to the terrace door. “But not here, Emma. Discretion, remember? Come with me.”
She should have insisted that she could not leave, that she was needed in the exhibition hall. The flutters in her chest defeated any such objection. She allowed him to spirit her outside, and into the garden.
They were not alone. Patrons dotted the walks, taking some air, and conversation buzzed in the night. The lanterns on the terrace did not provide much light amid the plantings, however, and the dark offered some privacy.
“You needed Nightingale tonight. Since you were too proud to call for him, I devised a different strategy,” he said.
“I did not ask you to devise a—”
“I did not require your request, Emma. I am an investor, remember? A partner. My equal interests in this auction permit me to devise whenever I choose.”
His words penetrated her silly excitement. They entered her head and just sat there, in their fullness, with all their implications. She stopped walking and looked at him. She almost burst out laughing at her own astonishment. At the same time, however, deep discouragement killed her joy and turned her spirit tired and leaden.
“My own interests.” He was not only speaking of his four paintings. “I am an investor.”
She could not believe she had been so stupid.
In all of her plotting and calculations, as she estimated the auction’s income and subtracted the payments to consignors and agents, she had neglected to account for the most obvious and largest cost. Him.
Her father’s accounts had shown no such payments to his partner, but there had been many with no name at all. She should have assumed some were to Southwaite. If a man invested in a business, he anticipated some income from it.
Whatever Fairbourne’s made off this auction, Southwaite would receive half. More than half, since she had never given him his share from the last sale.
A glint moved in the dark, as he set down his glass on a stone bench. Emma rather wished she had not served the wine tonight. She could have sold it somehow, even if not at this auction. She could have gotten good money for it if its quality impressed both Cassandra and this earl.
“You are suddenly subdued, Emma.”
“I am reconciling myself to admitting that you were correct in anticipating that I would need Mr. Nightingale tonight. Within a half hour Obediah was a drowning man in that crowd.”
“Then you forgive me?” He said it as a tease, which meant he did not really require her forgiveness.
“You are an owner. I cannot even claim the rights of one myself. It is not for me to forgive.” Her mind kept racing through figures and likely commissions. She would not see three thousand, she was certain, after Southwaite was paid. She would possibly have fifteen hundred, however. She would just have to agree to do that favor.
Southwaite pulled her into the shadows behind some shrubbery. His arms surrounded her and all thoughts of auctions and figures flew from her mind.
“I am not only an owner and an investor, Emma. I was your lover. Have you forgotten that so quickly?” His fo
rehead touched hers, then his lips brushed her mouth. “Do I need to remind you?”
“I need no reminders about the past. However, you are not my lover now.” It needed saying, much as it pained her. He was pretending some understanding had been made, when she had agreed to nothing. Quite the opposite. Speaking plainly was much harder when your heart and blood urged you to say something other than what your mind decreed, however.
She felt his lips smile against her mouth. “My, how formidable you sound, Emma. If words won such engagements, you would always be the victor. I should retreat immediately, but that is hard to do when my arms are full of lovely, supple, feminine warmth.”
He had a good point. It felt very good in his arms, however. Friendly and safe and, yes, pleasantly arousing. The last purred lowly. “I am just proving that I can resist you.”
“This is not the way to prove it.”
To prove it better, to herself as well as to him, she placed her palms on his chest and slowly pushed back against his embrace. It was harder to do than she thought it would be. The purr did not like it at all. Nor did her heart, which ached with disappointment and resignation.
He released her. They shared a few awkward moments facing each other in the dark, saying nothing. She wondered if he weighed just how serious her resistance would be if he were more aggressive. She wondered too.
“I must return to the preview,” she said, lest she find out just how weak she was.
They emerged from behind the shrubs and aimed for the hall.
She stepped up to the terrace. She paused and cocked her head. “That is odd. It is suddenly very quiet in there.”
The exhibition hall might have been a church, it had grown so still. She noticed that they were all alone on the terrace now, and no patrons remained in the garden.
A sweet, plaintive sound snaked out the open window. It grew into a melody much like a cry from a human heart. Someone inside was playing a violin.
“It is my friend, Viscount Ambury,” Southwaite whispered. “He rarely plays for others. Perhaps once or twice a year, and it is never known when and if he will. But all who have heard him know that he rivals the best to be had in a concert hall.”
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 21