The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife

by J. Jade Jordan

  Thank God, Foster had the quickness of mind to come next door and tell Reed that young popinjay was visiting Tally at this unseemly hour. The Frenchman’s jaw clenched when he observed their entwined hands. An angry snarl twisted his handsome features before he quickly masked it with a polite smile, when he noticed he was being observed.

  Putting his antipathy for the fellow aside, Reed concentrated instead on murmuring encouraging words to comfort Tally. Being an artist himself, he could sympathize, even if he was still upset with her for refusing to consider marriage when he’d tried to do the honorable thing.

  He’d wanted to wait until he’d finished his mission before seeing her again, and there was still a lot of interviewing to do in the aftermath of the Vanisher and his gang’s capture. But she needed him now. Foster told him she’d just lost everything that mattered most to her — her whole body of artwork. He was grateful her loyal retainer had finally decided to trust him. It must be a case of ‘better the devil you know than the one you don’t’!

  Dubuc took his leave shortly thereafter. He gave a formal bow and wore a phony smile on his beatific face as he departed. Yet Reed swore he could feel the other man’s anger seething beneath his angelic exterior.

  Reed didn’t like the shifty look on the Frenchman’s face. He was suddenly convinced there was more to this fire than had been told. Damned if he wasn’t going to go have a look around the charred premises.

  * * *

  No trace of a picture frame or burnt canvas to be found amid the smoldering remains of what had once been Monsieur Moreau’s home and studio. The acrid stench of doused fire assailed his nostrils, as Reed stepped carefully through the debris. He’d covered the entire area, from corner to corner… end to end. Given the scant smoldering vestiges he’d found, either the place had been remarkably empty or someone had removed most of the furniture prior to the fire.

  So... not a simple fire. His gut was telling him this fire hadn’t just happened. It had been set.

  A neighbor came to stand nearby, gazing sadly at the ruins.

  “A shame, isn’t it?” Reed said. This woman had come from next door. She may have seen something.

  “Non. A crime.” The middle-aged woman, one of Moreau’s countrywomen, sounded angry. “It was, how do you say? Arson.”

  “You think it was set on purpose?” He came over to stand beside the petite brunette. They stood side by side, staring at the pile of scorched remains. “Why do you say that?”

  “We watch men empty the place late last night. They think we all sleep.” She cast her eyes up to the heavens, blessing the stupidity of the criminals.

  “They walk sur le bout des pieds… you know on tippy-toes and whispering so not to wake us. Next thing we know, there are huge flames up above the roof.”

  Her accent was getting stronger, her voice shriller. She was reliving it all again. “We sound the alarm and rush to stop the fire. More than twenty of us throw buckets of water on it for too many hours.” She rubbed her arms, unconsciously trying to ease their ache. “We have to protect our own homes, which we do, dieu merci, but hélas, Antoine’s studio could not be saved.” She looked defeated. Then she pointed to several spots that seemed worse hit. “You know, the fire it starts in more than one place.”

  Yes, he feared he did know, all too well. The place had been torched. The fire had been no accident.

  “Poor Antoine will be heartbroken when he returns.”

  “He’s away?” Ah… now perhaps he’d get some answers for Tally.

  “So his nephew tells us.” The lady sounded skeptical. “It is strange. One day he is there with us, the next, he is gone with no goodbye to any of us.”

  “He would have told you when he left?”

  “Certainement. We’re close. We’re all artists and artisans who live in this neighborhood. Many from France. We take care of one another.” She placed the palm of her hand against her chest. “I have this bad feeling here, ever since he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Had he gone searching for an informant, Reed doubted he could have found a better one. This tiny French woman had a lot on her mind. Maybe she’d decided he looked like someone who would do something about it.

  “Oui. He never left like that before, without telling us or asking us to take care of his home.”

  “But his nephew, Dubuc, is there to do that, surely?”

  “That one!” She clearly didn’t think much of Dubuc. “Antoine never trusted that one to take care of his studio. We always did it. We live right next door.” She gestured toward a small, well-kept building next to where they were standing. “It’s easier for us than for Victor who lives farther away.

  “Yes, I see.” He saw that something was definitely wrong here. Where had Moreau gone and had he gone willingly?

  “You will do something to find Antoine, Monsieur?” She seemed glad to have someone to turn to. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to justify her belief, but he intended to give it a good try. If he could help it, he wasn’t about to let “Angel Face” Dubuc take Tally’s art, her heart and soul, away from her.

  “I will try.”

  “You came here the other day, with that lady, the pretty one who comes many times to find Monsieur Moreau. She must be distressed. You will do it for her, oui?”

  This stranger had found his weakness without even knowing him. Were his feelings for Tally written on his face for all to see?

  “If you find news, you will let Lisette know, please?”

  “Yes, of course.” He bid the helpful neighbor goodbye. As he walked away, he decided a little visit to Dubuc’s home might be in order.

  But it was late that evening before he was able to discover the nephew’s address. Too late to do anything about it then. He’d persuaded Jace and Max, along with his brothers and a few of their fellow Spares, to help him find the address and to learn what they could about Dubuc and his uncle.

  An unexpected bonus was information about Tally and her family.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised to learn she was using a fake name. Or that Foster had remained loyal and never divulged that Wendal Lawton was her father. Reed couldn’t believe what a slow top he’d been not to figure it out. After all, he knew her grandmother was Lady Lawton.

  But recovering his memory, he was discovering, did not happen in an instant or even in one day. It might take a while to put all the pieces of his life together properly. He was just enormously thankful for recovering most of it and was confident the few remaining gaps would be filled in time.

  He’d learned that Tally was the youngest of four and everyone seemed to think she was a homebody and the only one in a family of artists with no artistic talent.

  Now that was shocking!

  He didn’t reveal her secret but how was it possible that no one knew?

  He remembered her forbidding him to enter the studio. She’d deliberately concealed her gift all these years! How difficult that must have been! Must still be!

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tally was feeling out of sorts.

  “He’s not for you!” She repeated to herself for the hundredth time. “And, what's more, you don’t want him.” No, but it seemed her heart, willy-nilly and against her own wishes, had been hoping he could be.

  Foolish girl! Happy endings only happen in fairy tales and gothic novels. It’s not the way real life stories finish. You know that! He’s a member of the ton and, as such, is beyond your reach.

  “Why are you all dressed up? You going somewhere, Missy?” Foster asked.

  “Mr. Dubuc sent word that he has news of Monsieur. He said he might even take me to meet him. I don’t much feel like it, but I must go. Poor Monsieur must be heartbroken about his studio.”

  “Mebbe ye should wait until Mr. Mason can go with you,” Foster said in a worried voice.

  “Why? Didn’t we decide that those attacks were the work of Mr. Go– Viscount Selwich’s enemies?” She stood in front of the hallway mirror to adjust her bonnet.
“I’m taking Joseph with me, so I won’t be alone. And I have my blue pelisse on.”

  “That’s good. But I’d feel happier if you were accompanied by a man or at least, an adult. What about your grandmother?”

  “She’s gone out. Besides, you know she can’t come with me. She doesn’t know about my painting.” Tally finished pulling on her gloves. “She wouldn’t understand why it is so imperative for me to see Monsieur.”

  She really wasn’t looking forward to this outing. Especially after refusing Mr. Dubuc’s proposal the other day and then the studio burning down, but it wasn’t a matter of preference. If she could find out what happened to Monsieur then, naturally, she had to go. There was still the question of fraud to clear up.

  “Sounds like he’s arrived.” Foster wasn’t hiding his disapproval of this excursion.

  She picked up her reticule and took one last look in the mirror, while waiting for the knock on the door. This would be her last London outing. There was no reason for her to stay, now that her paintings had been reduced to ashes. She’d had enough of the big city. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, after they had packed everything, she was going home to Evesham.

  * * *

  It took mere minutes for Reed to get inside Victor Dubuc’s flat and ascertain that no servant remained on the premises. Jace followed him in, took a long look at the main sitting room, and declared, “I’ve always mistrusted men who are this clean.”

  “He does appear to have a thing about neatness.” Reed nodded toward the sofa and sideboard, “Surprisingly good quality for a young man on a limited income, wouldn’t you say?” Having done their research, they knew the nephew had nothing to his name, and was living on a modest quarterly stipend the uncle gave him.

  Jace nodded and went over to the sideboard to open a drawer and rifle through the contents.

  “Looks like you’ve chosen your room. I’ll take the bedroom.” There, too, Reed observed the solid mahogany bed and noted signs of where a smaller bed had stood until recently.

  Oh Perfidious Albion! The French knew whereof they spoke, only in this case it was one of their own who was responsible for the treachery. Had Dubuc disposed of the man who had nurtured him? Reed feared for the uncle’s good health. If indeed Moreau was still alive at this moment.

  He combed through the bedroom from end to end, went through every sheet of paper in the roll-top desk by the window, looked under every knick-knack, went through the pockets of each piece of clothing hanging up or folded in his diminutive dressing room.

  One thing in their favor, Dubuc was passionate about neatness, which should make it easier to find something… anything... to help them figure out what the jackanapes was up to and what he had done with his uncle. For Reed was becoming more and more convinced something sinister had happened to Monsieur and that Dubuc was in it up to his neck.

  “Nothing in the sitting room,” Jace affirmed, coming into the bedroom. “What can I do in here?”

  “I’ve just spotted that,” Reed pointed to the vaulted ceiling. A huge, flat, rectangular wooden box had been hoisted up there by pulley. It resembled a coffin, but there was no odor, so Reed discounted it as Moreau’s resting place. Jace went to the wall to locate the cord and cleat and, using the winch, began to lower it carefully.

  Reed put his arms up to hold the heavy box straight and direct it to the floor. He lifted the unlocked, hinged top of the box, and opened it completely until it leaned back against the bed. There, painstakingly wrapped and stacked, one on top of the other — with a buffer cloth in between each — lay a substantial cache of unframed paintings.

  “Your instincts were right,” Jace said with approval.

  Tally’s paintings! Tremendous relief swept through Reed. She would be so happy!

  He couldn’t say he was surprised to see that the paintings were in perfect condition. Not even singed. “What is this fellow’s scheme?” He couldn’t understand what Dubuc hoped to gain. The paintings were very good, but she was a complete unknown.

  “Are they forgeries?” Jace interrupted Reed’s ponderings. “Maybe he wants to sell them and pretend they’re the genuine article.”

  “They’re not forgeries, but they are unsigned.” Reed was systematically scrutinizing the canvases one by one.

  “That’s odd,” Jace said, peering over Reed’s shoulder. “They look like they’re all by the same artist, yet none are signed. Why would an artist not want to ensure their work was well marked?”

  He didn’t respond. His thoughts were preoccupied with how overjoyed Tally was going to be that her paintings were intact. He recognized her unique style. These were good. Make that, damn good. But, like Jace, he wondered why she hadn’t signed them.

  “I like this artist’s work,” Jace said. “D’you know who the painter is? Do you think he’d sell me one of these?” He pointed to one of a large dog tugging a toy from a little boy’s hand. The rendering radiated humor and affection. “That one reminds me of Bear.”

  “That it does!” He agreed. “After we’ve settled this mess, I’ll ask. You can claim part of it as your fee for helping me find them.”

  “Great idea!” Jace gave Reed a friendly whack on the shoulder.

  He winced. He had yet to tell his friend about his gunshot wound.

  “Wait! Go back.”

  Reed flipped back to the previous canvas.

  “That one has a signature,” Jace said.

  Reed bent down to read the name. “Wendal Lawton?” So that was the weasel’s ploy! He was forging her father’s signature on her paintings. “What does he think Lawton’s going to say when he finds out his name is on someone else’s paintings?”

  Jace shrugged. “You’re that sure these aren’t Lawton’s?”

  “No question.”

  “Lawton will bring Dubuc up on fraud charges, that’s for certain.” Jace spoke little, as Reed went through the rest of the pieces. “Art’s not my thing. But…” He indicated one of a fisherman on a peaceful summer day in the countryside and was gazing at it with such yearning, Reed knew his friend was wishing he was by that brook with his fishing rod right now. “I do like this man’s work.”

  That her paintings could inspire such a look of longing on Jace’s face — he who purported to be an art philistine — spoke reams about the power of Tally’s talent. He suddenly recalled the two paintings they had viewed at the Academy that had been marked “Sold”.

  The bastard!

  She had looked dazed as they left the exhibit, but he’d been so distracted by Morley and Fitz’s arrival, he’d forgotten that. She had just seen two of her own paintings sold with her father’s name on them. He couldn’t imagine how shocked and hurt she must have been. She had to have suspected her beloved Monsieur of betraying her, and she was probably worried she’d be accused of fraud too!

  He couldn’t think about that now. He had to concentrate on what he was going to do about this situation.

  She certainly had a talented brush! To think, she was being compared to her father at this stage in her career! Reed had always admired the man’s work, but he knew these paintings were not Lawton’s, despite his signature at the bottom. Reed would recognize her work anywhere. He’d seen enough of it in the studio the night she went to the party.

  Did Dubuc know these were–?

  Of course, he knew! That was why he was suddenly pursuing her. If they were to wed, he’d be assured an endless supply of paintings to falsify and defraud buyers. Though he must know you couldn’t compel a reluctant artist to paint well....

  He’ll wed her over my dead body!

  Jace had pulled out a portfolio from a bookcase against a wall in the bedroom. “Hellfire! Will you look at this.” He handed some of the papers he found in it to Reed. “Being so fastidious has disadvantages if you’re doing something illegal! Look at how carefully itemized everything is.”

  “His obsession is to our advantage.” A complete list of the paintings in the box! Could they have gotten any luckier? �
�When we catch up with Dubuc, we’ll have to thank him for his diligence. It will make following the trail of his crimes a whole lot easier. He’s even noted the ones already sold, to whom, and for how much.” Reed continued counting the paintings, until Jace whistled and handed him something else.

  “Found this too.” He’d taken a book out of the portfolio, which he handed over.

  “A journal?” Leafing through it, Reed saw it contained a log of Dubuc’s life. This was ridiculous. Who ever heard of a crook leaving detailed evidence of his misdeeds? He answered his own question. A crook who is so sure he’s smarter than everyone else, he can’t imagine being caught.

  The journal provided a chronological list of Dubuc’s life on a day-to-day basis. Reed went back about a month before Tally had come to London. She told him she had decided to come to Town suddenly, once her brothers had been summoned to Italy by her parents.

  “What are you looking for?”

  He didn’t want to reveal her secret, so he said, “Mrs. Leighton wrote to Moreau, asking him to arrange for her to come to Town without her family’s involvement.” Jace’s attentive silence prompted him to add. “She’s independent like that.”

  Idiot! If he wasn’t defending her, he was bragging about her.

  “I’m looking for the days around that time that might mention her imminent arrival or something about her family.” He continued thumbing through the journal. “Here. This is it.” He slowly perused the entries from that point until yesterday.

  “He doesn’t miss a day, does he?” Jace sounded amazed that someone could be so disciplined, so meticulous about their daily schedule. He moved away to continue searching the bookcase.

  “Listen to this.” The page Reed was perusing was for a day about six weeks earlier. “‘A collection of paintings was delivered to mon oncle’s studio while I was there trying to get the old bugger to increase my allowance.’” Reed’s finger traced a path down the page. To keep Tally’s secret, he edited it a bit as he was reading aloud. “‘Oncle Antoine was very secretive about it, which piqued my interest. They must be Lawton’s newest, experimental works Antoine told us about, which is why they aren’t signed, I suppose.’ he says. If so, they’re worth a lot of money.’” Reed skimmed down the page. “But it’s this notation at the end here that bothers me. He talks of looking for an isolated place and hiring men to help him. I fear he has taken his uncle and either murdered him or is holding him prisoner.”