Beyond A Wicked Kiss Page 23

  Blackwood glanced at the sideboard. "I should think they were done in the last three years, perhaps the last two. They would not be in such relatively good condition had they been stored so carelessly for longer than that. They are taken out and regarded frequently, though. You realize that, don't you?" The colonel waved aside his own question. "I can see that you do not. The paint at the edges of both pictures is wearing thin in very particular places. It is Beckwith's thumbs, I believe, that are causing the damage. He unrolls the painting, then holds it open to regard it, like so." Blackwood demonstrated with his hands spread on either side of an imaginary canvas. "He will destroy it with his admiration."

  West did not care about that. He cared more that Beckwith might miss the thing before too long a time had passed. "I will have to return them soon, then," he said, more to himself than the colonel. "I believe I will have that drink now." Rising, he went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous tumbler of whiskey. Not one to knock it back as the colonel had, West savored the smooth, fiery taste. He did not return to his chair, choosing to hitch his hip on the colonel's desk instead and remain there half sitting, half standing. "What opinion do you have of Miss Parr? Not as an actress. I mean, as the subject of these paintings? Do you think she posed willingly?"

  "You cannot be certain that she posed at all." The colonel wheeled his chair toward the fire. "You will allow that her face is known to many. Her admirers number a legion, and Prinny himself is one of them. You have seen her but a few times, I believe, yet were able to recognize her as the woman in the paintings. As to the form that supports that face, it might be anyone's."

  "And it might be hers."

  "Yes," the colonel said reluctantly. "That is always a possibility."

  "How can I discover the truth?"

  "Why is it so important that you do?"

  West was surprised the colonel would pose that question. "Because if she did not pose for the artist, then she may be unaware that the paintings exist at all. She has a right to know what madness has been inspired by her beauty."

  "I doubt she will thank you for it."

  West doubted it as well, but if the paintings were done without the actress's knowledge, she would want to take measures to protect herself. "If she knows about the paintings, whether or not she posed willingly, I want to learn more. How Beckwith acquired two of them, for instance. Who the artist is. What market exists for these things. And how it all might have touched Miss Jane Petty."

  "That is quite a leap you are taking to suppose India Parr will lead you to that missing girl."

  West shrugged. "I can begin at any point on the road to see where it leads. What I want to know is if you will help me. How can I discover the truth about the paintings?"

  Blackwood was a long time in answering. "I suppose you shall have to ask Miss Parr yourself."

  "How is that possible? She is on the Continent."

  "I warned you not to take gossip as fact. She is not abroad. I suggest you apply to Southerton first. He will advise you on the wisdom of broaching this with her."

  "South? South knows where she is?" West was patently incredulous and did not trouble himself to hide it.

  "He'd better. She is his assignment."

  "Does he realize this? You know, don't you, that he has borrowed my cottage near Ambermede for use as a—" West stopped. "God's truth, but South gets the plum assignments. He is with Miss Parr even now, isn't he?"

  "You are not usually such a slow top," the colonel said. "You did not suspect?"

  "No. Can you doubt it? I would not have come here first. The damnable thing is that I was so close but a few days ago. Now I shall have to take myself off again." He would see Ria, though. The thought tumbled through his mind quickly, and he did not try to hold it. The colonel was certain to be suspicious of a sudden shift in his mood. "Are these paintings connected to what you have asked South to do?"

  "Perhaps. I don't know. I was unaware of their existence until you showed them to me. I cannot say what Miss Parr knows or has told South. You must speak to him first—I am firm on that."

  West nodded. "Agreed." He knew there was a great deal the colonel was concealing, most of it about the actress. Therein lay the explanation for Blackwood's agitation when he was presented with the paintings. West did not press to learn more. Whatever information applied to the disappearance of Jane Petty, he would get from South first.

  Regarding the colonel over the rim of his tumbler, West asked, "Have you received the portrait of Miss Petty?"

  "And the description," the colonel said. "They arrived in yesterday's post."

  West made a disgusted snort. "I could have made the delivery almost as quickly myself. Someday you will explain to me how intelligence from Rome can arrive at your door faster than a missive from Gillhollow."

  "All roads lead to Rome," Blackwood said dryly. "While there is but one to—"

  "I take your point." West sipped his whiskey. "Then there has been no time to make inquiries of the dressmakers on Firth Street."

  "On the contrary, I sent someone around immediately."

  "And?"

  "I expect to hear from her directly."

  "Her? You sent a woman?"

  Blackwood chuckled. "They are dressmakers, are they not? I judged a woman as likely to have better success."

  West felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck. "Might I know the identity of this woman?"

  "Of course. You will want to thank her, no doubt. It is Elizabeth."

  "Lady Northam." West could not believe it, and yet he was hardly surprised. That he could adopt both those positions at once seemed in perfect concert with every other dilemma he was facing. "You sent North's wife on a mission for information about a missing girl?"

  "She was going to the dressmaker's, regardless of whether I sent her or not. It was merely providential that she came to my doorstep first." The colonel touched the bridge of his spectacles and drew them lower on his nose so he might regard West over the top. "Need I remind you that I have known Elizabeth all her life? Neither you nor her husband can make that same claim."

  "Then North knew what she was about?"

  "I can't say. I have no idea whether she told him."

  West groaned softly, certain he was to be in Dutch with North if that worthy found out. "Northam will have my head."

  Blackwood dismissed that notion. "He will have mine first."

  "The order that he comes for us makes little difference when he means to put us on the chopping block."

  Chuckling, the colonel finished his drink and set his glass down. "I think Elizabeth will say nothing. She is desirous of getting some of her own back for this business with the Gentleman Thief."

  "Then it is done? North has found his man?"

  "In a manner of speaking, but there is a plan in the works to end it soon enough. After you have met with South, it is important that you return to London. There will be need of your particular skills."

  "What can I do that the others cannot?"

  "Soldier. Sailor. Tinker. Spy. Which one are you?"

  West sighed. The colonel was amusing himself. "You know perfectly well. If that is the way of it, who am I to watch?"

  "The French ambassador."

  That announcement, delivered with such matter-of-fact intonation, caused West to finish what was left of his drink. He actually contemplated pouring another. "I have promised Miss Ashby I will find her missing student. I cannot be here and there and here again. I was delayed in going to Gillhollow after the duke's funeral because Northam needed help when Elizabeth left him."

  "And they both need your help now, although I am the one asking for it."

  West could not recall there had been a request. He supposed it didn't matter in the end. He knew he would do whatever was needed because it was not in him to do anything else. It didn't matter that the colonel was counting on that; this was about a pledge made long ago at Hambrick Hall. "Friends for life we have confessed" he said softly. "Yes.
Of course."

  "I will give you the particulars later. All is not ready." Blackwood gave West his darkest, gravest glance. "This will require due care. You cannot be caught."

  "I can be, but I will not be."

  "Good. Your part must be done before the ambassador's winter ball. I believe he can be made cooperative, but it will fall to you to assure all the details are correct."

  West allowed he was more intrigued than alarmed. "And this plan of yours? Will it put a period to the Gentleman Thief's reign of terror on the ton? "

  "Their boudoirs and salons will be made safe again. Ladies will be able to wear their finest jewels and leave their paste with the creditors."

  Grinning, West stood. He took his leave after the colonel had asked for and received his promise to join him on Christmas Day for dinner. It was not a difficult promise to give. West already knew there was only one other place he'd rather be.

  * * *

  Perceval Bartlett, The Right Honorable Viscount Herndon, rose slowly in greeting as West was ushered into his conservatory. The air was redolent of the rich, black planting soil, drooping ferns, and hothouse flowers. Until West entered the room, Herndon had been stooped over a potted orchid, examining the delicate pink petals for flaws. Now his palm gently cupped the corolla, and his thumb lightly passed over the stamen. The impression, from West's vantage point, was of a man reluctant to leave his lover, for there was something unmistakably intimate about the way Herndon caressed the plant.

  West doubted that it was an accident that he had observed this. Herndon meant to elicit a response from him, to test his reaction. To that end, West obliged, feigning an appreciation of the gesture and communicating that he understood what it was in reference to.

  "Ah, Westphal," Herndon said. "So you have come after all. I had heard you would be returning to your estate at Ambermede after the new year."

  "The new year is only just upon us. There is time enough to make the journey. Did you not receive my reply to your invitation?"

  "Yes, I did—then I heard the rumors and became unsure of your intent."

  "My intent," West said with a proper chill in his voice, "is to keep my word. You have me, Herndon—now what will you do with me?"

  Herndon cut an angular figure. He had a narrow face and tight, square shoulders. His long arms ended in bony wrists, large hands, and elegantly tapered fingers. His full mouth was the exception to the perpendicular lines that defined him. Here he was soft and thick, the lower lip jutting forward in something that resembled a woman's sensuous pout. It thinned, drawing as fine a line as it was capable of, while his lordship considered West carefully.

  "There can be no doubt that you are your father's son," he said. "Devil a bit, if you don't sound just like him."

  West chose not to take umbrage. He could not afford to overplay his hand. Herndon's invitation was as unexpected as it was timely, and he meant to take advantage of it, not spurn it. "You knew the duke well?"

  "As well as any, I would venture to say, certainly better than you."

  West was witnessing what his icy tone had cost him. He would have to suffer the razor-sharp edge of Herndon's tongue if the man could not be placated. It seemed the best way to accomplish that was by appreciating the man's passion. He spent the next thirty minutes touring the conservatory and making proper noises of awe and respect for Herndon's greenery.

  The subject of Miss Weaver's Academy was never broached. West could admire the man's patience, even as he disliked being thwarted by it. Patience was not a characteristic he often associated with a member of the Society of Bishops, but he supposed it could be affected when it suited their purpose, especially by one who had held the exalted position of archbishop. For three years at Hambrick Hall, Herndon had been the Society's leader. Now, more than thirty years later, he could still enjoy the benefits of that station as chair of the board of governors.

  At the end of the tour, suitably placated, Lord Herndon bid West join him in the music room for tea. After it was served, his lordship came to the point of his invitation. "I have recently received a letter from Mr. Beckwith of Sunbury in regard to your concern about the school at Gillhollow. He indicates that you are interested in a seat on our board."

  "I expressed that to him, yes."

  "Good, then there is no mistaking the matter. You are aware, are you not, that none of us takes compensation for our contribution? It is more often that we must contribute or find others who will do so. This is a charitable indulgence on our part. The school is barely solvent most years."

  "I am very well aware."

  Herndon nodded, his dark eyes shrewd in their appraisal.

  "No doubt Miss Ashby has informed you that she spends a considerable portion of her own funds on supplies for the students. What I wonder is if you can appreciate that she indulges them?"

  "It seemed to me that a seat on the board would provide opportunity to remedy both those things."

  "Your father could not take her in hand."

  "I am not in every way the duke's son." West underscored this with a knowing smile that spoke of confidences between two intimates. "Beckwith suggested I might want to keep her on a short tether. After due consideration, I have come around to his manner of thinking. A tether would suit her very nicely."

  "The tighter the better, eh?"

  "Indeed."

  Lord Herndon rubbed his chin. "Miss Ashby is a treasure. If it is your intention to interfere with her running of the school, it would not be wise for you to sit with us."

  "You've spoken to the other members?"

  "Most, not all. Those who are in London only. There has been correspondence with the others." He sipped his tea. "There is agreement among us that you will be an asset in our endeavors. There is a long history of good works here that we should like to continue. You will appreciate that we are breaking with tradition by inviting you. Seats on the board have always been given to those who have had a member of the family serve before them. New blood is in order, we think."

  West wondered if he would be required to spill his own. "You do me a great honor. I had not permitted myself to hope. It seemed unlikely, given that you did not extend the same invitation to my father."

  Both of Herndon's salted brows lifted a fraction. "I was not aware you knew he had inquired about a position on the board."

  "Miss Ashby knew. She told me."

  Herndon said nothing immediately. "She encouraged you to approach Mr. Beckwith?"

  "Discouraged me, actually."

  "I see." There was a pause as he set his cup and saucer on the table at his side. "But she has said other things, I believe. About the student who left the school?"

  "Yes, she mentioned it. She is naturally concerned... as I am."

  "Then you will be pleased to learn that Mr. Lytton, the man we approved hiring to find the girl, has recently been to every dressmaker on Firth Street. I believe the instruction to do so came from Miss Ashby and was based on some particulars she learned from one of her students."

  "And?"

  "And he has recently made a report to me. I am certain there is also a written one going by express post to the academy. Mr. Lytton tells me that Miss..." His eyes lifted as he tried to recall the name. When he grasped it, he returned West's level stare. "That Miss Petty was indeed seen at several of the shops. She was in the company of a young gentleman who indicated he was her brother and guardian. He was purchasing her traveling garments, nightclothes, and other intimate items. Miss Petty has no brother. I think we can safely conclude that she has put herself under the protection of a man who can afford her, but can afford no better than she. Miss Ashby will be vastly disappointed to learn of it, I think, but she cannot hope to influence every girl to comport herself in a decent fashion. It is to be desired that she will not blame herself."

  "Yes," West said quietly. "That is an outcome I would also desire."

  * * *

  West waited in a stand of trees and watched the flicker of light in the upper
window of the cottage. It was cold, and he stamped his feet in place and blew on his cupped hands to ward off the piercing chill. The ride to Ambermede had been a hard one, almost without pause. Snow squalls made the journey doubly trying, preventing him from seeing the road ahead or even much of what was under Draco's hooves. He had persevered because he did not know how to do otherwise.

  It would be a relief to speak to South about the paintings, then quit this place and continue on to Gillhollow. Visiting the cottage was never to his liking, though Mrs. Simon from the village always kept the place in good order for him. He was never certain why he kept it up after his mother died. She had not asked it of him; he could have let it fall into disrepair. Of late he had begun to think he'd held the property to keep it vivid in the duke's memory, not his own. His interest in maintaining it had waned almost immediately upon hearing of his father's death. That was a sure indication that his motives were spiteful, not high-minded. If South had not asked to use the place, West felt sure he would have already spoken to the solicitor about selling it.

  A slim beam of moonlight penetrated the canopy of pine boughs and slanted across his gloved hands as he raised them to his face. He took a single step backward and was swallowed by shadow again.

  It was likely that South and Miss Parr were sleeping. That was a state he longed for himself. He thought of Ria and wondered what manner of sleep she was enjoying. Peaceful? Fitful? Dreamless? He would wager the answer would have a great deal to do with whether she had received Mr. Lytton's report from London. Moreover, if she was in possession of it, whether or not she believed it.

  Either way, West knew he was going to be the bearer of news that would be difficult for her to accept, and she was unlikely to be grateful to him for bringing it.

  Rather than think on the consequences of that, he let himself into the cottage and waited to be discovered. Until it happened, though, he decided to avail himself of the settee.

  It looked infinitely more comfortable than the saddle that had been his home of late.

  South's tread on the stairs was light, but not without sound. West heard him try to time each step so that it accompanied the intermittent gusts of wind that buffeted the cottage.