His Wicked Reputation

by Madeline Hunter

  “You will not remember me,” she added quickly. “I wrote to you once. Eight years ago.”

  “Did I write back?”

  “Yes. You gave me advice. You warned me how hard it was for a woman to be a painter. How marriage would compromise any such career. How the best training would not be available.”

  “I wrote all of that, did I? The last part is true. Life studies, for example, are not available. We are all too modest to draw the nude form from life, especially the male body, it is thought. Rubbish, of course. Yet without the rigor of such exercises, figures will always look a bit like cotton dolls. As for the first part—did you not think it odd advice, considering I had myself married?”

  “I confess I was not aware of that at the time.”

  Her gray head rested back on the chair. Her eyes closed. “We both knew within weeks we had made an error. We took lovers and survived. However, I made that step late in life. I had already become all I would ever be as an artist by then.” Her head straightened and she looked at Eva. “You are not married. Did you forgo it because of what I wrote to you? I do not think I want such a permanent decision on your part on my conscience during my last days.”

  “Be assured my marital state had nothing to do with you. In fact, I almost married. Since I did not, however, your words have influenced me to see my situation for its benefits. I do not seek fame like yours. I only hope to improve, so I can create on canvas or board what I see in my head.”

  She received a long look for that. Then Mary began coughing. The fit turned violent, affecting her whole body. The woman servant came over to calm her, and poured some potion from a little bottle into a glass that she held to her mistress’s lips.

  The medicine worked quickly. The body under the blanket relaxed. The gray head lolled. The servant caught Eva’s eye.

  “We will leave you now,” Eva said, standing. “You were very kind to agree to receive us.”

  Mary’s eyes opened. “Will you be in town when the Exhibition opens?” Her voice came breathless and slurred.

  “We will be gone by then, I am sorry to say.”

  “Pity. Do your copies of Jasmine’s collection, and draw often. Hire a man to model for you, if you can find one willing to pose unclothed. With time you will improve, if you have talent like Jasmine thinks. It is a worthy goal.”

  “Thank you. We will see ourselves out.”

  Back on the street, she and Rebecca paused.

  “I think she is dying,” Rebecca said.

  “I think so too.”

  They walked down the street, subdued. Slowly the sun and breeze lifted them out of their sad reveries.

  “Eva,” Rebecca said with an impish smile. “Which of the men in Landgon’s End do you think will pose nude for you?”

  * * *

  As soon as Gareth entered the presence of the Duchess of Devonshire, he decided he did not mind at all that Ives walked beside him. He wondered if Ives felt the same way about him.

  With difficulty he forced out of his thoughts the subject that had occupied him all morning and most of last night. He needed to charm answers out of the duchess, not address her with the surliness that colored his mood. Having left the house without seeing Eva had not helped. He was not accustomed to jealousy, and the effects of it sat badly on him.

  To say the last duke’s second wife knew her exalted status would be an understatement. She sat regally in a blue upholstered chair designed to complement her size and form. Her eyes regarded them much the way medieval queens must have looked at serfs. Considering that Ives was the legitimate son of a duke, and a lord in his own right, that took a good deal of boldness on her part. But then, this woman had made her way into that chair by playing a very long, calculated game.

  Ives’s manner as he greeted her struck just the right note of respect without descending into deference. Her thin smile suggested she would like the latter.

  “We have come on a matter of personal interest to the Prince Regent,” Ives said. “It is possible you can help us with an inquiry undertaken at his request.”

  “If you are going to use a preamble like that, I suppose I must help if I can.”

  “It involves some items stored in one of your late husband’s properties. The house just north of Chatsworth. In the course of posing some questions to the servants there, my brother learned that you may have some knowledge of those items.” Ives turned to him, cuing him to jump in.

  Before he could, the duchess sliced down his body with a sharp gaze. “You must be the bastard.”

  “I am.”

  “Your father and my husband had a friendship of sorts, largely based on what they had in common in that regard. Have you met my first son? He chose a career in the Naval Service. As I hear it, your life took different turns.” Her knowing smile insinuated much into the carefully enunciated last words.

  “On occasion I occupy myself with less pleasurable pursuits. Such as this inquiry.”

  “Inquire, then.”

  He repeated what he had learned about her visit to the house after the death of the last duke. Despite his effort to suggest nothing untoward, she took insult. “I trust you are not so bold, or so stupid, as to accuse me of removing these items you seek.”

  “We only wonder if the men who served you had any cause to go up to the attics, and if so, whether they commented on its contents.”

  “They did go up. There was a lovely table from Italy that could not be found in its chamber, so I sent two men to search for it there. I do not remember any talk afterward. What might they have said?”

  “Nothing alarming,” Ives said. “Perhaps they mentioned it was hard to search, because of a great many crates there? Or alternately noted it was peculiar that one attic contained very little at all.”

  “If they had cause to move crates, comments pertaining to their weight, whether very heavy or oddly light—” Gareth prompted.

  She appeared to give it honest thought. “It did take them a long while to come down, and they never did find that table. One was not happy because he scraped his hand. I overheard him complain to the others about all those damned boxes. Could he have meant the crates you speak of?”

  “Possibly,” Ives said.

  “Among the furnishings those men carried out for you, were any of them paintings?” It had to be asked, and Gareth decided to throw himself into the fire.

  “Only an Angelica Kauffmann that I had long admired. The duke did not favor it, so had banished it there. He told me it was mine if I wanted it.”

  Ives bestowed his most amiable smile. “You have been more than generous with your time. We will leave you to your other callers.”

  Outside, Ives clapped a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “You did that very well. I was trying to find a way to ask which pictures she had taken, without using a word like taken itself.”

  “Was a Kauffmann on the list? You have gotten your hands on one by now, haven’t you? It would be a hell of a thing if some of those pictures are hanging in plain sight in that house and we do not know it.”

  “I finally received a list. No Kauffmann. Let us get something to drink at the Black Horse. I will give it to you, and also prepare you for your next meeting.”

  The next meeting, tomorrow morning, was with Mr. Clifford, the first son of the lady they had just left. It sounded as if Ives had decided not to attend.

  They sat with beer at the tavern. Ives passed a vellum sheet across the table. Both sides showed three columns. The first had artists’ names. The second held titles or descriptions of pictures. The last column showed the owners.

  “Impressive,” Gareth said.

  “The artists?”

  “The owners. I see the Prince Regent is not on the list. I thought you said it was partly his idea.”

  “He was convinced that it would look bad if it became known he stripped the walls of Brighton out of fear of an invasion. Since there never was one, some of his friends now see that as suspiciously shrewd.”

 
“Men can be such asses.” Gareth muttered that eternal truth while his attention shifted to the door. “Here comes Lance. You told him to meet us here, didn’t you?”

  “He was at loose ends this morning, which never bodes well.”

  “He of all men does not need a nursemaid. Stop being one.”

  Ives waved to catch Lance’s attention. “I also thought that things ended badly yesterday. You have been piquish all day too.”

  “And you concluded I wanted to drink ale with him? So much for being the clever lawyer.” He barely got the last of it out before Lance slid into a chair at their table.

  “At least you bothered to shave today,” Gareth said. “Since you do not appear to be a rustic just off a wagon from the Midlands, you can sit with us.”

  Ives tried a quelling glance, but Gareth was not in the mood to humor either one of them.

  Lance felt his face. “I hate being shaved. I have thought of never bothering again, and growing a beard. Perhaps it would become fashionable. Not a long, curly one. A closely cropped one, like the Spaniards used to have.”

  “You are not, nor have you ever been, a fashion leader, so no one else would grow one and you would look eccentric at best. Even Ives here would not want to be seen with you.”

  Lance looked at Ives. “Is he right?”

  “Do not grow a beard,” Ives said. “Please.”

  Lance made a face. “If a duke can’t grow a beard and others then grow them, too, what is the point in being one?”

  “Shall I list the points of being one?” Gareth said. “We can start with the obscene income you will enjoy henceforth.”

  Lance smiled with chagrin. “I forget sometimes that you are a bastard brother, Gareth, and all that has meant to your life.”

  The anger building while listening to Lance’s petulance eased on that note of fraternal warmth. Not that Gareth wanted it to.

  Lance picked up the vellum sheet and read it. “Is someone planning a massive exhibition?”

  Ives reminded him about the missing paintings. “Gareth and I are engaged in an inquiry about them.”

  “Oh, that.” Lance narrowed his eyes on the list of lords. “What cowards.”

  “They only sought to protect their most prized possessions,” Ives said.

  “So the French could have their horses, their wives and daughters and servants, but not their pictures?”

  “Presumably the wives, daughters, servants, and horses would be packed off as soon as the French landed,” Gareth said. “Forgive me for changing the order. I am sure you put the horses first with no regard to relative importance, correct?”

  “To hell with the order. It was ignoble to do this, when farmers and fishermen drilled in the fields, preparing to lay down their lives. Those men would not be able to send anything north, let alone their paintings.”

  Ives pushed Lance’s tumbler closer to him, encouraging him to drink. Gareth’s mind chewed over Lance’s outburst.

  “I wonder,” Gareth said. “We have assumed the pictures were stolen for gain. Thieves, or at best a mad collector at work. What if instead they were taken as punishment? Perhaps someone who knew of the plan felt as Lance here does, and sought to ensure these lords regretted this move, one way or another.”

  “Considering the mood in the country back then, it is possible,” Ives said. “I suppose we would first look at the lords who have estates near the coast who are not on this list.”

  “I will let you talk to them, if you don’t mind,” Gareth said. “I can think of no way to raise the matter without being insulting, and I’ll be damned if I will die in your stead.”

  Lance tapped the vellum. “You are both so serious. First thievery is the reason, now patriotism. You are missing the most likely motive.”

  Ives raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “It was a joke,” Lance explained. “Don’t you see how comical this is? All of that concern and care and secrecy about a group of damned pictures. There was a war going on, and the lords spent their mental faculties on this? I can imagine a band of bloods deciding it would be funny as hell to make those pictures disappear.” He laughed and smacked his palm on the vellum. “Think of their expressions when they learned it was all gone. Um, no, Napoleon did not take your art, but someone did. Sorry, milords.”

  Ives looked at Gareth. Then at Lance, who remained lost in his merriment.

  Gareth knew what Ives was thinking. Lance had always been a bit of a rogue.

  “Lance,” Ives said carefully. “Please tell me that you did not see the comical possibilities ten years ago, and . . .”

  “If I did, I would be laughing now, seeing the two of you run all over England trying to find those pictures. Oh, wait—I am laughing now.” And he did, heartily.

  Ives’s lids lowered. “This has now become not at all funny. I ask you again—”

  “What do you think?” Lance’s eyes came alive with devilish humor.

  Gareth could tell Ives was losing his temper. “Damnation. If you know anything, tell Ives now. Stop being an ass.”

  Lance did not like that. What duke would? For that matter, what bad boy would? He did stop the taunting, however.

  He picked up the vellum again, then let it drop dismissively. “It never entered my mind to teach these peers a good lesson. More’s the pity.”

  “Do you swear it?” Ives asked.

  “I have to swear it? That is insulting.”

  “Your humor has been odd of late.”

  Lance just glared. Then he shrugged. “Fine. I swear I had nothing to do with this, and know nothing about it.”

  Ives let out a solid exhale. He turned to Gareth. “Now, about tomorrow when you meet with Clifford. Broach the subject straight out. He was in the Service, and will not have a lot of patience with dissembling. The questions must be put to him eventually, so there is no reason to delay.”

  “Why is he questioning Clifford?” Lance asked.

  “He is very good at speaking man-to-man, and that is what is needed.”

  “Bastard-to-bastard, I think you mean,” Lance said. “Have you met him?”

  “Several times, in passing,” Gareth said.

  “His situation is exquisitely hellish. Imagine that the Aylesbury estate was at least three times larger than it is. Then imagine that although a bastard, you had the exact same parents as Percy and me, and that the only reason those estates were not yours upon your father’s death was because you had the misfortune to be born before your mother became his wife. As the second born, I tasted a small drop of what Clifford drinks every day, and a bitter brew it is.”

  “I am sure he has accommodated it,” Ives said. “Gareth here would have too.”

  Gareth hoped he appeared agreeable to that belief. The truth was he knew something of that bitterness. Every bastard of a lord did. Normally one did not dwell on one’s fate, but sometimes the foul bile of what had been swallowed soured one’s mouth.

  “Did Miss Russell agree to attend that ball?” Lance asked casually. “Ives here said you snared an invitation for her, and intend to escort her yourself.”

  Gareth glared at Ives, who made it a point not to notice. “I was not there when she received the invitation, so I do not know yet if she is agreeable.”

  “She will not go,” Lance said. “She will want to. Any woman would. But she will not.”

  “You know that, do you?”

  Lance nodded. “It struck me last night. No matter who the escort, or even if there is none at all, she will not go. She doesn’t have a suitable gown and headdress. I’ll lay odds on that.”

  Gareth just looked at him. Lance was right. She didn’t. It would matter to her. To any woman.

  One of Lance’s eyebrows rose. “Of course, you could offer to buy her one. There is still time. Allowing it, however, carries certain implications. I doubt she is ignorant of that. So she will not accept the gift.”

  No, she wouldn’t. She already hadn’t, when he first broached the idea of this visit
to London.

  Lance showed smug pleasure in how he had cornered the entire question, but also some curiosity. “So, what is the vicar going to do?”

  “He is not going to offer to buy her a gown, that is obvious,” Ives said. “However, in an impulsive gesture of noblesse oblige, you will.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “I am so enjoying this,” Rebecca said while she and Eva strolled down a small lane in the City. All kinds of printer shops lined it, along with a few bookstores. “It is pleasant to spend an afternoon, just the two of us, taking whatever path we want.”

  “Very pleasant, although I have a confession to make about the path we have taken. We are not taking the path we want. We are lost.”

  Rebecca giggled, and they broke into peals of laughter. “Thoroughly lost, or just middling lost?” Rebecca asked after she caught her breath.

  “Since I am perplexed as to the answer to that question, I suppose the answer must be thoroughly. The plan was to visit Mr. Christie’s auction house. He is said to have frequent auctions, and often his gallery is full of works to be sold.”

  Rebecca looked to the sky. “The afternoon is getting on. We should find it soon if we are going to visit.”

  Eva felt her reticule. A satisfying weight on the bottom moved, making tiny clinking sounds. The wonderful thing about money was one could solve problems like this. “I saw cabs on the last block. We will take another one. The coachman should know the way even if we do not.”

  A half hour later they walked into the auction house. A big, square room, its ceiling soared. In the center of the ceiling a large square section rose yet higher, with transom windows that permitted light to flow down on the pictures hung on the walls.

  “Look at all the colors,” Rebecca exclaimed. She peered at the pictures near the door. “Not all are great masters, are they? This one here is no better than your views. Not nearly as good, in my opinion.”

  Eva agreed, although neither she nor Rebecca were connoisseurs. She took heart that while her own efforts would never compete with the best on these walls, they also would not be laughable.