Besides Isabel and Lucy, the duchess and her only daughter had welcomed Lady Teasdale, an older woman with a sharp sense of humor and beautifully dressed silver hair, and Mrs. Gadolin, a young woman who had recently married far above her station and bore much the same fuddled-by-fortune look as the cat.
Isabel had hoped for a larger crowd, but in her impatience to find the false Botticelli, she and Lucy had called on the early side of fashion. Now she would have to be careful not to draw notice for unusual behavior. As she sipped her tea, her eyes darted around the room. No fake Primavera on that wall . . . that wall . . . that wall. She would have to make an excuse to leave the room before the polite quarter-hour’s visit was up, so she could search more of the house.
“May I pet her too?” Lucy asked. She’d been all but silent so far on this call, but the company of an animal had the effect of easing her awkwardness.
At Lady Selina’s cheerful agreement, Lucy slipped from her chair and crouched on the floor before the sofa. She crooned to the cat, who blinked eyes gone sleepy from petting and sloth.
Isabel had a dual motive for this call. Besides locating the study of La Primavera, she wanted Lucy to befriend the Godwins. Isabel had grown up with George, the elder sibling, who was twenty-eight as she was. Lady Selina, at age twenty-one, had spent time enough in society to become thoroughly comfortable with it, and she would be a fine friend for Lucy. Likely she’d wed this year. Rumor placed the heir to the Liverdale marquessate—a pleasant man in his late thirties—as a frequent caller in Lady Selina’s drawing room. It would be a good match, the fulfillment of the two powerful families’ long-held wish to unite. One wondered, in fact, why the heir had not yet proposed.
Perhaps, Isabel realized, the Duke of Ardmore needed his gambling debts to be forgiven before Liverdale would consent to the match. Or perhaps Isabel was seeing conspiracy everywhere.
She wished for the unflappable presence of Callum Jenks. Though he’d fit into this iced cake of a drawing room about as well as a fallen tree, he would know what was likely and what was ridiculous.
“You must get a pet of your own, Miss Wallace,” said the duchess in her languid voice. Perpetually half-dazed with laudanum due to an illness no physician had ever been able to diagnose, she was sleepily courteous as she reclined on a silk-covered chaise longue. “Every young lady of fashion must have a cat.”
“I shall get one directly!” promised young Mrs. Gadolin. “My darling Gadolin will know the perfect place to get the best sort of cat.”
“The best sort of cat, in my belief,” commented Lady Teasdale, “is the sort that stays out in the mews and keeps the mice from eating up the hay. A good big dog, now, that’s the sort of pet that can make itself useful.”
Isabel jumped in to this conversational opening. “Like a watchdog, you mean? Your Grace, I believe you keep several here.”
When the duchess only said, “Mmmm?” Lady Selina replied, “Yes, much to everyone’s dismay but my father’s! They ought to live in the country; they would make excellent hunting dogs. Instead, they prowl about the house at night and put fear into the servants. Every time my father rings for his poor valet at night,” she laughed, “Thursby must take off his shoes and sneak about, lest one of the dogs should wake and spring for him.”
“It is so funny,” said the duchess vaguely. “We laugh and laugh.”
“How many dogs have you?” Lucy asked, still petting the little cat.
“Only two, though they’re large and loud enough to seem like a whole pack.” Lady Selina chuckled. “Dreadful dears. Right now they’re shut up in my father’s study. He enjoys their company as he answers his correspondence, I suppose.”
A good hint. The two dogs would have to be accounted for when the time came to swap the false painting for the true.
Now, how could she slip away to look for the painting without drawing notice, especially from Lucy?
Dear Lucy. Eighteen years of age, she was pretty as a painting herself, with wide blue eyes and hair that curled in soft ringlets. Smooth-skinned and slender, she could have posed for all the fashion drawings in Ackermann’s Repository.
And yet. So far this Season, she “hadn’t taken,” as mamas were wont to describe girls who simply hadn’t drawn much male attention. It wasn’t as though she were shy, or difficult. She was friendly and extremely agreeable. So much so that Isabel sometimes found herself holding back on offering an opinion, so she could determine what Lucy wanted. Lucy was a difficult girl to fool, though. It seemed like a game to her: “Oh, whatever you’d like,” she’d say, her eyes extra-wide.
Men wanted biddable wives, in Isabel’s experience. But maybe not that biddable? Or maybe Lucy was just a little . . . not enough. Not quite rich enough, not quite spirited enough.
There was one exception, and that was when Lucy was around animals. She could croon to and play with an animal for hours. Perhaps this little Titan would be the bridge between Lucy and a friend with two legs instead of four. Lady Selina seemed most pleased by the attention given her pet.
For a moment. Then, once Mrs. Gadolin had decided she would put her darling husband on the hunt for two large and bad-tempered dogs, Lady Selina turned her gaze toward Isabel.
“It’s been well over a year since you were widowed, has it not?” Lady Selina cast a curious glance over Isabel’s gown. It was another in gray, this one edged in a narrow band of lavender silk ribbon and trimmed with black bugles. “You still wear your ring, and you remain in half-mourning?”
Isabel made some noncommittal noise. Let Lady Selina think her excessively sentimental. She thought of her pale clothing and the ring on her finger much like the faded winter plumage of a bright bird. It kept anyone from noticing her, so she could go about her life unbothered.
It wasn’t always the sort of plumage she preferred, though. She regarded Lady Teasdale’s scarlet gown and turban with covetous eyes.
“You will forgive me for asking,” said Lady Selina with the confidence of one who was forgiven everything. “You see, I have matchmaking on my mind, hoping for a happy announcement soon myself.” Her smile was all dimples and mischief. “Have you not thought of looking for a husband for yourself along with one for Miss Wallace?”
“Hmm. Miss Wallace.” Lady Teasdale looked thoughtful. She had a son of marriageable age, Isabel recalled—though she was perhaps more interested in seeing him wed than he was himself.
Lucy looked up, smiled vaguely, and returned her attention to the cat.
“Miss Wallace must have romance enough for us both,” Isabel prodded her gently. “I’ve no interest in wedding again.”
She had been only eighteen when she’d married Andrew, who was twenty years her elder. He’d valued Isabel as an asset—pretty, aristocratic, pleasant—just as he had the artwork in which he’d traded. She was to help him add to his collection by being a living supplement to it.
As a widow, she ought to be free to act as she wished. Yet she was still living for others, wasn’t she? Cleaning up the evidence of Andrew’s wrongdoing. Guiding Lucy to make sure the girl had a good life.
The stubborn, handsome face of Callum Jenks flashed into her mind. Reminding her she wasn’t alone in her scheme—for now.
“You ought to consider it nonetheless, Lady Isabel,” Lady Selina said. “And this time, you could choose whomever you wish.”
“A marriage for love, you mean?” Lady Teasdale’s eyes were merry. “You’re telling fairy tales, my girl. Marrying for love is a luxury women can ill afford.”
Lady Selina looked doubtful. As she lifted her teacup, sunlight winked in a jeweled ring she wore. Likely she wasn’t accustomed to being told there was something she couldn’t afford.
“I shall tell my darling Gadolin . . .” His young wife ground to a halt. “What ought I to tell him?”
“That marrying for love is a dream few of us see become reality,” said Lady Teasdale dryly.
“Tell him that he ought to get you a cat,” suggested Lucy. �
��If you want one.”
“Hear, hear,” added Lady Selina. “Tell him to get you a cat. My brother can tell you where. He’s probably blundering about somewhere in the house.”
For the next few minutes, the women talked of everything and nothing. This sort of conversation felt like a warm bath, comforting in its easy familiarity. Gentle, watchful flattery that folded the other person’s attention back upon herself and allowed Isabel to observe, to learn.
And to drop back, so that she could seize a moment to excuse herself. A murmured beg pardon, an embarrassed dip of the gaze, and everyone would assume Lady Isabel Morrow had to use the necessary before she paid her next call. She made her way around the edge of the drawing room, then ducked out through the gilded door.
Every part of the Duke of Ardmore’s town house was rich and gilt-spattered, and this corridor was no exception. Elaborate plaster medallions painted in gold; silk hangings on the walls; gold-framed portraits and paintings every few feet. Quietly as her slippers could carry her, Isabel tiptoed in the direction opposite the entry hall. She knew Butler’s Botticelli wasn’t hung there, nor had it been in the dining room the last time she dined here. She must hope it wasn’t in the study, where duke and dogs were closed away, but if she had to make some excuse to look in there, she would.
Sliding her hand along the wall, she listened—but the silence was so complete, it seemed like a weight in her ears. One could not hear the London streets from this part of the house, and the soft carpets underfoot stole even the sound of her own footfalls. She peered into another room—a music room, it appeared, smelling of cut flowers and lemon polish—then poked down a new corridor. The Duke of Ardmore had a large collection of art, and every which way Isabel turned, there seemed to be another work. The man had hung paintings frame to frame in some places, clustering them so thickly in the stairwell that the pattern of the wall-hanging was all but hidden.
She cast a glance toward the door that she guessed led to the duke’s study, then regarded the stairwell thoughtfully. Maybe the troublesome painting was on the second story, hung amidst the family’s quarters.
She must hurry. A few more minutes, and the callers would be leaving. Already they must be wondering at the state of poor Lady Isabel’s insides, to be gone so long in the necessary. Quick-footing it, she hurried up the stairs, rounding the curve—right into a person.
“Steady there, miss—oh, Isabel! Hullo there.”
“George!” Isabel recovered her balance, then gave her old acquaintance a smile that was quite genuine. “How do you do?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Though he returned her smile, he looked nothing of the sort. At only twenty-eight, he wore his years heavily. Reddened eyes, a softness about the middle from too much drink. Because he was practically nocturnal, his skin was fish-belly pale.
Despite all this, George had a kind, if selfish, heart. He was, after all, the one who had first alerted Isabel to the sale—or trade, really—of his father’s painting to Angelus, eager to share what he thought to be ripping news. His father’s gambling troubles were a matter of continual amusement to him.
“Were you fetching something for my sister?” he asked. “Can I help you find it?”
Right. She’d just plowed into him on the stairs to the second story. “Oh—no, it’s not that.” Why not be honest? It would be easier than remembering a pack of lies. “I was hoping to get a look at your father’s Botticelli. A study from La Primavera—do you know the one?”
“With the dancing naked ladies?” George laughed. “I should think so.”
“It’s lovely!” Isabel protested. “I grew fond of Botticelli when Morrow and I lived in Sicily. I just wanted a look at it.”
“Ah. You’ve got some memories tied up in the old thing, haven’t you?”
Isabel smiled, permitting George this incorrect assumption.
“Ardmore keeps it in his study these days,” George replied. “He did have it upstairs for a while, but he likes having it close at hand now. Making his good-byes, maybe, before he sends it off to Angelus—next week, I think.”
They had only a few days, then, to make the switch. “I shouldn’t want to bother him in his study,” Isabel demurred.
Dutifully, George insisted that it would be no trouble at all, and back down the stairs they went to the one door Isabel hadn’t opened. George rapped at it, and a furious round of barking ensued.
“Come in,” called the duke, barely audible over the dogs’ clamor.
George opened the door partway. “Father. Brought a visitor for your dancing naked ladies.” Then he shoved Isabel in with more enthusiasm than politeness.
“Gog! Magog! Sit,” said the duke. The two large dogs—both hunters of a sort much larger than Brinley—set their haunches on the floor and looked at Isabel with what could only be described as a pout on their jowls. “Quiet, boys.”
“Your Grace.” Isabel dropped a curtsy, then extended a hand for the dogs to sniff. They stretched out curious heads, then growled, hackles rising even as they remained planted on the floor.
“Sorry about that,” said the duke. “They don’t much like anyone but me.”
“It’s true,” grumbled George. “I can’t tell you how much calf ’s liver I’ve fed the dreadful beasts since Father bought them—”
“You fed them what?” interrupted the duke.
“—and they still won’t obey a single command I give.”
Isabel laughed, as she was meant to, though her heart was pattering more quickly than usual. There was the painting, half-hidden behind the standing duke—and then there was the duke himself.
She ought to be comfortable around an old acquaintance like the Duke of Ardmore, yet she never felt so. Oh, his smile was everything friendly, his voice mild, his manners assiduous. But his blue eyes were so watchful. Much like Jenks’s, she supposed, yet the effect was entirely different. Jenks seemed merely to be observing; Ardmore was judging.
But Isabel could win a politeness battle with anyone in society. “As your son said, Your Grace, I hoped for a look at your Botticelli. I have loved it since the day my late husband acquired it.”
All right, that bit was a lie. But the mention of a dead spouse was always good for a sympathetic response, and the duke, standing at his large mahogany desk, welcomed Isabel to step around behind it. “It is lovely work, Lady Isabel. I don’t wonder you became fond of it.”
The study was small, cluttered now with three people and two dogs and a desk larger than the table in Isabel’s breakfast room. The Butler-celli hung centered behind the desk, between two narrow windows draped in elegant swags of silk velvet.
“It is just as I remembered it,” Isabel said for the sake of saying something, as she forced herself to memorize every detail here. Two windows; that would be the fourth and fifth back from the street. The first story, so a bit of a climb from the ground floor if they entered through the window. The frame was elaborate and unmistakable. They would have to take time to swap the real painting into the same frame. It would be possible since Butler’s forgeries were exactly sized.
“Lovely.” She drew a deep breath that she hoped sounded enraptured, then stepped toward one of the windows for a look at its latch. “Do you mind, may I look at your view? I am thinking of moving houses.”
“Of course,” said Ardmore in his mellifluous voice. “You must wish to move away from the sad associations of your current home.”
“Indeed,” agreed Isabel distantly, studying the metalwork that locked the sashes. “Such sad associations.” She was no expert, but the latch looked like the one on her drawing room window. She could practice with that one, maybe, sorting out how to force it from the outside.
Her mind whirled with observations. Thank heaven she had a bit of pencil and a pocketbook in her reticule, though of course she’d left that behind in the drawing room.
Be a good investigator, she told herself. Be a good partner for Jenks. She must remember all of this, so he would smile again in th
at interestingly wicked way when she told him what she’d learned.
“Are you really thinking of moving houses?” George’s voice came from behind her, surprised. Gog and Magog growled, and George addressed them with a word he ought not to have said in the presence of a lady.
Isabel turned back to face him. “Yes, I really am.”
This impulsive falsehood was the first time she’d considered the idea. Until now she’d been bound up in the notion of being Andrew’s widow, of not wanting to rattle the bones of all the skeletons he’d left behind for her. But she liked the notion, now that she thought it over. Yes. She liked it very much.
“I would prefer something smaller, I think,” she said. “A little jewel of a town house. Or maybe one at the edge of London, with a bit of garden behind it for flowers and a bench to take one’s leisure.” If one tried sitting outdoors behind the Lombard Street house, one would only get a lungful of foggy coal smoke and pungent dung from the stables. For variety, maybe the sharp scent of lye on washing day.
“It sounds a most attractive prospect,” said the duke mildly. “I’ve the name of a good house agent, if you wish some help in your hunt for a new property.”
Isabel accepted the name, printed on a bit of foolscap, then curtsied her good-bye. The dogs hated that even more than they’d hated her entrance, erupting into a flurry of barking.
“Rotten dogs,” George said as he shut the study door behind them. “The only command they know is ‘sit,’ but at least they obey it well. Sometimes. Oh! Hullo, there’s my sister.”
“There you are, Lady Isabel! I wondered where you’d got to.” Lady Selina turned from waving her callers down the stairs to shoot the new arrivals a grin. “Now I see, you ran into my reprobate brother.”
“It’s always good to see an old friend,” said Isabel. A bland reply, but eighty percent of her mind was full of measurements and plots. “And I got to meet the famous dogs.”
Lucy stood in the doorway, holding her reticule in one hand and Isabel’s in the other. “Were they very—oh! Lord Northbrook.” Lucy managed somehow to curtsy to George and shrink back at the same time.
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