An ugly aura poured off Crawley. One malevolent and dangerous. Eva pushed Rebecca behind herself and held the pistol as steady as she could.
“Fitzallen has a buyer on the Continent?” Crawley asked.
“He does. It took some time to arrange, but all is settled, he told me.”
He appeared to think that over. It was hard to tell. His slack face and vacant eyes made his thoughts and considerations impossible to know.
“Just up the road, you said he was.”
“Barely a half mile. You cannot miss it. Erasmus will take you there. He knows the house well.”
“You had better not be lying to me. I find that house empty or those pictures gone, I’ll not be worrying about anyone’s honor then, least of all mine.”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Crawley,” Rebecca said. “After all our conversations about moral philosophy, for you to make such a crude threat is most disheartening.”
Crawley rolled his eyes, then pointed at Eva. “You come with me, and leave her and her reforming notions here. I’ll be needing you to tell Fitzallen that you agree to what I want.” He turned to the big man. “You stay here with her, Wiggins.”
“Hell, I don’t want to listen to her either!”
“Then don’t listen. Just don’t let her or these pictures leave.”
Eva handed Rebecca the pistol. Rebecca smiled at the big man, and sat down. He sat down also, overwhelming the chair. He did not look happy.
As Eva left, she heard Rebecca speak. “Good and bad all come down to whether we have souls, Mr. Wiggins. Unless we do, the question of our goodness has no meaning. When I asked your opinion of that yesterday, you never answered. Allow me to elucidate what various philosophers have argued on that point.”
* * *
“She changed the damned plan,” Ives said as he and Gareth mounted their horses.
They had heard her conversation with Crawley while pressed against the house below a window. “Hers is better,” Gareth said. “Brilliant. He will come right to us now. If I play the cards well, we will learn where the other pictures are. He is sure to want me to include them in this foreign sale if I can.”
Ives reached over and grabbed the bridle so he could not ride. “Let us have a right understanding. Neither Crawley nor that scrawny one leaves. Lance will take that big one as soon as the way is clear, but I don’t trust the big fellow to know what we need. Whatever game you play, it does not include any of them walking away tonight.”
Gareth agreed, although it would limit his options. Left to his own choice, he would dangle a quick foreign sale of the entire cache of pictures in order to get hold of the rest. Ives, however, feared Crawley bolting. He assumed Ives believed that, if necessary, Crawley could be made to talk.
He was sure Erasmus could be.
He thanked the sound instincts that had kept Erasmus ignorant of this business and away from Albany Lodge most of the last fortnight.
They tore up the road at a gallop, knowing a carriage would follow soon. Crawley had left it at the end of the lane and walked up to the house. As he rode, Gareth paced out Eva’s way back to that carriage. He and Ives turned the bend just around the time he expected the equipage to roll.
“I’ll take the horses,” Ives said when they reined in at the lodge. “I’ll come in through the garden and make my way up so I am not far from the library. Leave the door open so I can hear.”
Gareth entered the library, lit two lamps, pulled out a book, and shed his frock coat. He placed his pistol in the drawer of a nearby table. He had just settled in to read when he heard the carriage arrive.
Hurried steps sounded on the stairs from below. Not Ives. Harold appeared, pulling on his coats and combing his hair with his fingers. He stuck his head in the library. “Your brothers, sir? Or visitors?”
Gareth cursed. He had clear forgotten that Harold had stayed tonight, the better to serve the duke and lord visiting by day. “Visitors, I believe.” He had to decide fast whether to trust Harold, or send him back down, to be dealt with by Ives. “I need you to show no surprise when you open that door. Just bring them here, then go below. Lord Ywain will be there. Do whatever he says.”
Good soldier that he was, Harold did not even express surprise at the odd command. He straightened and disappeared.
The door opened. Muffled sounds of conversation. Erasmus laughed. Footsteps, and Eva entered the library, followed by Erasmus and another man.
Eva introduced the stranger as Mr. Crawley.
“Crawley,” Gareth repeated. “Aren’t you the cousin of Viscount Demmiwood?”
“I am. I likewise know who you are. The lady says you are holding some art of hers. By an unfortunate misunderstanding a few of my own pictures got mixed in with them.”
“The hell you say.” He scowled at Eva. “This is most irregular, Miss Russell. Had Mr. Crawley become aware of this a fortnight hence, retrieving his property would have been difficult and expensive.”
“I cannot blame you for being vexed, Mr. Fitzallen. I also am relieved this was discovered in good time.”
Gareth smiled at Crawley. “The pictures are all crated for shipment, but if you tell me which ones are yours, I will—”
“Well, now, not so fast. You’ve a buyer for all of them, it sounds like. No need to change plans. Just when you receive payment, you can split off mine.”
“That would certainly simplify matters.” Gareth invited Eva and Crawley to sit, then returned to his chair. “Now, which ones are yours?”
Crawley’s gaze drifted to the decanters on one bookcase. He pulled his attention back. “The Annibale Carracci is one. Then the Claude landscape, and the Titian Danaë.”
Gareth swallowed the urge to throttle the man. He had just identified three of the most valuable pictures. Along with the ten he already thought Eva was returning, he was probably not leaving her with anything resembling a fair share.
“Are you sure you agree to this, Miss Russell?” he asked.
“Of course. Mr. Crawley is better familiar with how the collection was divided than I am.” She looked over. Her eyes all but said, It doesn’t matter. Remember? Which it didn’t, he reminded himself.
“Then that is how it will be.”
Crawley chewed his upper lip for a moment. “Would this collector be interested in others? I’ve more, you see. Important works.”
“I am sure he would be. However, if you have other pictures of this quality, you can do better selling here in England. It was only the lack of sufficient provenance for her pictures, and the need for a fast conclusion, that led me to advise a foreign sale to Miss Russell.”
“I, too, would prefer a fast sale, all at once, much as she is doing.”
Gareth pretended to ponder that. “I had intended to transport these soon. There will not be time to write and confirm that he also wants yours. I think he will, but—”
“If you are going with them, I would send mine as well, and travel along. If this collector does not want them, another might.”
“Oh, certainly. If they are all you say, I am sure another would.”
“Mr. Fitzallen does not broker anything but the best,” Eva said. “He came highly recommended. Why, he would not even talk particulars with me until he had seen the pictures.”
“What Miss Russell says is true. I would have to see what you have. Is the collection nearby?” Gareth hoped Ives was listening carefully and appreciated how damned close they were to being led to the rest of the art.
“A day’s ride. Maybe two.” Crawley’s eyes narrowed rather longingly on the decanters again. “It would be better for me to bring several of the works here.”
Not close enough. Damn. “You do own all of them free and clear? No estate encumbrances, for example? I once wasted almost a year on a collection that it turned out required the death of the man’s father before it could be sold.”
“As it happens, all the required deaths have taken place.” Crawley found that very amusing.
Eva glared with dangerous eyes. “Are you speaking of my brother?”
Crawley’s mirth died. “No, dear lady, I am not.”
Eva did not believe him. Neither did Gareth. Crawley twitched nervously. He stood. “I will remain in touch, Fitzallen. I expect you to as well. Once the pictures are sold, we can settle up. If all goes well, we can see about the others.”
“I trust my household will be spared any more intrusions,” Eva said.
Crawley faced her fully and made a bow. “You have my word.” He turned to go, and froze. The way out was blocked. Ives stood there, pistol at the ready.
Crawley pivoted, his gaze desperately searching for another exit. Gareth shook his head, and brandished his own pistol.
Ives walked over, placed a firm hold on Crawley’s shoulder, and pressed him down into his chair. “There are many more questions about those pictures before you go anywhere.”
Through the doorway, Harold could be seen marching to the entrance with his own pistol in hand and an uncompromising look on his face.
“Gareth,” Eva said. “Erasmus remained in the carriage.”
Gareth reached the door just as Harold raised his aim at a figure darting into the dark.
“Don’t kill him, Harold.”
“If you so command, sir.”
The crack of a shot sounded, then a cry of shock and pain. Gareth and Harold walked the short distance to where Erasmus writhed on the ground, holding his leg. “You damned broke it,” he screamed.
“Be glad you have the life left to complain,” Harold said. “In the army we dealt with turncoats better. Why Mr. Fitzallen here wanted you spared is beyond me.”
Gareth reached down and dragged Erasmus up by his arm. “I wanted him alive because he likes to talk. Don’t you, Erasmus?”
CHAPTER 26
Talk Erasmus did. All the time that Harold cleaned, bound, and braced his leg in the kitchen, he poured out what he knew to Eva and Gareth.
He had come late to the scheme, unfortunately, and did not know the names of all involved. Eva assumed that Lord Ywain was persuading Mr. Crawley to fill in those details upstairs.
She listened instead to how Nigel had recruited Erasmus to help retrieve some property stored some distance away, and how they drove a wagon there over almost three days and moved many flat crates onto it. She heard how another man arrived as they drove away, and exchanged pistol fire with Nigel, who took that ball in his side.
“Cursing he was,” Erasmus said while he watched Harold handle him none too gently. Sweat dampened his hair, the result of terror and pain. “Cursing those who first expected him to wait forever to turn the goods into blunt, then lied to him and said it had all gone up in flames so there’d be nothing to sell after all. He guessed it was a lie, he said, and he needed money.”
Eva wanted to accuse him of lying, only right now Erasmus was too frightened to lie. Her heart sickened. Nigel had helped in the theft of the pictures, just as Mr. Crawley had implied.
“Did you help him store the crates once you returned to Langdon’s End?” Gareth asked,
Erasmus shook his head. “He left me off on the other side of town. I told him I should help, that with that wound he would only kill himself dragging the big ones off the cart and around. He wouldn’t hear me.”
Dragging those crates up to that attic probably had made the wound worse, Eva thought. It possibly did kill him, eventually.
“How did you come to be with this man tonight?” Gareth asked.
Erasmus flushed red. “Came upon them the first time they went into Miss Russell’s house. She asked me to check on things every morning, and that morning these two men were there. Wiggins, that big one, and another one. Tearing it apart, they were. They flipped me five shillings and just continued on. I’d no idea it had to do with those crates from that night. I told them there was nothing to steal, but they didn’t listen, and I couldn’t stop them. Then, the other day, Mr. Crawley was in the village with Wiggins, who pointed me out, and there was another five shillings in my hand.”
“Did you recognize Crawley from that night you helped Nigel Russell?” Gareth asked.
“I didn’t see him there. He may have been, though. I was in a wagon with the cattle under Mr. Russell’s whip, wasn’t I?”
Just then Harold pulled the rope to tie the splint in place. Erasmus screamed in pain. “Hell, you don’t have to try and kill me! We’re friends, for mercy’s sake.”
“Friends? For years you’ve been smirking about some big secret, and I go to find it was this. You’re no friend of mine if you deal in with such as that blackguard above us.” Harold gave the rope another pull for good measure. “That should fix you fine until the surgeon cuts out the ball. You’ll be fit as a fiddle for the gallows.”
“Gallows!”
“What do you think becomes of them that kidnap girls from their homes, you fool?”
“I didn’t. I insisted I go so she wouldn’t be scared. I thought that Wiggins fellow might get ideas, and I could keep her safe.”
“You tell that to the court, and maybe they’ll believe you better’n I do.” Harold walked out in disgust.
Gareth offered Erasmus his arm. “You will have to stand now, and come outside. There will be other questions.”
Eva helped Erasmus too. Together she and Gareth got him out to the garden. Mr. Crawley already sat there, firm-jawed and resolute. Harold stood nearby, weapon at the ready. Lord Ywain sat twenty paces away, his pistol on the bench beside him. When he saw them emerge, he walked over.
“He is not speaking. Not a word. Moreover, he finds something about this very amusing.”
“It does him no good to cooperate,” Gareth said. “To give you the location of the other pictures would only prove he had taken them, after all.”
“We need that information, however.”
Gareth examined Crawley’s self-satisfied expression. “He waits to hear that you will let him go once the pictures are retrieved. Their location is his only card, but it is an ace.”
Lord Ywain’s face turned to stone. “Are you suggesting that I—”
“Do not pretend you never have before, if it were the only way to learn what you needed.”
Lord Ywain looked at Eva. “I apologize that you are hearing us bargain with justice, especially since it is your family’s justice that will be denied if we do this. Say the word and we will settle for a partial loaf regarding those missing paintings.”
Eva looked at Crawley. He had decided it would be a game to the end. She wondered if it had been a ball from his pistol that condemned her to five years of penurious drudgery with a bitter, melancholy Nigel.
Did it matter? She wanted this over. Finished. She wanted Crawley and the paintings gone. She wanted her life back, so she could look to the future, not the past.
“If you can make him leave England, I do not care what bargain you strike. But if he goes free, so do Erasmus and the others.”
“See if you can find out who the other gentlemen were,” Gareth added. “I doubt he will tell you, but try.”
Lord Ywain paced over to Mr. Crawley.
“You do not have to agree to this,” Gareth said to her. “We could try to beat it out of him.”
“Your brother would never agree to that.”
“You do not know my brother very well.”
She had to smile. “My generosity is not pure, I am ashamed to say. I am hoping that if Mr. Crawley is shown mercy, I will be as well. I am trusting that in light of so much bald thievery, your brother will not care much whether I copied those pictures with innocent intentions, or deliberately forged them.”
“I think he has forgotten about that entirely.”
“For now, perhaps. But he will remember it soon.”
“He will not care about that. It is not part of this mission.” Gareth took her hand and drew her farther from the others. “They will leave soon. When they do, stay here.”
“My sister—”
“Have them
take her to the Neville sisters. She should do normal things today, not turn the remaining hours into a monument to her ordeal.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “Stay here with me.”
She closed her eyes so nothing distracted her from how that kiss touched her like the stroke of a velvet brush. Happy pleasure moved in her, reminding her that her own normal had been wonderful recently.
“I fear that if I agree, I will be in danger again,” she said.
“Stay anyway.”
His slow smile and warm gaze promised the best danger.
“I will go in now,” she said. “Make what excuses you will for me.”
* * *
“Hell of a thing,” Ives said. He did not appear happy with his conversation with Crawley. “He only thinks he knows where the rest of the pictures are, and even then in a general way. According to him, after the paintings were stolen and stored, the leader informed them that a fire destroyed all of it. Crawley was suspicious, but indeed the location was reduced to cinders when he went to check.”
“How did he know Nigel had some of them?”
“He only discovered some of the paintings survived when he also stumbled across one of Miss Russell’s copies three months ago in a Birmingham house he visited, and realized Nigel must have taken some before the fire. Or after, if the fire was a ruse. As for that general location where he suspects the rest of the paintings are now stored, he will not give it to me. Unless he is paid a handsome sum along with going free.”
“That won’t do.”
“No. Nor will he give the names of the other gentlemen involved, although he says that leader is dead now. He will gladly hand over the Wiggins and such, of course. It did start out as a joke, by the way. He learned about the movement of the art from overhearing Demmiwood talk of it. He and some friends from these parts, a few years after the last Duke of Devonshire died, drew away the butler on a ruse and marched it all out again.”
“I expect eventually it stopped being a joke. Probably when one of them learned the value of certain old pictures.”
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