“A noble ambition, Mr. Pimm, and an impressive philosophy. I would like ver y much to view more of your wares.”
Mr. Pimm smiled broadly. “This way, please.”
He led Jason through a small archway to a larger room which was crammed with furniture, rugs, statues, paintings and numerous fine porcelain pieces laid out on a long table. The vases, some encrusted with jewels, glittered in the morning sunlight that poured through the windows at the back of the shop.
Jason’s keen eye carefully sur veyed the porcelain, taking particular time with each one, hoping to find something that looked familiar. Yet as he feared, there was nothing. Once again, he wished he had paid more attention to his father’s attempts at educating him on the nuances of various antiquities and the treasures in their family’s personal collection.
“I see nothing here of interest,” Jason remarked in a regretful tone. “I know you fellows often buy shipments of goods in lots. Perchance, are there any additional pieces available from the lot you sold Mr. Bartwell?”
Mr. Pimm lowered his eyes and said nothing for several seconds. “Objects as rare as a Yuan vase are sold as single items.”
“From a particular source?”
Mr. Pimm’s chin jerked up. “I receive my stock from numerous sources. Estate sales, other dealers, independent traders.”
“And ask few questions, I’ll wager, as to how those items came up for sale,” Jason said dryly.
“Are you implying that I am selling stolen property, sir?”
“Are you?”
Mr. Pimm started to raise his beefy fist, seemed to think better of it, and instead clasped his hands securely behind his back. “I did not catch your name, sir.”
“I did not give it.” Jason reached into his pocket and removed a leather purse, fat with coins. “I would be most obliged, Mr. Pimm, if you would check your receipts for more information about the vase. I am especially interested in the name of the individual who sold it to you.”
Mr. Pimm’s brow was furrowed with caution. His eyes darted from the purse to Jason’s face, then back to the purse. “I want no trouble, sir. The success of my business relies heavily on my discretion. If I lose my reputation, I could easily lose my best customers.”
“And your best suppliers. I do understand, Mr.
Pimm. I have no desire to probe too deeply into your business affairs. Provide me with the information on this one item and I give you my word I shall not trouble you again.”
Mr. Pimm’s face became taut. “It might take some time for me to locate what you need. Alas, my record keeping is not as detailed it should be.”
Judging by Mr. Pimm’s tidy appearance, Jason knew the man was lying. “I pride myself on never having paid more for something than I thought it was worth. I am offering you a substantial sum for accurate information.
This is my best, and final, offer. You would be wise to take it.”
Mr. Pimm seemed torn, sliding several quick, subtle glances at the purse Jason held so tantalizingly close. “If you will return tomorrow afternoon, sir, there is a good chance I will have what you requested.”
“An hour.”
“Sir—”
“I will return in one hour.” Jason turned away, allowing himself a small, triumphant smile. He jammed his hat on head and strode from the shop, calling out loudly over his shoulder. “Pray, do not disappointment me, Mr. Pimm.”
Jason returned in forty-five minutes, too jitter y to enjoy browsing the many other shops or strolling the busy streets in the fine weather. His arrival sent the clerk scurrying for his boss, who emerged from the back room with a scowling expression.
“’Tis barely an hour,” Mr. Pimm protested, letting out a huff of frustration.
“You could not keep such poor records and make a tidy profit,” Jason replied. “I therefore decided your accounts were in much better condition than you indicated.”
He held out his gloved hand expectantly and Mr.
Pimm reluctantly dropped a folded piece of paper into Jason’s waiting palm. The bag of coins Jason offered in exchange quickly disappeared into Mr. Pimm’s front pocket.
Too anxious to wait, Jason unfolded the note and read it. His brow furrowed in confusion. The name and address of this particular dealer was located in London.
“You are certain this is correct?”
“Yes.” Mr. Pimm flushed. “Rare items often change hands through several dealers before they are bought for a personal or private collection.”
Damn! It did make sense that a stolen item would most likely be moved before it was offered for sale. It was probably just bad luck for the thieves that the vase ended up back in York, so close to its original location. Disappointed, Jason turned to leave, but near the exit his eye was drawn to a painting hanging on the far wall.
He moved closer to examine it further, his heart pounding with recognition at each step. Not overly large, the scene depicted a lady in a dark gown trimmed with fur and a gable headdress, surrounded by her six young children, who were also elegantly garbed.
Jason leaned over and consulted the signature in the far left corner, confirming what he already knew. The portrait was done by the great artist Hans Holbein, court painter to Henry VIII.
As an adult, Jason could now appreciate how perfectly balanced the composition of the subjects were, but when he viewed it so often as a child, it had been the two young boys who impishly clutched their mother’s skirts that had fascinated him so utterly. They were twins, just like Jason and his brother.
They were also his ancestors. And for as long as he could remember, this portrait had hung in his parents’
home. They had given it to his brother several years ago on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday and he had proudly placed it in the portrait gallery at Moorehead Manor.
“That picture, did it come from the same London dealer as the vase?” Jason asked, his tone sharp.
“You said there would be no more questions, sir,” Mr.
Pimm declared, his voice rising in panic. “You gave your word.”
“Is it the same dealer?” Jason repeated, his temper heating.
Mr. Pimm glanced around nervously, refusing to meet his gaze. To Jason’s credit, he was able to exercise some restraint on his temper as he repeated the question a third time.
“It was the same London dealer,” Mr. Pimm grudgingly admitted.
“Did you get it in the same lot as the vase?”
Mr. Pimm stared at him in stoney silence and Jason allowed the fury he was feeling to blaze from his eyes as he stared back.
“They were different lots,” Mr. Pimm said after a long moment. “The painting arrived a few weeks ago.”
Jason raised his arm and pointed it around the shop.
“Show me everything else from this dealer.”
Mr. Pimm hesitated, but the withering glare Jason sent his way loosened his attitude. Silently he led Jason through the shop. There were no additional items Jason recognized, but since he did not keep a running inven-tory of the contents of his brother’s home, it was possible some of them were Jasper’s possessions.
“Wrap up the painting,” Jason demanded. “I’m taking it with me.”
Mr. Pimm sputtered with indignation. “I have two customers who have shown great interest in it. I must give them an opportunity to place a bid before I allow you to purchase it.”
With a grunt of annoyance, Jason lifted the portrait in his arms. “I will not give you another farthing, Mr. Pimm.
I know that this item was stolen and I intend to return it to its rightful owner. You should consider yourself most fortunate that I am a man of my word and will therefore drop the matter, as I promised.”
Cradling the painting in his arms, Jason strode from the shop, his boot-heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor. His earlier plans to enjoy a few of the sights of the city before starting his journey back instantly vanished.
He returned to the inn and arranged for the painting to be de
livered to the manor house by the next day.
As the sun began to slowly set two nights later, he found himself sitting in the long portrait galler y at Moorehead Manor, a near-empty glass of brandy in his hand, staring intently at one particular painting.
He conceded that whoever painted it had talent. If he had not so recently seen the original, he would never have suspected this was a fake. But as he scrutinized it closely, he saw this copy lacked the maturity and depth of the original. Even with the inclusion of all the intricate details, exactly replicated, the subtle ability to render the inner character of the subjects was missing.
Jason finished the rest of the brandy and sighed. First the vase, then the painting. Not only was someone stealing money from the estate, they were also stealing objects. And replacing them with high-quality fakes. This new revelation brought another troubling dimension to the problem, forcing Jason to rethink his strategy.
It would now be necessary for him to not only catch the culprit, but he must do so in a way that would force him to confess or else there would be no chance of recovering whatever other originals had been taken from the manor house.
The coach bounced along the ruts in the road and turned onto the narrow stretch that would bring them to the Ellingham’s home. A bend in the road sent Gwendolyn swaying sideways and Jason felt the softness of her arm briefly press against his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she murmured before setting some distance between them again. “I would move to the other side of the carriage next to Dorothea, but riding with my back to the horses always makes me queasy.”
“I share the same malaise,” he replied.
Her mouth quirked in the barest hint of a grin. “Gracious, who would ever believe that you and I share the same problem, my lord?”
“Who indeed?”
They lapsed again into silence, the moonlight peeking through the thick forest of ash and elm trees. Jason lifted his hand to his jaw and thoughtfully stroked his thumb and forefinger over the stubble that had started to form, despite a close shave in the late afternoon.
Tonight they had attended a musical evening at the Pruit house, where several of the local ladies showcased their vocal talents. Gwendolyn and Dorothea had also participated and Jason thought they made an excellent showing. Dorothea sang an Irish ballad in a clear, pleasant voice while Gwendolyn accompanied her on the harp.
Jason thought Gwendolyn looked like a raven-haired angel as she played, her graceful fingers plucking the correct notes with skill and emotion. The ivory lace over the deep blue gown she wore set off the delicate beauty of her pale, flawless skin. The sparkle of the gold and diamond chain that graced her neck and matching earrings swinging gently from her ears added a touch of elegance and sophistication that he found so irresistibly appealing.
Since their aunt and uncle had left early, Jason had been the girl’s carriage escort. Gwendolyn and Dorothea had taken turns engaging him in quiet conversation as the journey to their home started, but their conversation had dwindled and then ended completely. As the miles passed, no one seemed especially eager to introduce a new topic.
Jason could not help but remember the first time he had been alone with the Ellingham sisters—that night in his bedchamber. Dorothea in his bed and Gwendolyn standing beside it, hell-bent on rescuing her sister from certain ruin. Even in that most bizarre moment, something had drawn him to Gwendolyn. Fate?
“The moon shines most brightly tonight,” he muttered.
His voice seemed to startle Gwendolyn from her private thoughts. Her head turned swiftly in his direction, then she glanced very briefly out the carriage window. “The moon is nearly full and there is not a cloud in sight.”
“Ah, a logical explanation instead of a romantic one.
You disappoint me.”
She turned her gaze toward him, as he had hoped, but her expression was nearly blank, as if her features were carved from stone. Normally, her eyes would reveal her mood, but they lacked the usual warmth and friendli-ness. The only thing he was certain about was that she did not look especially happy.
Jason cursed under his breath. This was all his fault.
He never should have kissed Gwendolyn. Believing him to be a married man, the gesture had thrown her into confusion and had placed a distance between them he was growing to hate. Her restrained demeanor was like a cold wall of formality between them.
These days, whenever he was with her, he fought a constant battle to reveal his true identity. Yet something unexplainable held him back and Jason forced himself to listen to this inner note of self-preservation, since it had kept him from real harm for all these years.
He knew now those kisses had been a serious error in judgment. Gwendolyn obediently and pleasantly accompanied him on any outing he suggested, but she never ventured anywhere without a chaperone by her side.
And while a part of him applauded her practical nature and diligent quest to maintain her newly discovered reputation, he was frustrated, for he never had a chance to be alone with her. He wanted to talk with her, laugh and tease her, learn more about who she was and what made her happy. But most of all he wanted to do whatever was necessary to stop her from stiffening every time he drew close to her.
Even when he tried so hard to be a gentleman, she tempted the hell out of him. He had never been drawn to the demure, virginal young misses who lined up at every society event searching for a husband. Gwendolyn was a strange mix of innocence and maturity and her straightfor ward manner of speaking her mind was an odd aphrodisiac.
It made him think of seducing her with slow kisses and soft touches, wooing her with gentle words and truthful flattery. But this was an impossibility as long as he portrayed his married brother. Hell, even if he were still single, the real Viscount Fairhurst would hold tight to the strictest proprieties.
Jason could not help but think again at what a dull and boring life his brother must have lead before he married.
Jason knew that Jasper would have never been bold with a single female, would not even hold her hand, her gloved hand, much less steal a kiss or two.
He turned his head and sighed, Gwendolyn’s scent teasing at his nostrils. Jason thought again of the evening they had just spent together and conceded he had learned nothing new about the residents of the community or Cyril Ardley. The biggest relief was that he had thankfully not seen any other objects belonging to his brother.
He still firmly believed the estate steward was at the heart of the problem, but at this stage the trail had gone cold. There seemed to be nothing more to learn from the locals, thus making it no longer necessary to attend these society events. The next logical step was to visit the London antique dealer, to learn more about how the dealer came across the vase and the painting.
But if he left Moorehead Manor, he would be leaving Gwendolyn. And that he was not yet prepared to do.
Gwendolyn twitched at her skirts to neaten the folds and Jason shifted his position, closing the distance between their bodies. They were riding in the estate coach this evening, an older model not nearly as elegant or new as the one Jason had brought from London. The interior lamps were not as large, but the dimly lit compart-ment cast an almost romantic hue over its passengers.
Not that Gwendolyn needed any trick of the light to showcase her looks. He was drawn to her unique combination of boldness and beauty, yet Gwendolyn behaved as if she were unaware of her good looks. The honest lack of artifice intrigued him. Many would call her younger sister’s wide-eyed innocence and delicate blond coloring preferable, but Jason disagreed.
In his mind, Gwendolyn was the more breathtaking female, with her sable hair and vivid brown eyes, her flawless skin and full mouth, those luscious lips begging to be kissed. It seemed that whenever he was near, he felt a flash of heat that made him burn to get her in his bed.
Disturbed by these persistent thoughts, Jason cleared his throat. Though he had honestly tried, he had not been able to divest himself of the vividness of his sexual fantasie
s and the need to make them a reality was becoming almost unbearable.
Yet he admitted that this desire went beyond a sexual satisfaction. Somewhere deep inside lurked the intense desire to know Gwendolyn as well as he knew himself.
“Do I have a smudge of dirt on my face, my lord?”
“Jason,” he responded automatically, glancing over at Dorothea, who was dozing and lightly snoring. “Dorothea is nearly asleep, so it is safe. We agreed that when we are alone, you would call me Jason.”
“What I call you has no bearing on why you are staring at me,” she answered.
“I admire beautiful women.”
“Then you should gaze at Dorothea.”
“I prefer you.”
“Nonsense.” Her face went carefully blank. “Everyone knows that Dorothea is the beauty of our family,” she said, her voice soft, with but a hint of bittersweet emotion laced in it.
He wanted to argue the point with her. He wanted to enumerate all the reasons he preferred her looks, her personality, to her sister’s. But he held his tongue.
Jason looked out the window and noticed they had reached a particularly isolated and empty stretch of road. The stillness of the night was suddenly shattered when something that sounded like a shot rang out, reverberating in the silence. The carriage careened from side to side, lurched, then jerked sharply to the left. It rolled a few more feet, then stopped.
Gwendolyn jerked upright. Her heartbeat faltered, then took off racing. She could hear the coachman shouting, his voice alarmed.
“What’s happening?” Dorothea cried, her eyes blinking with sleep and fear.
“I think we have been waylaid,” Lord Fairhurst replied calmly. “By a highwayman.”
“In Willoughby?” Dorothea squeaked.
“Apparently crime knows no borders.” The viscount reached beneath the seat, then cursed softly.
“What? What else is wrong?” Gwendolyn asked.
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