One Night in London (14 page)

“Ah.” Edward’s eyes strayed to the packet again. “Is there anything you have to report not included in here?”

“No, sir. I can report any way you like, as often as you’d like.”

“Excellent,” Edward said. “Time is of the essence, especially regarding the child, so report as often as you have something. You may leave it with White if I am not in.”

“As you like, sir.” Mr. Jackson bowed, and slid silently from the room.

“Expeditious,” Edward said.

White nodded. “He came very highly recommended, my lord, for his quickness and his discretion.”

“Indeed.” He stared at the packet for a few more minutes before rousing himself. “You may go, White.”

Alone at last, Edward got up and walked to the window. For some reason, he was unaccountably loath to read Jackson’s report even as his fingers itched to tear it open. He supposed a better man would do nothing, and simply keep the sealed report for future reference. Of course, he reflected, a better man wouldn’t have asked for it in the first place. Now that he had it, it seemed pointless not to read it. He retrieved the report from his desk and opened it, leaning against the window frame and holding the page up to the dying light.

Francesca Gordon was the daughter of an Englishman and an Italian opera singer, a soprano of some modest fame. Her father had been a country gentleman who made a small fortune when coal was discovered on his property in Cornwall, and who died in an accident at his mines when his daughter was a young child. After his death, the singer went back to touring the Continent, and Francesca was raised by her father’s sister in Cornwall. At the age of approximately twenty-two, she married a baronet, Sir Cecil Gordon. Sir Cecil was fifteen years older than she, but it appeared to be a happy marriage. They lived a modest but comfortable life in London, moving in a wide circle of acquaintances and holding frequent salons. Sir Cecil died just two years ago in rather murky circumstances, but Lady Gordon was still known for her entertainments, although on a smaller scale. She kept a house in Bloomsbury with a married couple called Hotchkiss for staff, plus a woman who came in to cook and a charwoman. For the last several months Lady Gordon had often been seen in the company of Lord Henry Alconbury, a well-to-do baron who was widely expected to marry her before the end of the year.

Edward’s brows descended as he read that last part, and he flipped the page impatiently. There was more about Lord Alconbury, which he skipped, and a few remarks about her salon. She didn’t keep the most elegant company, but there were evenings of literature, poetry, and music. She was not overtly scandalous, but neither was she a model of propriety. She had Whig leanings and Catholic sympathies, probably because her mother had been Catholic. She attended the theater and the Ascot races. She lived within her means.

He tossed the report back on his desk. Jackson was worth every penny of his fee for finding out so much so quickly. Edward turned the various pieces over in his mind even though he had no idea what he would do with his new knowledge. There was nothing to alter his opinion of her, really, although that bit about Lord Alconbury interested him more than it should have. Perhaps it would help cure his unreasonable interest in her if he thought of her as an engaged woman . . . or perhaps not. Surely Jackson would have mentioned it if they were firmly betrothed, which meant she was still unattached. Still, it was something to keep in mind, should his control begin to falter as it had today.

No, by far his best course of action would be to press Jackson to find the child, and avoid all unnecessary contact with her until then. Once Francesca Gordon had her niece, he would never have to see her again. Distance would cure his fascination, even if nothing else seemed able to.

Chapter 14

E
dward’s discipline held firm. He sent only a short note to Lady Gordon informing her that he had hired an investigator and would notify her as soon as there was any news. She replied in a similarly brief note, which he read several times before tucking it away in his desk, even though there was no reason to keep it. Then he carried on with the demands of the estate, feeling rather reassured of his own restraint. He
was
able to control his interest in her. Perhaps it was only natural he should have found her so intriguing, given how they had encountered each other. But that’s all it was, a passing intrigue, and he was above such things. Aside from a few surreptitious rereadings of her note, and a jolting moment when he thought he saw her on Bond Street through his carriage window, he successfully shut Francesca Gordon out of his mind.

For four days, anyway.

He was on his way out, striding toward the hall with gloves in hand, when the butler caught up to him. “There is someone to see you, my lord,” said Blackbridge breathlessly. “Mr. Jackson.”

Edward stopped in his tracks. Had the investigator brought more news about Lady Gordon? Or was it about the little girl? “Yes,” he said, tamping down the surge of interest in the first question. “Show him to the study. I’ll see him at once.”

By the time he reached the study, Thomas Jackson was already waiting. He stood by the window, cap in hand, looking like a chimney sweep today. Edward closed the door behind him. “You have something?”

“I do.” Jackson dug a packet of paper out of his pocket. “You asked me to report as soon as I learned anything.”

Edward took the papers without looking at them. “Have you located the child?”

“No, but I’ve had some success on her uncle.”

“Ah.” Edward regarded him a moment. Locating the uncle—Percival Watts—was nearly as good as locating the girl herself. Perhaps his association with Francesca Gordon was about to end, sparing him any further contact with the lady. He had hired Jackson because of his reputation for quick, reliable, and discreet work, but now he found himself wishing the man had been lazier, or at least less efficient.

Beneath his shaggy black hair, Jackson’s blue eyes were piercing and intelligent, waiting. “Won’t you sit down?” Edward waved one hand at the sofa. “Perhaps you should tell me yourself.” Then he would have the opportunity to question the man at once, if there were any discrepancies or oversights in the report.

Jackson sat on the edge of the small sofa. Edward dropped the report on his desk and faced his investigator, bracing himself for the inevitable. “Mr. Watts is a painter,” said Jackson. “He aspires to be a good one, and has taken studies at the Royal Academy. He’s put forward a number of paintings for exhibit, but remains a probationer.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s been up for membership and wasn’t elected. It seems his paintings don’t suit the public taste, nor the Academy’s. The man I spoke to said he’d heard Watts had taken up portraiture for an income, but also that Watts was rather dismal at it, and hadn’t been very successful.”

“So he can be located through the Academy?” Edward frowned. “Someone must know where he lives, then.”

“None I could find,” Jackson replied. “He stopped attending sessions at the Academy last year, and none of his mates have seen him since.”

“What about this man who told you about the portraiture? He must know someone who’s seen Watts.”

“It was several months ago, in the winter, that the man heard Watts was painting portraits. He knew the story because one patron complained about his finished portrait and refused to pay.” Jackson shrugged. “This fellow had heard it was a decent portrait and the same faults would be found in the sitter’s mirror, but the damage was done to Watts’s reputation. He hasn’t been to his regular haunts in some time, and no one seems to know where he’s gone.”

“I see,” Edward murmured. “Is he likely to have left London? Does he have family in the country to whom he might return?” If Watts and his sister had a place to go stay with relatives, it was quite likely they would have done it, since it appeared they were extremely low on funds.

“All anyone knows is that he was living with his widowed sister in London. My source believed Watts was reared in the city, but that might not be reliable. If he’s got family elsewhere, no one’s the wiser.”

Edward nodded thoughtfully. “So he’s got no obvious place to go, no ready income, and is likely with his sister still. It stands to reason he would have to sell his art—and quite likely wants to do so. Commissions? Private exhibitions? Arrangements with discreet art dealers?”

“I’m looking for them all,” Jackson said. “Commissions are hardest to discover, being between the two parties. I’ll put the word out to the art dealers I know—”

“No,” Edward said, holding up one hand. “I’ll do it.” He suspected any art dealer who knew where Watts was might also have been persuaded to keep the information to himself, especially should anyone like Jackson come sniffing around for him. If Watts and his sister were hiding from Francesca, they would be on guard against someone asking questions about their whereabouts. A wealthy lord looking to purchase paintings, on the other hand, would be hard for a penniless artist to refuse, no matter his wariness.

Jackson must have followed the logic. “Aye, that might be more effective,” he agreed. “As you like, m’lord.”

“Keep looking for Mrs. Haywood; it’s possible she and Watts have gone separate ways and she’s taken the child with her. I care nothing for finding Percival Watts if the girl isn’t with him.”

Jackson nodded. “And the other woman? Shall I still keep an ear out for Lady Gordon?”

The sound of her name caught him unawares, like a sharp jab to the stomach. He clamped his lips together to hide any unwitting reaction to it. “No, I have quite enough information about her.” Anything else he wanted to know, he would have to learn himself. Or rather, he would have to restrict his untoward interest in her, and not allow himself to dig further, no matter how insatiable his curiosity felt. He was already perplexed and displeased with himself for having set Jackson on it in the first place, and was not going to add to his sins in that way.

Jackson gave him a long look, but only said once more, “As you like.”

Edward nodded and dismissed him, but then he remained in the study. If he were brutally honest with himself, it was possible he had been able to keep from thinking about Francesca Gordon only because he knew Jackson would return sooner or later, when he would have both reason and need to think of her again. It was the only way to explain why he hadn’t told the man to go see Lady Gordon herself with news of Mr. Watts, Mrs. Haywood, or Georgina, but to return to him. Of course he didn’t want Jackson to let slip that he had wanted to know about her as well, but Edward acknowledged, reluctantly, that his motives were even murkier than that. Now he would have to call on her and tell her this news, including the part where he volunteered to contact art sellers himself in hopes of drawing out Percival Watts. And if he knew the woman at all, she was quite likely to want to accompany him. Edward found himself wondering how many dozens of art sellers there might be in London, and knew he was in trouble.

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the desk. At least he was able to admit his failings. Perhaps the awareness of them would help him keep his head when he came face-to-face with his own personal Circe.

I
t was an endless week for Francesca. At first she anxiously awaited word from Lord Edward, but after a message that he had hired an investigator, there was nothing. No note indicating progress, no note indicating failure.

It was difficult to adjust to waiting after she had spent so many weeks actively hunting for a solicitor and then engineering Lord Edward’s assistance. Every morning she woke thinking of ways she might locate Georgina, and how much she might have to pay Ellen to relinquish the girl, only to remember that she must have patience. She must wait until the investigator had done his job. The more she pursued Ellen, the farther Ellen might flee. The best move was to lie in wait, then spring in and catch her and Percival unawares. She had to remind herself of this every day, though, because every day that passed with no word seemed longer than the one before.

But . . . Oh, if only Lord Edward would call on her. Surely he could spare an hour to come by and reassure her that all was proceeding well. She had taken his advice—against her own inclination—and then he had gone off and left her to sit and wait. Did he not realize she couldn’t carry off his cool, calm restraint on her own? What seemed so logical when he was explaining it came to appear more and more intolerable when he was absent, with no word. She began to spend as much time thinking about him as she did about Georgina. She even caught herself looking for Lord Edward’s face on the street, listening for the jangle of his harness at her door, and considered inventing an excuse to call on him just so he would have to tell her
something
.

Making it even more trying, Gregory Sloan called upon her, his ruddy face sharp with determination. Francesca gave a mental groan at his appearance, but this was hardly unexpected. She rallied a bright smile and welcomed him into her drawing room. It wasn’t long before he got to the point.

“I know you put one over on me,” he said with a significant glance. “About the Durham affair.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She sipped her tea, secretly relieved he wasn’t the dissembling type; she’d rather get it over with.

Sloan snorted with amusement. “You don’t know! My dear Francesca, you’re far cleverer than that. You knew all along Edward de Lacey wanted that rumor extinguished not because it was false, but because it was true.”

“I’m sure I have no idea if it’s true or not,” she said blithely. “He assured me it was false, and I took his word as a gentleman and a friend.”

“A friend,” he repeated with a piercing look. “How dear a friend?”

She just lowered her eyes and smiled demurely. Sometimes it was best to say nothing.

“Right,” grumbled Sloan. “I hope your friend told you all about his engagement.”

“The one that no longer exists?” She waved one hand. “Yes, I knew of it.”

Gregory Sloan leaned toward her, and something like compassion softened his face. “Did he tell you he was in love with her? It was arranged by her family because the Halstons are in financial trouble; the earl’s concealed it for years, but now he stands on the brink of ruin. He told his daughter to do everything in her power to entice de Lacey, and that’s what’s held his creditors at bay these last two years. But Lord Edward was in love with her, and won’t get over her soon.”

Francesca made a face. “Who told you that—Lord Halston himself?”

Sloan grinned. “Not quite—a footman in the house, who’s owed six months’ wages. He had it from the butler, who’s also owed wages but hasn’t decided whether he wants to publish his story or not yet.”

“A servant who’s owed wages: the most objective, reliable source of all.”

“If I trotted every Halston servant through your drawing room and they all told the same story, you still wouldn’t believe it,” he said in amusement. “Nor, I think, do you really care what the truth is.”

“About the Halston finances?” She gave a little shrug. “I confess I do not.”

“No, about de Lacey’s engagement to Louisa Halston.”

This was becoming tiring. “Perhaps I find it charming he was in love with his fiancée—and if so, the more fool she was, for discarding him. There aren’t enough marriages of love. I think it’s very romantic.”

“Hmph. Even the fact that she must not have loved him as well as he loved her?”

“Oh, what difference does it make?” she cried impatiently. “It’s broken off now, and I suspect irrevocably.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “That sounds determined of you. Tell the truth: are you setting out lures for him yourself?”

Francesca’s mouth fell open. “Of all the— Mr. Sloan, I’m appalled you would say such a thing. Of course not.”

“You were quite anxious to put down that rumor about him—except of course the part about the broken engagement.”

She set down her teacup and regarded Sloan with reproach. “As I recall, Edward himself told you the engagement was broken. I certainly wasn’t aware of it until you printed it in your paper, and it wouldn’t have made a shred of difference to me whether it was broken or not when I asked you to reconsider. I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing.”

“Hmm.” He had a quizzical expression. “Of course, once he was free of this young lady, using your influence with me would be one way to secure his gratitude and regard.”

Of course it was; that was why she had acted as she had. It hadn’t been for the reason Sloan thought—the very thought of it, setting out to seduce Edward de Lacey! He was undeniably handsome, and would certainly turn many women’s heads, even without a title and fortune. He was intelligent and practical, which couldn’t be said of every man. Francesca had no patience for useless people, and Edward de Lacey was far from an incompetent wastrel. He had a ruthless streak as well, although she had to admire that, since he had deigned to use it on her behalf. And when he held her hand in his, she seemed to feel it with every nerve in her body.