The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne (25 page)

“I would be much friendlier if you told me what she wanted with you.”

Tarrington shook his head. “Gave my word as a gentleman not to say.”

“You are not a gentleman, so you are free to talk.”

“Gave my word as a cutthroat, then.”

Darius assumed a cutthroat could be persuaded. He would take care of that later. Right now he would make sure one thing at least was understood. “I warn you now to have nothing more to do with Miss Fairbourne. If I learn that you meet with her again, or discover that you are providing her with special consignments, or even send others to her for that purpose, you will answer to me.”

Tarrington laughed. He sheathed the knife and gestured. “Come meet our guests. We saw them coming by the light of the moon, and waited onshore and took them there. They landed not far south of here.”

Darius followed him deep into the cave. A fire burned there for light, and five men sat against the cave wall. Most were dressed well, even elegantly. All wore expressions of disdain. Some of Tarrington’s lads lounged about, their pistols at the ready lest their guests decide to bolt.

“They are émigrés,” Darius said to Tarrington. “You did not need me at all.”

“They are indeed, each with his bag of gold and jewels and most with a sack of items of value or sentiment. It is impressive how they can grab two handfuls that are worth hundreds, even thousands sometimes.”

“Let them go.
With
their bags and sacks. Where is the crew?”

“They ran for it, and what with keeping this lot together…” He shrugged. “Just paid hands, nothing more. No danger from them, so it is not a loss.”

The hell they had escaped. Tarrington must have known them and let them go. “Where are the goods the crew brought over?”

Tarrington scratched his ear. “Goods? There were very few. Not worth your worrying about. So little that I found it odd. Normally the cargo is the reason for the run, and these Frenchies are just ballast. Peculiar that so little for sale came across.” He pointed over his shoulder. “That one there might be able to explain it. He is why I sent for you.”

Darius glanced over to a man sitting a little aside from the others. He appeared more roughly dressed, and his coats fit as if they had been made when he was less hearty. “Why do you think he has anything to tell me?”

“He brought almost nothing with him. No gold. No miniature of his dear mother. Just some clothes that do not look so fine as those he wears. He speaks English better than they do too. I thought you might want to have a word with him before we set him loose.”

Darius examined the man, who refused to acknowledge he was the object of interest. He was young and fit and his dark eyes served as iron doors guarding his thoughts. A soldier? Possibly. If he were a spy, he would never admit it now.

“I believe you are correct, Tarrington. Since you probably are, it is just as well that you held the others too. Keep a close watch on that one. I will return once I arrange what to do with them all.”

Darius walked back to his horse, cursing anew. Damnation, it might be days before he was able to follow Emma to London.

B
y the time Emma returned home her emotions had dulled to the point of melancholy. Even going to Fairbourne’s the next day could not raise her spirits.

On the second morning, when she arrived at the auction house, Obediah greeted her with the announcement that Herr Werner had written to say he would be consigning the count’s collection to Fairbourne’s. She pretended more joy than she experienced on hearing the news.

She tried to blame herself for her mood, and for her shocking willingness to be seduced. The guilt would not stick. She could not drum up enough regret to support her efforts at castigating herself. Rather the opposite. At the least convenient moments, memories would slide into her mind, of touches and sensations, of Southwaite’s eyes in the candlelight, of standing naked in the dawn. At night while she drifted to sleep thoughts about that night would own her completely, and her body stirred again, as if she had returned to the ballroom and could feel him in her arms.

On the third day, a letter came, but not from him. It was
delivered at dawn by a young boy who had been paid a penny to knock on the door. Her pulse quickened as soon as she touched the letter. She tore it open and wept when she saw the familiar hand that had penned the few lines.

How like him to warn her off, to rebel against the plans that ensnared her now. She could not obey him, of course. She could never just forget about him. Now that she knew her heart had not lied to her for two years, she had to buy his freedom.

She called for her carriage and had Mr. Dillon take her to the house where Cassandra lived. Cassandra knew at once that something important had happened. She made her sit and demanded to know the reason for her flushed excitement.

Fortunately Emma had news that would satisfy her friend, even if it would not be the really important news. “Herr Werner has agreed to give me the count’s collection,” she said. “I want your help in planning the grand preview. I want it to be the finest we have held.”

*     *     *

“I
am sure that Miss Fairbourne is not involved in anything that interests us,” Darius said. “I cannot speak for Marielle Lyon, however.”

Darius gave his report, such as it was, while he smoked a cigar in his library. Ambury nodded sagely and risked a small, knowing smile. “That is a relief to know.”

“How so?” Kendale asked, his sharp gaze shooting from one friend to the other.

Ambury blew smoke toward the ceiling. “We hope not to discover trouble of that nature that involves our citizens, correct?”

“I did not mean how so is it a relief, but how so does Southwaite know for sure that she is not up to no good.”

Darius had not said she was not up to no good. “I asked Tarrington if he had cause to think she should be watched. He said this was her first visit to the coast in a year, and that there was no evidence she had any involvement with either spies or information.”

It had been all he had gotten out of Tarrington when he forced the question yet again before leaving Kent. Emma had extracted that promise from Tarrington not to speak of her meeting with him. Damned if Tarrington hadn’t insisted on keeping his word to the end, even when offered a bribe.

“Well, of course, if the king of smugglers vouches for her, who am I to be suspicious?” Kendale said.

“You will leave her alone now,” Darius said firmly. “You will no longer watch her or have her watched.”

“I have not watched her. That was to be your duty, for all the good that did.”

“Damnation, Kendale, do not take it as yours again, is what I am saying. Turn your attention elsewhere.”

Ambury raised one eyebrow at his tone, but kept whatever clever retort had sprung to mind to himself. “What did you do with the boat Tarrington stopped?”

“I left it with Tarrington. I brought the spy back with me. He is a guest of the Home Office now,” Darius said.

“He may not be a spy,” Ambury said.

“The boat held little of value on it. A few kegs of brandy to pretend it made the journey for trade. Four other refugees came, who are dismayed to find themselves guests of the Home Office now too. As for the man in question, he brought nothing personal with him. That is what made Tarrington suspicious. Who would flee his home, perhaps never to return, and not pocket at least one item of value or sentiment?”

“You should have just hanged him,” Kendale said.

“We still have a government, Kendale. It has the authority to hang people, not us.” Ambury spoke casually but anyone who knew him would hear the pointed notes of disapproval. “Your bloodlust against the French is why we do not allow you to do anything on your own. None of us relish the notion of being tried for murder.”

The word
bloodlust
seemed to check Kendale. He even appeared momentarily chagrined by the lecture.

Ambury became all smooth amiability again. “It was convenient that you were on the coast, Southwaite. It spared me another journey.”

Yes, most convenient to their mission. Most inconvenient to his private purposes for being on the coast in the first place.

He had not seen Emma since her carriage had rolled away from his house. His own return had been delayed two days while he arranged for the transport of the boat’s passengers. Upon finally arriving yesterday, he had flipped through his mail looking in vain for her plain penmanship on a letter.

What had he expected her to write? That she had erred? That of course she would entertain the notion of marriage? It had been a proposal of obligation. In addition to her “everything else,” she was not a woman to accept the obligation that such a marriage would create for her in turn.

“All of this duty is making me feel old,” Ambury mused, while he poured some wine. He looked at the decanter and cocked an eyebrow in Darius’s direction. “It is French. From your cellar, I assume,” he teased.

Kendale looked down at his own glass.

“It is very old, like you feel.”

“We must do something fun, before we forget how,” Ambury said. “Perhaps we should all go to Penthurst’s ball. Were you invited? That was bold of him.”

“Damned bold,” Kendale said.

Darius had been invited. That letter had been waiting upon his return too. It was not clear whether Penthurst had sent it as an attempt at rapprochement, or as a perverse, sardonic whim. He was capable of the latter.

“I say we go,” Ambury said. “We will clean you up, Kendale. If we put you in formal dress and teach you to smile, you should be presentable, at least. I will introduce you to some young ladies who, rumor has it, find you attractive in a somewhat barbaric way.”

“I am not looking for a wife.”

“Nor are they looking for husbands, since they already have them.”

They all laughed, but thoughts of his own ballroom filled Darius’s mind, and of a woman who had never danced in such a chamber, but whose eyes and body and sensual embrace had enchanted him beneath a large chandelier.

“H
ere he comes,” Cassandra whispered with excitement. “I cannot believe we pulled this off, Emma.”

Nor could Emma believe it. Evidence that they had walked in the auction house door. Herr Ludwig Werner, bedecked in his braided coat and military in his bearing, approached them and bowed.

Obediah bowed even deeper. “We are extremely honored that you have entrusted us with the count’s consignments. We will not disappoint you.”

Herr Werner raised a hand in a gesture to invisible people. A small army of servants began carrying in paintings.

Emma wetted her lips and stepped closer to Obediah. “Titian,” she whispered as a large mythological scene paraded by.

“What a magnificent Titian,” Obediah exclaimed loudly.

Herr Werner smiled indulgently.

“Giovanni Bellini,” she whispered as a small oil passed. “The headdress says it is a Doge of Venice.”

“Ah, Bellini!” Obediah clasped his hands together in joy. “I think that is the finest portrait by him that I have seen. That is a doge, is it not, Herr Werner?”

“Rembrandt, but questionable,” she whispered as an Old Testament scene sped by a tad too fast.

Obediah stopped the servants and peered severely at the painting, then waved it on. Herr Werner would not be surprised if they gave it a less illustrious attribution now.

And so it went for half an hour, as twenty-five paintings came in, were given a first, cursory inspection, then propped against the exhibition hall walls. When all the paintings had entered, three soldiers did as well.

“You will not mind, I am sure, if a few of the count’s house guards remain here until after the auction,” Herr Werner said. “One does not leave treasures without protection.”

Obediah appeared perplexed. Emma inserted herself between them. “We expected nothing less, Herr Werner. I think one of them should stand outside the door, to announce to anyone thinking of theft that a sword waits if such an attempt it made.”

Herr Werner nodded with approval, and said something in German to the guards. One of them retreated to the door to take up his post.

Emma retreated to Cassandra’s side.

“Very shrewd,” Cassandra said. “That uniform standing guard will be more intriguing than all the advertisements and invitations you could arrange.”

“I thought so.”

The delivery completed, Emma expected Herr Werner to leave. She and Cassandra needed to finish planning the grand preview, and she wanted to give these paintings a much closer look.

Instead Herr Werner studied the walls, and the paintings hanging on them. “I am confused,” he said to Obediah. “Where are Lord Southwaite’s contributions?”

Obediah pasted a smile on his face, but glanced to Emma desperately. “Lord Southwaite’s contributions…Yes—that is, they are…”

“I expected them to be here by now. Perhaps I misunderstood when he would bring them.”

“Uhh…yes, I think that perhaps you—”

“You have been in communication with our esteemed collector, Herr Werner?” Emma asked.

He kept frowning at the walls. “He wrote to me and said he intended to consign four important paintings. The patronage of such a man reassured me, of course.” He looked over his shoulder at Obediah and smiled slyly. “Our special arrangements on the commission helped too.”

“We have added a Raphael to the auction recently. It did not come from the Earl of Southwaite, but rather an esteemed gentleman who requires anonymity,” Emma said. “It is an exquisite work, one more than worthy to keep company with the count’s collection. Would you like to see it?”