“Well, all right then,” said Stuart lamely, put in his place as effectively as if he were still Sherry’s pupil. Sherry continued to study the drawings until the servant appeared with a small mirror and magnifying lens, Bingley on his heels.
“What is it, what is it?” Bingley’s head swiveled back and forth on his scrawny neck. “Something new?”
Sherry indicated the drawings. “Odd bit of work here, Bingley. What do you make of it?”
Bingley almost toppled over, so quickly did he lean over the table. Stuart almost reached out to catch the man, thinking he would fall face-first onto the drawings. “I say, old chap, I say,” he murmured reverently. “Quite good this is, quite good. Is it a mirror?”
“I believe so.” Sherry crowded over the table with Bingley, and Stuart watched as they tilted the mirror and magnifying lens over various sections of the topmost drawing, speaking to each other and to themselves in phrases and words that meant little to him.
“Why, this is simply extraordinary,” declared Bingley after a long while, looking up at Stuart. “Where on earth did you find these?”
Stuart related the story of the hollow statue again. Bingley’s head bobbed the whole time. If Sherry were a hedgehog, Bingley was a grasshopper: long-limbed and skinny and ready to leap at any moment. “Mercury, how droll,” Bingley murmured at the end. “Fascinating, fascinating. And whose are they?”
“The Mercury belongs to a friend of mine.” Stuart hesitated, then moved to the edge of his seat and lowered his voice. “She is being blackmailed for an unknown Italian treasure. She knew the Mercury was worthless, and believes these drawings most likely are as well. But the penalty the blackmailer is threatening is very high. I need to know if these drawings are authentic, or could be construed as a treasure in any way. What say you, Sherry? Bingley?”
Sherry puffed on his pipe. “I say they are. I’m not a scholar of painting, but I’ve seen a bit in my day, and these are uncanny in their resemblance to other drawings known to be Leonardo’s.”
Bingley was holding his chin. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered. “Well, I think they quite likely are Leonardo’s, but I am not certain. If we take them around to some other experts, we would have a better idea.”
“I haven’t the time,” said Stuart. “I need to know immediately. Someone’s life hangs in the balance.”
“What have you gotten yourself into, young man?” asked Sherry with a keen glance. “A woman, blackmailers, mysterious drawings, someone’s life in danger?”
Stuart waved it aside. “Then the drawings are good enough to make even an expert suspect they’re genuine. I suppose that will have to do. Thank you, Sherry. Mr. Bingley.” He reached for the drawings.
“Well, see here, we should discover the truth!” Bingley exclaimed.
Stuart paused, then extracted one of the drawings and handed it to him. “Take this, then. I cannot let them all go—if that proves authentic, I shall bring the others to be examined as well.” He rolled them up again, very carefully.
“Those are quite probably priceless,” warned Sherry. “You’d best be careful, Mr. Drake.”
Stuart flashed him a cocky smile that completely hid his own misgivings. He was going to risk these drawings, but it seemed unavoidable. Unless the other forged artwork also turned out to be filled with lost masterpieces, this was their only hope. He meant to do his utmost to protect the drawings, but if Susan’s safety came into question, Stuart knew which way he would go. What were some sketches, lost to the world for centuries anyway, against a girl’s life? “I’ll do my best, Sherry.”
“I was hoping for something stronger,” said Sherry dryly.
Stuart nodded. “It’s the best I can offer. I’ll call on you in a few days to see if you’ve learned anything.”
Stuart left the unreassured Bingley and Sherry and returned to his parents’ home, thinking furiously. Somehow they had to get word to the kidnapper that they had found something; Stuart preferred to leave it unclear exactly what. Let the man wonder. Then they would have to lure him out of hiding, some place where he could be ambushed. But he would be on guard against that, and even if they caught him, they would need to find Susan. Catching the man meant little without recovering Susan.
Stuart had only bits and pieces of a plan worked out when he got home. He swung down from the carriage, holding the rolled drawings carefully. They would need an unquestionably secure storage place; perhaps Ware would be able to guard them.
He jogged up the steps, startled to find his mother waiting in the doorway. “Oh, Stuart, darling,” she cried, her face pale and worried. “Thank goodness you’ve come. I knew you would return soon; I begged Madame Griffolino to wait, but she wouldn’t, not once the note came. She left it for you, so you could follow.”
Stuart thrust the drawings at the footman. “What are you saying, Mother?” He grabbed her shoulders. “What did Charlotte do?”
“She left,” said his mother with a hiccup. “She received a note, supposedly from you, but we realized it wasn’t because the handwriting wasn’t right. Then she went and got her pistol and left.” She began fumbling to unfold a piece of paper. Stuart snatched it from her and read it quickly.
“Damn.” He crumpled the note. “Damn it! She promised me.”
“Oh, but I tried to persuade her!” His mother clasped her hands. “You must go at once—she may be in danger—Stuart!” But Stuart was already gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The house was ordinary, a respectable looking townhouse in a quiet part of town. Charlotte marveled at the cunning of the kidnapper; she would have walked right up to the door and rung the bell without suspicion. Certain she was being watched, she pretended to do just that, although instead of ringing the bell, she tried the door. It opened at once, and she slipped inside, her pistol at the ready beneath her cloak.
The house appeared empty. The walls were bare, the floors were uncovered, and there was a thin film of dust on the newel post; Charlotte stepped out of her slippers to prevent her steps from echoing. Cautiously, peering around corners for ambushes, always listening intently, she searched the ground floor. The whole house had an eerie, deserted air, as if it had been empty a long time. Every now and then the trace of a footprint would show up in the dust on the floor, but it was difficult to follow them since all the drapes were closed.
There was nothing and no one on this floor. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte picked up her skirt and hurried up the stairs, flattening herself against the wall at the top as she waited for her breath to slow. She surveyed her surroundings with a great deal more trepidation. The hall turned back toward the street, lined with closed doors. Anything could be hiding behind any of them, and she did not look forward to opening them.
Then she heard a faint noise, like footsteps. She inched forward, always keeping an eye on the stairs. As she rounded the corner, she saw light spilling from an open door almost at the end. Expecting a trap, she moved even slower, raising her pistol.
Slowly the room came into sight. It was a large, bright room, painted a cheerful yellow. Someone was in there, walking about. Step, step, step, pause; step, step, step, step, pause. Pacing, perhaps ... lying in wait. Hardly daring to breathe, Charlotte eased forward and peered into the room.
It was Susan. Charlotte couldn’t restrain a gasp, and her niece turned, an expectant smile on her face. At the sight of Charlotte, or perhaps at the sight of her pistol, her eyes rounded, and she clapped her hands to her mouth.
Charlotte pressed a finger to her lips, and after a quick glance inside, ducked into the room, her heart pounding. Here the danger was greatest, she sensed. But Susan was alone in the room; like the rest of the house, it was unfurnished except for a low table, where, incongruously, tea for two was spread. Charlotte moved behind the door and lowered her finger.
“Aunt Charlotte!” burst out Susan, amazed. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Susan, we have to leave,” she said firmly and quietly. “Co
me now. We can talk later.”
“No!” her niece protested. To Charlotte’s anxious eyes, she looked perfectly well and unharmed. Her clothing was somewhat bedraggled, but if the only thing the villain had done was deny Susan a lady’s maid, Charlotte would fall on her knees in thankful prayer. “I won’t! Daniel will wonder where I’ve gone. I didn’t expect to see you so soon, but now you’re here, you must stay and meet him. He’s wonderful, truly, Aunt Charlotte. We’re to marry soon, and might take this house. What do you think? It isn’t quite—”
“Tell me about it later,” Charlotte interrupted. “I’ve been so worried about you. How could you simply leave? He’s not the man you think he is.”
Susan’s chin jutted mutinously. “But he is! Oh, you can’t think that! Wait and meet him. He’s only gone to fetch some biscuits so we can have tea, to see what it would be like to take breakfast in here.” Her cheeks turned pink. “This would be my room. Isn’t that romantic of him?”
Charlotte had heard enough. The man was out of the house. “We’ll come back soon,” she said, resorting to outright lies to get Susan safely away. “I do long to meet him, but first I must tell everyone I’ve found you! Goodness, you gave me such a fright, leaving with only a mysterious note. And you’re to be married? How terribly exciting!”
“You—you’re not angry?” asked Susan, mouth hanging open in surprise.
Charlotte widened her eyes innocently. “Why, no! You taught me such a lesson; who am I to stand in the way of young love? I’ve been so lonely and unhappy since you left, please do come with me, for a little while. From now on I shall do my best to be more understanding. Will you forgive me?”
“Oh.” Susan frowned, nonplussed. “I suppose.”
“I’m so happy to see you again,” Charlotte gushed on. “You’ll need a wedding dress, in fact a trousseau. These things take time, we must order at once or you’ll never have it before the end of the Season.”
“Well ...” Susan hesitated. “Perhaps if I leave a note for Daniel?”
“I’ll send one back directly,” promised Charlotte, desperate to be out of the house. The moment she had Susan safe, she could let Stuart and Mr. Pitney track down this Daniel. “I’ve found the best modiste, but she’s very exclusive and only considers new customers in the early evening. If we don’t hurry, she’ll be closed for the day.”
“All right, I’ll come. But I think there was a scrap of paper here ...” Susan turned in a circle, looking about the empty room. “I do feel badly about leaving Kent as I did, but I knew you wouldn’t approve, and I just felt I had to do something to direct my own life. Don’t you agree, like when you left Nice for Italy? Sometimes a dramatic change is vital, and—”
“Susan, please,” begged Charlotte, taking Susan’s arm and literally pulling her to the door. “I’ve not seen you in weeks, and you’ll be back soon. This dress simply must go. Your maid should be sacked at once.” She was babbling, trying to get her reluctant niece moving. Still chewing her lip in indecision, Susan took a few steps toward the door, then stopped abruptly, a wide smile blooming on her face.
“Why, Daniel!” she cried. “Aunt Charlotte has caught up with us at last. But you’ll be glad to know she isn’t being unreasonable at all.”
“I doubt she will be.” A slender man with curling dark hair lounged in the doorway, a pistol in his hand. He had dark eyes and olive skin, a prominent nose and regal bearing; a lean and handsome young man with an arrogant air. He was, in fact, exactly as Charlotte would have imagined her late husband forty years ago. She sucked in her breath at the sight of him, the frustrating mystery cleared in an instant. The man stepped into the room, pushing the door closed. “Put the pistol down, Contessa.”
Slowly, never taking her unblinking gaze from him, Charlotte laid her pistol on the small tea table. “Good heavens, Daniel,” said Susan playfully. “You don’t need your pistol now! Aunt Charlotte will give us her consent. Isn’t that lovely? We can be married soon.”
He glanced at Susan, then at the tea tray. “You did not drink your tea.”
“I was waiting for you,” she said, beginning to pout. “Daniel—”
“Where is it?” he said, looking straight at Charlotte.
“I’ve no idea ... Dante.” He jerked a little at the name, but otherwise made no protest.
“His name is Daniel Albright, Aunt Charlotte,” said Susan, a considerable amount of her cheer fading. “Have you met before?”
“No,” said Charlotte, her gaze still locked with his. “But I have seen him. He is not Daniel Albright, or at least he was not born Daniel Albright. He is Piero de Griffolino’s great nephew, Dante d’Alabrini. He came to the villa once, a year ago or more.”
“English whore,” said Dante calmly, switching to Italian. “He gave it to you and left me nothing. Where is my treasure?”
“I haven’t got your treasure,” Charlottte answered in English. “All Piero left me was his collection; worthless, every bit of it, as you no doubt know, since you broke into my house several times to search it.”
“I want it back,” he said, his jaw tight. “It is mine, and I won’t let her leave until you tell me where it is.”
Charlotte took a step to the side, toward Susan. “I won’t tell you anything until she’s safely away. How dare you kidnap my niece to make me give you a treasure I don’t even have? How dare you tell her you loved her and wanted to marry her?”
Susan gasped. “What do you mean, Aunt Charlotte?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned on Dante. “Daniel, what treasure?”
He looked at her without emotion. “You should have drunk your tea,” he said in English. He spoke it very cleanly, but with an unmistakably foreign lilt.
“It’s most likely drugged,” said Charlotte.
“Oh, no!” protested Susan. “Daniel wouldn’t!”
“Oh?” said Charlotte evenly. “Then where are the biscuits he was supposed to be fetching?” Dante held only the pistol, still aimed at Charlotte.
“Please put the gun down, Daniel,” said Susan slowly, her eyes fastened on the pistol even as her hand crept into Charlotte’s. Dante looked at her, a flicker of contempt in his eyes.
“Your aunt is going to fetch my treasure at once. You are going to stay here, and drink your tea like a good child.” He smiled chillingly, and Susan flinched. “You,” said Dante, glaring at Charlotte again, “are to bring the treasure to this house by nightfall. We will not be here. When I see it is delivered, I will let her go to you. You are to tell your lover and his hired dog to stay at home tonight; it was clever of you to stay in and let them scour London for you. I spent many days waiting to see if I could simply snatch you off the street. But then, you’ve always been able to bend men to your will, haven’t you?”
“I am not leaving without Susan,” said Charlotte. She spoke as loudly as she dared, both in the hope that Stuart might arrive and hear her. “And if you shoot me, you’ll never learn where the treasure is. If there is a treasure. Everything he left me was worthless, even the jewels. We’ve both been fooled. Piero was a forger and a liar; what would stop him from taunting you about some mythical treasure when he gave his own wife paste jewels?”
“Liar,” he snapped, taking a step toward her. Hatred burned in his eyes. “You have it—he told me he would give it to you, to spite me! I don’t care if he left you a thousand glass diamonds. The treasure was supposed to be mine! I know you have it. I saw the wagons arriving from Kent.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” said Charlotte, although she was beginning to wonder if perhaps the drawings could be authentic. “When did he tell you of this treasure? How do you know it exists?”
“He stole it from a collector in Salzburg. The man wanted it repaired, and Piero restored it, copied it, then left the copy in its place.” Dante laughed in contempt. “A forger and a thief! May the old fraud roast with Master Adam.” He grew deadly serious again. “Bring it tonight. If it is not here by midnight, she goes
with me.”
“You won’t take her anywhere,” declared Charlotte again. Susan clutched at her arm, trembling. “We are leaving this instant. And if you shoot me, you should know my entire inheritance from Piero will be hacked to pieces and burned. I couldn’t bear to let anyone else be fooled by his fraud.”
“I won’t shoot you. I’ll shoot her,” he said, wagging his pistol from side to side as if to shoot either one of them. Susan whimpered, clinging to Charlotte’s shoulder.
Charlotte folded one arm around her niece’s shoulder and replied in Italian. “If you shoot hurt her, I’ll feed you your testicles. The world could use another castrato.”
His eyes narrowed. Then he laughed viciously. “How protective you are of your little cub! If only you were a better mother. She ran off with me after two or three lines of poetry. Such weak, insipid creatures English girls are. The mere hint of romance, and they are easily plucked.”
Charlotte said nothing. Susan peered at Dante over her shoulder, her eyes bewildered and afraid. Dante cocked his head, studying them with a lingering, cruel, smile. “Oh, she hated you. So unfair you were, so hypocritical. My thanks, Contessa; her eagerness to escape your tyranny made things much easier. I did not expect she would pack her own things to come with me. Do all English women give themselves so easily? Is that what my uncle liked about you?”
Charlotte held herself immobile, even though his words flooded her with guilt and rage. It was all true, she had failed Susan by being unfair and hypocritical. Susan didn’t even know how hypocritical she had been regarding Stuart. Charlotte knew better than to argue the point with him, though, and expose any weakness. She needed to be calm and clear in mind.
Dante pivoted on his heel suddenly. He waved the pistol, forcing them away from the door and behind the tea table. “I will have my treasure, Contessa,” he said. “Let us see what it takes to convince you.”
Stuart fairly flew through the streets. He tried without success at various intervals to hail a hackney. It seemed an eternity before he reached the quiet, respectable street where his mother said Charlotte had gone. Damn that woman, he thought furiously; she couldn’t wait an hour, but must charge off by herself to confront a madman. When he got his hands on her, he would shake her, and then hold her close, then shake her again, then hold her some more ...
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