“Eva, how these came to be sold in London as originals can wait to be sorted out. Right now I need you to tell me where the originals are.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You do not know? I thought you did. Why else would you have bought these exact works?”
“Because I have been looking for the originals, and these copies might be a way to find them.”
She wanted to laugh. His dark expression, totally without humor, stopped her.
“How did you come to copy these particular works, Eva?”
“Because they were all that were available to me. The originals are all right here, Gareth. They are up in your attic.”
* * *
Shit.
The pictures had been right under his nose all this time. He felt like an idiot.
And why not stick them here? It had been a derelict, unused manor. Who would know?
Gareth followed Eva up the stairs to the top level that housed servants’ chambers. He had only come up here a few times before to inspect the damage done by the roof’s disrepair. The newer wings had newer roofs, so no one had sought to find their attics.
She took him to the passage’s end. To one side, in a nook tucked beside the final chamber’s wall, she showed him a narrow door. She turned the latch. Behind that door lay a flight of stairs leading into an attic that stretched over one of the additions flanking the main part of the house.
Stacks of pictures lined the walls, the front ones shrouded in veils of canvas or burlap. Eva went over to one stack and raised the cloth. The Gainsborough boys cavorted around a fountain.
“These are the ones I copied.” She pointed at the small works lined behind the first, then at a similar group of small pictures beside it.
He bent and flipped through them. The copies down below had their originals here. A few others had been made, however, not bought by Zwilliger.
“I only did small ones.”
“I do not think a judge will care how big they were.”
Her head bowed. “I was only going to explain I had chosen them because the larger ones were too clumsy to move.”
He threw the canvas off a stack of larger works. He eased each one forward so he could see the subjects. Le Nain, Claude, Poussin, Vasari—the defined subject of each one allowed him to mentally check them off the list of missing art he had memorized.
He did not look at the rest. He counted, assuming all would be on the list. Thirty-one. Not enough.
Eva still stood silently, her arms huddling her body, her head hanging.
“Why did you not tell me these were here, Eva?”
“I took them, didn’t I? I removed them without permission. I was carrying that one home the day we first met.” She pointed at the Gainsborough.
“Yet you returned them.”
“If I admitted to this, why should you not assume me capable of theft? Why should you think I returned all of them? Much went missing from this house.”
He realized it was not what he thought, but what she thought, that weighed on her. Her own mind associated her use of the pictures with theft.
“Did you take something else? Did you keep one, for example, or—”
“Chairs. I took chairs. I sold them, the same way I sold our own furniture.” She sounded miserable. “They were good ones too. Heavy. It took me an hour to get each one home, I had to stop so often to rest. Wooden and well crafted. Some had carving—”
“I forgive you for the chairs, Eva. Should there be questions about these paintings, we will not mention them to anyone.”
She did not look at him. “Thank you. But you will forever know now that I am a thief, won’t you?”
He pulled the canvas back over the paintings. “Not the one I am looking for, at least. These are not mine, Eva. They were taken years ago, and my brother and I have been investigating that theft these last weeks. I need to write to Ives and tell him that a third of them have turned up.”
She finally raised her head. She gazed at the shrouded pictures. “Will no one think it odd that the paintings from this theft were found in your own home, Gareth?”
Odd hardly did justice to the possible reactions, he realized. All kinds of speculations could be made about this peculiar turn of events, and none of them would reflect well on him.
He remembered how everyone had been relieved he could prove he was out of the country when Percy died. He could not prove the same for when these pictures had gone missing.
The potential ramifications of this discovery crowded his thoughts.
Well, hell and damnation. He was about to discover just how much of a brother Ives really thought him to be.
* * *
“Do you believe me? That I copied with no intention of selling forgeries?”
Eva asked the question after they returned to the library.
“Of course.”
“There is no ‘of course’ in this, Gareth. I cannot prove it.”
She still appeared embarrassed, and very unhappy. He set his own concerns aside, and addressed hers. “Not all your copies went to Zwilliger. What happened to the others?”
“Mr. Stevenson sold some to people in Birmingham.”
“If necessary, we will talk to those people and learn what they think they bought. However, it is obvious to me that you and Stevenson handled it honestly. It was Zwilliger who stumbled upon an opportunity when he opened Stevenson’s shop door.”
“Obvious?”
“Your distress is sincere, as was his. Zwilliger played a role on a stage.”
A few sparks of humor glinted in her eyes. “Perhaps I play a role too.”
What a charming, ignorant thing to say. “Eva, after what we have shared, there is not anything you can hide from me.”
She smiled wryly. Almost sadly. “There are many things I hide from you very well, Gareth.” She gave her copies a long look, then turned away from them. “I will leave now. Rebecca is probably wondering what became of me.”
“The carriage waits. I told the man to keep it ready.”
She did not talk on the short ride to her house. Her poise and her silence discouraged him from embracing her and offering comfort.
She did not allow him to help her down, but made do on her own, clumsily.
“I thank you for hearing me out, Gareth, and not just thinking the worst of me.”
“I could never think the worst of you, Eva.”
“You may not have, but you were not sure. Nor can you ever be again, can you?”
She turned and walked to her house.
He did not tell the coachman to move on right away. He debated whether he should follow her, and to hell with her composure. He had left London with things to say to her. Important things. After the day’s revelations, it might be a long time now before he could speak them. He could still offer reassurance, though. Better than he had so far today.
He turned the latch and opened the door. He had no experience in really caring for a woman. It made him clumsy. She deserved better of him today than he had given her.
Suddenly, her voice broke the air, screaming his name. She appeared at her door, not at all composed. She called his name again, desperately, then disappeared.
He bolted out of the carriage and ran to her.
CHAPTER 24
He charged into the house. Hearing him brought back a little sanity.
She called to him from the library. She stood near the front window, holding the piece of paper. Her hands shook so badly that the paper fluttered like a sparrow wing. She heard his step and turned, frightened and furious.
“What am I to do? I do not know what she means. I do not know what they want.” She wanted to sound calm. Instead she heard herself shrieking.
“She?”
“Rebecca. She is gone. She left this for me, but I cannot make sense of it.” She began weeping, then stomped her foot hard, closed her eyes, and stopped the tears through sheer force of will.
He took the paper and embraced her. With her tu
cked against his body, he read the paper over her shoulder. His arms felt strong and good. His warmth bathed her in comfort. She allowed herself to be weak against him, and trusted strength would return as a result and she would not succumb to the chaos threatening her mind.
“It says that they told her to write that they want the treasure your brother took. What does she mean, Eva?”
“I do not know.” She took a deep breath. “He had nothing. No treasure. Would we have lived like this if he did? It is nonsense. Some fools must have heard a stupid rumor, and now—” She looked up as a thought sliced through her worry. “Do you think these are the same men who tore this house to pieces when we were gone?”
“I think that they are. It appeared someone searched for something. Perhaps it was this treasure these men want.” He pondered that. “It is an odd word. Treasure. Not money or another word for blunt. Treasure suggests something precious and valuable.” He looked at the letter again, and read it aloud.
My dear sister,
I must write quickly, they say. I speak of the men who now stand around me and direct my pen. They arrived this afternoon, saying they came to take what our brother had left for them. When I expressed ignorance, they insisted on entering.
They are sure you know the whereabouts of what they speak. I hope so, because I am to go with them until you bring this treasure or its secure location to them. When you are ready to do either, you are to leave a letter with the proprietor of the Four Swans in Henley.
The one I think is the leader just said to write that you have his word that I will not be molested. Nor will I be harmed if you conclude our brother’s business with him. He even promises you will have Nigel’s fair share, as first agreed. If you go to the magistrate, however, you will get nothing, including me. I have explained that you are one woman alone in the world, and not given to bravery, and that you will do what you can, especially if you will get a share.
Do not worry too much for me, Eva. The leader seems somewhat intelligent, and fairly educated. As for my safety and virtue, I have my own ways of protecting myself.
Your loving sister.
“What does she mean, her own ways of protecting herself?” Gareth asked.
“Knowing Rebecca, she probably thinks the rightness and logic of her moral arguments will sway them.” No sooner had she spoken than another possibility jumped to mind. No. Surely not.
She broke out of Gareth’s embrace and ran up the stairs and into her bedchamber.
The trunk that held her winter wardrobe stood open. She dropped to her knees and pawed through it, hoping she was wrong. Gareth followed her in.
“It is gone,” she said. “The pistol. They must have let her get some clothes, and she sneaked in and took that too. The powder, the balls—all of it is gone.”
“Her kidnappers may have taken it, not her.”
Perhaps, but Eva did not think so. “I hope she is not so stupid as to try and use it. She has never shot before, Gareth. She will probably load wrong and kill herself.”
Strong, gentle hands lifted her to her feet. “She is not stupid, so she probably will not do anything more than tuck it under her mattress. If it makes her feel less vulnerable and frightened, it is good she has it. Now, come with me. We will go back to Albany Lodge. There we will eat something, and put our minds to solving this mystery of the treasure.”
Eva allowed him to guide her down to the carriage. Once back at his house, she even let him find some food for them both. Left to her own devices, she would not have eaten, or bothered with the small talk that he used to distract her during their meal. She would have sat in her library, staring at Rebecca’s letter, feeling helpless.
After dinner Gareth lit lamps in the library. He sat her down on the divan—there was no other way to describe how he drew her there, turned her, and pressed her into place. Then he collected all the pictures and stacked them away.
Finally, he poured out of a decanter and carried the glass to her.
She took it and he sat beside her.
“Brandy again?”
“You need it. Your coloring is ashen, and your eyes are like glass.”
“The last time I put myself under your protection and drank your brandy, I woke in your bed. Am I in danger of that again?”
He lifted her hand so the glass pressed her lips. “Yes. Not now, not tonight, but yes.”
She sipped. “I will say this for you, Gareth. You always give fair warning.”
“Anything less would be dishonorable.”
He waited for her to finish the brandy, then took the glass from her and set it aside. He submerged her in a warm embrace and held her while the spirits slowly untied the knots in her body.
“Tell me more about your brother.”
“He was handsome. Like my sister, he took after our mother. It spoiled him, I think. He never had enough. There were arguments with my father about his debts. When he inherited, it got worse, as I told you.”
“Did he have friends near here?”
She realized the questions had a purpose. “Yes. In this county and the neighboring ones. Other young men from families like ours, and better, would come by at times. Mostly he met them elsewhere. He would dress and ride out on a horse he had spent too much to buy, looking very fine. I imagine they spent their time doing what men do when alone together.”
“Then he came home one night with a pistol ball in him, and he rode out no more. Were any of those friends loyal?”
She turned her memories back to the beginning of her brother’s infirmity. “A few at first. Later, no. But he had changed then. He hated how that wound affected him. The ball had torn things in him, and the surgeon tore more. He was bent after that, and could not walk right, and his strength leaked away like water into sand. Finally, he did not move at all. A fever took him. He had no strength left to fight it.”
She snuggled closer as she spoke. Thinking about her brother saddened her. There had been little love between them at the end. Their mutual resentments clashed silently in the icy atmosphere of his chamber.
She should have been kinder, and done better by him. She should have done better by Rebecca as well. Rebecca—
“What am I going to do, Gareth?”
“You are going to go to sleep, so you can think clearly tomorrow.” He stood and raised her up and led her to the stairs.
He brought her to his bedchamber.
“I thought you said not tonight.”
“I said no danger tonight. You will sleep better here than in a strange bed. I will not wake you when I come in.”
He gave her one sweet kiss before leaving.
* * *
Gareth poured himself more brandy. It went without saying that he would not sleep much tonight.
He read Rebecca’s letter again. No magistrates. That suited him fine. He did not want any magistrates getting in the way with their legal particulars when he found these men.
They were being bold. Rash. This treasure must have great value to them. Kidnapping was a hanging offense. The kidnapping of a gentry woman, an innocent—the entire country would want them drawn and quartered.
He had no plan, but he knew he would need help. He sat down and wrote Ives a letter, telling him about finding some of the pictures. He encouraged him to come north, for that and for another problem. He ended by saying Ives should leave his law books behind.
He threw himself on the divan, closed his eyes, and counted out the days. If this treasure or its location could not be found in three days, a crude and dangerous rescue would have to be mounted. Better to find it, in order to have some bait. Sly and calculated would far surpass violent and bloody, if there were a choice.
His mind drifted into a half sleep. Events and images from the last few days mixed and remixed at random. A line in Rebecca’s letter loomed large. I have explained that you are one woman alone in the world, and not given to bravery, and that you will do what you can, especially if you will get a share. Clever girl, to insinuate an
alliance to put them off guard. She knew Eva was brave enough but would not be alone in facing this.
He pictured Rebecca talking philosophy and radical politics until those men paid Eva to take her away. He smiled at the thought, but of course it would not be that simple.
Sleep did come then, but later, abruptly, he woke with a start. He sat and wiped his eyes. Disparate ideas in his head emerged, lined up, and forced themselves on him until he could not deny them.
A young man resentful of diminished fortune. A pack of friends riding the countryside. A treasure worth risking death for. A pistol wound, from an aim designed to kill. A painting washed with turpentine, so the underlying brushstrokes showed. Walls torn out and floor pried up and steps removed—
He looked up at the ceiling.
And a hidden cache of treasured pictures, right down the road from that young man’s home.
* * *
The next night, Eva woke before dawn with the weight and warmth of Gareth behind her. His arm covered her in a sleeping embrace. He had never come the night before, so his presence surprised her.
She turned carefully, so as not to wake him. She moved until she faced him, with her nose at his chest and her body against him and his breath in her hair. She laid her palm on his hip.
The intimacy relaxed her. Sleep the last two nights had been fitful, but now it descended like a soft cloud. When she woke again, light showed through the drapes. She lay there, not wanting to disturb the peace. The longer she did, the more time before the day brought back the sickening worry.
He nuzzled her head, making her scalp tingle. She wondered if he would do more than that. She would not mind.
“My brother will arrive today, I think,” he said.
“I should return to my house.”
“I do not want you there alone. Better if Ives stays at an inn in the village.”
“If he knows I am staying here, there seems little point in that.” Other than Ives, only Harold would know, however. Gareth had given Erasmus things to do elsewhere, so he would not be on the property.
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