Admiral Fitzroy flickered his hand impatiently. “There’s always a market for advice for women. The poor creatures must fill their heads with something, and they clearly aren’t capable of following scientific or political journals.”
“I wouldn’t say that—”
“Oh, don’t give me a speech, Bancroft. There’s no point advancing the cause of women. They can’t vote, and their concerns will never be that of the government.”
The admiral shoved the article toward him. “Read this.”
Matchmaking for Wallflowers
How far the great have fallen.
Today marks the fourth occasion that a French expatriate has reported a theft. This time the French ambassador’s wife is wailing about stolen jewels.
We wonder how a country that was able to avoid our troops for so long, seems to lose track of its treasures with such apparent ease.
“You want me to recover…jewels?” The word felt strange in Arthur’s mouth. He’d saved lives, halted battles. Some compilation of gems, no matter how pleasurable the arrangement, seemed unimportant.
“Not just jewels,” the admiral said. “They’re considered art.”
Arthur had the curious sensation the admiral just desired to send him away, where he could no longer make suggestions for the ministers to do actual work to help the people.
“And they have been stolen from the French.” Arthur didn’t add that he wondered whether the admiral remembered the efforts they’d undergone to halt their attacks over the continent or to remind him of the vast number of lives lost in the war.
Aiding the French seemed an unusual occupation for the British government.
“The crimes have taken place on English soil. We can’t be seen to be sanctioning it.”
Jewel thefts seemed to pale in comparison with saving humanity from itself.
“I fail to see the importance of accessories—”
“I take it you’re not a jewel connoisseur.”
“I admire them as much as the next man. The same way I might notice a potted plant.”
“Well, we want you to observe much more than that.” Admiral Fitzroy pushed a stack of papers toward Arthur. “Let me brief you. All the jewels have been stolen from French owners who had been gifted them from the French government in the last fifteen years.”
“And you think the crimes are connected?”
“Indeed. They all used to belong to a Venetian family. The Costantinis.”
“When were the jewels sold to the French government?”
The admiral’s cheeks reddened. “They were spoils of war.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway,” the admiral continued, “France is complaining that some of the art from the very loftiest families—”
“I thought France had murdered all of them,” Arthur muttered.
“Not all,” Admiral Fitzroy said. “And most of these are, ahem, newer households of venerability.”
“Then they belong to the soldiers so good at killing that they received promotions and took over the land of the banished gentry.”
Admiral Fitzroy coughed. “Technically perhaps.”
Arthur shook his head. “Then I must inform you that I cannot help.”
“Look.” Admiral Fitzroy flushed. “Perhaps this task would have been deemed unconventional a few years ago—”
“Treasonous,” Arthur corrected him.
“Most certainly,” Admiral Fitzroy admitted. “Even so, France is our ally now, and we need to keep the peace. One way we can do that is to ensure that none of our people steal from the highest officials in French government.”
“You have reason to suspect an Englishman is involved?”
Admiral Fitzroy slid him a stack of paper. “Each theft takes place during a party in which Englishmen have been present.”
“It could be a clever French art thief.”
“Then you can find proof of that. There’s nothing I would favor more.”
“There’s only one piece of jewelry in the set that hasn’t been stolen. It’s located on the Côte d’Azur. Antibes.” The admiral smiled, and Arthur nodded.
“You’ll work with your French counterpart there. A Comte Jean-Louis Beaulieu. An important local minister. His—er—wife possesses the jewels.”
Arthur nodded. “I met her at a ball before.”
“Splendid.”
“Though why am I needed?”
“To show our goodwill,” Admiral Fitzroy said, speaking more slowly, as if Arthur might struggle with comprehending his words, when it was the decision that made Arthur wonder. It seemed odd that he’d been chosen. He wasn’t an art expert, though he was glad for the admiral’s trust in him.
“Very well,” Arthur said. “I will go there.”
“Splendid. And who knows? Perhaps you can find a wife in France,” the admiral said breezily.
*
After the admiral and he had exchanged bows, Arthur left Whitehall and settled into his carriage. His driver maneuvered the coach toward the direction of St. James Square.
It was eleven o’clock, and the ton was beginning to leave their townhomes, the women armed with frilly parasols and the men with glossy canes not meant to actually assist them over the pavement.
Debutantes in delicate pastel dresses, their sheer materials as impractical as their pale color, strode by, accompanied by their chaperones.
Marriage.
The only good thing about this assignment was the chance to leave London. The capital was swarming with marriage minded mothers who seemed to view him as ideal son-in-law material, despite his frequent assertions to the contrary.
He’d considered the act. One didn’t enter a ball in London without being overwhelmed with matchmaking mamas, stating their daughters’ accomplishments with detail only equaled by carriage salesmen.
But Admiral Fitzroy was right. The war had ended, and perhaps marriage did come with certain advantages. Perhaps he should take the first woman a calculating chaperone thrust upon him.
The traffic moved slowly as additional carriages flooded into the streets. The regent had decided that London lacked good architecture, and construction workers were busy tearing down centuries-old buildings in an effort to widen streets and rebuild them in a style more clearly hearkening to classical ideals. Personally Arthur would have imagined that making provisions to the tens of thousands of out-of-work soldiers would take a greater importance than the construction of goddess perching facades.
Finally his carriage halted. He rushed up the polished stone steps, hammered on the door until his butler answered, and nearly dragged his valet from the room.
“We’re going to France,” he shouted.
His valet gave a patient nod. “Then I shall pack, my lord.”
“Splendid,” Arthur said.
His valet returned to the room and laid out two trunks. The man was accustomed to sudden bursts of travel. No valet could work for him who didn’t have a strong stomach for choppy oceans and winding Alpine roads. Arthur left his valet in peace.
He paced the corridor. His apartment at St. James Square was magnificent, but he wanted more space. The building might be new, but it sat on a row of similarly elegant buildings. Each facade matched its neighbor’s.
Arthur had spent his childhood in the former colonies. He craved open space and vistas. London was dreary in comparison. There were too many people to remind him when he didn’t behave with utter propriety, scoffing at his carefully cultivated wild reputation, even though those same people seemed eager to marry him off to their female relatives.
And though he’d sworn at the time it wouldn’t upset him, there were too many men who’d pronounced themselves war heroes, even though Arthur knew that they’d spent the greater part of the war preparing to battle in luxurious camps filled solely with officers from the best families. No one knew of what he’d done, and he tired of the negative comparisons to his older brother who’d lost his leg at Waterloo. He hadn’t been idle during t
he war. While his brother had been pronounced a war hero at the Battle of Waterloo, Arthur had made sure the allies won the Battle of Paris, providing crucial information on Bonaparte’s strategy. He’d lowered the tensions in the West Indies, and had thwarted attempts for a Battle of Falmouth, Battle of Genoa, and a Battle of Antwerp.
He sighed.
He needed to learn more about the significance of the jewels. Were they really worthwhile as art? Would the thief have been someone sentimentally attached to the jewels? Had some historical person perhaps owned them? Or were their settings and shape more commonplace, and he would do best to look for any common thief?
He frowned. Who did he know who could help him? Percival’s wife was an accomplished expert in all things archaeological, and no doubt she could direct him to a person who might help.
But his brother and sister-in-law were now in Italy. He frowned.
Madeline.
The name came into his head, unbidden and certainly unwanted.
Lady Mulbourne, he reminded himself. He’d used her first name in a fit of sentimentality. But that had been ages ago, before he’d started helping Whitehall, and certainly before he’d known better.
He didn’t want to call on Lady Mulbourne, even if he had noticed she was in London. If he called on her they might discuss the past. And he didn’t want to be reminded of his youthful naivety.
Perhaps he could simply learn everything himself. He was intelligent. He could manage it.
Except—
He had the vague idea that he would actually benefit from listening to any insight she had. Lady Mulbourne’s late husband had been a talented art theorist. Everyone had known it.
“How much longer?” he asked his valet.
“Two hours, my lord.”
He had just time to call on her. The visit might be dashed awkward, but personal feelings could be set aside. He’d always done so before.
Chapter Three
“The Marquess of Bancroft to see you,” Grove announced.
Arthur is here?
Madeline set down her quill. “Is he with his brother?”
“It would not appear so, my lady.”
“Perhaps they’re following in a separate carriage.”
“Perhaps,” Grove said, in a manner that indicated he deemed that possibility unlikely. “I did not, though, hear any signs of a carriage.”
“Then I suppose you must send him in.”
The butler bowed and left the room.
Madeline pulled down the cover of her desk, removed her perpetually half-finished embroidery from a drawer, and strode to the sofa. Titian would have to wait. She settled on the cushions and feigned interest in stitching turquoise plumes on a peacock. She’d need to start a new embroidery project soon, lest the servants wonder why she’d never gotten further than an inch of the peacock’s vibrant tail.
Likely the man simply wanted ideas on a birthday present with which to gift Percival. Perhaps even an anniversary present for him and his wife. Fiona was her cousin.
He needn’t bother to visit.
Fiona liked anything that dealt with stones. Preferably those shaped into objects and buried centuries ago.
If only Gabriella were not out. For the first time she wished she lived with more than a single companion. A flurry of disapproving aunts, scowling through quizzing glasses, would be perfect now.
Steps sounded outside, and she smoothed her hair and dress hastily.
She hadn’t been alone with the marquess for years, and she didn’t want him to ponder any creases on her afternoon gown.
Even if this visit would in no manner resemble those earlier ones.
She was no longer a debutante, and Arthur certainly was no longer even feigning the interest of a suitor.
Grove cleared his throat, having at some point obviously determined that his most guttural sounds denoted politeness, and announced the marquess.
Arthur entered the room and swept into a cursory bow. “Lady Mulbourne.”
The words seemed unfamiliar on his lips, and she wondered whether it was her imagination, or if the man truly did scowl.
Likely my imagination.
The man’s presence seemed to inspire it to no end.
Madeline was too conscious of dark hair that swept over his brow in an elegant manner and deep blue eyes that were far too easy to become lost in.
He seemed to have grown more muscular, and his gaze didn’t linger on her.
She forced her face to remain pleasantly placid and darted her glance to the embroidery.
Not that it was any use.
Sun rays splashed through the lace curtains, and crowned him with light. Even the velvety fabric of his navy tailcoat seemed to gleam, as if urging her to touch it.
Likely many women did just that.
The man’s long legs invaded the carpet, and he tapped his fingers against the sides of the chair. The room had always seemed satisfactorily large, but now it seemed claustrophobic. Arthur’s presence seemed to overwhelm the carefully chosen furniture and paintings.
He leaned toward her. “I need to speak with you. In private.”
Grove’s expression flickered worry before he inhaled. “I shall inform the housekeeper to fetch tea.”
Arthur sighed. “We don’t need—”
“Tea is a necessity,” Grove said sternly and left.
Grove’s protective urges calmed her.
“Thinks he’s going to find us unclothed when he gets back?” Arthur laughed and then stopped. “That was perhaps…unnecessary.”
Perhaps he recalled their time seven years ago too. Well. It couldn’t be entirely shocking that he’d retained some semblance of a memory.
“It’s been a while,” Arthur said softly. He looked at her embroidery and wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you find that tiresome?”
“It’s delightful,” she lied.
“Hmph.” Disapproval emanated through his voice. How did the man’s murmurs seem to speak so directly to her?
It didn’t matter.
He could think her interests boring. Everyone did. Even her cousins.
It served her purpose if she could be dismissed as a silly member of the ton. Even though she was a widow, and allowed more freedom than most women of her class, people thought her too conscious of the rules to willingly break any of them. Those same people were happy to laud Lord Mulbourne’s knowledge of art, not noticing he’d had no interest in the subject before his marriage.
Arthur’s expression remained disapproving. The fact was not unusual. The man never seemed to find it improper to cast dismissive glances in her direction, when he’d been the one to abandon her.
She sighed.
Somehow it was different if Mrs. Smythe or Lady Jones thought her interests conventional while happily chatting over flower arrangements. She didn’t desire for Arthur to think her interests tedious. He’d been the first person to truly understand her, and his presence seemed to tarnish their memories.
Never mind.
The thought was ridiculous. Naturally the man hadn’t thought highly of her, even then. He’d left.
She strode to the window. Far better to focus on the clomping of horse hooves over the cobbled street, and the flowers that distinguished the rows of white houses from one another, than to linger on Arthur’s comment. “Why are you here, Lord Bancroft?”
A look of embarrassment passed over his face, and a prickle of anger traversed her.
“I suspect you are not here in a fit of delayed romanticism?” she asked.
The look of embarrassment on his face deepened, and she continued. “I know some men suffer from tardiness, but seven years is surely overly excessive for even the most nonchalant. Am I to perhaps assume you were called by a sudden urge of friendship? Because your brother married my cousin years ago, and though I’ve met your stepsister and sister, and even dear heavens your mother frequently, I’ve never seen you.”
He shifted his legs, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. G
ood. The man didn’t deserve comfort.
She’d been silent years ago, but she was older now. She didn’t need to hesitate, compelled to hope that his silence might be explained away and unwilling to encumber him with typical female expressions of frustration.
All women knew that men could be easily frightened, that invitations to meet a woman’s parents might yield sweat and indigestion. Men prided themselves on their logic, but she’d never met people less prone to it. They seemed to equate a quiet tea with a woman’s aunt and uncle with marital bells.
“It’s a shame to end your years-long habit of avoiding me with coming here yourself.”
“Look.” Arthur raked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about the past. I didn’t know you wanted my friendship—”
“I don’t.” She forced herself to smile sweetly and pushed her needle through the fabric.
“Perhaps you’ll be more effective using thread.”
She gazed down. She’d failed to thread her needle.
Arthur had always been agonizingly observant. Not a quality she associated with men.
Warmth invaded her cheeks, but she reached for her thread.
“I wanted to ask you a question,” Arthur said.
“Go ahead.”
At one point the statement might have made her heart skip. But that had been in the past. Before she’d learned that Arthur had left London in the middle of the night, without even telling her.
“There have been a series of jewelry thefts. I wondered if I might discuss them with you.”
Her back stiffened, and the moisture in her mouth seemed to have vanished. She coughed and forced her voice to sound even. “How curious.”
“I think so.” Arthur’s tone remained serious. “All the pieces belonged to a set, and they were all stolen from disparate regions over a two year period.”
She tried to laugh again. “I suppose everyone loves pretty things.”
Normally her girlish voice worked. Normally people thought her naive and unintelligent, two qualities that suited her. That’s why she’d been so successful at pretending her late husband had written books on art instead of her. They’d made a bargain soon after their wedding, and only occasionally did she wonder if she’d been foolish to publish all her work on art theories under his name. All the same, it had seemed to make sense at the time. It still did. No one cared what a woman thought about Michelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci, but everyone seemed to find an aristocrat’s opinion fascinating.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 2