“Well, now, that be interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It were expected to be like this, but I said you would get the whole three if anyone could.”
“It appears those you work for understand more about the finances of auction houses than you do. Now, tell me the favor, or else tell me where to learn about it. Do not put me off, or you will take back not a penny.”
He looked over his shoulder and stretched to see the house. Neither caution was a good sign, and Emma steeled herself for a demand that she would not like at all.
Satisfied that he would not be heard, he spoke more clearly and soberly than he ever had previously. So clearly that Emma realized that Stupid Man was not nearly as stupid as she and Marielle thought.
“The favor would’ve been required, no matter how much ye pay, so in picking the fifteen hundred ye’ve cut yerself a bargain. Ye need to finish that which your father started,” he said. “It is to do that which he was doing when he took that bad step and fell.”
Chapter 26
Darius was half a mile from Fairbourne’s before he set aside the Raphael. A small painting, it rewarded close study. He decided that he would not hang it, but set in a case in the library so it could be held to close view just as he had held it for the last fifteen minutes.
The bulge in his coat crackled when he placed the panel on the opposite bench. He sat back and pulled out the packet of documents that Emma had given him.
It was a very complete provenance. Step by step, from the middle of the sixteenth century to that of the current one, the pages described the history of the painting’s ownership. There were references to documents and letters in support of the early claims, and to English inventories from the seventeenth century on.
The last entry, scribbled at the bottom of the final page, required deciphering because the ink had become blurred and faint, as if a liquid had dripped on it. It appeared to note that the painting had been offered at auction at Fairbourne’s fifteen years ago.
He held the paper to the window to make out the writing. It had been bought by count…No, it had been bought in on account. That meant the auctioneer had bid against his own patrons, to purchase the work himself.
He set down the documents, surprised, and lifted the panel again. Maurice Fairbourne had owned this. He was the esteemed gentleman from whose collection it came.
Why would Emma sell such a treasure? Prior to the count’s collection being consigned, it might have made some sense if she sought to enhance the auction’s offerings, or if she needed funds to maintain her household. By the time the auction was held, however, she knew that she would see enough from its proceeds to be secure for many months, and the Raphael, while a significant addition, was not essential anymore to garner prestige.
There was only one explanation that made sense. Like Lady Cassandra, and many of the other people who sent family heirlooms to auction, Emma must need money. A lot of it, if she sacrificed this painting.
He doubted she needed money for the normal reasons. There was no indication she gambled. It was possible she had run up debts at modistes and milliners, but he had not seen evidence of extravagance.
He could not ignore that she had been very secretive about this too. She might claim she sought only privacy in her personal finances by creating the ruse that an anonymous client consigned the Raphael. It was a lot of trouble to go through without a better reason than that, however.
He did not think he would enjoy this painting as much now. Something had coerced her to sell it, and he would think of that each time he viewed it.
He told his coachman to turn the horses and return to Fairbourne’s. He would give it back to her, as a gift. If she tried to refuse it, he would leave it at the auction house, so she had no choice.
He would not ask why she had done it either. Although he badly wanted to know, he suspected the answer would not reflect well on Fairbourne’s, or her father, and probably not even on her.
He called for the coach to stop before it arrived at Fairbourne’s door. Something had caught his eye that needed to be addressed first.
He put his head to the window and looked out. Tucked amid the horses tied nearby was a large chestnut. Its rider calmly hand-fed it pieces of an apple that he lazily cut with a small knife. The presence of that horse and rider here, ten doors down from Fairbourne’s, infuriated Darius.
“I told you not to follow her,” he said. “I told you to leave her alone.”
The owner palmed the rest of the apple under his horse’s mouth. When it was gone he walked over, set his elbows on the windows lower edge, and looked in. “I am not following her. I am not even watching her. That was to be your role, remember?”
“Then what the hell are you doing here, Kendale?”
“Maybe I am having a new coat made at that tailor there.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
It was Kendale’s way of pointing out that it was a public street and he could be here if he chose. Which it was. But Darius doubted Kendale had ordered a new coat in many months. Other things occupied his time and mind.
“Are you saying that you are not here because of Fairbourne’s?”
“I’m saying I did not come here because of her. If you are angry because she matters to you in some way, it may be good that you are here now too, though.”
“Why? Is she having another rendezvous with Marielle Lyon?”
“She did that yesterday. If you had been watching her like you are supposed to, you would know that.” A frowning scold formed. “You and Ambury have proven useless.”
Darius opened the door and stepped down. “That is because you are on a fool’s errand. It would be impossible to keep watch on every person in England around whom the vaguest rumors and suspicions fly. I will not insult law-abiding citizens to satisfy your—”
Darius broke off his speech when Kendale abruptly tensed and all but pointed like a hunting dog.
Darius followed Kendale’s sharp gaze to Fairbourne’s. A man walked along the side of the building, carrying a sack. The fellow wore ill-fitting clothes and a flat-brimmed, low-crowned hat.
“Who is he? A thief?”
Kendale shook his head. “He is very nonchalant for a thief. I do not know his name yet.”
“Why do you know him at all?”
“He visited Marielle Lyon two weeks ago. From the sharp words exchanged as he left, she threw him out. Since she spends most of her days in that studio she runs, I’ve left a footman to watch her and took to following this fellow instead some days.”
“Why?”
“Mostly because he smells wrong,” he said. “However, when Mam’selle Lyon threw him out, she castigated him soundly, in French. She said he was too stupid if he came to her, and would bring her nothing but more trouble. I thought that of interest. So I pick up his trail some days. He moves through town a lot.”
And now he had come here.
“Imagine my surprise to see him visit Miss Fairbourne,” Kendale added with exaggerated blandness. “It is probably just another coincidence, though.”
“You do not know he visited her. She may not be there.”
“She has not left since you did, and her carriage is still down the street. She is there.” The man in question was far down the street now. Kendale untied his horse and swung up into the saddle.
“You saw me leave?” Darius said.
“I did. Now, move, please. I think I will see where that sack is going.”
Kendale angled his horse away and proceeded down the street at a slow walk. From his height on horseback he would be able to see his quarry from a good distance.
Darius told his coachman to move down to Fairbourne’s. He reached in the carriage, removed the painting, and walked the short distance.
He had intended to require no information when he returned this, but he doubted he would be able to avoid a few questions now. For one thing, if Kendale had seen him leave half an hour ago, that meant Emma’s final visitor had led
Kendale to this street before that. The man had not been visible at Fairbourne’s while Darius settled his account, however.
The revelations troubled Darius more than angered him. Apparently Emma kept more secrets than he had guessed. Worse, perhaps whatever had been preying on her mind now preyed in other ways too.
The door to Fairbourne’s was unlocked. He looked down the street. Kendale was still visible, slowly pacing along. Emma’s carriage waited there too.
Darius let himself in. The exhibition hall, so recently crowded with paintings and luxuries, quaked with total emptiness now. He heard no evidence that anyone was here. Riggles had gone, it seemed.
He looked in the office for Emma, expecting to find her at the desk pouring over accounts. Instead he saw only the remnants of the auction’s revenue, a small heap of coins and drafts left out for the taking should he be a thief. He could not imagine Emma being so careless.
He set the painting against a wall in the hall and let himself out through the garden door. He saw her then, standing in the garden, unmoving and unseeing. Her expression reminded him of the passing preoccupation that claimed her at times, even in the aftermath of pleasure. Only now it owned her totally.
His questions about the Raphael did not matter much anymore. Nor did the coincidences that Kendale kept finding. She looked lost there, as if she did not have a friend in the world.
“Emma,” he said, so that maybe she would decide she had at least one.
She did not hear him. She did not notice him. She stood in the waning sunlight, her black dress stark against the backdrop of verdant leaves, frowning with dismayed worry. It was obvious something had happened within the last hour to distress her beyond her ability to contain her emotions.
What did she contemplate? Nothing happy. It affected her whole body and the way she hugged herself for warmth. It showed in her eyes. She saw nothing of her surroundings, but only her own thoughts, and those thoughts made her afraid. Very afraid.
He knew, just knew, that whatever haunted her right now was much bigger than a few lots of illicit goods auctioned at Fairbourne’s. And it had something to do with that man with the sack.
He did not call her name again. He did not think she would welcome his seeing her like this, or be relieved to share her burden. She had been carrying it for a while already, after all, and had never asked for his advice or help. She did not trust him with it. Perhaps she dared not.
He returned to the exhibition hall and hung the Raphael on the wall. Then he let himself out, and told his coachman to catch up with Kendale.
Emma did not move from the garden for a long while after she brought the money to her visitor. Waves of nausea plagued her and would not stop. Unpleasant shivers wracked her, but she did not feel cool. Rather the opposite. The illness centered in her heart, but it affected her in physical ways.
She would never call her visitor Stupid Man again. He had proven very shrewd. If anyone had been stupid, it had been her.
Not about everything. She had been smart enough not to share her problem with anyone. Even when tempted again and again to confide to Southwaite, she had held her tongue. Thank God for that.
This was turning out very badly. Any cooperation with smuggling would look like child’s play when it was done. Even if she did not miss a step, even if she had Robert in a reunion embrace a fortnight hence, she would never live down agreeing to what had been demanded.
A favor, they called it. Hardly a favor. She should have given more weight to Marielle’s revelations yesterday. The young French woman’s experiences had honed her perceptions well. What had she said? This stupid man will get me hanged if I am not careful.
If Southwaite learned of it, he would never forgive her. Should her acts be discovered, his alliance with her would instantly become the most dreadful mistake he had ever made. Even worse, Robert himself might turn from her. He would not want the guilt of being the reason for her actions.
When Robert wrote to her, had he guessed that his captors used him to lure first Papa and now her into crime and compromise, then betrayal and disloyalty?
She sat on a stone bench and hugged herself so perhaps she would not shake from the fear that would not fade. She heard her own thoughts and question. Already her mind tried to avoid naming what she would be doing.
Betrayal and disloyalty were hardly forthright descriptions of this “favor.” She would be bargaining for Robert’s life with nothing less than treason, and she would not spare herself the truth of that.
Twilight came while she sat there. Finally, Mr. Dillon walked into the garden.
“Will you be wanting to go home now, Miss Fairbourne? The horse needs feeding and water.”
She forced herself to her feet. “I have been inconsiderate. It has been a long day and we can all use feeding and water.”
Mr. Dillon thought that very funny. He followed her into the exhibition hall through the garden door, and waited while she went to the office and scooped what was left of the money into her reticule.
“Should I bring this?” he asked when she rejoined him. He pointed to the wall.
A painting hung there. Even in the dim light its blues and reds shone from an internal light. St. George slew his dragon once more, while a princess watched.
She looked around the exhibition hall, half expecting to see Southwaite emerge from a dark corner. He must have returned the painting and left at once.
He had probably deciphered the provenance, despite her efforts to make that hard to do. He would have realized this had been Papa’s and that she had sold it for herself.
Had he returned it out of sentimentality, so she might not lose one of Papa’s prized paintings? Or did he suspect where the money would go, and wanted to distance himself from being touched by it all?
“Yes, please bring it, Mr. Dillon. It is too valuable to leave here unguarded.”
In the carriage, she admired the Raphael for a few minutes, thinking it would be nice to have a St. George to slay her dragons. Then she set it aside, and began composing the letter she must write to Southwaite, to tell him that their personal alliance was over forever.
Chapter 27
Darius approached the massive house on Grosvenor Square at ten o’clock the next night. He would rather not knock on this door, but he could think of no other way to get answers to his questions quickly.
The first question would be settled in mere moments. Would he even be received?
A servant took his hat and another accepted his card.
“Please tell His Grace that I come on a matter of government,” Darius said.
He waited in the reception hall. The house seemed quiet. No sounds of a dinner party broke the silence, nor even those of footsteps. The duke must be at home, however, if the card had been borne away.
He fought to conquer his impatience. There was the chance he would be left here a long while with no response to his calling card. It would be a childish retaliation for all the cuts and silence, but dukes were allowed to indulge in pique.
It seemed like an hour before the servant returned, but on checking his watch he saw it had been only fifteen minutes. He was told His Grace would see him. He followed the periwigged servant up to the public rooms.
The Duke of Penthurst received him in the library. It appeared his host had been enjoying a quiet evening alone, reading in the company of two of his hounds.
He set aside his book as Darius was announced, then gestured to a chair facing his own. He stretched out his legs, crossed his boots, and dangled his hand to give the closest dog a scratch. He subjected Darius to a scrutiny that made his dark eyes appear even more hooded than normal.
“A matter of government, you said. Last I recall you were on the back benches on the wrong side.”
“I did not send up word that I brought you information about the government.”
“You want it to go the other way, in other words.”
“Yes.”
Penthurst found that amusing. Even a
s he smiled, his eyes lit with brittle lights. “Why would I be agreeable to that?”
No reason. Not anymore, at least. Not long ago he would do it in friendship, perhaps.
“It touches on that chain we were establishing on the coast.”
“Ah, yes, that. Did you ever manage it? That was a very ambitious plan.”
“You are nothing if not an ambitious man.”
“As I recall, it was a joint effort.”
“It still is, and it is now in place. It has been for more than a month. It has seen some success.”
“You refer to the prisoner you brought back from the coast with you, I assume.”
“You know about that?”
“Of course. Is that why you are here? I would suggest we toast your role in his capture, but he freely admitted only to being a smuggler. I could nab any fellow walking along a road in Kent and have an even chance of capturing one of those.”
“I had heard of that confession. I thought perhaps he later was more forthcoming.”
Penthurst gathered his limbs and leaned forward so he could scratch the head of his dog. The candles on the table with his book caught the sheen of the yellow silk ribbon that bound his old-fashioned queue at his nape.
“By later, I suppose you mean after he was tortured.” He looked up. “We might as well call it what it is.”
“Was it called that when you heard about it?”
“Of course not. We are a civilized people, so we never admit to such things.” He made himself comfortable again. “Officially, on his own, after due deliberation of his situation, the prisoner chose of his own free will to make a confession that would get him hanged as a spy. Your chain indeed worked, Southwaite.”
“It is not his confession that interests me, but his explanation, if he gave it, of how he expected it to go if it went well. When he claimed to be a smuggler, I am told he said he would be met onshore, for example.”
“In assuming I know anything more, you are assuming much.”
“I know you share my concerns about our special vulnerabilities. If you heard a spy had been taken, you would ask for the details, and get them.”
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 26