The Duke Heist

by Erica Ridley

  This had to be it. He moved the old duke’s chair out of the way and dropped to the worn floor beneath the large walnut desk.

  It had been handcrafted specifically for Father. There was a writing shelf that rolled out just above one’s knees, and behind that a narrow compartment only six inches wide, sealed with a hidden sliding lock.

  With searching fingers, Lawrence pushed the moving parts until the lock disengaged. A narrow door swung open. A handful of papers fell to the floor, followed by a rolled canvas tied with twine.

  He had found it!

  His heart pounded as he collected the fallen objects and withdrew from beneath the desk. He placed them all on the mahogany surface.

  Painting first.

  He untied the twine and unrolled the canvas. It looked exactly like the one he’d given to Miss York. Almost exactly. There were a few subtle differences—so subtle, Lawrence might never have noticed them had he not spent every spare moment of his time in the library, studying its remaining works of art. He tied the canvas up in a neat scroll once more and reached for the topmost parchment. It was a letter.

  Any guilt he felt over reading his father’s correspondence had disappeared eight months before, when Lawrence inherited the dukedom and the extent of his father’s debts came to light. He hoped these weren’t more debts waiting to be repaid.

  He scanned the letter’s contents in growing horror.

  Your Grace,

  Where are the papers of provenance? You said I would have them within three weeks, and it has been two years. I would not have made a fuss, but Albus Roth has made a name for himself in artistic circles. I may one day wish to sell “The Three Witches of Macbeth” at a profit, and will not be able to do so without the appropriate documentation. I implore you to surrender those papers at once.

  Mr. John Wagner

  Ribblesdale

  Lawrence’s fingers trembled. Mr. Wagner could not possess The Three Witches of Macbeth. The framed canvas was hanging on the library wall.

  Where are the papers of provenance?

  Lawrence pushed the rest of the letters aside and picked up one of the documents. Documents of provenance for Titus Andronicus. He grabbed another. Provenance for Robin Goodfellow in the Forest with Fairies. He reached for the next. The Three Witches of Macbeth.

  That blackguard! Lawrence’s father hadn’t sold redundant pieces of art. His father had been selling forgeries.

  That was why the paintings had been hidden behind the sideboard and the papers of provenance were tucked away in a secret drawer. His flesh went cold. He stared down at the letter.

  Lawrence had never heard of a Mr. John Wagner.

  Ribblesdale was more than two hundred miles away.

  Likely that was by design. Father would not have chosen buyers with the means to make his life uncomfortable were the deception uncovered. That he’d involved Baron Vanderbean must have been an act of desperation.

  Or was it? Nineteen years ago, the baron had just arrived in England. He was reclusive and eccentric, and, as Lawrence vaguely recalled, the gossips assumed the baron would soon return to Balcovia.

  That he had made a home here in London instead would have initially been a blow to Father’s plans, but once it was clear Vanderbean was not fussed in the least about pesky details like provenance, it was no wonder that Father had tried to take advantage of him again and again.

  Until Albus Roth hosted his first public exhibition, and the paintings turned important overnight. Each piece of art became evidence of a crime. Father would have been desperate to switch the forgery for the original before the Wynchesters uncovered his deception.

  Not just the Wynchesters… all of the innocent people the duke had swindled.

  Lawrence scrubbed his face with his hands. The first thing he needed to do was get the papers—and the real paintings—to their rightful owners.

  And hope a sincere apology would make up for years of deception.

  28

  Chloe curled up in her favorite window seat with a copy of Evelina, but her mind was far from the reading circle. Lawrence had said he would return their painting, but days had passed with no sign of him. It was impossible to concentrate on fiction when reality was so uncertain.

  With a crackle of iron wheels on gravel, a coach came to a rest in front of her house.

  She pressed her fingertips to the window. It was Lawrence!

  He fed a bit of carrot to Elderberry and Mango, then cupped his hand over his eyes and turned his face up toward the house as if scanning windows in search of Chloe. Lawrence combed his fingers through his hair. It was immediately ruffled again by the wind. He straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels and waistcoat.

  Chloe smiled. She had touched those lapels, unbuttoned that waistcoat. She couldn’t wait to touch them again.

  She marked her page with a pink silk ribbon and dashed to meet him.

  As she stepped into the sunlight, he glanced up and saw her. His wide smile lit his blue eyes with desire and sent a jolt of answering electricity streaking along her skin.

  “Did you bring our painting?” she asked.

  He held out his arms. “Yes.”

  “In that case…” She launched herself into his embrace.

  His body was warm, the contours of his muscles familiar. She lay her cheek against him and breathed in the smell of his skin. His swift heartbeat kept time with hers.

  The clock ticked too quickly for them both.

  She peered up at him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I wanted to see what it felt like to appear on your doorstep unannounced. Should I have brought a false Great-Uncle?”

  “Tommy would have been excellent in the role. If you think you found her convincing as Great-Aunt Wynchester…”

  He grimaced. “Don’t tell me she could take one stroll down my Hall of Portraits and make herself up like the sixth Duke of Faircliffe.”

  “All right.” Chloe batted her eyelashes. “I won’t tell you.”

  He groaned. “She’s probably already done so.”

  “And worse,” Chloe promised, then pantomimed sewing her lips closed.

  “What about you?” His smile was warm, his gaze indulgent. One could easily imagine herself adored. “What were you doing when I arrived?”

  “Reading in my favorite nook.”

  He retrieved a package from the interior of his coach. “I would love to see your nook.”

  She pointed. “I would love to see that.”

  “In that case…” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She was tempted to snatch the canvas out of his other hand and sprint into the house to spread the word. Walking the twenty feet up the path at a sedate pace would surely be the death of her.

  The moment they crossed the threshold, she called out to her siblings.

  Most were in the dining room enjoying a midafternoon repast. The others arrived within the space of a breath.

  Lawrence handed Chloe a canvas secured with twine.

  She untied the knot and unrolled the canvas on a clear section of the table.

  Everyone crowded around to see themselves dancing with Puck once again. A crow of delight filled the room.

  “It is our portrait,” Marjorie pronounced, assuaging the last of their doubts. If a single brushstroke had been out of place, she would have noticed at once.

  “And technically”—Lawrence pressed his lips together in a grimace, then pushed on—“a forgery.”

  “What?” Six startled faces turned to his.

  “You were right when you said my father was a wastrel who would sell anything to cover his gambling debts.” Lawrence winced. “Or at least claim he’d sold it. He knew better than to peddle a false Rembrandt, so he chose an unknown new artist named Albus Roth.”

  “I adore Albus Roth,” said Marjorie. “He had his first major exhibition last year.”

  Tommy nodded. “That’s what we were talking about the night…your father
…”

  “No wonder he seemed agitated. His grand scheme was unraveling right before his eyes.” Lawrence handed Chloe a folded document. “Here are the papers of provenance that should have been yours all along—as well as the real painting. The canvas you had on the wall was the false one. I owe you all an enormous apology.”

  The siblings exchanged glances.

  “The one we’ve had on the wall all these years is the real one to us,” Elizabeth said. “You can have the original back if you like.”

  “At a significantly higher price,” Jacob added.

  “No, thank you.” Lawrence sighed. “I won’t be in a position to purchase art for a very long time.”

  Chloe looked at her siblings. “Shall I give him back his vase?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Graham lifted the document of provenance by the corner. “Shouldn’t we deliver this evidence to the Bow Street Runners?”

  Lawrence’s cheeks paled.

  Tommy and Graham snorted with laughter.

  “I delivered all of the originals to the proper owners,” Lawrence said in a rush. “I sent papers of provenance as well as a personal apology for my father’s ‘confusion’—”

  “They’re teasing,” Chloe assured him. “Your father was wrong and so were you, so they haven’t yet forgiven you…but your secret is safe with us.”

  Elizabeth scooped up the canvas. “Who’s going to help return Puck to his place of honor?”

  “Me!” the siblings cried in unison, then clattered up the stairs, leaving Chloe and Lawrence alone in the dining room.

  “Come on, then.” She walked past the stairs. “I brought your vase over here.”

  Before she could hand it to him, he rushed over to the mantel and lifted the glass angel reverently, as though the empty vase meant as much to him as the Puck & Family portrait meant to the Wynchesters.

  Perhaps it did.

  “I thought my father would never part with this.” His voice was rough with emotion. “It seems there was much about the duke that I did not know. I am glad to have this back.”

  “As am I.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “Now that we both have what we want, I suppose there’s nothing to keep you here.”

  “Isn’t there?” He returned the vase to the side table with extra care, then turned back to face her. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.”

  Before she could form a coherent reply, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

  She ran her palms up his sides, over his shoulders. Not just feeling him, but savoring the hard planes of his body, finding it familiar and wondrous all at once. He could leave now if he wanted. But what he wanted was her. And she could never have too much of him.

  His body felt perfect pressed against her. Big and strong in the best possible way. His heat comforting, his embrace protective.

  It was almost enough to make her believe he thought her just as worthy of his attentions as the debutantes and heiresses of the haut ton.

  But she didn’t want almost.

  She wanted the real thing.

  Her brother Jacob burst into the sitting room wearing two oversized leather gloves, a full-body leather apron, and a worried expression.

  She and Lawrence sprang apart.

  Jacob peered around them. “Have you seen Hydra?”

  “Is that the python?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath.

  “No, Hydra is a hamster.” He paused. “Why? Have you seen a python?”

  “I have not seen a python. Should we be looking for a python?”

  He waved a gloved hand. “No, no. It’s only Hydra who’s gone missing.”

  “Have you asked Tiglet?” Lawrence suggested.

  Jacob glared at him. “Tiglet is well trained and well fed. Tiglet would never…”

  But he began edging toward the door.

  “If all you’re missing is a hamster,” Chloe inquired, “why are you wearing protective armor?”

  “Oh, this.” He flapped his oversized gloves dismissively at his leather apron. “I’ve a few new creatures to train, and the first lesson is teaching the beasts not to bite.”

  Lawrence’s brow furrowed. “Is it working?”

  “Not yet,” Jacob said, his cheerful confidence undaunted. “Don’t be surprised if this is my ensemble for the next few days.”

  With that, he vanished down the corridor.

  Lawrence looked at Chloe. “How certain are you that there’s no python on the loose?”

  “Eighty percent,” she assured him, and sank into a plush chair. “Maybe closer to sixty-five.”

  He glanced beneath the chair across from her before settling gingerly on the cushion. “Do you have extra leather gloves I could borrow?”

  “Only silk. Leather makes it difficult to palm things.”

  At his startled expression, she could not contain a laugh. In a million years she would never have predicted that she would one day freely admit her skill at nicking things to the Duke of Faircliffe.

  He sat upright. “Show me.”

  Oh, why not? She pulled a sovereign from one of her pockets. Gold flashed as she flipped it between her fingers, over, under, back again, over, under…

  “Goodness—it’s gone!” She showed Lawrence her empty hands.

  “Where did it go?” he demanded.

  She lifted a shoulder. “Nowhere.”

  With a snap of her fingers, there was the coin again, its worn edges flipping over her knuckles in a metallic blur.

  The duke was kneeling before her in seconds. “Teach me.”

  She snapped her fingers again, and the old sovereign disappeared. “Do you have your own coin?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is this a swindle where you take it from me if I say yes?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “Find out.”

  He fished in his pocket and pulled out a shilling. “Will this do?”

  The thin silver coin lay in the center of his palm.

  She waved her hand slowly over the top of his as if sensing the shilling’s spiritual emanations, then wrinkled her face in confusion.

  His eyes flicked to hers.

  Ha! That was all the time she needed. Chloe flung herself back onto her cushion and picked up her book. “I thought you said you had a shilling.”

  “It is a shilling. It’s—” A sound of baffled consternation choked in his throat. “I felt nothing! The shilling was there, and now it’s gone.”

  “That’s how it used to feel every time I had money: Poof! Gone again.”

  His eyes were still wide. “But how did you do it?”

  She sat back up, unable to hide her grin. “It would be irresponsible of me to teach you that trick. I’ll show you a different one. Have you another shilling?”

  He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “Not for you.”

  “Good,” she said with a laugh. “You’re learning.”

  She touched his face and kissed him. When she pulled her hand away, his shilling was once again in her palm.

  “Watch this.” She adjusted the muscles of her hand so that the shilling caught right in the center of her palm. “It’s delicate,” she warned him. “If your fingers are loose enough to appear natural, the slightest bump could dislodge your coin.”

  She turned her hand over so the palm faced downward.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re hiding anything,” he said in awe. “Just a woman holding out her hand to be kissed.”

  She arched a brow. “Then kiss it.”

  He did.

  When he leaned back, she turned over her palm. It now contained his shilling and the handkerchief she’d just nicked from his lapel.

  He burst out laughing. “All right, braggart. Let me try.”

  She tucked his handkerchief into her bodice and handed him back his shilling.

  He spent the next ten minutes repeatedly picking it up from the floor, then finally chucked it over his shoulder with an aggrieved sigh. “There. It disappeared.”


  Chloe wiped away tears of silent laughter. “Don’t lose hope. All skills worth mastering require practice.”

  He looked aggrieved. “How long did it take you?”

  “Days to hide a coin reliably,” she admitted. “I started with buttons scavenged along the Thames. I had smaller hands then, but buttons come in all sorts of weights and sizes, just as coins do, so it was good practice. Later, Tommy would hide buttons in her bed or on her person and I would have to nick them without her noticing to win the game.”

  “Tommy was with you back then?”

  “Tommy has been with me for as long as I can remember.” Thank heavens for it. “Her cot was next to mine at the orphanage. There weren’t many places to hide things, since we had no true possessions, but Tommy was resourceful and made me work for every button.”

  “Did you flip them the way you did with the coin?”

  “No.” Chloe made the sovereign fly through her fingers, then vanish again. “That came later, once I had coins to practice with.”

  His brow creased. “I didn’t know orphanages trusted their charges with actual money.”

  “They don’t,” she said flatly. “I stole them from the pockets of rich passersby too busy being important to notice a hungry urchin by their side.”

  She expected him to judge her harshly for her crimes. He would have been one of the wealthy nobs. If an entire rookery was an eyesore to the ton, a skinny eight-year-old girl would have been just another blemish on their great city. Refuse spoiling the view until the street sweepers came to brush it out of sight.

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “There’s no force more powerful than desperation.”

  A moment of silence stretched between them.

  She let out a slow breath.

  “It was farthings at first.” Chloe gave a lopsided smile she doubted reached her eyes. “I didn’t want to take much—not enough to be missed, but enough to make a difference to me. Limiting my bounty also made it more of a game. If I accidentally nicked a coin of greater value, I had to find some way to put it back. Soon I could tell the denomination with the barest brush of my finger. I no longer made mistakes. It wasn’t a game anymore.”