The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (33 page)

The back door slammed.
He jerked the cloth back into place. Damn stupid of him to waste
precious moments looking at a half-finished painting.

He quietly bolted down
the back stairs to the second floor then stopped. Listened. The
studio might have made a good hiding place, but then he’d have had
the devil of a time getting out of the house unnoticed. From here, he
had only one floor to get down without being seen. He looked around
for a hiding spot.

Whoever had come in was
probably removing their coat, and… Now they were tramping about in
the kitchen. If only they… When he heard them move in the direction
of the back stairs, he slipped into the linen room at the top of the
stairs and stood behind the door, holding his breath.

Had to be the older
woman. They’d decided she was the cook because she did the food
shopping, usually with the young boy’s help. It was odd that Reed
had so few servants, and it was rare a cook went out to make her own
food purchases. Guess she was pernickety about what she bought.

He hoped to God she
wasn’t coming to fetch some linen. He didn’t relish frightening
the old gal out of her drawers.

He heard her plodding
steps reach the landing and waited, breath suspended, for her to
move. She was breathing hard enough for the both of them. She’d
better lose some of her considerable girth, he reflected cynically,
or she wasn’t going to be cooking for much longer. Her slow shuffle
stopped while she heaved a few more belabored breaths before climbing
the next flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.

He waited patiently,
until he heard the creaking of her heavy footsteps along the hallway
above. He opened the mercifully silent door, descended furtively to
the bottom floor, and let himself out the back.

They needed to add more
men to their watch detail, he reflected, resuming his tramp’s
hobble back toward the park. With their quarry ready to burn down
Reed’s home with him and four innocents in it, the Chief would be
willing to invest all of his resources to prevent that or something
equally dire from happening.

Time was up for his
friend. They’d given him enough space to do whatever he was doing.
This matter had to be settled before Reed ended up dead. Next time
they might not be so lucky.

Once outside the
exhibit, Mr. Mason said, “I’ll go secure the hack but, as I
mentioned earlier, I won’t be going with you. I have business to
attend to.”

Tally leaned closer to
ask, “Will you be home for supper?”

“No, I don’t think
so.” He raised his voice for Reed and Foster to hear. “May I
suggest you go straight home.” He exchanged a serious look with
Reed, before striding off.

It wasn’t difficult
to interpret that look. Obviously, Mr. Mason was depending on Reed to
watch over her. She’d nearly missed Reed’s barely perceptible nod
of agreement. No doubt his quick reactions, earlier, had impressed
her investigator.

At the moment, her
safety was the furthest thing from her mind. She straightened her
shoulders to release some of the tension gathered there and started
down the stairs leading out of the Academy beside Reed.

“Did you enjoy the
exhibit?” she asked him.

He scrutinized her
features, searching for a hitch.

Did she sound
different?

He may have lost his
memory, but his perceptiveness was uncanny. She was doing her best to
behave normally, but her legs felt rubbery and she was numb with
shock. Not from her earlier near miss. She’d recovered from that by
now. She’d received another, almost greater jolt while viewing the
art. If anything could be more unsettling than almost being killed,
this was it.

She still didn’t know
how she’d retained her composure. Or stopped herself from
exclaiming aloud. To see two of her own paintings on display had been
shocking.

More shocking still was
seeing the “Sold” sign on both pieces.

Her first reaction was
that Monsieur must have wanted to surprise her. But the greatest —
and worst! — shock of all, and the one she was still reeling from,
was when she’d bent to read which pseudonym Monsieur had chosen to
use.

“Oh my god! That
can’t be right,” she’d exclaimed.

“Wendal Lawton, you
mean?” Reed chimed in from beside her.

She hadn’t realized
she’d spoken aloud, or that he was so close by. “Wendal–” Her
mouth snapped shut. She
had
read it correctly. The attributed artist was … her father! Monsieur
had put her father’s name on her work! It didn’t make sense!

“I like it. I like
both of his paintings,” Reed said. “You feel you know what that
man is thinking as he watches the children playing ball. His wistful
face tells it all.”

She was too perturbed
by her father’s forged signature on her work to enjoy Reed’s
praise. This was fraud! And whether she’d known about it or not, it
was her painting, so she was involved. She’d be roundly condemned!

Ha!
She’d be lucky not to be hanged!

From that point on, she
did no more than follow Reed and Mr. Mason around the exhibit.
Stunned, and frightened of the consequences, she was barely aware of
where she was. Even now, exiting the Academy, she was still dazed
with disbelief.

Striving to appear
normal, she said, “What about the rest of the exhibition?”

“Yes, I liked it.
Very much. I can’t recall if I usually go to art shows, but I
enjoyed this one.” His pleased smile told the truth of his words.
“But I was worried about you. Was it too much for you after that
frightening incident? You seemed preoccupied.”

“I’m fine,” she
clipped, then softened her tone. It wasn’t his fault. “What did
you like most?” Talking might distract him from focusing on her.

“Some of the
paintings were surprisingly good. I especially liked those two by
Wendal Lawton. Too bad they were already sold or we could have bought
one.” He paused and looked uncertain. “For a moment, I thought I
might have recognized the name.”

She cast him a guarded
look. Was that why he’d been climbing in her window? Was there some
connection between her father’s name being inscribed on her
paintings and the attempts on her life? Was Reed involved in the
fraud?

“He’s one of
England’s best known artists, so that may be why his name sounds
familiar,” keeping her tone neutral, she paused in front of the
doorway to look for the hackney Mr. Mason had summoned for them. “I’m
glad we came today.”

What an understatement!
If they hadn’t, she’d have missed out on the thrill —
short-lived though it had been — of seeing her art exhibited
publicly for the first time. But, more importantly, she’d have had
no idea that her work was being sold under her famous father’s
name.

It wouldn’t be long
before the art experts knew. The forged signature might fool some who
weren’t familiar with it, but it wasn’t perfect. And her painting
style, her brush strokes, even the compositions, while bearing
certain similarities to her father’s, were sufficiently different
to alert the masters to the deception. Weren’t they? It seemed so
obvious to her that she couldn’t imagine everyone not knowing.

For brief moments, she
contemplated Monsieur Moreau carrying out such a wretched scheme. Was
that why he had disappeared? With him gone, the scandal would all
fall on her shoulders. And she’d never be able to prove she had
nothing to do with it.

When she’d told him
she was finally coming to London, had he left Town because the large
cache of paintings he’d been storing for her had already been sold?
What if he’d been passing them off as her father’s
capolavori
…
masterpieces... all along?

If so, she was in
serious trouble.

Bruising disappointment
settled in. How could he do that to her? After all they’d been
through together, the nearly nine years of hard work and effort to
bring her to where she was today.

It made no sense. He
would have known he’d be caught eventually, that he’d be hanged
or transported for it. The art world was too small to pull off this
kind of hoax successfully.

No! Monsieur would
never do that. She rejected the idea outright. She refused to believe
he was anything but honorable. Why risk ruining his sterling
reputation by selling fakes? He was already making good money doing
it lawfully.

Now, she was seriously
worried. Now, his disappearance was more sinister than she’d
imagined. Suddenly, she was certain her father’s signature being on
her paintings and his disappearance were connected. To succeed with
the fraud, someone had to get rid of Monsieur first.

And, as awful as it
seemed, it had to be someone he knew.

She walked toward the
carriage beside Reed, her mind teeming with these conjectures, half
aware he was sending her searching looks.

Suddenly a voice called
out, “Selly!”

The voice was so
exuberant, both their heads shot around. Two men were hailing someone
called Selly. “Look Morley, look who’s here!” one said to the
other, gesturing in their direction.

Tally turned her head
to look behind her, searching for the object of the man’s
enthusiasm. No one else was there but them. Oh no! They were hailing
Reed! Her legs almost gave way from under her. His name was “Selly”?
Which meant he had stolen that watch!

Faces wreathed in
smiles, the two men rushed towards him, laughing merrily.

“Selly, my good man,
what a surprise!” called one of the happy pair as they came closer
to Reed and her. “We didn’t even know you were back in England.”

She felt like a
cornered animal must. Just what she’d feared! She was going to be
proven a liar and a sham right here in public. Twisting her head from
side to side, she looked for a way out. She had to escape!

* * *

Reed saw his wife stop
abruptly, then step back. She remained in his shadow for brief
moments. She appeared to be assessing the situation. Finally, she
nodded to herself, murmured, “I’ll wait for you in the carriage,”
sidestepped to circumvent the rapidly approaching men, and set off at
a brisk pace toward the waiting hackney. Foster, who had been
trailing along behind them, slowed his pace for an instant, before —
reluctantly it seemed — shuffling after her.

She’d left him to
meet these men alone! A proper wife would have stayed to greet his
friends with him!

Were they friends?

Reed felt abandoned.
Apprehensive.

She knew he’d be
floundering and need her help! How could she do this?

As the men neared, he
thought they looked a little like a parody of pals he’d viewed
once, many years ago, in a pantomime. One was short and
jovial-looking, the other tall and spare with a more serious
demeanor.

What daft observations!
Were they true memories? This was no time to let his mind off its
leash. He kept his uneasy gaze on their faces. His mind swirled with
confusion. Friend or foe?

A hazy image of these
men on horses slid into his consciousness.

What should he do? Ask
them outright who he was?

Caution bade him not.
What if one of them was the person who’d shot him? Better to bide
his time and hope they mentioned something that helped him recover
his memory. If they weren’t good friends, he might well put Talia
and himself in danger by revealing his affliction.

“Good to see you!”
he greeted them in as non-committal, yet friendly a manner as
possible. He hoped they didn’t notice his uncertainty.
Peripherally, he noticed Talia pause. Her back straightened. He
waited to see if she’d turn around, but no, she continued on her
way to the carriage. She probably thought his memory had come back!

If only it were so!

“We’re rather in a
hurry, I’m afraid, so I can’t stop for long,” he told the men.

He sensed his wife’s
keen attention. She was almost certainly trying to hear what they
were saying. He knew she must be trying to study the newcomers as
closely as one could glancing sideways.

Foster extended his
hand to help her into the carriage and she hesitated. Then, she must
have realized she’d look strange standing there because she
accepted his assistance and stepped up, disappearing into the
carriage.

She didn’t know these
two men, that much was clear. So there was no way he could be certain
they were friends. All the more reason to be cautious, he decided.

“Then come join us at
Sylvester’s tomorrow night. There should be a good group of us
there and we have six years to catch up on!”

Six years! He’d been
away that long? That explained why the few memories that were revived
today, had come wrapped in cotton wool, making him question if they
were genuine. He’d been blaming it on the residue of opium in his
system, but that many years away could explain it too.

Foster came to stand by
his elbow and, in a low tone, said, “Miss– um… Leighton says
you’ll have to hurry. You have an appointment at four this
afternoon and it has already gone half-three.”

Reed thanked Foster and
turned back to the men.

“I’d be delighted
to join you, but we’re leaving Town for awhile, so we’ll have to
postpone that pleasure until I return.” Hearing a quaver in his
voice, he searched for a way to leave these men before they realized
he had no idea who they were.

The shorter of the two
exclaimed, “Bet we know where you’re going!” He smiled
knowingly at the taller man, who hesitated uncertainly for an
instant, then hastily agreed with him.

Neither noticed Reed’s
bewilderment, he hoped.

“Windhaven, of
course. You must be chomping at the bit to get back there, after
being away for so long.”

Reed winced as the
taller one cuffed him on his wounded shoulder, which was already
aching from his near miss with the runaway cart earlier. “We’ll
look forward to reminiscing about old times over an ale when you get
back to Town, old boy.” He glanced meaningfully toward the carriage
and waggled his eyebrows. “I sense you will have a lot to tell us.”