Sharon Sobel (23 page)

“Have I not already reassured you on the subject? If there is anyone of whom you might feel even a tad jealous, it is not Charles Longreaves. He is a connoisseur of many fine things, but does not count women among the numbers.”

“And I am not nearly so expert a collector,” Max said. “But I, too, appreciate fine things and will protect what is precious and mine. I do not want you anywhere close to this matter, Claire. It is too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? We are speaking of a painting hanging on a wall.”

“We are speaking of a deed that caused the death of many people, and grievously injured two children. If that painting belonged to my mother it is now rightfully mine. The Longreaves seem unknowing of that pertinent fact, or else they would have hidden it away before inviting me into their home. I doubt they found it laying about the woods, so they must have bought it from someone. Therefore, someone profited from the sale, and it was not me.”

“They would not hurt me, Max.”

“But the person who sold it to the Longreaves might. We do not know who he is. And until we do, and even after we do, you are to stay out of this.”

“You are not my husband, Max, and I do not have to obey you,” Claire said, crossing her arms.

Max stared at her, too bemused to be truly angry. As if he did not guess it before, he certainly now knew his life of solitude and quiet pleasures was over.

“Would you obey me if I were your husband?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

She nodded her head, thinking it over and not necessarily agreeing with him. “Oh, yes, Max. I would obey you in this and everything.”

“You are a terrible liar, Lady Claire. Do remind me to never partner with you at cards, for you should give your hand away in an instant.”

She licked her lips, and Max knew he was nearly done for. “I am not interested in being your partner at cards,” she said.

He laughed. “Neither am I, when it comes to it. And that is precisely why you will not carry this investigation any further. I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”

“And what of you, Max? Do you not believe I would feel the same?” she asked. He never heard her speak so plaintively, and it gave him strength when he thought he faltered.

“My inability to return to the ruins of Brook Hall notwithstanding, you must believe I can take care of myself very well,” he said.

“Ah yes. Because of all those business dealings over the Portuguese vinho.”

“Precisely,” he said, and kissed her with little regard to anyone who might have been standing along the Serpentine, admiring the scenery.

***

“It is about a painting,” Claire said to Marissa the next day. They sat in the drawing room, exhausted after an afternoon of visiting all the best shops.

“Why did you not tell me? I can buy as many paintings as you would like the next time I am in Marbella. Lovely young men in gauze shirts set up their easels along the beach and mix their oils with sand and sweat. They rarely bother to fasten their shirts, and the breeze . . .”

“I am sure it is quite refreshing,” Claire interrupted. “I am more interested in English paintings and one in particular.”

“Ah, you have fallen in love with an artist! I am surprised, but it is most romantic. Who is this man?” Marissa leaned forward, her lips parted in hunger for the information.

“I have not fallen in love with an English artist, though I am reasonably sure he would dress with reasonable decorum,” Claire said, impatiently.

“I believe decorum is a quality that is highly overrated,” Marissa said softly.

Claire thought of rose petals, and Max in his country clothes, and without them, and opening her door to him when all the household was asleep.

“You are in love,” Marissa said. “I did not truly think an artist, no matter how romantic, could supplant a handsome marquis in your affections.”

“What if I tell you the handsome marquis is also quite romantic?”

“Then I should imagine you have found heaven,” Marissa said.

Claire sat back in her chair and considered Marissa’s words—glibly stated but very close to the truth of it.

“I believe you are right, my friend. But having already found heaven, my objectives are infinitely more modest now.”

“Yes, of course, a painting. An English painting. Undoubtedly of a brace of dead hares or a spreading oak tree. Perhaps a wee girl, sitting prettily with a kitten on her lap.”

“I see you are quite an expert on such things,” Claire said sarcastically. “But in this case it is a chestnut tree.”

“Similar to the one in the Longreaves’ dining room? I see you are surprised, my dear. But I do occasionally notice things other than men.” Marissa picked up Claire’s embroidery from the table at her side, studied it for a moment, and dropped it as though it were on fire. “You would like a similar piece to grace your wall? It would be best appreciated in your library, especially by those who find your book collection rather tedious.”

“Thank you very much,” Claire said tersely. “But I do not want a painting like the Longreaves’ piece, I want
that
piece.”

“Ah, now this is becoming interesting. Shall we steal it right off the wall?”

“We will not steal it, because I suspect someone already has done so. I wish to restore it to its true owner, but first I want to know how it was acquired by the Longreaves.”

Marissa was nonplussed, both by the notion that their friends had property not rightfully theirs, and by Claire having asked her to conspire in some plan. She shrugged her shoulders.

“It should prove rather easy to solve this mystery. We need only ask your devoted puppy Charles. Or do you think he is too busy with his fossils and shards of Roman pottery?” Marissa asked. “Come to think of it, I believe there is a Roman ruin in that painting.”

“There is. Max told me all about it, and how he played there as a child.”

“Max?”

“Maxwell Brooks, Lord Wentworth,” Claire hastily amended.

“Darling Claire, I do not care in the least what you call the man. I only meant: The painting is his?”

“Almost certainly. He recognized when we were guests at dinner.”

Marissa leaned forward. “Then I do not understand the intrigue. If the Longreaves welcomed him into their home, they must not suspect they own something that is his. It would be like carrying on an affair with a lady’s husband and then dancing the first dance with him at the lady’s ball.”

“Good heavens, Marissa. How on earth can you deny this is all you ever truly think about?” Claire said, not unkindly.

“I was ill advised to deny it, and for nothing more than a chestnut tree,” Marissa said. “So let us finish talking of boring things like paintings. It sounds simple enough. You know both Charles Longreaves and Maxwell Brooks extremely well. Ask Charles what you want to know and if his answer is not sufficient, provide an opening for the two men to speak. At the very least, they can meet at dawn on Hampstead Heath.”

“Do you think it will come down to a duel over a painting?”

“No, but it might come down to a duel over you, no matter Charles’s sexual preferences.” Marissa seemed satisfied with her dramatic solution. “That is all you need to do, and hope the best man wins. And for my part, I would put my money on Wentworth. He seems rather athletic.”

“I cannot do as you say,” Claire said.

“And why not?”

“Because he has forbidden me to be so forward in my questioning on the subject.”

Marissa rose to her feet, and clutched her heart. “And you would listen to him? I am amazed and rather delighted. I did not think you would ever listen to any man since you discarded Glastonbury.”

“My husband fell from his horse,” Claire reminded her.

“I was being kind.” Marissa walked around the room, seemingly studying Claire’s vases and small statues, all of which she had already seen at least a hundred times. “What would you have me do?”

“If I cannot search for the truth by the most direct route, I intend to explore other lanes. You are connected to everyone in London and your servants are veritable warehouses of gossip.”

“Are they not extraordinary?” Marissa said proudly. “I already know about a certain visitor you entertained on the night of the dinner party.”

“Then you undoubtedly knew precisely what I wanted throughout this entire conversation. Will you help me?”

“I will, but with one condition. I should like to know more about this visitor, and what your intentions are towards him,” Marissa said. “My spies cannot be everywhere, you realize.”

“And for that, I am very grateful,” Claire murmured.

***

Max looked over the heads of several young ladies who succeeded in blocking his entrance into Lady Leominster’s elegant ballroom and was reassured to see his sister in good company. James Cosgrove was not in attendance this evening, but there were several other gentlemen who had already pulled Camille into the room and engaged her in conversation. Somehow, in a matter of several weeks, his sweet sister managed to navigate the shifting shoals of London society, and was making a great success of it all. Though he wondered if it would all come to naught, if Cosgrove would be her choice in the end, but he was pleased that he was able to give her that choice. She would always know what she might have had and either live to regret it, or be forever grateful that her instincts were true all along.

She seemed pleased by the attention she received, but he wondered if she merely humored them all, and enjoyed showing off her considerable talents.

He knew another lady with talents and missed them, and her, considerably these past few days.

“I saw your sister’s friend, Lady Glastonbury, this afternoon,” said Miss Lee, who stood directly before him. Max turned his gaze from the large room to his enthusiastic coterie, who otherwise seemed content to chatter on without his participation. “We were at a lecture given by Mr. Wainwright of the Royal Academy, and Lady Glastonbury had so many questions for him. Her interests never fail to surprise me. I had no idea she was so knowledgeable about landscape painting.”

“Is she indeed?” Max said, frowning. “Perhaps she intends to take up the brush, herself. I never doubt a lady’s talents.”

His audience giggled and for the next several minutes he was introduced to a litany of all the musical and artistic talents possessed by these ladies. Miss Swanley was readying herself to sing, when he was saved from the firm grip of Mozart by the determined Miss Lee.

“Lady Glastonbury does not paint, though I have seen an adorable sketch she made of her little cat. Indeed, her questions to Mr. Wainwright all pertained to the purchase of landscape paintings and the best connections through which they are brokered.” Miss Lee shook her head, clearly finding the whole business somewhat distasteful.

“I see. My mother was a collector herself, and unless one is fortunate enough to know the artist, it is usually necessary to educate oneself about one’s purchases. Lady Glastonbury must know what she is about if she is inquiring about various paintings.”

“Of course, Lord Wentworth. She is very clever about such things,” Miss Lee acquiesced.

But not clever enough to use caution when making inquiries about which he already warned her. Now his clever lady would undoubtedly find him in the crush and proceed to amaze him with her findings and conclusions. And then he would amaze her with those of his own. If he had any.

As Max thought about what he’d like to do to her when he found her, he found her. Claire stood in the far corner of the ballroom, much as he stood on the very night they met, with a very elderly woman at her side. Her hands and face were very animated as she spoke, and he therefore guessed her companion was somewhat deaf. Poor Claire, whose companions ranged from the deaf to the blind, to the terribly scarred. At the moment, he desired nothing more than to kidnap this paragon of tolerance and imprison her where she could not speak to any person save himself.

“Pardon me, ladies. But I see Lady Glastonbury has arrived, and I very much wish to speak to her about a Gainsborough I am considering,” he said.

“Is that a horse?” one of the ladies asked. “I am not certain she is an expert in that area.”

“I am sure she is,” Max said. “But the fellow is a painter, and we have already established her expertise in the arts.”

“She is speaking to Mrs. Marchant, her late husband’s cousin. That lady is truly knowledgeable, as she has spent a good deal of time at the Royal Academy, and has even posed for several of the artists,” said Miss Swanley.

The other ladies snickered.

“It was many years ago, of course,” Miss Williams added.

“Of course,” Max said, eager to get to Claire before everyone in London knew of her profound passion for landscape painting. “Pardon me, ladies.”

He heard the sighs of disappointment as he bowed, though each of them must already know he shared a favored relationship with Claire. As he walked towards her, he was again struck by her beauty, and wondered if it would ever be possible to remain angry with her for any length of time. She need do nothing more than look at him as she did now, and he would forgive her anything.

“Lord Wentworth,” Claire said, sounding surprised.

“Did you not expect me this evening? You have already promised me the first dance.”

“I never forget a promise, Lord Wentworth. It is only that I was so engaged in my conversation with Mrs. Marchant. We are cousins, through my late husband, and we have been discussing the progress of our little nieces and nephews, and how well the present Lord Glastonbury is managing the estate. He is quite diligent and careful in his finances.”

“How splendid for him,” Max said. “Diligence and care must always be carefully balanced for the greatest success.”

Claire scowled at him, and Mrs. Marchant looked from one to the other with some interest.

“Have we met before, Lord Wentworth?” she asked. “I do not recall that we have and yet your name is somewhat familiar.”

“If we met, I would not have forgotten, Mrs. Marchant. I am rarely in town, but have arrived this time for my sister’s benefit. Certain ladies have convinced me that she would do well to have her season and meet other young ladies and men of her class.” Max glanced at Claire. “But as it turns out, I am enjoying myself as well.”