Sadie's Secret: 3 (The Secret Lives of Will Tucker) (51 page)

“It was my pleasure.” He turned to summon the crew. “And now unless either of you object, I say we weigh anchor and point this schooner toward Newport.”

Sadie watched Jefferson’s father walk toward the loose knot of sailors awaiting their captain’s orders and then turned to the man beside her. “There can be no us,” she said gently. “You do understand.”

“A statement, not a question.” He smiled. “And I beg to differ. When this case is solved, there will be an
us.”

She let out a long breath. “If you will excuse me, I have case notes to go over.”

“As do I.” He snagged her wrist and turned her toward him. “When this began, I wanted the case solved so I could go back to Scotland Yard and rub their noses in my victory. I don’t like admitting that, but that’s the truth.”

“You wanted your job back.” She paused to search his face. “A job you should never have lost.”

“I cannot disagree. But revenge was my motive first and foremost.” He looked out across the water and then returned his attention to Sadie. “Now I have another reason.”

“Oh?”

Jefferson leaned close, his lips grazing her ear. “Us.”

“Then would you do me a favor?” She stepped back just far enough to see his face.

“Anything, Sadie.”

“Would you hurry?”

“Hurry?”

“Hurry up and solve this case. Because until then, we need to promise one another that we will be completely professional.”

Oh, but his smile was dazzling. And those blue eyes sparkled as he leaned closer. “I have a question.”

“And what is that?”

“Do professionals share the occasional kiss?”

She shook her head. “You are impossible.”

His laughter chased her down the stairs and along the passageway into her stateroom. And yet each time she was drawn to think of his kisses, she pressed the thought away and doubled her efforts to make a connection between the disparate pieces of the puzzle.

For days his smile met her at each meal, at each meeting of the minds as they put together the framework of the means for solving their case. And there were no more kisses. No more mentions of
us.

But even as the schooner neared Newport, the facts of the case refused to fall into place. There were too many unanswered questions. Too many reasons why each solution one proposed could be refuted by the other.

When the anchor dropped in Newport Harbor, Sadie was on deck to watch. She had been standing at the rail for an hour or more, watching the stately mansions—known by those who held the keys to the massive front doors as “cottages”—slip past one by one. A redbrick Victorian home with gardens sloping to the sea was Beaulieu, the home of William and Mamie Astor, and Sadie’s destination for tomorrow.

Jefferson came to stand beside her, his attention focused on the docks below. Gone was the casually dressed man who had rowed a leaky boat beneath the mangroves. In his place was a man whose wealth was obvious from the cut of his suit to the gold in his cufflinks and watch chain. A man who would fit in nicely with the Newport crowd.

Though they would arrive together, she would not see him again until he called for her tomorrow morning to escort her to Mamie Astor’s home for an inspection of the Rembrandt. By prior arrangement, Henry had secured rooms for Sadie at the nearby Hampstead Farms estate.

The Hampstead family, apparently old friends of Henry’s, were more than willing to allow a Pinkerton agent use of their home, even though they would not be in residence themselves. She would be introduced as a Louisiana cousin. Given the fact that Sadie’s upbringing and education mirrored most of the ladies with whom she would interact while in Newport, the ruse was not far-fetched.

She cast a sideways glance at Jefferson, and he caught her looking. “What will you do until tomorrow?” she asked, more to fill the silence than to actually inquire as to how he would spend his time.

“I’ve a few things to check on,” was his cryptic response. “I’ve taken a room at an inn on Pelham Street should you have need to contact me.”

“I’m sure I won’t.”

He nodded. “All right, then. Shall we?”

Jefferson procured a carriage and escorted her as far as the grand front entrance to the three-story mansion known as Hampstead Farms. “Odd, but I see no farming going on here,” he quipped as he helped her down from the carriage.

The door opened and a line of servants filed out, no doubt expecting a wagonload of luggage to accompany the Hampstead cousin. An elderly butler with brows like great gray caterpillars stepped forward.

“Miss Callum, may we assist you?”

Jefferson nodded toward Sadie’s luggage, and two young men hurried forward to carry her trunk inside. Another came to retrieve her bag. The other servants filed back inside, leaving the butler standing sentry beside the door.

“Until tomorrow at nine thirty, then,” she said as she left Jefferson standing beside the carriage.

The following morning they walked up to the house together.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the lady of the house is not expected today.”

Jefferson fixed the butler with a look that rarely failed to accomplish his purpose. “Then we will see her representative. This is a matter of the greatest urgency. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, sir. And to that end, Mrs. Astor has asked that you meet with Mr. Astor’s attorney. Mr. Montfort will be here shortly. Won’t you come this way?”

They were ushered into a parlor just off the front entrance. After declining the servant’s offer of refreshment, Sadie seated herself on a settee and appeared to be studying her surroundings. Jefferson’s attention went to a massive painting hung on the opposite wall from the door.

At least ten feet high and some sixteen feet across,
The Coronation of Napoleon
by Jacques-Louis David was a stellar example of paintings of the Napoleonic period. Had Jefferson not known that the original of this painting was twice this size and moved just last year from Versailles to be hung in a prominent place in the Louvre, he would have assumed he was now standing before the actual piece.

Sadie moved to stand beside him. “Apparently, Mrs. Astor doesn’t always mind owning a reproduction.”

Of course the woman whose background included years of instruction in the arts would recognize the piece and know its provenance. “Unless it is a favored Rembrandt.”

The door opened behind them. But before the butler could speak, a gentleman dressed in a black morning coat and gray-striped trousers handed him his hat and then pressed past.

“Louis Montfort, Esquire, at your service.” He stretched out his hand toward Jefferson but his attention was on Sadie. “Oh, my, but they are making Pinkerton agents much prettier these days. Mrs. Astor warned me you were one of her more lovely classmates in school, but I was not fully prepared as to the truth of her statement.”

The man went on about Sadie’s beauty until Jefferson had his fill. “So,” he interrupted midway though the fellow’s comparison of Sadie’s fair hair and the midsummer sun, “perhaps you might show us the Rembrandt?”

When he had gained the lawyer’s attention, Jefferson introduced himself properly, making certain to squeeze the man’s hand slightly harder than he should just to make his point. Mr. Montfort’s smile faltered slightly before he once again offered it to Sadie.

“Won’t you come with me?”

She linked arms with the fool and fell into step beside him, leaving Jefferson to follow. As they walked through the foyer toward the grand staircase, Sadie let out a most unladylike squeal.

“The Durer,” she exclaimed as she set off around a corner.

Jefferson and the lawyer hurried to catch up, but there was already a man standing beside Sadie. Montfort hurried to apologize while Jefferson watched with interest.

“Will Astor,” the man in question said when he noticed Jefferson.

He reached to reciprocate a firm handshake. “Jefferson Tucker of…”

“Scotland Yard,” Astor supplied. “Yes, I am aware of who you are. Sir Edward Thompson, our mutual friend at the British Museum, speaks highly of you. I understand you’ve been working with them on a case of some merit. And this must be Miss Callum.”

Mutual friend at the British museum? The museum’s director? Hardly. And yet it gave Jefferson pause to wonder exactly what was going on at Scotland Yard. And at the British Museum.

There was only one way to find out. Today, however, he had another discovery to make.

“The Pinkerton agent,” the lawyer added. “I was just taking them up to see the Rembrandt, sir. I was led to believe you and Mrs. Astor were not in residence.”

“Officially, I am not.” He winked at Sadie. “However, as this is a matter of great importance…”

“Yes, of course,” Montfort said. “So perhaps you will join us up in the drawing room where the painting now hangs?”

“First, I would like to ask about this painting,” Sadie interjected. “I wonder if you recall where and when it was purchased. And did you happen to get it authenticated?”

“The Durer?” Mr. Astor paused a moment. “I believe this was in a crate that arrived in New York at Christmastime. Mamie had it sent out here in anticipation of her next redo of the place.”

Jefferson declined to comment. His mother busied herself with the same sort of endeavors. He always suspected that was why his father continued to sell and purchase homes. Not only did it keep Lizzie Tucker busy, but it also allowed him to slip away to the solace of the sea while his wife was otherwise occupied.

“If you’ll step into my library, I can tell you for certain. I keep copies of my invoices in here.” He gestured to a room behind him, presumably the room where he had been when Sadie’s squeal announced their presence.

While Astor settled behind his desk and consulted his books, Jefferson noted the room’s features. Paneling and a marble fireplace, flanked by shelves filled with leather-bound books arranged according to size, gave the impression that they were standing in a regular English library. On one wall was a portrait of what had to have been a relative, while over the mantel he spied a painting of a clergyman.

“
Bartolomé Bermejo St. Dominic Enthroned in Glory,”
Sadie said as she wandered to his side. “Late fourteen hundreds, I believe.”

“Is it real?”

She shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Here it is.”

Jefferson turned to see Mr. Astor leaning over a journal, his finger on one line of what appeared to be a ledger. “The Durer was purchased…” He paused and lifted his attention to focus on Sadie. “You asked if my Durer was real because you assumed the original was still hanging elsewhere.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Perhaps the Pinkertons could assist me in confirming this, because the price I paid for that painting indicates that I have the original.”

“I wonder if I might look at it more carefully,” Sadie asked.

“Yes, of course.” He nodded to Montfort, who returned a moment later with the painting and offered it to Sadie.

She carried the piece to a window, carefully holding it up to the light. First she examined the painting itself as Jefferson had seen her do with the one that arrived in brown paper to Callum Plantation. Then she turned it over and looked at the back.

“Interesting.” She walked over to the desk, set the painting down, and pointed to the frame’s construction. “See how the pieces are fitted together? That indicates the age, as do these marks here.” She continued to point out nuances of the back of the painting before turning it over. Then she looked up. “Please understand that I am not an expert.”

“I would beg to differ,” Astor said, “but go on.”

“Let me preface this by saying that there is nothing wrong with an exact copy of any painting. They are perfectly legal to own, just as it is perfectly legal for a painter to create. In fact, there was a time when a painter learned his craft by doing exactly this, copying the original.”

“So, you are saying this Durer is a copy?”

“A very good one, but yes. And it is not the first exceptional copy I have seen recently. Where did you get it?”

Astor sank down in his chair and pointed to the ledger. “It was purchased as part of a lot being quietly auctioned off last fall. A Spanish nobleman with losses that needed to be covered by the discreet sale of a few family pieces.”