“It does not appear he has profited much from his crime,” Gareth said.
“Do not let this fool you. I have prosecuted crime lords worth hundreds of thousands who hid amid this squalor. It makes an excellent camouflage. Do you have a pistol?” He reached down to his saddle and lifted a small one from a pouch there.
“Unlike you, I do not ride about town armed. But then I do not attract the attention you do, either.” Gareth looked around pointedly. Several men had stopped on the street and now stared at Ives. “They know you.”
Ives swung off his horse and tied it, making no effort to hide the pistol. “Have no fear. The fellow across the lane was spared the noose due to my efforts. When the cause is just, I do not always prosecute. Since he owes me his life, I think he will make sure these horses do not walk off.”
Gareth led the way to the door of the house. Ives still carried the pistol. When the door opened, Ives handed his card with one hand, while he pointed the weapon with the other. It went without saying that they gained entrance.
Mr. Zwilliger looked to be late in his middle years. With his narrow eyes, big hearty build, and dark-haired head, he would make a good tavern owner. He listened to their introductions calmly enough, but he watched that pistol out of the corner of his eye.
Finally, he pointed to it. “Is this necessary, gentlemen? I am a peace-loving man. I know the neighborhood is not the best, but—”
“There is evidence you have committed a capital crime,” Ives said. “I am always careful when meeting such men.”
“I have committed no crime.”
Gareth told him about the forged Gainsborough. “We assume there are others.”
Zwilliger responded with shock. “This is terrible. I am undone. It is true that I handle art at times. I am no great expert, but my judgment is sound. Like most I depend on the honesty of those who sell to me. To learn I have been deceived and defrauded, and implicated in such a way—” He flushed and flustered and almost cried.
“Keep him here.” Gareth pushed past him and strode into a dim sitting room. No art there, not even on the walls. He checked the whole first level, then went above. Stacks of paintings lined the wall of one of the chambers.
He called for Ives.
By the time Ives and Zwilliger arrived, Gareth had set out some of the paintings. Ives took one look and leveled his pistol again. “Are those—?”
“No. Forgeries. All of them. But like the Gainsborough, I think these are copies of what we seek.” He glared at Zwilliger. “Where are the originals?”
“I swear I do not know what you are talking about. I bought those, and the Gainsborough, and several other fine works, from a well-respected man of business. If they are forgeries, I was robbed.”
“How many?”
“Twenty in all were sold to me,” Zwilliger said.
Not enough. Damnation. “These and the Gainsborough come to twelve. Where are the others?” He began flipping through another stack.
“Not here. Five were sold to a picture seller in Greenwich. Two to a gentleman. The last I placed at auction.”
Ives gestured with the pistol. “You are not to sell or move these. I will send men for them in a few hours, and all had better be here. You had better be here too. It will be for the magistrate to decide if you are as innocent as you claim.”
“I swear—”
“You will have time enough to swear. For now, tell us who sold you these pictures.”
“A stationer in Birmingham. I was up there visiting my sister, and chanced upon his shop with all these pictures. Others, too, but not so fine or by such illustrious names. I bought them all, of course. London is a better marketplace for such things.”
“Birmingham. How convenient,” Ives said. “You will not even have to stay at an inn to finish this, Gareth.”
Their missions for the day completed, Ives insisted on buying drinks and a dinner. Gareth ate quickly and spoke little. If Ives noticed, he did not mention it. They parted at nine o’clock, with Ives insisting that they meet early to track down the forgeries-at-large.
Gareth returned to Langley House. His intention of speaking with Eva was thwarted. When he asked after her, he learned the ladies had retired early in order to pack for their journey in the morning.
He consoled himself with some whiskey in the library. It was for the best, he supposed. Most of what he had intended to say to her should not be said. What little was left would be better heard in Langdon’s End.
CHAPTER 22
Eva opened the door to her house slowly. She peeked inside, half-expecting to see it ransacked again.
Rebecca pushed the door wide and walked past her. “Let us unpack quickly and go to the village. I want to see if any mail came while we were gone.”
Rebecca went above, but Eva strolled through the house, letting its familiarity seep into her soul. They had not been gone long, but the spaces felt a little strange anyway. It was not the house. Nothing had changed here. She had, however, and not only because of the ball and other experiences. Her heart had changed.
She gazed out the window, to the spot where she and Gareth had sated their desire in the garden. That was supposed to have been the last time.
When she embarked on this affair, she assumed it would be brief. She thought he would make it so, being who he was and who she was. A dalliance for him and a chance to know a woman’s carnality for her. That was all it was to be. Simple. So simple that she astonished herself with her own sophistication.
Now—not simple at all. She never guessed that the risk to her reputation would be the least of it. She never expected to love him, and to feel real pain because he would never love her. What sensible woman would?
She went down to the kitchen to see what provisions she needed to buy. She could hear Gareth saying that romantic love did not exist, that it was something made up to create an excuse for indulging in sensual desire that would itself pass. He did not use those words exactly, but he had given fair warning. She had understood him well enough.
Perhaps for him it already had passed, or was passing. He had not seduced her. There had been no honor be damned. She had had to seduce him in her chamber. And he had been willing to stand aside and allow another man offer to keep her as a mistress. What friend wouldn’t defer to practicalities, should such an opportunity arise?
Rebecca waited upstairs, impatient to walk to town. They set off.
“I wonder if Mr. Fitzallen is back yet,” Rebecca said. “Do you think he is?”
“How would I know? He may have journeyed somewhere else. We may not see him for weeks. What do we care if he is back or not?”
“I was just making conversation, Eva. You do not have to bite me for it.” She pointed to Eva’s arm. “You have your sketchbook. Are you planning to stop along the way to draw? Not on the way there, I hope.”
“I thought that after we visit the post office, and before we do our shopping, we might call on the sisters Neville. You can read, and I can draw. They have some nice figurines, well made, that will keep me busy for an hour or so.”
“That will be fun. I think I will enjoy my time there more if you are with me.”
What a sweet thing to say. It touched her that Rebecca wanted to share more time with her.
“Jasmine can at times be too motherly,” Rebecca continued. “If you are there, I do not think she will give advice that was not requested.”
“She does that often, does she? And here I always found her so shy about her opinions.”
“One cannot anticipate what her opinion will be. She can surprise one, and that can be vexing.”
“What surprising opinion did she give you that you found vexing?”
Rebecca blushed. “I am not clever, am I? Not if you guessed there had been such an opinion recently. I wrote to them, and she wrote back two days ago.”
“What did she say? Hopefully that you should never become a courtesan, no matter how much London had bedazzled you.”
“I
wrote to Ophelia while I was in town, and, along with telling her of the sights we had seen, I also mentioned meeting Mr. Mansfield and Mr. Trenton while at Sarah’s house, and how Mr. Mansfield then turned up in London. I mentioned how Mr. Trenton suited me far better, but cousin Sarah kept throwing me at Mr. Mansfield. Jasmine wrote back with a long lecture on the matter. I thought that bold, since I had not confided in her.”
“I hope she did not lecture that you should not marry at all.”
“She took no position on marriage, but she did take a position on Mr. Trenton and Mr. Mansfield. To my surprise, she favored the latter most decidedly. She warned me about entanglements with writers, and poets in particular. Her warnings were very . . . forceful.”
“I would think Miss Neville looked kindly on writers.”
“Wouldn’t you? Her vehemence on the subject leads me to wonder about the soundness of all her advice now.”
Eva would be happy to see Rebecca less influenced by the sisters Neville, but not out of rebellion against sensible advice.
No letters waited for Rebecca at the post office. Her spirits sank. She retreated into silence while they walked to the home of the sisters Neville.
The ladies in question received them. Eva discovered that they did not stand on ceremony with Rebecca. They did not sit for the obligatory fifteen-minute chat. Rather Ophelia waved them into the library after perfunctory greetings, and they went about their own business.
For two hours Rebecca read and Eva drew one of the figurines, a small bronze depicting Hercules fighting the Hydra. Although small in scale, the sculptor had modeled the forms as professionally as if it were ten feet high. The exercise challenged her, since both figures twisted in action.
A servant brought in lemonade and little cakes, set the tray on a table, and invited them to partake. Eva set aside her sketchbook and joined Rebecca at the table.
“They have the best cakes,” Rebecca said, taking one. “Even if I did not love their library, I would probably visit just for these.”
While they refreshed themselves, Rebecca told Eva about the book on mythology she was reading. As she did so, Miss Neville entered the library. She did not come to join them. Instead she strode to the bookcase in front of the table that held the Hercules bronze.
“I particularly find the story of Jupiter and Danaë peculiar,” Rebecca said. “He often visited his lovers in different forms, to escape his wife Juno’s detection. With Leda, for example, he became a swan.”
“That does not bear contemplating too much,” Eva said. At the bookshelf, Miss Neville pulled out a book, perused it, and returned it.
“No, but at least it makes some anatomical sense if one does, scandalous though it might be.”
“Better if one does not, all the same.” Eva wondered just how much her sister knew about the anatomical sense of lovers’ joining. It sounded like more than one might expect of a nineteen-year-old innocent.
Miss Neville had found her book. She turned to go. Then she stopped, angled her head with curiosity, and stepped closer to the Hercules.
“Yes. Well, with Danaë, Jupiter took the form of a shower of gold. How could a shower of gold impregnate a woman?”
Eva barely heard her. Instead her attention riveted on Jasmine Neville, who had bent toward the chair Eva had used for her sketching. She then straightened, holding Eva’s sketchbook in her hand.
“I expect since he was a god, he would arrange for the gold to do whatever he chose it to do,” Rebecca mused after a sip of lemonade.
Miss Neville began flipping the pages of the sketchbook much as she had done when Eva visited her last time. Eva trusted she would approve of the more recent drawings, the ones done in London.
The ones done in London.
Eva jumped up and rushed toward Jasmine, almost tripping over a stool on her way. She ran up to her hostess, hand outstretched, ready to grab the sketchbook before Jasmine reached one particular drawing.
Too late. She saw the page turn to reveal a drawing of a naked, sleeping man. She noticed Jasmine’s reaction. Eyebrows up, eyes narrowing, head angling.
Then those eyes looked at her. Right at her. Right through her.
“I see you were busy with your studies while in town, Miss Russell.”
“Yes. I did quite a few drawings. Of sculptures and such.” She took the sketchbook, closed it, and tucked it under her arm.
“The and such appears to have inspired your best efforts.”
Had Jasmine recognized the and such? Eva had not finished the head and face in any detail, and the angle of that face might make it unrecognizable in any case. She hoped so, but the frank expression in Jasmine’s eyes suggested one person in Langdon’s End now guessed the truth.
“I also called on Mary Moser. Thank you for your letter of introduction. She received us, and asked after you. She told me to find a way to draw from life.” She hoped Jasmine would take that as a full explanation of the drawing.
A small, fleeting smile suggested Jasmine found the excuse amusing. “How did you find Mary’s health?”
“Not well, I am sorry to say. I think she expects the end soon.”
“Thank you for telling me that. I will write to her at once.” One more open-eyed, direct look, one more glance at the sketchbook, and Miss Neville departed.
Eva returned to the table. “Are you done eating all the cakes? Let us go and finish our errands.”
For the next hour, while they shopped for food and sundries, Eva tried to accommodate the idea that her reputation—her entire world—now rested in the hands of a woman known for outspoken opinions, radical ideas, and indifference to how society exacts high tolls on prohibited behavior.
* * *
Gareth returned north in one of Lance’s carriages. He carried cargo that could never be transported on a horse.
He did not return to Albany Lodge right away, much as he wanted to. He intended to call on Eva as soon as possible. He had not been present when she left Langley House three days ago. He and Ives spent that day tracking down the paintings Zwilliger had put out for sale. Then they devoted a good deal of time forming a strategy that might bring this investigation to a close quickly and successfully.
It would be good to be done with it. It had become an intrusion and distraction. He would prefer to stay near Langdon’s End and spend his days with Eva. Not in passion necessarily. That had perhaps come too soon. He wanted to explain his cruel practicality to her. He also wanted to ask her about her art, and her plans, and whether she might want to travel to distant lands. If she did not want him to continue as a lover, he could still be a true friend. She did not seem to have many of those. Neither did he.
The carriage wound its way through the city, past houses and shops, and into the center where businesses and banks hugged the streets. On the edge of that district, the shops became scarcer and the buildings larger and less distinguished. Chimneys abounded. Here were the factories where Birmingham’s industry thrived.
The coachman took him to one of those structures. Gareth had two visits today. This one promised to be the more pleasant one.
Entering the factory was much like gaining entry to a good home. A man at the door inquired of his purpose for visiting. Gareth handed over a card and said Mr. Rockport expected him.
Much as with a morning call, he was escorted to the master of the house. Wesley Rockport greeted him in his office. Furnished in imitation of a gentleman’s study, the office had bookshelves that held rows of neatly bound ledgers, and, Gareth could see with a glance, a few large tomes regarding the law. Of more interest was a long table set flush under a large window so the light could flood in. Row upon row of small metal objects lined the table’s surface, displaying the products that paid for the room’s moldings and furniture.
Rockport saw his interest and beckoned him to look closer. Together they viewed and touched the display. “These buckles are my pride and joy. Steel, they are. Expensive to make. I’ve twenty men who can forge them faster
than most, and four who work the designs to their fancy. It is an indulgence of mine. The brass ones here go for much less, of course, but the volume is huge and the margin impressive.”
The steel buckles’ production harkened back to a generation ago, when artisans created almost everything made and bought in England. Like the mills replacing the home weavers, however, modern methods had changed Rockport’s industry, altering design, quality, and even the need for skills. Lower cost, huge volume, and impressive margins were the hallmarks of successful manufacturing now.
Gareth listened to the rest of the tour, as Rockport pointed out the bits and bridles, the hinges and locks, the fittings, knives, and door handles. Small metal objects, all of them, each with a widely established purpose that fulfilled a necessity.
Rockport invited him to sit in a comfortable chair. He offered coffee and brandy, and sent for the former. He appeared pleased that Gareth had shown interest in his business.
Gareth liked Wesley Rockport. They had gotten on well while escorting the ladies around London. When Wesley had asked him to stop by this factory as soon as they returned north, he had agreed. He assumed there was a reason. He expected to learn what it was after the coffee came.
Sure enough, after drinking his cup, Wesley set it down and sent all of his attention in Gareth’s direction. “Sarah has been speaking of nothing but your family’s generosity. I fear that visits to London will become an expectation of hers now.”
“My apologies, although you seemed to find much to occupy you too.”
“I did indeed. I called on many of our patrons there. I learned some interesting things, regarding their future needs and present problems. I learned, for example, that our orders from the carriage makers have dwindled because the man I hired to call on them had not bothered to do so much, and was drunk most times he did.”
“At least now you can rectify the situation.”
“Already done. I mention it to explain that the most difficult part of this is having to rely on others. That is always a gamble. References and such only go so far.”
Gareth nodded agreement. He wished he could see a clock. He did have that other stop to make, and he wanted to return to Albany Lodge by nightfall.
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