Gareth took the glass and sipped. “Are they to anyone’s? I cannot sell what no one will buy.”
“Perhaps you can locate a rich industrialist with bad eyesight. Or you can lie and claim they are the finest paintings dabbed in the last two decades.”
“Only if we speak of works done by Spanish nuns. All those pastel fat cherubs and heaven-gazing saints with their palms of martyrdom— Do you think Percy was a secret dissenter?”
“That would require him to have had principles of some kind, would it not?”
Gareth almost choked. Ives sucked in his cheeks.
“Oh, hell,” Ives sighed. “It won’t do to be speaking ill of the dead. Not now. We would not want the servants to see us as anything but suitably mournful. Reports of raucous glee might be misunderstood. God forgive me, Gareth, he was my brother—but when I got the news in London, it was all I could do not to throw open the window and shoot a few pistol balls into the sky to celebrate.”
“I’ll wager you didn’t only because the sound would have frightened your actress friend. How is she?”
“Expensive.”
Gareth assumed that affair would end soon. “Why would reports of our mood be misunderstood? I assume no one believes he was well loved.”
Ives turned very sober indeed. “It was possibly murder, Gareth. You surely heard. Even the papers allude to it.”
“Were you hoping I was in England that day and eyes would turn to me?”
He got a sharp look for that. “Eyes had already turned. Inquiries are afoot in London to learn your whereabouts. So it is a damned good thing you were out of the country. I am truly relieved to have one fewer brother to protect with my lawyer’s eloquence.”
They stood there, glasses in hand, drinking the brandy.
“Where were you that day?” Gareth asked.
“In London. In court during the day and at a dinner party at night. I am of no interest to the magistrate.”
They each took another swallow.
“And Lance?”
Ives let out a deep, long breath. “He was here. He was right in this damned house.”
“Indeed I was,” a voice said.
Gareth looked over his shoulder. Lance had just entered the library, appearing his formidable, unconventional self. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dressed in arrogance and sharp intelligence as surely as black coats and boots, he flashed a smile that stupid men misunderstood as friendly. He had not shaved today, and the rough growth on his face emphasized rather than hid the long, thin scar on his right cheek.
He strode over, clapped a welcoming grasp on Gareth’s shoulder, then helped himself to some brandy. He faced them cup in hand.
“Pity I did not have the courage to do it. I think we are all in agreement, gentlemen, that Percy was a terrible excuse for a human being who sowed sorrow wherever he went. Let us toast him in death for the years of misery he will never now create.”
“You must stop saying things like that,” Ives snapped, slamming down his own glass. “A modicum of discretion is in order at least.”
“He is worried they will hang me,” Lance said to Gareth. His tone contained indifference to Ives’s concerns, or anyone’s opinion.
“I am not worried they will— Damn it, do you want people to wonder your whole life, should no culprit be found?”
“Hell if I care. As Duke of Aylesbury I expect I could survive a few cuts.”
“Listen to me. I do not expect you to weep over his grave, just try not to dance on it. Damnation, a man has died, and it is incumbent on his closest relatives to at least show some seriousness, lest eyebrows rise.”
“He is right,” Gareth said, working his face into an expression suitably glum. “A man has died, as he said.”
“Of course I am right,” Ives intoned.
Lance lowered his eyelids and smoothed away the smile. Feature by feature he created a mask. “More like this?”
“Yes, much better,” Ives said.
“Hellishly uncomfortable. It will take too much thought to keep it up.”
“Yet you must. Think of me inheriting everything after you swing. That should keep that grin in check.”
“Don’t they have to prove there was a murder before accusing someone of murder?” Gareth asked.
“The damned physician wrote up that he was possibly poisoned,” Lance said. “Hell, wouldn’t you think that if the man paying you is dead, you would be currying favor with the man who will pay you next, and not create drama by putting in writing there may have been a murder? That scribble was enough to stir the pot, and to support the accusation should other facts become known.”
“Which will not happen,” Ives said. “There are no other facts. There was no murder. Percy ate something that was tainted, or succumbed to a long-festering malady of the gut. That is our story, gentlemen. The magistrates are on a fool’s errand, and the coroner is making much ado about nothing.”
Still wearing his sobriety, Lance threw himself into a chair, lounging in the bored, languid pose that so clearly communicated both his arrogance and ennui with life. Gareth thought he appeared thinner, and somewhat haggard. He could not tell if current events caused that, or if it only reflected a long period of hedonistic excess prior to Percy’s death. They none of them had reputations as saints, but Lance also could not be bothered with discretion or restraint.
For a few minutes Lance’s vision turned inward, but then he focused attention on Gareth. “Perhaps you should give the eulogy, Mordred. You were the first to see all he could be.”
“Do not be perverse,” Ives scolded. “And I trust you are not going to pick up using that nickname for Gareth.”
“If you want, I will do it,” Gareth said. “As for how he addressed me, Ives, he is only reminding me of how eloquent my eulogy could be if I am given a free hand.”
Mordred had been Percy’s name for him. Resentful that their father had graced a bastard with the name of one of King Arthur’s knights, just like his legal children, Percy had decided a more appropriate one was in order. The conceit of those names had been the duchess’s idea. The duke’s using it on his bastard, too, had been an insult to her that just kept cutting.
“I am joking of course. You can be a pallbearer at the interment if you like. If you prefer to decline that is understandable.”
“I will watch it the way I watched my father’s funeral, from afar, if you do not mind.”
Lance threw back the rest of his brandy. “Hell, no, I don’t mind. I think I will ride. Waiting for something to happen is driving me mad. I would suggest we all visit a brothel, but Ives here has insisted we must pretend to be too sad for pleasure.”
He strode from the library. Ives watched him go, then turned and aimed for the garden doors. “Come walk with me, Gareth. I need to speak to you on another matter.”
* * *
“He laughs at the danger, but he is no fool. It is unlikely that he will ever be formally accused—he is now a duke, after all—but the shadow can follow him forever.” Ives spoke between puffs on a cigar. Ives smoked only when agitated. That he had resumed the habit said he was concerned about recent events and not assuming it would all turn out well.
“I expect his reputation does not help.” Lance had been a hell-raiser as a young man. Being the spare had made him more reckless than Ives, or even Gareth. A darkness lived in Lance, too, its origins unknown to Gareth. Not a criminal darkness, however. The notion Lance would poison anyone, let alone his own brother, could not be taken seriously.
“What truly does not help is that he cuckolded one of the magistrates,” Ives said. “The man knows it and will not let this chance pass, duke or no duke.”
Gareth had to laugh. “Remind me, should I be tempted, never to bed the wife of a man who can give me legal trouble.”
“As if you would listen any more than he would. I must remain here with Lance and play the lawyer to his incorrigible client. I do not want him doing or saying something while in his cups that only makes
it worse, and I want to keep informed of the thinking of those who are looking to make trouble.”
“That sounds wise.”
“Wise, but inconvenient. I was supposed to go north to investigate something, and now I cannot. I thought perhaps you might indulge me and take my place.”
Gareth hesitated. Ives often served as the Crown’s prosecutor in serious crimes. The something he needed to do up north might involve confronting dangerous men. While Gareth acquitted himself well enough in such situations, he was not inclined to seek them out, let alone for third parties unnamed.
Besides, he had his own mission now.
“I had thought to remain here for a few days at least, after the reinterment. I hope to speak with Lance.”
“That property is on your mind, of course. How could it not be. If you do this for me, I will plead your case for you, and convince him to drop the matter entirely. I do not believe it will take more than a few minutes and a few words, once I bring his attention to it.”
Ives had tried that with Percy, to no avail. Gareth thought Ives a brilliant lawyer, but property had a way of bringing out the worst in men.
“Furthermore,” Ives said. “This business I speak of is in the region of that lodge. I will get Lance to agree to allow you to use the house while you are there. You can begin settling in.”
Suddenly Ives’s proposal had appeal. “What is the matter you need me for?”
“A collection of art has gone missing.”
Not only appeal now, but real interest. “Whose collection?”
“It was not owned by one person. Rather, it comprised works owned by a number of people.”
“Which people?”
“No one important. Only half of the members of the House of Lords.”
* * *
“It was during the war,” Ives said. He and Gareth now sat on a bench beneath a tree. “Right around 1800. Everyone worried about invasion. You probably remember how it was then, even though we were boys. Napoleon already had the reputation for cultural rape. He picked out the best art and sent it back through the lines, to France. A number of very prominent lords took to worrying about the art in their manor homes. Their wives and daughters might suffer the worst, but, by George, their paintings would not end up in some French palace.”
“You say it like a joke, but a lot of art was looted by the French.”
“As it has been by every army down through time. Napoleon’s methodical looting distressed these lords, however. The Corsican brought experts with him who knew what they wanted. It was assumed he knew which families here owned what, and had a list ready. Any house gallery between the coast and London was considered vulnerable. So they hit on a solution to foil him.”
“Move the art,” Gareth guessed.
Ives nodded. “The best of the best got crated up and moved north, to the center of England, to await the end of the war. Only when that day came, and those who organized this went to retrieve it, it was not there.”
“Stolen?”
“It is not being called theft yet.”
“Where was it stored?”
“That is where it gets delicate. The repository was a property owned by the Duke of Devonshire.”
“Delicate puts a fine point to it. No wonder there has been no rumor or gossip about this. To say it was stolen insults a very powerful man.”
“There has been mild criticism about his vigilance. Nothing more. No one has dared to suggest he or the current duke in any way decided to divert any of the paintings to his own collection.”
“That family owns one of the best collections in the realm. They do not need anyone else’s.”
“Yet the paintings sent north are gone. The government has preached patience because the Regent had his hand in the original idea, but tempers are wearing thin. I was charged with learning what I could.”
Learning what he could might mean all kinds of things with Ives.
“Do you intend to question Devonshire?” Gareth asked.
“Do I look mad? He is coming for the interment, however.”
“I would not have thought Percy would have found any favor with Devonshire.”
“He didn’t. At all. The last duke once called him a miserable little demon. At best it is a matter of rank respecting itself. A duke dies and other dukes attend his funeral. At worst, the current Duke of Devonshire is coming to drive a stake into Percy’s heart.”
“Perhaps Lance will broach the topic for you. I say there, Devvie, what do you think became of all that art your father agreed to store in your attics? He would do it if you asked.”
“The danger is he will do it even if I don’t ask. Do not remind him of the matter. He knows of it, of course. All the lords do. Those who lost have not been silent among their peers. Since none of ours went missing, our brother is unlikely to think of it unless prodded.”
“How will you explain my little mission to him, then?”
“I was not intending to explain anything. We have never expected an accounting of your comings or goings.”
In other words, the new Duke of Aylesbury would not give a damn why Gareth was going north.
“If you arrange for me to have use of the lodge, we have ourselves a bargain.”
Ives stood. “I promise to see that legacy wholly resolved, once this other business is behind us. Until then, Lance will agree it is only right that you should use it as your own.”
It was all the assurance Gareth needed. Lance could be willful, even whimsical, but he was fair. A clean deed would be forthcoming sooner rather than later now. That derelict pile would be his, and he could start improving it. He followed Ives back to the house, making plans.
CHAPTER 4
“The big house has been let, I hear.” Rebecca mentioned the news while she sat on a burlap sack, watching Eva pluck weeds. The plantings behind their home had been laid out for flowers and shrubbery, but Eva had started tucking vegetables amid the blooms three years ago. It saved them a few pounds a year on food, all for little effort.
Growing vegetables had been the last of a long string of economies, and the one Eva least minded. Her father had sold off most of the land, and what was left brought in minimal rents. Her late brother’s five years of infirmity meant he had not been able to supplement their income with any kind of employment, not that Nigel would have taken up a trade even if he had had the health to do so. He had been a gentleman’s son and intended to die a gentleman himself, even if it meant his older sister had to sell the household furnishings to ensure they all had enough to eat.
“Who has taken it? I cannot imagine anyone wanting to live there,” Eva said.
“No one knows, but some boys saw a light through the lower windows two nights ago, and there are reports of a horse in the stable.”
“If not for the horse, I would say it was all nonsense and some of Langdon End’s young men had decided to get drunk there one night.”
“Whoever it is, I expect they will make themselves known in town soon. They are sure to be quality people. Even in its present state, the rent would be high for such a large house and property.”
“I expect so.” Eva hoped the rumors were wrong, and that at worst the house’s owner had sent a servant to stay a brief while. Perhaps some traveler had simply made use of an empty house and would soon be on his way. She had come to think of that house as abandoned and rather counted on it remaining so.
“I think you should call on them,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps they have a daughter who would be my friend.”
“I will do that if you promise not to complain that our house is not suitable for guests, since they are bound to then call on us in turn.”
Rebecca flushed. “Maybe if they have a daughter I will meet her in town.”
“Maybe you should allow her to know your circumstances when you meet her. There is no shame in our situation, and if this imaginary new friend is worthy of the name, she will not care.”
Rebecca stood abruptly, her brow knitt
ed from her pique. “I do not mind our situation, but I do resent your acceptance of it. Instead of improving, it gets worse and now I cannot even have friends, because we do not have enough chairs since you sold them all.”
“I sold them so you would not go hungry. And, of course, our situation is improving, even if you do not see the fruits of that yet. Our year of mourning is now over, and we can participate in society again. You can attend assemblies and meet other girls in town, and if you can restrain yourself from talking about philosophy in the first few conversations, you will find friends who will change everything.”
“I am not speaking of social matters.”
“Financial ones, then? My paintings are selling well enough so our circumstances are not so dire as they were, even with the bad harvest and unpaid rents. I think I am doing splendidly.” She smiled and gave her sister a wink. “You are uncommonly out of sorts, Rebecca. It is not like you to complain with such vehemence.”
Her attempt at lightening the conversation was to no avail. “What happens if no one wants your paintings someday?” Rebecca asked.
“I will find another way to improve our lot, should that happen. You are not to worry.”
“I do worry. You may see improvement, but I see more of the same for years on end. I say we make big changes, not your little ones. Let us make the best of our breeding and youth and blaze another trail while we still can.”
Eva looked up at her sister. Rebecca’s face flushed and her posture stiffened, but she met Eva’s gaze boldly.
“You refer to your improper proposal from the other day, I fear.” She should have paid more attention at the time, and pulled that particular weed at once. “You cannot be serious, Rebecca.”
“Why not? The sisters Neville say such a life can bring a woman security and even riches.”
Eva laughed and stood. “Darling, you do not even comprehend what such a life entails. I wonder if the sisters Neville really do either. I cannot imagine why they would speak of such things to you.”
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