Kline chuckled, a glint of admiration in his eyes.
“I can see why some believe Montagu is your father,” he said, and then held out a hand before Phoebe could give him the sharp side of her tongue. “Oh, don’t eat me. I never believed it, and I don’t give a damn for your parentage. It was a compliment, I assure you.”
Mollified, Phoebe subsided and returned a dignified nod. “In that case, I shall take it as such.”
Chapter 16
Gabe,
Yes, the rumours of what happened at Mrs Manning’s rout party are true—up to a point.
Baron Alvanly stole the painting, but Phoebe helped him, albeit unwittingly. She picked the lock to let him into the room where it was being displayed. I beg you imagine the scandal if that ever got out. I am trying not to. Alvanly tied her up and left her to the wolves—for which he will pay dearly—but Ellisborough found her first, thank God. He pretended a romantic proposal, hence the news you heard. Whether Phoebe will truly accept him, I do not know.
They have gone to Paris in pursuit of Alvanly. I pity the fellow when she catches up with him. In truth, I believe I pity Max too. I am not entirely certain he understands what he has taken on. Better he discovers it before they marry, though. With luck, she will also discover a thing or two for herself. I believe there is a chance she has met her match.
I dearly hope so.
―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Gabriel Knight from The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.
11th April 1827. Hôtel St Vincent, Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, 7th Arrondissement, Paris.
Max exited the hotel, cursing under his breath, and climbed back up to sit with Jack and Fred.
“The devil has still not arrived. I think that painting must be burning a hole in his pocket as he considers its worth. The manager told me there were two pawnbrokers close by: a Monsieur Chappuis, and a Monsieur Lemoine.”
“Reckon we’d best seek them out, then,” Jack said, with a sharp nod. “D’you get instructions?”
“I did. Lemoine is the closest at hand. Go to the end of the road and turn left, then first right. We’re looking for rue de Saint-Simon.”
Not more than five minutes later, they pulled up outside a tall, elegant townhouse. Max leapt down and turned as he heard another carriage pulling up behind theirs. It was early morning yet and the street still swathed in shadow as the sun was not yet high enough to light it well. The door of the carriage swung open and Kline jumped out. “Charlie!” Max said in surprise, hurrying forward. “Do you have news? Have you seen—”
Kline grinned at him and held out his hand to someone inside the carriage. Max’s heart stuttered to a standstill as gloved fingers took it, and Phoebe stepped down with a flurry of blue skirts.
“Phoebe,” he said on a breath of relief so profound his knees trembled.
“Good morning, Max,” she said, her smile uncertain.
Max did not think, only acted, his emotions too out of control to consider she might not welcome his embrace as he closed the gap between them and hauled her into his arms, holding her tight against him.
“Thank God,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Thank God.”
He let go slowly, unwillingly, and she moved away from him, out of his arms.
“I’m sorry, Max,” she began, but he stopped her, pressing a finger to her lips as he shook his head.
“It was my fault. I know that it was. I ought to know better than to cut you out of proceedings in such a way. Alvanly did this to you, not to me, and it is only right that you face him, if that is what you wish. I was overbearing and domineering, and everything I know you will not stand and for that I beg your pardon, love, only… give me another chance, Phoebe. I promise I shall do better.”
She was staring up at him and he was too anxious to believe he could interpret her emotions with any accuracy, but she seemed surprised by his words at least. Hope bloomed in his heart, and he promised himself he would not misstep so catastrophically again.
“Thank you, Max,” she said softly. “But I am sorry too, for making you worry so. That was badly done of me and… and I wish I had not left as I did.”
Max raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “I am only glad to have you back with me again, and the chance to make you wish to stay this time.”
Phoebe smiled at him, uncertainty still shining in her eyes, but there was warmth there too, and his hopes burned a little brighter.
“Princess?”
“Jack!”
Max watched as Phoebe flew to the old villain and hugged him tightly. What the viscount thought of her hugging her coach driver with such affection, he could not imagine, but the warmth between them was obvious, and Phoebe was as irrepressible as ever. Max looked around to see Viscount Kline was indeed watching with obvious curiosity, and standing with a rather spectacular looking woman, who was dressed from head to toe in vibrant pink.
“Lady Kline?” he guessed, addressing Charlie.
The viscount’s lips twitched. “Lord Ellisborough, may I have the pleasure of presenting Mrs Nina Abercrombie? Mrs Abercrombie, Max Carmichael, Earl of Ellisborough.”
“My lord,” the woman said, giving an elegant curtsey.
Max looked between her and Kline, wondering why the woman was with him.
“Nina went to Abbeville to meet Alvanly, Max,” Phoebe said, filling in the gaps for him. “She was not involved in the theft,” she added in a rush, correctly interpreting his anger at the idea. “She knew nothing of that. He owes her money, that is all. She came to France to collect it. He intends to sell the painting to repay her and then travel around the continent living off the rest in fine style, no doubt.”
“And Lemoine is his pawnbroker,” Max said, assuming that was why they were here.
“Yes,” Phoebe said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “So, let us see if he has been here yet.”
Max looked down with a surge of pleasure to see Phoebe place her hand on his arm and stare up at him, waiting. He covered her hand with his for a moment, holding her gaze and hoping she could read a little of what he felt for her in his eyes, before he moved forward and led her inside.
***
“A fake!”
Phoebe’s shocked voice rang out through Monsieur Lemoine’s elegant parlour, the place to which he had discreetly taken them once he had ascertained just who he was entertaining.
“I regret, Madame,” Monsieur Lemoine said with a shrug of his shoulders, his English good but heavily accented. “But yes. A clever fake, I give you that, but nonetheless….”
He gave another shrug as he spread his hands wide.
“But Mrs Manning had it valued,” Phoebe protested.
Monsieur Lemoine’s lip curled. “I know not who proclaimed it a masterpiece, but I assure you, I know un faux. Whoever it was, ’e was the idiote!”
Phoebe huffed with frustration and stalked to the window. She was tired, and her bones ached from hours in a jolting carriage. Her clothes were rumpled, and she had a nasty suspicion she did not smell as fresh as a daisy. They had travelled miles through France in pursuit of the odious baron. And all of it because of a fake? Her only satisfaction came from knowing Alvanly would suffer far worse for his idiocy. He had forfeited his honour, could never show his face in England again, and for what? To discover his pot of gold was made of brass.
“Wait, Phoebe,” Nina said in an undertone, moving closer. “Did… did you say Mrs Manning was the owner of the painting?”
“Yes, she is. What of it?”
“Oh, dear.” Nina bit her lip and, although she too would lose money she was sorely relying upon, her eyes twinkled with mirth.
“What is it?” the viscount asked, watching her curiously.
“I’m afraid none of you will be pleased to hear it,” she said, looking a little anxious, yet still her lips twitched irrepressibly, whatever humour she found in the situation too much for her to contain. “B-But, I think Mrs Manning has taken her revenge on Richa
rd.”
“Her revenge?” Max asked, frowning at her. “You mean she knows Alvanly?”
“Oh, she knows Alvanly,” Nina said, grinning now, and with such a tone to her voice none of them were in any doubt that she spoke of knowing him in the biblical sense. “I’m afraid to tell you but… Richard threw her over for….”
“For you,” Kline finished for her. Rather than looking disgusted or furious, there was amusement in his eyes.
Nina nodded and turned to face Phoebe, reaching out to take her hands.
“I’m so sorry that Richard has caused you such trouble, Phoebe. And you, my lord,” she added to Max. “But I fear you have been embroiled in a scheme to teach Richard a lesson. Mrs Manning must know, as I too discovered, that Richard is fine company, but vain and shallow and selfish, and his honour is only a veneer. In truth, I believe he would sell his mother to make a profit, and he would most certainly steal from a lover, as he has done from me, and from Mrs Manning, a fact I believed she counted on.” She smiled then, shaking her head with obvious admiration. “What a clever woman. I think I should like her.”
Kline laughed a little. “So she need only drop a word in the ear of someone she knew would pass it on to him that she had a priceless painting, and that it would be on display, and count on the fact he would crawl out of the woodwork like the vermin he is.”
“I believe so,” Nina agreed.
There was a long silence as everyone digested that fact.
“Very well,” Phoebe said, folding her arms. “So, the painting is a fake, and we need not have troubled ourselves to retrieve it, but the fact remains that I have a bone to pick with the baron and pick it I shall. The question is, what will he do now?”
She glanced at Max and braced herself, waiting for him to tell her that their adventure was at an end, that they must return home at once and be married, to save her reputation. She thought perhaps she saw the desire to speak such thoughts aloud glimmer in his eyes, but then he took a breath and his words were not what she’d expected.
“Alvanly was fooled by the painting, and even Monsieur Lemoine here said it was a clever fake.”
“Indeed it is,” Lemoine added, nodding at Max. “To one with less experience than myself, it would look like what it purported to be.”
Max nodded. “So why would he not try to pass it off as the real thing?”
“But how?” Phoebe asked, still a little startled and wondering if Max was merely humouring her.
“What kind of man is Alvanly, and what kind of entertainments does he favour?” Max asked, raising one eyebrow.
“He’ll wager it,” Nina said, a tinge of excitement creeping into her voice. “That’s what got him into this mess in the first place, gambling money that was not his to lose.”
“Yes!” Phoebe said, clapping her hands together. “Oh, well done, Max!”
Phoebe almost blushed at the burst of pleasure she saw warm Max’s expression at her praise, and at the knowledge that her words had meant so much to him.
“Oh, and I know where he’ll go! He told me of a club,” Nina said, almost bouncing with excitement now. “He was eager to go there, to try his luck. It is run by two young men. One is the Comte de Villen, the other his illegitimate brother. It has become the place to be seen in Paris. It’s quite a sensation, from what he told me.”
“Ah,” Lemoine said, nodding sagely. “Casino Rouge et Noir. Oui, it is exclusive, très chic.” He looked them over and gave a delicate cough. “You will wish to… ah, see to your—” He waved a hand at their rumpled clothes with a little moue of distaste. “Only a select few may enter. Le Comte ’as nothing to do with the club, though, his brother is lord and master there. Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau. If you say at the door that Lemoine sent you, you will gain entry, but ’ave a care with both Le Comte and Demarteau. Do not underestimate them for their youth; they are ruthless.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Lemoine, you have been most gracious to help us,” Max said, at which Lemoine preened a little. “If you could furnish us with the address, and perhaps recommend a hotel where we might make ourselves fit to be seen, we will leave you to your day.”
“Bien sûr, bien sûr,” Lemoine said smoothly. “You leave everything with me, monseigneur, I will see to it.”
As good as his word, and generously recompensed by Max for it, Monsieur Lemoine had them installed in the elegant if surprisingly named Hotel Westminster, just on the other side of the Seine, and only a quarter of an hour from the exclusive destination of Rouge et Noir.
Phoebe looked at the selection of clothes she had to choose from and decided that, if there had ever been an occasion for something a little scandalous, this was the moment.
The hotel had supplied Phoebe with a maid to help her dress, and the young woman’s eyes grew round and wide as Phoebe selected the scarlet silk gown. The bodice was tightly fitted and low cut to display a generous amount of bosom, and the sleeves were set off the shoulder before billowing into large puffs of scalloped silk edged with black silk trim. From elbow to wrist, the material was fitted to her arm and secured with a parade of tiny black silk buttons. The waist was cinched in tight by a belt of black silk with a gold buckle, and the wide skirts were trimmed with the same scallop design as the sleeves, in a wide band of three tiers above the hem. Black silk gloves and red silk slippers completed her outfit. To Phoebe’s astonishment, the French had even more extraordinary fashions for hair than at home, and she winced and bit her lip as her blonde locks were wrangled into a complicated arrangement of curls and plaits, which were then adorned with three red roses.
“Magnifique!” the maid breathed with a happy sigh, as she stood back and inspected her handiwork.
Phoebe had to admit it was an impressive arrangement, if designed with the intention of giving her a migraine before this adventure was very much older. Still, it was nice to be dressed at the height of fashion, even if she did look more like a Cyprian than an earl’s wife. With a jolt, she wondered if she would be an earl’s wife.
Max had acted so very well when they had met at Monsieur Lemoine’s. He had been gracious, and he had apologised for his behaviour, and she believed he had meant it. After all, he had not once reproached her for worrying him so, and she had seen the relief in his eyes for herself. The poor man had been beside himself. Yet a tinge of doubt remained that he had only acted so to avoid a scene. Would not his instinct always be to keep her in the dark if there was something that might worry or disturb her? She still feared that he would not share his troubles with her and allow her to be a part of his world, a true partner in their lives together.
Well, tonight would likely be a good test for them both. Max would see what manner of woman he wished to tie himself to for life, and Phoebe would discover if he had really understood what that meant. She admitted to herself that she wanted more than anything for Max to want to marry her still, but she would not pretend to be something she was not. Growing up and doing her best not to create a scandal every time she set foot out of the door was one thing, but acting the part of dutiful, well behaved wife who sat at home doing needlepoint was a role she had no desire to play, and was not one she could even contemplate.
It was all or nothing and, tonight, Alvanly would not be the only one playing for high stakes.
Chapter 17
Brother,
I will be with you again by late this evening, but I have just received word from Lemoine that a certain Baron Alvanly will try to gamble upon the value of a painting, which is, in fact, a fake. The Earl of Ellisborough and Viscount Kline are in pursuit of this man, and I am assured that they will deal with him. Although I know you would prefer such an affront dealt with swiftly and by your own hand, remember that we have no wish to involve ourselves in an affair of honour with the English. It is more than likely we may have need of their good opinions in the future, and I would rather cultivate their friendship than interfere in something that does not concern us. A warm welcome across the Channel would not go
amiss for either of us. After all, we have enough on our plates at present.
I beg you to stay out of it and do your utmost to further relations with our guests. Lemoine has ascertained that the Lady Ellisborough is the adopted daughter of the Marquess of Montagu and that is an association we would be foolish not to nurture.
Make friends for once in your life, Nicolas, not enemies.
―Excerpt of a letter to Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau from his brother, Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.
Translated from French.
11th April 1827. Hôtel Westminster, 2nd Arrondissement, Paris.
Max repressed the desire to sneeze and moved away from the lavish display of hothouse flowers in the centre of Hôtel Westminster’s sumptuous marble entrance hall. Viscount Kline shifted beside him, looking as though he was anticipating Mrs Abercrombie’s appearance as much as Max was Phoebe’s. Max knew well that she would test him tonight, that any decision Phoebe made about their future would be based in some measure at least, upon how he treated her and he was not going to mess it up again.
Any musings or decisions about exactly how he would behave came to an abrupt halt as his eyes lifted to the staircase, and his vision filled with an image that would be seared upon his brain for all time.
“Holy God,” he murmured under his breath.
“Courage, man,” Kline said in his ear, his voice full of amusement.
Max dragged his eyes from Phoebe for a bare moment, to see Kline watching Mrs Abercrombie make her way down the stairs, dressed all in glittering black and silver.
“Once more into the breach,” Kline said softly before meeting Max’s eye and winking. “I was ever a fool for a beautiful woman. Pray I make a wiser choice this time, my friend.”
To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Page 17
