London's Most Elusive Earl Page 8

  He signaled for his carriage and stood at the foot of the limestone steps in wait, his mind too anxious to relive the encounter, his body mercilessly strung tight.

  It began innocently enough. A gentle kiss, almost chaste, meant to soften the fact he hadn’t shown for their dance. A selfish act to satisfy his curiosity, nothing more. It wasn’t meant to awaken lustful desire so intense he’d barely managed to keep a leash on his control.

  And when she’d whimpered, that faint lovely sound from the back of her throat right before she’d withdrawn, as if it pained her to do the right thing, her needs and yearnings on the verge of compromise as much as his own. In that single moment, he would have taken her down to the carpeting and stripped her bare, her body to his, each delectable inch to be savored. Oh, the pleasure they’d find in each other.

  He drew another cleansing breath and blinked hard as his carriage pulled to the gravel drive. He had important matters to attend, and his thinking couldn’t be clouded with allusive fantasies. His father’s solicitor had spoken truthfully. While there were sufficient funds in the coffers at present, the financial stability of the earldom demanded he reclaim the paintings, as they constituted the bulk of collateral and fiscal holdings. Barlow would decrease the allotments with each passing fortnight. He didn’t have time for indulgence.

  * * * *

  The following evening, Lindsey continued to deliberate the frustrating predicament of Lady Caroline Nicholson as he waited for Mills on a dank street corner near the edge of Seven Dials. Any respectable gentleman wouldn’t be seen in an area that tempted the worst sort of danger, but the assistance his friend could provide in verifying the authenticity of the Nona was invaluable and worth the risk. While this part of London might be home to the worst breed, it also guaranteed anonymity, something that couldn’t be found on Bond Street or any other locale frequented by the ton, no matter the fat purse or social influence.

  Lindsey patted his coat to confirm the Nona remained in his possession. One could never be sure a sly pick-purse or thief wouldn’t somehow distract long enough to lighten his pocket. He held no doubt he could hold his own if it came to fisticuffs, but if the would-be attacker had a pistol, he’d be forced to surrender his valuables without a fight. While he carried a knife in his boot, he had no desire to be left bloody in a dark alley in Seven Dials. Thieves and their kind were a dishonest and unfaithful lot who found the utmost loyalty when they banded together to take down an upper.

  His gaze fell to a nearby trio of steps which led to the closest tenement. The stones were crumbled beyond repair. Below the hollowed-out recess, two rats fought over an indistinguishable morsel. He hoped it wasn’t an indication of what was to come. He had no desire to confront the Duke of Warren or, worse, continue his search for a painting that seemed to have multiplied overnight.

  On the verge of impatience, Lindsey spotted Mills as he crossed the street. The viscount claimed he had an acquaintance who could discern whether or not the painting in his possession was indeed the original. How this process would happen, Lindsey had no idea or interest. His father’s receipt of purchase wasn’t evidence enough. A reference to preliminary sketches done by the artist fortified his father’s claim, but Lindsey knew the appearance of the second Nona made it clear things were not as they seemed. And so he found himself here, relying on his friend who insisted this chap in Seven Dials could authenticate artwork.

  The sooner Lindsey locked the Nona away, the sooner he could move on to the next search and locate the second painting. Dependable knowledge of the sister works and their whereabouts had been difficult to obtain, but with the ton suddenly interested in the Duke of Warren’s collection and Lord Jenkin no doubt on the verge of suspicion with his misplaced conclusion, timing was on Lindsey’s side. Inquiring about the paintings and prodding for information would appear nothing more than speculation about the topic of the moment. It could stimulate reliable clues in regard to the other two works, and hopefully he’d reclaim them and be done with the matter entirely.

  In that, at least the solvency of the earldom would be secure. He dismissed the other contingency of his father’s will without consideration.

  “Mills.” Lindsey acknowledged his friend with a curt nod and low greeting. “I appreciate your help with this cursed situation.”

  “My man is reliable, and as quiet as a vacant tomb. He knows art. He also knows when to talk and when to be quiet, and that more than anything has kept him in business for over a decade.”

  “Business.” The word came out with a cynicism Lindsey hadn’t intended.

  “Buying, selling, reselling, storing…” Mills indicated which way to go with a wag of his chin. “Keeping secrets, spreading rumors. He’s a hand in all of it, and as for artwork, he can tell a forgery from an original with nothing more than an examination of the piece.”

  “How is that possible?” Granted, Lindsey wasn’t keen to understand all the intricacies, but when he’d viewed the painting in the Duke of Warren’s study it appeared identical to the one he’d taken from Lord Jenkin’s gallery.

  “A proclivity acquired by a need for survival, I suppose.” Again Mills indicated a right turn with a quick gesture of his hand. “And too, there’s all those coins just waiting in your purse.”

  True enough Lindsey brought along the sum Mills had mentioned, happy to pay for the information he needed.

  They paused as an old man, hunched at the shoulders and dressed in drab, torn clothing, crossed their path with a mangy dog at his heels. Then they continued farther into the plaid of cross streets, the eerie tap of their bootheels on the cobbles the only sound that met his ears.

  “Why couldn’t we have taken a hack right to your man’s door?” Lindsey didn’t mind walking, though he realized the farther he advanced into this web of alleys the more difficult it would be to extricate himself if the need arose. Perhaps he should have put a knife in each boot.

  “It’s just one more block or so.” Mills turned a sharp left. “Another reason my man has been in business so long is that no one knows where to find him on any given evening, and venturing into his territory is a risk not all uppers are willing to take. Though by no mistake, he completes a fair amount of transactions.”

  Another stranger, this one a gentleman easily distinguished as a respectable sort by his posture and clothing, hurried from a dingy doorway across the street. He kept his head down and advanced on long strides, as if he couldn’t flee fast enough.

  “See there.” Mills slanted his head in the departing man’s direction. “Were we in a ballroom we might very well know that person. But he certainly doesn’t want to be recognized here, whether he’s selling the family’s silver to pay his gambling debts or pawning his wife’s jewelry to afford a gift for his mistress.”

  “Understood.”

  At last they slowed at the mouth of a long alley. It was incredibly dark; the street lamps that had marked their passage at the beginning of their travels had long ago vanished. He realized now Mills must have counted the blocks, leading him like a mouse through a maze to find the correct location. They advanced down the narrow alley and before a wooden door, where the viscount knocked three times in succession and then waited a beat before knocking twice more.

  Lindsey didn’t know what to make of the scene, seemingly misplaced from a child’s ghost tale. But he needed Mills’ help; he couldn’t very well bring the Nona to the British Museum to be examined by their expert curator. Still, he rued the fact he stood in his best leather boots in a murky puddled alley at a ridiculous hour waiting for some nefarious fence to confirm his stolen merchandise. The irony rankled. Time stretched, and he began to believe no one would answer the door. He forced his thoughts somewhere pleasant.

  What was Lady Caroline doing at this hour? Was she already asleep? Somehow, he didn’t believe that true. Did she read in bed, her hair unbound and silky, strewn across the pillows? If she d
id, it was some romantic tome of poetry, no doubt. The contrast between that enticing, pristine image and his current surroundings evoked a muffled chuckle, but all amusement evaporated when he considered she many very well be out at a social event on the arm of some swain—

  The panel opened and a stringy lad waved them inside.

  Good thing he had cause to refocus. He didn’t like the jab of displeasure that accompanied his last thought.

  Again he followed Mills, who trailed the young boy into the bowels of the tenement, the candles every twenty feet or so hardly adequate to light their path. He heard the squeak of vermin across the floorboards more than saw it and preferred it that way.

  When they reached the rear of the residence, the boy simply disappeared into the darkness. Lindsey and Mills stepped into a well-lit room and the sudden change in lighting caused a moment’s pause while his eyes acclimated.

  A squat man who possessed at least fifty years stood at a large rectangular table. Various pieces of artwork and collectibles littered the room, some covered by burlap and tied tightly with string. The man eyed them as they came forward, his attention on Lindsey, as he could only assume the chap already knew the reason Mills had brought him along.

  “Let me have her.”

  Introductions and the like were unnecessary. The least familiar the better, although Lindsey wouldn’t instigate questions until he knew more about the man before him and not the other way around. He slid a hand into his coat pocket and produced the Nona. Then he placed it on the table and carefully unrolled the canvas.

  For a moment the three men peered down at the painting in silence, but then the fencer, with a spry grace Lindsey would have thought impossible, slid the Nona forward and produced a long, thick piece of glass. He moved the curved lens over the painting while not a sound could be heard. He repeated the process on the back of the canvas, which baffled Lindsey further.

  Lindsey eyed Mills, who merely crimped his lips in affirmation to wait. The minutes ticked by until at last it appeared the examination was over.

  Pushing the Nona across the tabletop, the fencer met his inquisitive stare.

  “She’s the real thing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The man’s greying brows raised to his hairline. “If I said it, I’m sure.”

  Apparently, Lindsey was to accept his word as the definitive answer. He looked toward Mills, who gave a confident nod. When nothing else was said Lindsey went back into his pocket and produced a purse for payment, tossing it to the table, where the coins inside clinked against each other upon landing. “Thank you.”

  The fencer did little more than grunt his reply.

  “Have you had many forgeries coming in? Or heard of anyone earning their keep by producing reproductions so well done, even an art conscious Duke would be fooled?” Mills asked.

  The older man narrowed his eyes. “I’m not in the habit of sharing what’s meant to be private, or the other way around.” He reached across the tabletop and collected the coins. “My boy will show you out.”

  With their meeting at an end, Lindsey rerolled the Nona, wrapping it in the same cloth he’d used as protection, and returned it to his pocket for safety. Then, following the lad who made a timely reappearance, they left the tenement directly.

  * * * *

  “Mother, the weather looks fine. Perhaps we should have our tea in the garden.” Caroline glanced in her mother’s direction as she turned from the window. The sky was cloudless, a vivid blue that seemed a rarity here in London in comparison to the Mediterranean climes she’d grown accustomed to in Italy.

  “That would be pleasant, although you must wear your bonnet. You wouldn’t want to mar your complexion. The Seton social is this evening. I should imagine your cousins will wish to continue your introductions. There’s so many young handsome gentlemen in London, you will have many choices.”

  “Perhaps.” Caroline wrinkled her nose at her mother’s favorite topic of conversation. True, Caroline wished to find a suitor with the goal of marriage, but all this plotting and planning dampened her spirits and ruined any idea of romance to be found in the situation. “One can’t very well predict with whom one will fall in love.”

  The disappointing reality of Lord Tiller’s lack of interest was soon replaced by the charming image of the Earl of Lindsey. How did he spend his days? Did he favor horses at Tattersall’s or gambling at White’s? Was he active in Parliament? There seemed a great many things she wished to know about him, and yet he was a rake of the first order and no one she should lend a second thought.

  Despite knowing this, she found herself preoccupied with images of him when she knew it was nothing more than a waste of time. Yet that conclusion did little to discourage her. She briefly touched her fingertips to her lips and then dropped them away. She returned her gaze to the outdoors beyond the window and recalled the heat of his hand at her back when they’d danced, how he’d held her fingers tightly and offered her that charming smile, which at times had indeed weakened her knees.

  “My lady, a delivery has arrived.”

  Croft, the house butler, came to the door and startled her from her forbidden thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see an elaborate display of lilies in shades of pink and white held high in the servant’s arms, the delicately cut-crystal vase quick to refract sunlight from the windows. The bouquet was enormous. It obliterated half of Croft’s body with its width.

  “How lovely.” Lady Derby rose from the chaise in a rush to inspect the delivery. “Place it here, please.” She indicated the mahogany side table between the wing chairs near the hearth.

  “I suspect they are for you, Caroline. Oh, do come and read the card.” Her mother sounded especially thrilled. “Lilies are hothouse flowers, which could only mean the gentleman who sent these is sincere in his intentions.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with your theory.” She plucked the card from the stems and opened it promptly. The preposterous idea that it would be from Lindsey flittered through her mind, but she refused to consider it. Logic was one of her most dependable qualities, though of late it had all but abandoned her. She opened the note and read the words aloud. “With fond memories of our dance. Lord Hutton.”

  “Lord Hutton.” Mother came to stand beside her, her finger tapping against her chin in a pose of thoughtful consideration. “I don’t recall him, though he definitely remembers you.” She reached forward and stroked a fingertip over one of the blooms. “Do you remember the dance you shared?”

  “No, unfortunately I don’t.” Too much time and brain power spent reliving her quadrille with Lindsey was to blame, as it had wiped every other dance away. Once he’d kissed her, she was quite certain she couldn’t remember her birthdate if she didn’t make an effort to concentrate.

  “Perhaps tonight he’ll attend the Seton’s event and you’ll have the opportunity to thank him in person,” Mother suggested.

  “Yes, I hope so.” And Lindsey, of course. She stared at the flowers. They were beautiful and costly, but she couldn’t recall Lord Hutton, and the lack of connection left her unaffected. She should like to remember the gentleman with fondness if he went to the trouble of sending such an elaborate gesture. It served as yet another example of why her mother, aunt, and cousins were approaching marriage in a disapproving method, one that generally ignored the romance found within a courtship, the interplay of desire and attraction, and the undefinable pull that brought two people together.

  She wished for love and understanding. She hoped for a long loyal union filled with common interests and enjoyable conversation with her husband. They would have one another for several decades to come, so the natural inclination that she wished to fall deeply into love and passion with the man she intended to marry was the one irrevocable aspect she held dear. Something about the way her cousins and mother regarded courtship, like it was a business negotiatio
n to be sought and contracted, unsettled Caroline.

  Besides, she had only just arrived in London. True, she pursued marriage, but the systematic methods of those who worked on her behalf left her feeling cheated of the most important aspects of the courting process. Romance, attraction, desire…she wasn’t sure when these qualities became a priority, but they were high on her list now. Naturally, she needed to attend events and experience introductions, but that didn’t erase her misgivings. Her mother and aunt approached the subject of marriage with the same demeanor one would possess when overseeing the household budget. Caroline yearned for the rare anticipation that accompanied true attraction. A secret smile curled her lips.

  “My lady.” Croft reappeared at the door. “A gentleman caller for Lady Caroline is at the door.”

  Her heart hiccupped with a repeat of her first ridiculous conclusion, and she forced herself to calm.

  “Show him in, please.” Her mother’s smile widened further, if that was possible.

  A few minutes later Croft returned with Lord Egerton stepping on his shadow.

  Caroline smiled then too. She remembered the amiable gentleman from the Duke of Warren’s social and his kind attention to their conversation. He’d appeared genuinely interested in what she had to say and possessed a congenial nature.

  “What a pleasant surprise.” Lady Derby sent Croft for refreshments, and after initial introductions and niceties concluded they sat on opposite sides of Lord Hutton’s bouquet while Mother hovered at a respectable distance near the mullioned windows.

  “It’s a lovely day.” Caroline didn’t know what else to say. She hadn’t expected him to call, and therefore hadn’t given conversation much thought.

  “A fine day for a phaeton ride through Hyde Park, if I may be so bold.”

  Apparently, Lord Egerton had a specific goal in mind.

  “What a splendid idea.” Her mother joined the conversation, her face a beacon of enthusiasm. “Caroline, why don’t you fetch your bonnet. You don’t wish to keep Lord Egerton waiting.”