One More Kiss (9 page)

Belmont shook his head. “What Jess means is that I have helped several friends find lost items. As I told you, I can never resist a puzzle.” Belmont finished off his wine before adding, “It sounds plausible so far, Miss Brent. Pray, continue.”

She closed her eyes as though that would fortify her as much as the wine was fortifying Belmont. “I would replace the real painting with the forgery and return it to the owner with the sad news that it is not truly a Rembrandt—the advantage being that when I am able to sell it, the buyer could announce the discovery of the original from which my owner’s forgery was copied. Is that too complicated?”

“Not at all complicated, my dear,” said the earl and
then waited for the footman to step back after refilling his glass.

Despite the amazing amounts of wine the man imbibed, he was never foxed. The only sign that Jess could find was when he began to call the ladies “my dear.” Was it because he drank only wine, never brandy or other spirits?

“Not too complicated,” Belmont repeated, “but it does involve at least one other person who could attempt blackmail at some later point.”

“Do you think so?” Beatrice said with some disappointment, but after a brief pause she shook her head. “But I would know that he is an art forger, which is an equally valid basis for blackmail. It would be quid pro quo.”

Her naïveté was showing here, Jess thought. “Yes, but that would end the moment either one of you admitted the forgery and theft to someone else,” he said.

“I am sure neither one of us would be foolish enough to do that,” she insisted with a firm shake of her head, as if she knew the forger as well as she knew herself.

“So you think you could keep your own counsel. Never speak of it to anyone, not even your sister, your twin?”
Or your lover?
He kept that one to himself.

“Yes, I am sure I could keep the secret. There are many things I never tell Ceci. She does worry so much. About everything.”

“I can see why, if constructing clever ways to steal art is one of your hobbies.” He smiled.

“The earl did ask, my lord.”

“You mean all one must do is ask in order to lead you into a life of crime?”
Or sin?

Belmont’s bark of laughter drew both their attention.
“Jess, you deserve to be in her black books to even hint that Miss Brent would so easily stray from the right path.”

“Belmont, you are a devil. How do I answer that? It would be rude of me to say that Miss Brent is too sensitive or that I was not teasing at all.”

“Which was it, my lord?” Miss Brent asked, without a smile now. She moved in her seat so that even her skirt was not touching him.

“Neither,” he insisted, feeling trapped.

Miss Brent turned to Lord Belmont. “So here is another mystery for you to solve, my lord.”

Belmont smiled. “Lord Jess’s behavior is no mystery at all, my dear Miss Brent. But I will leave you to decipher it from the clues you have.”

Miss Brent looked from one to the other, clearly wondering what Belmont knew that she did not.

“In the meantime,” Lord Belmont went on, “do tell me how you can tell a real Rembrandt from his lesser imitators. I find I am fascinated and want details, if you please, my dear.”

Jess turned to Mrs. Kendrick, reminding himself that Miss Beatrice Brent was a woman he had no business trying to charm.

L
ORD
D
ESTRY FINISHED
his opening conversation with the countess and, before he turned to her, Cecilia watched him take the salt and sprinkle some into his wineglass. Puzzled, she wondered exactly what that would do to the wine. Anxious to fit in, she took some salt from the cellar nearest her and did the same thing.

“Miss Brent, do tell Miss Wilson that I speak the
truth when I say that Birmingham is a far lovelier town than Manchester.”

The question from Lord Crenshaw made Cecilia start, but before she answered, she realized why his questions were always worded like an instruction with only one possible answer. Still, it was an easy enough subject and she was grateful for the escape.

Cecilia leaned forward and spoke to Miss Wilson, who was seated just beyond Lord Crenshaw. “Oh, indeed it is. At least, I think so. Birmingham has such lovely gardens, and a river runs through the middle of the city. There are walking paths and the shops. While it is not at all equal to London, it is far superior to any other city in the Midlands.”

Lord Crenshaw turned to Miss Wilson, who smoothed her hair before answering. “I do believe you show some prejudice, Miss Brent, as Birmingham is your home.”

“We cannot all live in London,” Lord Crenshaw teased. “And Mr. Brent must remain close to his interests in Birmingham.”

All gentlemen had “interests” to attend to. What a nice way of
not
saying that her father ran mills.

Cecilia sipped her wine while trying to think of a topic of conversation and almost choked at the hideous element the salt flavoring added. She glanced at Lord Destry, who shrugged a shoulder, before returning her attention to Lord Crenshaw.

Miss Wilson was now speaking with the earl, and Lord Crenshaw was watching the girl with an intensity that made Cecilia question his recent interest in Beatrice. He sensed Cecilia’s study of him and turned to her.

“What holds you close to London these days, my lord? We miss you at home.” That was a neutral enough question.

“London has amusements that cannot be duplicated anywhere.” He showed his teeth in a smile that was more suggestive than flirtatious.

“You mean the theater and opera?”

“Indeed, as you will find when you have your Season. London knows no bounds when it comes to entertainments.”

Cecilia had no idea why the image of a bordello should pop into her head but was much relieved when Lord Crenshaw went on.

“Gaming is how I spend most of my evenings when I am not in the Midlands.”

Now she felt silly. His expression was filled with an apologetic demeanor as he admitted his weakness.

“Indeed,” Cecilia said. “Do you prefer cards, games of chance, or horse racing?”

“All of them,” Crenshaw said with an encompassing sweep of his hands. “In fact, I wager a quid we will have trout for the fish course.”

Lord Destry leaned forward. “I wager a quid that we are served trout and turbot.”

“You’re on!” Crenshaw nodded.

“And you, Miss Brent?” Destry asked. “What do you think we will be served? Would you care to join our little wager?”

Knowing exactly what her father thought of gambling, Cecilia smiled demurely and looked down so they could not see the lie. “It would not be fair, as I already know what is going to be served.”

They were interrupted by a footman serving soup
and when the server moved on Lord Destry picked up his fork and began to eat. His fork, Cecilia thought. Why his fork?

The others were talking over their soup so she once again followed his behavior. One could hardly enjoy the soup with a fork but if it was the way it was eaten in fashionable society then she would not be caught out. Perhaps it was a new trend. She watched as Lord Destry speared a small piece of asparagus from the bowl and ate it.

The marquis looked directly at her and smiled. It was not a comfortable smile, but the kind one used when teasing or testing.

“Tell me, Miss Brent, if I took my serviette and tied it around my neck would you do the same?”

“That is ridiculous,” she said with more sharpness than was polite. “I mean …,” she corrected herself, trying for a less severe voice, “of course not.” She hoped he could not tell how strained her smile was.

“Then why do something as silly as try to eat your soup with a fork?”

“Because you did,” she said, feeling her smile die. “And was that a test to see exactly how gullible I am?”

Cecilia was proud of the fact that she had a mild temperament, but at the moment she had to fight the urge to pour her soup in the man’s lap.

“Miss Brent, just between us, if you please.” Lord Destry leaned closer and lowered his voice as he spoke.

Cecilia nodded, though she was not sure she wanted to share a confidence with the man.

He looked away, clearing his throat before he spoke. “I put salt in my wine so that I am not tempted to
drink too much. I love the juice of the grape, but have learned that I have a lower tolerance than most.”

“I see.” Horrified that she had mimicked him, she wanted to shrivel into a little ball of mortification and die.

“Please believe me,” he said, “those who make up the ton are no more than men and women born in lucky circumstances with just enough wit to pretend that they are better than the rest of the citizenry.”

“I suppose,” Cecilia said with a slight nod.

“If there is one thing I know, Miss Brent, it is that anyone taken in by the way they act, no matter if it is salting their wine or something more egregious, like shunning someone, that person is as much a fool as they are.”

Cecilia was struck silent by the snub and looked away lest he see the tears filling her eyes.

Chapter Eight
 

W
ILLIAM, YOU IDIOT
, he shouted to himself. He tried to find a way to apologize for his affront, a completely unintended one. His words were aimed at men like Crenshaw and women like Mrs. Wilson. Sweet, too-cautious Miss Cecilia Brent was only trying to fit into this new circle. Besides, her looks guaranteed that she could eat her peas with a knife dipped in gravy and still be welcomed anywhere.

“I did not mean to insult you, Miss Brent,” he said anxiously. Her eyes were fixed on Crenshaw even though the man was fully engaged in conversation with Miss Wilson, but he knew she could not turn her ears off and must hear him. “I am well aware that you are a newcomer and hope to find a place in the ton this Season. I only wanted to help.”

She glanced back at him. “Thank you, my lord.” She spoke stiffly, as if good manners were an innate part of her, but her eyes shimmered with tears.

He spoke quickly, so that he would be talking to her face and not the back of her head, though even that managed to be as beautiful as the rest of her.

“The fact is that you have complete control of this gathering.”

When she gave him that not-quite-convinced half nod she had used before, he went on. “Yes, even though you are the least experienced in the ways of the ton.”

He read skepticism mixed with a good bit of hurt still lingering in her eyes. He hurried on.

“Observe, if you please. When you turn from me, Lord Crenshaw must perforce abandon Miss Wilson to speak with you. Belmont will turn from whatever puzzle your sister has presented him with to speak with the much more ingenuous Miss Wilson, so she is not left alone with her soup.

“Of course, Lord Jess will have to entertain your sister with the more genteel of his gaming tales, and Mrs. Kendrick, who has been laughing at the more risqué of them, will don her lady’s airs and talk to your father. The countess will sigh in disappointment at the interruption and speak with me. There, you see? It is all in your control. Shall we test it?”

With a slight, cold smile of agreement, she turned from him. He was worse than an idiot. His title was the only thing that kept him in such good company. William pushed aside all hope of something as ludicrous as a shared love with Miss Brent.
What a fantasy, you undersized moron
.

William turned to the countess, who patted Mr. Brent’s hand as she turned away. Destry noted the personal touch and wondered, but kept his polite gaze
focused on the countess as he asked, “Who will be arriving later in the week, my lady?”

“I
T WAS EXACTLY
as he said, Bitsy. When I turned away from him, Lord Crenshaw turned to me and the entire party changed partners as if it were a dance and I had called a new step.”

The two sisters stood a little apart from the other ladies as they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Miss Wilson played the pianoforte with quiet precision while the countess and Mrs. Kendrick fussed over Mrs. Kendrick’s dog.

“I assume that’s the way all dinner parties are, Ceci. Tell me, why were you so offended by his behavior?”

“He uses his understanding of people to amuse himself. No one is ever pretty enough or charming enough to be spared his snubs. I am not the slightest bit interested in knowing him better.”

Beatrice wondered what the gentlemen were discussing over their port. For the love of God, if Cecilia was right they would both be the prefect targets for his insults. But the marquis did not seem that sort of person at all. She wanted to find a quiet corner and think this through.

“Why can’t he be more like Lord Crenshaw? He does his best to make us feel as though we are as welcome as anyone with a title.”

Beatrice shrugged, afraid that any answer would only upset her overwrought sister more. This was why she liked studying paintings so much. They could not talk back or insist on their own interpretation. She was
relieved when the door opened and the gentlemen joined them.

Soon after, the tea arrived and the countess asked Mrs. Kendrick to pour while she invited everyone to take a cup and listen to her ideas for entertainment.