“I am sure you are very accomplished,” Ophelia said soothingly.
Jasmine held out her hand. “Here. Let us see.”
Letting Jasmine view the sketchbook had not been part of the plan. Not only did the sketches reveal her life from when she sketched frequently, they also documented how little she had done during the last two years.
“It is not intended for viewing,” she said. “A sketchbook is much like a journal, and full of private thoughts.”
“It is full of pictures, not words. If you cannot bear the thought of anyone seeing your work, you will never be successful as an artist,” Jasmine said.
“Miss Russell does not want you looking in her sketchbook, Jasmine,” Ophelia said with exasperation. “Nor did she say she sought success as an artist. She dabbles because she enjoys it.”
“She says she does not want success because all women say that and think that. It is bred into us to have no ambition. She may be a brilliant talent, not a middling one, and not even be aware of it. How could she know?”
Rather than open a new argument, Ophelia accepted Jasmine’s scold. Chagrined, she looked at Eva. “Do not show it if you do not want it viewed. However, my sister is very knowledgeable about art. She has many artistic friends, some of them famous. If you do have a brilliant talent, she would spot it.”
Seeing an opening, Eva pointedly looked around the library’s walls. “Did you choose the pictures here, Miss Neville?”
“I did. Some. My father and his father bought many of them.”
“I have heard it said that students of art are encouraged to copy their betters. I wonder if that would help me improve.”
“That depends on whether you even can improve. There is no point in copying great art if you cannot even draw decently, for example.”
Eva looked down on her sketchbook. She had hoped that the sisters Neville would open their home and art to her much as they had opened their library holdings to Rebecca. She had not expected to have to prove herself worthy, as if she were applying for a position as their portrait painter.
She lifted the sketchbook. “I think I draw quite well. You can decide for yourself.” She handed it to Jasmine.
Jasmine opened the book on her lap. Ophelia moved to sit beside her. From her chair, Eva could see which pages they viewed.
Jasmine quickly paged past the earliest sketches, the childish ones done many years ago. She stopped right where she should, however, at the first sketch done when Eva was more mature and confident.
Slowly the sheets turned. The views, the flowers, the flurry of horses from the two years when they enthralled her. It had been a long time since she had taken the time to peruse these herself, so she eyed them almost as objectively as the sisters did.
Another pause. A long one. Jasmine and Ophelia looked with great interest at a portrait done in pencil. Eva’s heart fell. It was a drawing she had done of Charles one lighthearted summer afternoon in the garden.
He appeared more rakish in her picture than he did in her memories. He never wore his cravat loosely tied like that. His blond hair almost never blew in the breeze.
“I do not recognize him,” Jasmine said.
“He left Langdon’s End before you arrived. Over five years ago.”
“Where did he go?” Ophelia asked.
“America.”
“Only after that stupid war ended. Sheer idiocy,” Jasmine muttered. “To fight the French and the Americans at the same time. If I could vote, I would never vote Tory again.”
Ophelia looked over, right into Eva’s eyes. Her gaze communicated a special comprehension, and sympathy. The younger sister had seen more in that drawing than Eva realized was there.
Jasmine paged through the rest—the drawings that became less ambitious, and limited to small views of their own property during the years caring for her brother. Also less frequent, until, one day, the sketchbook had resided in its drawer for an entire year without being touched.
“Goodness, what are these?”
A scattering of buildings covered the two pages open on Jasmine’s lap.
Nostalgia gripped Eva’s heart. “Those are not mine. My brother, while ill, distracted himself for a few days. Those peculiar views were the result. He soon lost interest.”
“Perhaps he assumed if you could do it, he of course could too. The talent did not run in the family, however.” She quickly moved on.
“Middling, as you say.” Jasmine closed the book when nothing but white pages showed. “Not hopelessly so. Unschooled, however. If you lived here all your life, you have had few opportunities to see really good art, so how could you learn? I think we should invite Miss Russell to make use of our paintings, sister, so she can try her hand at some copies and learn. There are tomes with engravings, too, Miss Russell. They reproduce the very best examples of art. Not the colors, of course, but you will learn much by studying the compositions.”
“You are too generous. My sister and I will be making a visit to London very soon, and I will have the chance to see the masters there, but that is not the same as being allowed to take the time to truly study them.”
“London! Are you giving Rebecca a Season?” Ophelia asked.
“That is beyond our means. However, we will make a journey with my cousin and her husband. They live in Birmingham. That is where Rebecca has been—visiting their home.”
“Better to wait until autumn,” Jasmine said. “Soon town will be full of young bloods, and once they see Rebecca, you will be sorry you brought her. Why, the whole group of you will be little better than mice strolling through a field full of feral cats.”
Ophelia glanced at her sister, then caught Eva’s eye. “I am sure my sister will give you some letters of introduction to artists. Won’t you, Jasmine?”
“I suppose I will, so my sister does not sulk,” Jasmine said.
“I envy you, Miss Russell,” Ophelia said. “I always enjoyed town during the Season.”
“You certainly did.” Jasmine’s voice dripped with innuendo.
Ophelia flushed.
Eva drank her tea.
CHAPTER 16
Most of the investigations that led to Gareth riding to Derbyshire had occurred through the mail. Over dinner at Chatsworth during Gareth’s visit there, the duke’s special secretary, Mr. Montley, had provided a few details hitherto unknown. The most interesting information had been the name of the transport company hired to bring all those paintings north, Underhill’s of Ramsgate.
A query to Underhill’s in turn produced the names of the teamsters who drove the wagons. Underhill’s kept records in good English fashion, and even had the towns and parishes for those men. A few more letters and Gareth had the locations of two of them.
He rode into the village of Bellestream to pay a call on Mr. Ogden, who had moved north to live at an old family property after an ox kick had broken one of his legs two years earlier, ending his teamster days forever. The property consisted of a small cottage on a spot of land hugging the edge of the village. The ground flanking the walk to the door displayed the first shoots of the reawakening garden.
Mr. Ogden came to the door and eyed Gareth with curiosity and suspicion. Completely bald but with thick eyebrows over small eyes, Ogden appeared a hearty man of considerable girth that his waistcoat struggled to contain. The ox that took him on must have been very brave.
Gareth handed over his card and Ogden spent a long time peering at it before inviting him in. Ogden limped to a nearby room and they settled on chairs in a sitting room full of patterns and frills. Ogden gazed around as if he had never seen the place before and had suddenly realized how out of place he appeared.
“My aunt lived here till she died,” he said with a grin. Two of his teeth were missing. Another ox kick perhaps. “My days at the reins were over, so I moved here.”
“It is your days at the reins I want to talk about. I have been sent by an agent of Parliament to assist an inquiry by the Lords.”
“Th
e House of Lords sent you? Well, now, that explains the oddness of a gentleman showing up at my cottage. Are the lords looking into the sorry state of the roads? I can bend your ear a good while on that.”
“I will inform them of your willingness and ability to give information on the roads. Right now, however, the inquiry regards the transportation of a large number of crates by the Underhill company some twenty years ago. They informed me you were one of the teamsters. This journey started near Ramsgate at the estate of one of the lords, and ended in Derbyshire at the property of another. There were five wagons.”
Ogden’s ham of a hand came down hard on his knee. “I remember it well. Awkward crates, all different sizes. We were warned we would be drawn and quartered if we opened any, as if after sitting on a board all day we would be wanting to pry into the cargo. Lots of threats there were, and admonishments not to dally or detour or leave the wagons. We had to sleep right in with the crates, and take turns going to piss.”
“Did anyone inquire about the cargo, either before you set out or along the way?”
“Raised some interest, it did. Bound to when five big wagons lumber down the road in a line. Since we knew nothing, we had nothing to talk about though.”
“Come now. Did you not guess? The size and shape of those crates must have inspired some speculations for an experienced man like yourself.”
Ogden grinned. “If it’s my thinking you want—They reminded me of the time I transported a huge looking glass from the coast to London. The special kind, like kings have in their palaces, not some polished metal or small curved thing. Big and flat it was, and as tall as a ballroom, and crated up much like what I drove that journey. So I said to myself, maybe this is a cargo of looking glasses, all different sizes, that the lord wants for his manor house.” His eyebrows rose expectantly, waiting to hear if he were correct.
“You were very clever, and very close.” It sounded neat, and almost plausible, except it made no sense. Who would transport five wagons of plate looking glasses under secrecy? It came out too easily, too, as if Ogden had prepared the answer, in anticipation of being asked about it one day.
“I must ask a few pointed questions now. It would help if you answered directly and simply. You will not be in any trouble if an answer is not what may be considered the correct one. Do you understand?”
Ogden nodded.
“Did you in fact stay with the wagons the whole way? Were you at any time away from the others?”
“As I said, when I had to piss.”
“Longer than that.”
Ogden chuckled. “Well, sometimes I had to do more than piss, sir.”
“Of course. Longer yet. Long enough for someone to have in some way affected some scheme regarding that cargo.”
He shook his head. “Not possible.” He shook it again, vigorously. His hand rubbed his knee.
Gareth waited. Ogden squirmed.
“Well, there was that one night . . .” he muttered. “I did not leave my post, mind you. One of the others went to a tavern for some ale and returned with a nice little keg, and I enjoyed my cups, as it were. I crawled under my wagon to sleep it off. Dead to the world, I was. We all were, I suppose, until well after dawn.”
And there it was, the broken link in the chain of secrecy, subterfuge, and careful plans. A keg of ale had undone it all, and now there was no way to know if the crates that arrived in Derbyshire even had pictures in them.
One of those lords should have gone along with the wagons, or sent a trusted man with these teamsters. Probably all those days on the dusty roads plodding along with oxen did not appeal to any of the gentlemen, so they all convinced themselves it was unnecessary, providing sufficient threats were made.
This little inquiry of Ives had just become harder.
“The other teamsters, Mr. Ogden—were they friends of yours?”
“We got on well enough after a day or so, but I was the odd man out. Underhill employed all the others. I was brought in from Margate because he needed an extra man. He kept me on, so he must have liked the looks of me.”
Gareth had nothing else to ask. He rose to take his leave, and Ogden limped along back to the door.
“What was in those crates, if I may ask, sir?”
“Pictures.”
Ogden’s face fell in surprise. “You don’t say. I’ll be damned. All that trouble for a bunch of pictures.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Ogden shook his head in astonishment. Gareth returned to his horse, not believing for a second that Ogden had been ignorant of the contents of the crates.
* * *
“This is a surprise,” Gareth said when he entered his library at Albany Lodge and found Ives sitting there.
“I had hoped to arrive before you went north to see that teamster, so I could join you. When I found you had already left, I decided to wait here.”
Gareth poured them both brandy, then sat and told Ives about his meeting with Ogden. Ives was not pleased to hear about that keg of ale.
“Hell.”
“Yes.”
Ives contemplated for a moment, his brow clear of furrows but his eyes hooded. “A switch cannot be ruled out, but it would be a most elaborate scheme, planned in advance by someone who knew everything. And dependent on those men getting so drunk they slept through it all. I do not like this possibility being there, but I think it is unlikely.”
“I am assuming one or more of them were part of the plan, and that keg was no accident. If Underhill employed them, they may have heard something long before they took up those reins. Not so unlikely then.”
“When you come up to town, we will ride out to Ramsgate and talk to Underhill. Now that you have opened this new front in the war, we need to see what he is made of. When will you be in town?”
“I plan to start out day after tomorrow.”
Ives gazed into his brandy. “And when will your guests arrive?”
“The next day, I expect.”
Ives looked over with a small, knowing smile. “Which one are you after? The married one? Please do not tell me it is the young innocent. Even we have our standards, and you always said girls bore you.”
“Have no fear, I do not intend to launch a scandal from Langley House.”
“So, not the young girl. Then—?”
Gareth scowled at him, annoyed. “The truth is I am pursuing the husband. Wesley Rockport has a business that is growing fast. He is at the point where men start buying culture.”
“So you plan long strolls through the gallery at Langley House, to impress upon him the need for a collection.”
“I don’t intend to say a word about it. The gallery will speak for itself.”
“Be aware that Lance and I may be in residence some of the time they are there. Lance chafes at being rusticated and may insist on coming up to town again.”
“I will keep them all out of your way.”
“I insist on meeting them, especially if the ladies are pretty.”
“By all means,” Gareth said coolly. “They are both pretty enough, but not your style. Nor do I want the husband calling you out. These industrialists are not like us. They actually love their wives and react badly when someone attempts to seduce them.”
Ives took the warning in stride, but curiosity lowered his lids again.
“Devonshire should be coming up to town for the Season, I expect,” Ives said, changing the subject. “Certainly his mother will be there, and his bastard brother. I will ask Prinny to smooth the path for us to talk to the latter two.”
“If you are there to do it, you do not need me.”
“I would like you there. Then we can compare our reactions and perceptions later. I would want to be very sure further inquiries in that direction were called for before I began them.” Ives stood and stretched. He looked around the sparsely furnished chamber. “You do have an extra bed here, don’t you?”
“One. It is yours if you want it.”
“No servants,
however. Damn, I should have brought one from Merrywood.”
“A manservant comes by day. You will have to get yourself into bed, but he will serve you in the morning. There will be water enough upstairs now. He always brings up extra before he leaves.”
Ives rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the rough growth shadowing his jaw. “Can he give shaves without butchering?”
“Yes. Unlike Percy, he does not seek to draw blood whenever he has a sharp weapon in hand.”
Ives stilled. His hand fell from his face. “Did Lance tell you about that?”
“Percy’s smug satisfaction told me.”
Ives picked up his valise and walked to the door. “I’ll find that one extra bed now.” He looked back, over his shoulder. “You did not miss much for someone who only saw us a few times a year, Gareth.”
* * *
London.
Eva barely contained her excitement as the carriage passed the final toll. Out the window one could see the last of the countryside giving way to the outskirts of town.
Rebecca hugged the door of the carriage, her head to the window so she missed none of it. Wesley and Sarah faced them in the cramped space.
“Do you think the duke will be there? Residing in the house, that is,” Sarah asked.
“I do not know.”
“I think it safe to say he will not be there when we are.” Wesley spoke matter-of-factly, without the least resentment. He might dress like a gentleman and have an income that exceeded that of many of them, but his voice said he knew that dukes did not socialize with such as he, or even acknowledge an acquaintance.
Both he and Sarah looked splendid. Sarah wore a fashionable cream carriage ensemble with Prussian blue trim. Wesley’s coats were impeccable. They had arrived in Langdon’s End two days ago to take Rebecca and her to London in their fine carriage. Trunks tied to the roof held a good amount of Sarah’s wardrobe. “For all of us,” Sarah had explained. Sarah’s lady’s maid rode up there, too, along with Wesley’s manservant.
They entered London in style. The carriage slowed to a crawl and descended into streets flanked by tall houses and busy shops. The neighborhoods grew finer and finer until they turned onto one with independent houses of astonishing size that faced a big park. One more turn, and they stopped at a corner house that filled most of its block.
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