Caroline Linden

by What A Woman Needs

  “Of course, but ...” Charlotte gripped her hands together, looking at the drawings longingly. “Couldn’t we let him know now, just in case? How long will it take to authenticate them?”

  “There is someone who may know,” he said. “I studied under him at Cambridge.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she said at once.

  He grinned. “I knew you would.”

  Charlotte turned to Lucia and Amelia, who had followed them into the hall by now. “We’re going to see someone who may be able to tell us if they’re genuine,” she told them.

  Lucia waved her hand. “Go, then. Shall we continue here?”

  “Yes, yes.” Charlotte nodded as the footman hurried forward with her bonnet and gloves. “We’ll be back soon.” The footman opened the door, and as they left, Charlotte heard Lucia ask, “Shall we continue smashing more things?” and Amelia’s horrified gasp.

  Stuart hailed a cab, and helped her into it. “Oh, Stuart, do you really think this is what he wanted?” she asked as they bowled along.

  “Hopefully we can persuade him it is. If he was watching the house just now, he’s seen us leave in a hurry after unloading all those wagons. With any luck, he’ll come to us now.” They looked at each other, brimming with barely concealed excitement.

  “We may have Susan back soon,” said Charlotte softly. “Oh, how I hope your friend is at home!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As it turned out, he was not. Almost ill with disappointment, Charlotte allowed Stuart to hand her into the carriage. About to climb in himself, he suddenly stepped back out. “One moment,” he said, then hurried back up the steps to ring the bell again. Charlotte watched as he exchanged a word with the butler who had just crushed her hopes, and then Stuart loped back down the steps, a wide smile spreading across his face.

  “Old Sherry’s gone to his club,” he said, swinging up to sit beside her. He leaned forward and gave the driver his parents’ address. “I’ll try him there.”

  “I want to come, too.”

  He shook his head. “You won’t be allowed entrance. I’ll take you home and go myself.”

  “But—”

  He kissed her. “No,” he said softly but firmly. “I will not allow you to sit in a cab by yourself for an hour. Sherry’s a good fellow, but a bit of a rambler. It may take a while to work a definitive answer out of him.”

  Charlotte uttered a particularly vile curse in Italian, but made no other protest. At the Drake house, Stuart helped her out and held her hand a moment longer than necessary. “I believe we’ve found what he wants,” he said. “Whether or not the drawings are authentic. We’re close to finding Susan, but must be patient to the end. A move too sudden may send him off in a panic. Promise me you’ll wait for me to return.”

  “Promise me you’ll be back within an hour,” she retorted.

  “Charlotte,” he warned, although his eyes crinkled as he spoke.

  “All right. But you must hurry!”

  “For you, I will hurry.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, the heat of his mouth seeping through her glove.

  “For you, I will wait,” she said, a trifle breathless. With one look he managed to remind her of last night, all that he had said and done. As if he knew, he leaned forward, his blue eyes alight with laughter.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  It still seemed incredible to Charlotte. She smiled, swaying toward him, momentarily forgetting the mysterious drawings, the tension of the last week and the next hour, all the guilt and regret and doubt that had frayed the edges of her conscience. His lips brushed hers, too lightly, and then he jumped back into the carriage.

  She watched the cab leave, a vaguely silly smile still on her face. At the corner Stuart leaned out and waved. Charlotte raised her hand in reply, and he was gone. She turned and climbed the steps, where the footman already stood beside the open door.

  In the hall, it was quiet. The straw had been cleared away, and the false treasures still sat undisturbed, even the decapitated Mercury. For a moment Charlotte contemplated it; it was a fitting end to the miserable little sneak, she decided.

  Amelia came into the hall, stopping short when she saw Charlotte. “Well? What did you discover?”

  “Nothing. The gentleman wasn’t at home.” Charlotte took off her bonnet and gloves. “Stuart’s gone to try Mr. Sheridan’s club.”

  “Oh, dear.” Her face fell. “He’s sure to be at the club. Gentlemen are always at their clubs.”

  “Let us hope,” said Charlotte. “Has Lucia gone?”

  Amelia nodded. “She returned to her hotel to rest once it seemed pointless to unpack the rest of the things.”

  Charlotte turned and walked into the drawing room, where Benton was packing some of Piero’s collection, with less care and more speed than before. “You may go,” she told him. “This can wait. You deserve a rest, after bringing it all to London so quickly.”

  He bowed. “Yes, madam. I was pleased to be of service. How unfortunate it was not more useful.”

  Charlotte considered that as he left. If it led to Susan’s return, it would be useful, or at least no longer a liability. She wondered what Piero had intended her to do with it; had he thought she would eventually find the treasure? He hadn’t left her anything else of value. Even though she hadn’t counted on much from Piero, she had always kept the jewels in the back of her mind as a comfortable reserve, one she had been considering using. Her mother had left her an inheritance which provided a modest income, but Charlotte had spent a great deal of money looking for Susan. In fact, unless she planned to begin spending her capital, she would soon be as penniless as Stuart.

  A sad smile twisted her lips. What a pair they were, their fortunes worsening by the day. Since the moment he told her he loved her, Charlotte had been hoping—dreaming—things would work out well for them. Unfortunately, she just didn’t see how that was possible. At this rate they wouldn’t have two shillings between them by the end of the week.

  Whatever else she might be, Charlotte was a realist. Regardless of what she might be willing to give up for love, she could hardly expect Stuart to give up not only Oakwood Park but any chance of prosperity. He had said he didn’t want to be a dependent his whole life, but he hadn’t meant to be poor instead. No matter how much they loved each other, she feared what genteel poverty might do to them. Would he come to wish he had married better? Even if he didn’t blame her, could she bear to see him so disappointed?

  She didn’t think so.

  But he had never offered her anything, anyway. He had told her he loved her, but that didn’t mean he wanted to marry her. She ought to know by now that passion didn’t necessarily translate into marriage. She should treasure this rare connection between them for what it was, and not pin her hopes on anything more. Losing Stuart wouldn’t be the end of her life; she would have Susan back—hopefully soon—and that responsibility would occupy her time and thoughts. And if there were always a small place in her heart that never got over him, well, she would accept that. Unlike the other broken hearts she had suffered, this one would have been worth it.

  Amelia bustled in then with a maid and tea in tow, and Charlotte thankfully turned her attention to her hostess. Unfortunately, Amelia mostly wanted to talk about the terrible trick Piero had played on her by leaving her a collection of forgeries. Charlotte had many things to say about Piero and his frauds, but none she felt comfortable expressing in front of Mrs. Drake. If just a few of the paintings or sculpture had been real, she would have money, enough to support herself, enough to live without regard for fortune. Enough even to marry the man she loved.

  “A message, madam.” The butler had come in to hand her a note. Charlotte seized it with relief.

  “Why, it’s from Stuart,” she said, reading. She glanced up at Amelia. “He asks me to join him, but says nothing of what he’s learned.”

  “Not at all?” Amelia asked in astonishment. “How could he?”

  Ch
arlotte frowned as she studied the note. “This is not the house we called at earlier.” Stuart had said he was going to the man’s club, where she would not be admitted. If it wasn’t Mr. Sheridan’s home or his club, what was it? “I wonder where he’s gone.”

  Amelia sat on the sofa with a little sigh. “Are these really all forgeries?” she asked yet again, wistfully. The bust of Cupid she had held earlier sat on the mantle, smiling beatifically as if enjoying the joke he had played on them.

  Charlotte continued to frown at the note. There was something about it that struck her as odd, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. Perhaps she was just piqued because he hadn’t told her anything. There was nothing suspicious about the message, it was just brief. Frustratingly brief. Come to me at once, it said, and included a direction. Like the other message he had sent, it was only signed with a sharp, slanted “S.”

  “Mrs. Drake,” said Charlotte slowly, “does this note seem odd to you?” She held it out.

  Amelia leaned forward to see it. “What do you mean, odd? It really doesn’t say much, does it ...” Her voice trailed off as she read the message again.

  “What?” asked Charlotte, sensing a change in her hostess’s demeanor.

  “It’s only ... Well, this does not look like Stuart’s hand.” Charlotte’s head snapped up. “But of course I do not see his handwriting often.” Amelia retreated immediately at her expression. “It may have changed; he does not write me often. Perhaps he wrote this more quickly than usual, or ... Oh dear.”

  “I have the note he sent the other day,” said Charlotte. “Let’s compare.” Amelia agreed, looking relieved, and Charlotte hurried up the stairs to her room, but couldn’t find the message. Where could it have gone? She was quite sure she had placed it in the drawer beside the bed, right under the window.

  Charlotte stared with narrowed eyes at the window, which overlooked a stretch of garden. Slowly, gently, she drew back the drape. The window was unlatched, and opened soundlessly at her touch. A wall-scaling thief would have no trouble getting into her room. Just as he had had no trouble climbing into Susan’s room.

  She spread out the note again. This, then, was not from Stuart. It was from the kidnapper. She rifled through the drawer looking for the note from him, but it, too, was gone. Only Susan’s cheerful message was in the drawer where all three had once been.

  Charlotte was so still the beat of her heart felt jarring. The thief had been in her room, searching her belongings again. Not only did he come and go as he pleased in her Kent house, steal her niece away, and follow her about London, but he broke into her host’s home. Would she never be free of him?

  With jerky movements she opened the wardrobe door and retrieved her pistol. She loaded it with practiced efficiency, and stalked back down the stairs.

  “Have you found ... Oh!” Amelia’s eyes flew wide open at the sight of the pistol. “What are you doing?”

  “This note”—Charlotte waved it—“is from the kidnapper. The last message from Stuart as well as the message from the kidnapper are missing from my room. He broke into your home and stole them, and now has sent me a forged message to lure me to him.”

  “Oh, but my dear!” Amelia’s face was white. “You must wait for Stuart! He would never forgive me if you were injured!”

  “You may must tell him where I have gone.” Stuart had been gone barely half an hour; she couldn’t possibly wait. She couldn’t let Stuart go in her place in any event. If she didn’t respond at once, the kidnapper would know she hadn’t been fooled, and might take it out on Susan. Charlotte read the note one more time, memorizing the direction before handing it to Amelia. “I cannot wait. The man who has my niece has proven himself capable of anything, and I will not send Stuart in my place on an errand which would surely endanger him.”

  “But it is equally dangerous for you!”

  “Not half as dangerous as it is for the kidnapper,” vowed Charlotte. “And if I do not go, he may harm Susan.” She strode into the hall, and almost collided with Mr. Drake, who was just coming in.

  “Your pardon, sir.” Charlotte brushed past him and handed her pistol to the dismayed butler as she put on her cloak.

  “Impertinent chit,” grumbled Mr. Drake. He caught sight of the pistol and scowled. “What the devil are you doing with that?”

  Charlotte lifted her chin. “It was my father’s,” she said calmly, deliberately misinterpreting his question. “I inherited it from my brother. I am taking it to shoot the villain who has abducted my niece.” She tucked the pistol into the folds of her cloak. “Good day, Mr. Drake.” She turned and marched out of the house, hearing Mr. Drake bellow for his wife. The footman scrambled to hail a hackney, and she climbed in, a cold, deadly calm creeping over her. No more waiting and worrying; one way or another, things were coming to a head.

  Stuart stepped out of the carriage in front of the Cantabrigian Society for Antiquarians, a club composed of former Cambridge fellows who had a passion for history and the arts, the older the better. The man Stuart was looking for had been a founding member, and had zealously recruited his former students to join him. Stuart, naturally, had preferred other activities, but he did still have a passing interest in the subject.

  He walked through a number of bright, sparsely furnished rooms. In the dining hall, he came upon an argument between two society members. One was standing, an upraised fork in his fist as if to stab his companion, who was arranging the other silver into military formation, shaking his head vigorously. As Stuart approached, the argument grew more heated. The man with the fork began stabbing at the silver on the table, and the man who had arranged it leaped to his feet and began shoving it around the dishes.

  “Mind you don’t let him take your wineglass, Sherry,” said Stuart with a chuckle. “He’s massing for a flanking maneuver around the salt cellar.”

  “Ah, young Drake!” Jasper Sheridan’s eyes lit up. “Have you come to join our society?”

  Stuart smiled. Sherry was a stout little figure resembling nothing so much as a hedgehog, which had been his nickname among the students at Cambridge. His hair, considerably grayer now, stuck up in a ruff about his round, apple-cheeked face. Stuart recalled him charging around on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward as if against a strong wind. He was a curious character, Sherry was, but he was also a leading scholar of Roman history, and had a special interest in art. “Unfortunately not. I haven’t the mind for it.”

  “Nonsense! We require only enthusiasm.” Sherry chuckled, putting down the fork. He excused himself to his companion and motioned Stuart over to a vacant pair of chairs. “And we never hold examinations, although you made a fair showing. Most of the time, that is.”

  Stuart remembered that. He had just missed taking a first in history because he’d gone out drinking with several friends and shown up the next morning for his last examination with Sherry sporting a blackened eye and a splitting headache. At the time it hadn’t bothered him much, for he hadn’t expected to depend on his studies, but privately, Stuart had long since admitted he would take back that night of revelry if he could. “I hadn’t the mind for it then, either, I fear.”

  “Fustian. You had the mind, just not the discipline.” Sherry pulled out his pipe and began filling it. “I don’t hold it against you, mind. So few of your mates did have the discipline necessary to become a scholar. Young Fielding, I recall, and that Cateborough chap was quite studious. Too bad he was only as bright as figgy pudding. Well! Enough of that, what brings you to the Society?” He lit his pipe, settling back into his chair.

  “I’ve brought something that might be of interest to you,” said Stuart. “A friend of mine recently discovered some drawings of a most unusual nature, and was curious about their origins.”

  “Ah, well! Drawings, you may recall from my lectures, are sometimes difficult to judge, since they are rarely finished works.”

  Stuart grinned. “I haven’t forgotten everything, Sherry. But these drawings are ..
. unusual.”

  “You said that.” Sherry pulled on his pipe. “Well, well, let’s see, then.” He fished his spectacles from his pocket, and fitted them on his ears. He waited as Stuart gently unrolled the sketches on the low table before them. For a moment Sherry just frowned at them, turning his head from side to side.

  “Do you know, you may have something here,” he murmured. He reached out one hand to trace some lines in the air above the paper. “This musculature ... the perspective. . . the detail in the hair ...” He shifted the rolls of paper, examining a number of pages. “Where did you get these?” he demanded, suddenly focused and intent.

  “They were hidden inside a statue of Mercury.” Sherry’s eyebrows shot up. Stuart nodded. “Yes, I know, the god of thieves. The previous owner of the statue was a known forger; the Mercury itself is almost surely his work. When the statue tipped over, the head broke off because the neck was almost entirely hollowed out, and these were inside.”

  “Indeed,” said Sherry, turning back to study one drawing Stuart hadn’t noticed before. Sherry stood up and patted his pockets, frowning. “Hang on, where’s a mirror?”

  “A mirror?”

  Sherry pulled the bell. “A mirror. There’s some writing here, very faint, but I believe it’s written in a mirror image of proper writing.” A servant came over to them. “Bring a small hand mirror and a magnifying lens,” Sherry told him. “And ask Bingley to join us.”

  “Sherry,” said Stuart quickly, “this is a very private matter. I’d rather know your thoughts before consulting others.”

  Sherry waved him off with a sharp glance. “Nonsense. If these drawings are what I suspect—and, I wager, what you suspect; you always were a bit sharper than you let on, young man—Bingley’s opinion is the one you want. Devoted his life to Italian art, Bingley has.”