by Tamara Gill
“Even in mud?”
“The uneven surface makes the activity more delightful.”
“I did not realize you had such a fondness for slippery activities.”
“It has been quite a while since I’ve had any interest in art.”
“Oh.” He assessed her. “That is a pity.”
His voice seemed so serious. His sudden earnestness to learn about her opinions on the subject was so endearing, and she needed to remind herself that no good could come of disclosing her knowledge of the Costantini jewels.
After all, he didn’t care for her.
He never had.
She may have spent too much of their time together lauding the art galleries in London. She’d been from Yorkshire. Her family’s collection had been the best in the area, but when she had her season, and first visited the townhomes of families with even more wealth than her own, she realized how much she’d missed.
She’d rapturized over the glories of Titian and Raphael, Poussin and Rubens.
When she wasn’t dragging her chaperones to museums, she was reading texts about art. London had seemed everything wonderful, and she hadn’t understood when her cousin Fiona, who had debuted at the same time, had not embraced the experience.
She’d been so eager to move to London, to embrace life, but in the end she’d spent too much time talking about her plans with the dangerously handsome, and even more dangerously roguish, Arthur Carmichael than securing a match. In the end Arthur had left London, and Madeline had been lucky to find someone to marry.
She wasn’t going to confide in him again.
Especially now.
“Please tell me you haven’t mistaken me for some appalling bluestocking. Still, aren’t pretty things preferable?” She picked up her teacup again, forgetting the overly sweet liquid. “Like this Staffordshire.”
She fluttered her eyelashes and kept her voice at a girlish pitch.
Most men would laugh at that point and call her a lovely little lady.
Arthur was not most men.
She wondered how his gaze managed to always remain so frustratingly intelligent. He might have a reputation for being a rogue, but he was cleverer than the set that lingered in gaming halls and tittered in balls, ranking the new debutantes on a numerical scale.
She knew the rumors about his work. She’d memorized every passing comment anyone had made about him.
She doubted he’d been the Corinthian he was rumored to be. And if there was only the slightest chance he was working for the government—
“Goodness.” She grabbed a sweet and munched on it. For the first time she cursed the small size. Larger sizes might be less elegant to eat, and though she prided herself on her elegance, tackling a weighty scone might give her more time to think.
“You wouldn’t know anything about why someone may have chosen to steal the pieces? It’s important to know what type of person to look for.”
She forced herself to smile. “I assure you that I am not acquainted with the criminal class.”
I don’t know other thieves.
His eyebrows rose. “Oh, of course I wouldn’t expect it of you.”
“I would hope not,” she said primly, doing her best to channel Mrs. Humphrey’s indignant rebukes.
“I merely thought…”
She gazed at him innocently, and he coughed.
“Your late husband was an accomplished art theorist.”
“Ah…yes,” she told the familiar lie. This time, strangely, it did not come as easily as it usually did. She forced herself to continue, “But Lord Mulbourne’s accomplishments were never my own…”
Chapter Four
Arthur swallowed the last of the tea down and set his cup down with a clatter.
He’d been mad to visit Madeline. She’d given him haughty looks, and then, when he’d finally asked her for help, she’d transformed into the sort of silly woman of the ton everyone told him she was.
Perhaps he’d really just been taken in all those years ago by her appearance.
He wanted to believe that she had more sense than she showed. She’d always been a paragon, a woman whom he contrasted favorably against other women.
Her passion for paintings and sculptures, jewels and architecture, had seemed so real. And unlike other women, she did not simply copy them, she actually analyzed their meaning. She was able to tell him why a particular piece had resonated with its audience.
When she spotted novel brush techniques or interesting perspectives, she’d seemed to grow so excited and he’d felt excited with her. When they’d strolled through a ballroom together, she was able to tell him when it had been constructed and if the hostess had taken any liberties in changing the style.
She been elegant, yes, but it was her observant nature and keen intelligence that had drawn in him. He didn’t want to believe that his memories had been false.
“I noted you recently found some books your late husband wrote,” Arthur said. “They were published posthumously.”
“Indeed.” She paused and tilted her head. Blonde, satiny locks fell against her slender neck. “What brings about this interest?”
“I like beauty,” he said.
For some horrible reason the words came out huskier than he intended. Heat seemed to fill the room, as if he’d conjured up Cairo or the Caribbean instead of just allowed his mind for a single second to linger on Madeline’s light locks, her blue eyes, and the exact shade of pink of her lips that made him remember—
He cleared his throat. “Art. I’ve developed an interest. Art is beautiful. Or at least that is its purpose and I meant—” He raked his hand through his hair.
“The critics have been enthusiastic about my late husband’s work. I shall have to see if he left any other documents. I was overwhelmed by the enthusiasm from critics. I’ve—I’ve never read them. They are rather dull.”
For the first time that day, a blissful smile appeared over Madeline’s face.
She was pretty without it, but the sheer force of her beam made him avert his gaze.
Madeline’s husband might be dead, but he still didn’t like Madeline’s obvious pride in his capabilities.
It had been a mistake to come here.
A mistake to see this obviously still grieving widow.
While Arthur had never read Lord Mulbourne’s much lauded work, he had met him before. The man had never impressed him, but it was natural his wife wouldn’t feel that way.
After all, she’d chosen Lord Mulbourne over him, all those years ago.
It had been foolish for him to believe she could help him. She might have rambled over various paintings’ beauty, but perhaps her interest was similar to the manner in which she might exclaim over a nicely cut pelisse in a Matchmaking for Wallflowers spread. He’d known so little about paintings and he’d likely given her words a greater significance than they’d deserved.
Perhaps he’d been searching for an excuse to see her again, grasping at a ridiculous reason. He had a jewel thief to find. He shouldn’t spend valuable time conversing over tea with a woman he’d courted nearly a decade ago.
He’d acted foolishly, just as when he’d rushed to defend his brother Percival once, perhaps intrigued by the possibility of seeing Madeline again and of appearing heroic before her.
He’d acted that way when she’d been married, and then he’d had to see her stand beside her husband. Despite the man’s gray speckled hair, they’d seemed like any other couple on good terms. They’d stood beside each other and laughed at each other’s jokes.
Thank goodness Percival had dragged him away.
He rose. “I should go.”
“Are you leaving London?”
He nodded. “The Côte d’Azur.”
“Oh! I do enjoy the French Riviera. Which town will you be visiting? Nice? Cannes?”
“Antibes.”
“How curious! What brings you there? I did not take you for a man who enjoyed his privacy.”
“T
here will be plenty of people there,” he assured her. “Comte Beaulieu invited me.”
There was no need to keep it a secret from her. She would likely discover it from Fiona.
“How splendid. You are very fortunate, Lord Bancroft.” Her voice was smooth, and she smiled.
Was it a genuine smile, or the kind developed as a hostess? He wasn’t certain, but as he bowed, and she lowered herself into a curtsy, he strove to avoid the temptation to stare. It was most frustrating that bows gave one such a splendid view of cleavage.
He didn’t like Madeline to think he was still pining for her. It was sufficiently humiliating that she’d forced him away, no matter her supposed sadness at losing his friendship.
“I wish you a pleasant crossing,” she said.
“Thank you.” He smiled tightly. Likely the only thing she was pleased about was that he would be out of the town and less prone to unannounced visits.
“And of course,” she glanced at the pale green tea set, “I hope the waters are still. Are you going via Calais or Le Havre?”
“Calais.”
“How wise. The crossing will be shorter.”
“I do not suffer from a weak stomach,” he reminded her sternly, and she smiled.
Perhaps Madeline had traveled somewhat. That didn’t mean she knew anything about jewel thieves. And from Madeline’s indications, she hadn’t even read her husband’s work.
Where was the clever woman he’d met all those years ago?
He tried to conjure excitement for the trip, but when he returned and found his trunks packed, he couldn’t stop thinking about Madeline.
Arthur took out his reading material as the carriage jostled over dirt lanes on its path to the coast. The images of jewels faded to curly blonde locks and bright blue eyes.
It was ridiculous.
Likely he just needed to bed a woman.
Not get married.
If he’d been certain about Madeline all those years ago, only to discover that the woman she’d become was nothing like the debutante he remembered, how could he hope to choose an actual wife whom he felt less strongly about even in the beginning?
*
Madeline didn’t wait to hear Arthur’s footsteps fade. She strode to her desk, opened it, and wrote down a name. Comte Beaulieu.
Arthur’s expression of a newfound delight in art was nonsense.
A man like him wouldn’t enter her house on an unplanned visit to chat about Venetian jewels.
No.
She’d always suspected Arthur of working for the Crown on some secret missions.
The man cared about his country. Some members of the ton spoke about him dismissively, contrasting him unfavorably with their own sons, and saying he’d run away from the war.
Madeline knew that war had also been waged in the Caribbean. France had had colonies there, and Britain had sought to limit the flow of goods to the continent.
Arthur might be opportunistic, but he certainly wasn’t someone who would abandon his countrymen in the hopes of increasing his personal revenue.
That was true now, and she expected it would also have been true before he became a marquess.
If Arthur was asking questions about Venetian jewels two days after she’d stolen one from the French ambassador’s townhome… Well, perhaps there was a connection.
And if he was going to the Côte d’Azur… She smiled.
Perhaps the owner of the fifth piece, an elaborate sapphire and diamond bracelet, was worried it might also be stolen. She hadn’t known where to find it, but she suspected Arthur might just have unintentionally saved her hours of careful investigation.
She'd always been partial to the Mediterranean and she rang a bell. “Grove? Will you please tell Abby to prepare my things? I am going to the Côte d’Azur.”
“When?”
“Once Gabriella returns this afternoon. I have a craving for sunshine.”
“Very well, my lady.”
She beamed. The Costantini family would be so happy when she arrived with all the jewels. Gabriella and she could go to Venice right after she stole the last piece.
Chapter Five
The ship had thankfully stopped its frightful habit of tipping and careening at every wave. Le Havre stood before them, crowned in golden light that made the aging port seem almost beautiful, despite the abundance of crates and rusting boats.
Madeline inhaled the sea air. The salty smell might not rank highly on her list of preferred aromas, falling distinctly behind its floral rivals, but after spending the night in a cabin, it seemed the loveliest scent in the world.
“One wonders how such a beautiful country could seek to destroy that of so many of its neighbors,” Gabriella murmured.
“We won’t be here for long,” Madeline promised.
Her veil fluttered in the wind, and she pulled the lace over the brim of her hat to better admire the view.
She’d worn her hair up and put on an old veil and black dress. Few people took notice of widows, and she’d blended in with the other veil wearing women on board. The guards had only given her a cursory investigation, assuming her inclination to be draped in unflattering black fabric to be an indication of a superior moral character.
“Lady Mulbourne?” Arthur’s voice sounded behind her.
It couldn’t be Arthur’s voice, she reminded herself.
That would be too dreadful.
Besides, he’d told her that he was going via Calais. Not Le Havre.
She turned around slowly, as if the process might counteract the full speed her heart seemed to be careening on.
But it was him.
No other man managed to look quite so handsome. Who else had such perfectly tousled dark locks?
It was impossible for his eyes to burn into her soul. The fact was ludicrous. But when she turned, she needed to steel herself from the temptation to quiver.
She drew her gaze away from the manner in which his cravat rippled under his neck. She refused to linger on the manner in which his height seemed to soar over everyone else’s, and she certainly would not give in to imagining tracing her finger over the chiseled features of his face.
Heavens.
Madeline smiled and hoped she appeared less guilty than she felt.
“You didn’t mention you were visiting the continent as well,” Arthur said.
“Didn’t I?” Madeline tilted her head and strove to sound innocent. “I—I didn’t realize you would be on this ship.”
“I had a last-minute change of plans.” Arthur assessed her, sweeping his gaze from her face to her decidedly unbecoming attire. “I thought I must be seeing things. I didn’t realize you were still so distraught about your husband’s death.”
Wearing full mourning clothes had seemed like a good idea. She must appear ridiculous in her ebony gown and black veil.
It would be different if she were in fact still in mourning, but he’d seen her in a coquelicot afternoon gown the day before. Other widows moved about the ship. Most of those women had likely lost their husbands to the brutality of battles and not the diseases of brothels.
She coughed. “Lord Bancroft, please let me introduce my companion to you. Gabriella—er—Costa.”
Gabriella curtsied, and Arthur bowed.
Splendid. Gabriella knew better than to correct her.
Thank heavens for that.
“Will this be your first time in France, Miss Costa?” Arthur asked.
“We’ll just be traveling through,” Madeline said hastily.
“My family lives in Italy,” Gabriella added.
Madeline gave her an approving smile. That tidbit should be obvious from her rather Italian name.
“I did not realize you had a companion,” Arthur said to her. “I always associated people with companions to have rather more gray hair.”
“I have no gray hair,” she said.
“Then your veil is not to cover them up?” Arthur smirked, and she flushed.
“You’ve a
lways been beautiful,” he said more softly.
She averted her eyes.
The knowledge was as true as the fact that flowers and swans were beautiful, and bushes and insects were not. Madeline had had a long time contemplating this reality.
Her beauty had become famed when she was a little girl, and her parents had displayed her to the guests before dinner. They'd marveled at the symmetrical shape of her face, the pleasing composition of her features, and her silky blonde hair which lay effortlessly in waves.
Perhaps if her features had been less striking, Arthur would not have recognized her.
No matter.
He’d shown no signs of suspecting she was the thief. He was unlikely to suspect she’d taken on the habit of sneaking into balls and ridding people of their jewels.
After all, she was independently wealthy. It was almost odd to remember that money had ever been a concern.
“The Duke and Duchess of Alfriston are holidaying near Venice,” she said.
“You’re going to see them?”
She smiled and hoped he would take that as confirmation.
She hadn’t planned on seeing her cousin Fiona in Italy, and Fiona certainly did not expect to see her, but Madeline would likely take the opportunity once she’d returned the jewels to Gabriella’s family.
“Lady Mulbourne and I traveled to Rome once,” Gabriella said. “We are eager to visit the Italian peninsula again.”
“How did you meet?” Arthur asked politely.
“I advertised for a companion with Italian language skills,” Madeline said. “Hers are tolerable.”
“Excellent,” Gabriella insisted, and they giggled.
“Ah,” Arthur said. “I seem to remember that the Duchess of Alfriston had planned to visit Rome with you.”
“And then your brother persuaded her to remain,” Madeline said.
“Then I apologize on his behalf,” Arthur said gravely.
Madeline had refused to give up her dreams. The Italian peninsula had always fascinated her. The entire continent had been forbidden during the Napoleonic Wars, but now that the battles were over and Napoleon was firmly on St. Helena, Madeline was determined to visit the birthplace of her most cherished artworks.
