“How did you get it, Olivia?” Penelope sounded dazed. “How did you find it?”
Olivia shifted her weight. “That’s a long story.”
“The more important question is what we ought to do with it,” Jamie said. He turned to Benedict. “You were right, by the by, about the smuggling.”
“I grew more certain of it by the day,” was the grim reply. “You brought it back to London, so I presume you have some ideas about what to do with it.”
“It’s more about how.” Jamie caught Olivia’s eyes. “The rest is a very long story.”
“If there’s a long story to be told, we should sit down and have something to eat.” Penelope took her arm and led her down the corridor to a spacious drawing room. The gentlemen followed, Gray trailing at the rear and carrying the Titian. “Tea,” Penelope directed the servant who emerged almost instantly through the doorway when she rang the bell. “And sandwiches and cakes.”
By the time refreshments arrived, Benedict’s sister Samantha came in with her mother. Olivia had heard all about the Stratford family, from the evening several months ago when the Westons had been invited to dine at Stratford Court. Then, Penelope had called the dowager countess a beautiful but cold and distant lady, and Samantha she described as quiet and reserved. Today neither appeared anything like that; Samantha was laughing when she came into the room, her cheeks pink and her blond hair ruffled by the wind, and her mother was smiling fondly at whatever amused her.
Both women stopped short at the sight of guests. Penelope leapt to her feet. “Samantha, Lady Stratford, this is my brother, James Weston, and my dear friend Olivia Townsend.”
“Welcome to Stratford Court,” said Lady Stratford. She held herself very gracefully erect, but a cordial smile curved her mouth as Olivia bobbed a curtsy and Jamie bowed.
“I’m very glad to meet you at last,” said Samantha warmly to Olivia. “Penelope has told us so much about you.”
“They’ve brought news, Mother,” said Benedict before Olivia could recover from her mortification at the trouble she’d brought on everyone. He came and took the countess’s arm and led her to the painting. “I suspect this is what Father was pursuing when he died.”
The color leached from the countess’s face as she stared at the Titian, and for a moment she looked frozen. “Oh my,” she murmured at last. “It is something he would covet desperately.” She turned anguished eyes on her son. “Is this what caused him to endanger you and Penelope? My dear, I am so sorry—”
Penelope hurried to her side. “My brother thinks this painting will help us see Lord Clary chained in the bottom of a prison. Isn’t that right, Jamie?”
“I’d like nothing better,” her brother agreed.
“Then you are very welcome, today and for all time,” Samantha said fervently. “That man tried to kill Penelope. I could lock the chains on him myself.”
“I still prefer the hangman,” said Benedict with a covert glance at his wife. “But where on earth did you find this? And how?”
Jamie’s eyes met hers. Olivia read his unspoken question there. After all she had done to avoid telling anyone her suspicions about Henry or how menacing Clary had become, including fleeing London without a word to anyone, he didn’t know how much she wanted to reveal now. Olivia knew that if she gave any sign of distress, Jamie would keep her secrets.
But she was done with that. There was no way they could destroy Clary without revealing Henry’s illegal activities, and even though Olivia hadn’t set out to ruin her late husband’s name, he had brought it on himself. Her loyalty lay with the people in this room now, her real family. She gave a decisive nod.
“This painting was smuggled into England,” Jamie said. “It most likely came from France, where it may have been looted from Bonaparte’s grand museum.” Benedict said nothing but his brilliant blue eyes were fixed on Jamie. “We think—with good evidence—that Lord Clary was part of the operation, most likely as the man who located buyers for the smuggled art.”
“Including our father,” whispered Samantha. She, too, listened raptly.
Jamie nodded. “I believe so.”
“I’m quite sure of it,” Gray interjected. “The late Lord Stratford made entries in his ledgers indicating substantial payments to Lord Clary, although not why. The dates correspond to when certain paintings were entered in his private gallery, but nothing else exists to demonstrate where those paintings came from.”
Olivia felt Jamie’s satisfaction. It fairly radiated off him as his guess was proven right once more. And it made her strangely elated as well—not merely the facts of the matter, but the fact that he was pleased. “The smugglers brought their cargo ashore in Kent. Local people were paid to hold the works until a buyer was found, when the paintings would be brought into London or sent anywhere in England. In Lord Stratford’s case, they could have been delivered right to his door. We came today on a small sloop from Broadstairs, courtesy of a gentleman who was extremely helpful to us. As for how the works were brought out of France . . .” He lifted one hand. “I can only remind you that Lord Clary’s younger brother is a navy commodore, stationed in Calais. That may be utter coincidence, of course.”
“I’m convinced.” Benedict looked fierce with triumph.
“How did you get caught up in this?” Penelope asked Olivia in a stricken voice.
She took a deep breath. “Henry was the leader of the ring.” Penelope’s mouth dropped open. “He arranged everything, with Clary’s help. I knew nothing about any of it,” Olivia went on. “But I believe this is why Lord Clary was so persistent in his . . . attentions. He discovered this painting—or one like it—was smuggled into England but never delivered, and he wants it.”
“The Duke of Wellington ordered all looted artwork repatriated,” said Gray, frowning. “Are you certain?”
“No,” said Jamie. “But many pictures disappeared in spite of the duke’s order. And I daresay some collectors wouldn’t hesitate, if offered something like this which couldn’t be traced.”
Gray conceded that. “Of course there would be some. But if you bring this to the duke—that is your plan, isn’t it?” Jamie nodded once. “It could cause an international incident. You’re saying not just this painting, but several pictures of equal rarity and value, were stolen and smuggled to English citizens with the aid of an English naval officer.”
“I don’t give a damn about any of them except Lord Clary.”
“Nor do I,” muttered Benedict.
“That helps.” Gray returned Jamie’s annoyed look with a shrug. “Wellington has other concerns now; he may consider the matter of the art done with and not want to resurrect it over Lord Clary. You should be forewarned. My older brother is in the Home Office and they’ve got plenty more to worry about than one smuggler.”
Jamie said nothing, but Olivia saw the lines of worry settle on his forehead. Her own stomach seemed to drop into her shoes. And suddenly she didn’t feel nearly as confident that they were any closer to a solution.
She didn’t have a chance to speak to him until late that night. Jamie was quiet through dinner, listening as Gray and Benedict argued about the best way to proceed. He barely looked up at her when the ladies left the dining room, and when the gentlemen rejoined them later, he wasn’t with them. Olivia murmured an excuse to Penelope and went in search of him.
She found him in a small closet near the earl’s study. The door stood open but Olivia hung back a moment. The Titian was propped up against the wall on the sideboard. A single lamp burned beside it, shedding golden light over the dragon, who glistened like a monster from hell. St. George was lost in the shadows, more a silhouette than a portrait now. His upraised sword looked spindly and insignificant in the face of the dragon’s bared teeth and spiked tail. Jamie had drawn a chair up directly in front of the painting and now sat, elbows on his knees and chin propped on his clasped hands as he gazed broodingly at it. Tentatively Olivia knocked on the door.
Jamie glan
ced over his shoulder. “Come in.”
She came to stand beside him. “I thought finding it would solve everything. I feel very naïve.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Olivia stared at the painting for a moment. If Wellington wouldn’t be the instrument of justice she had hoped, what did that leave them? What were they to do with this priceless work of art? “Perhaps we should hack it to pieces and deliver it to Lord Clary thus.”
He grunted. “That would be one way to thwart him.”
“I take it you don’t see many other good choices,” she said after a full minute of silence.
“Good choices? No.” He sighed, flexing his fingers without taking his eyes off the painting. “But I expected all along we’d face bad choices. The only problem is, which one should we take?”
“What are the less dreadful options?”
He reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Anything that allows Clary to go free. I fear Gray is right: Wellington won’t be terribly motivated to call for the prosecution of one man over one painting, especially not if it could lead to evidence of more smuggling. The people who paid Henry are likely to be influential and wealthy in their own right.”
“But Clary tried to kill Penelope!”
“He did,” Jamie agreed. “But that’s a separate matter.” He pressed his lips to her palm. She sagged against the chair as his tongue traced a delicate circle on her skin. “I suppose I shan’t share your bed tonight,” he murmured.
“No . . . ?” Her voice quivered as he continued making love to her hand.
“My sister cannot keep a secret. If she saw me slipping into your bedroom, the whole household would know by breakfast.”
He didn’t want anyone to know they were lovers. Olivia thought of the nights—and mornings—they had spent in each others’ arms, naked and uninhibited. He hadn’t shown any hesitation then. But as soon as they returned to London, where anyone of consequence might discover it . . .
She forced the thought from her mind. Secretly or openly, she loved him. She wanted him. “Who says we must share a bed? I think we can make do very well with only this chair . . .”
Jamie gave a slow smile, his glittering gaze making her skin prickle with anticipation. “You’re right. Lock the door.”
The ground was hard underfoot, the grass stiff and brittle in the cold. “Over there,” Jamie said, his breath white puffs on the frosty air. He pointed to a clearing in the woods. The two Stratford servants, both with rifles on their shoulders, nodded and stamped off through the brush to make sure they were alone.
“Are you certain we have to do this today?” Olivia rubbed her hands together. She wore a luxurious cloak over a fur-trimmed pelisse, and thick woolen stockings under stout new boots. Penelope had opened her wardrobe and insisted Olivia borrow whatever she needed, which turned out to be warm clothing. Jamie was going to teach her how to shoot.
“I should have done it days ago.” He put down his pistol case on a large boulder nearby and opened it. “The first day, in fact, when you had to resort to using a shovel to defend yourself.”
“I’m very glad I didn’t know, or have a pistol then,” she retorted. “I’d have shot you!”
“I hope you never need to use this, but you should still know how. Come here.”
Reluctantly she joined him. “The only person I want to shoot is Clary.”
“Then you’d better be able to hit him.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her. Dimly Olivia thought she shouldn’t let him do that; after he kissed her she found it hard to argue with him about anything. “Although I would much prefer that you never have to lay eyes on that man again, it will set my mind at ease knowing you could defend yourself.”
For the next hour he taught her how to load the pistol and prime it, making her do it over and over until she could manage it with her eyes closed. While they were working the servants set up a dummy, stuffing an old coat with straw and wedging it onto a sapling. Someone stuck a hat above it, and Jamie picked up the primed and loaded pistol. “Shoot.”
Olivia took a firm grip on the stock and held the pistol out. It was a beautiful gun, but heavy. She squinted at the dummy and pulled the trigger. With a flash and a bang, the gun fired, and she almost toppled over backward.
“Load it,” Jamie instructed, standing behind her with his arms folded.
Olivia strained to see the dummy. “Did I hit it?”
“No.”
She gave him an aggrieved look and went to the pistol case. “You see now why I didn’t bother taking a pistol.”
“You can learn this. A little more powder, please.”
She tapped more powder into the muzzle and rammed home the ball and charge. “If I learn how to shoot, will it change how we deal with Clary?”
“What do you mean?”
Once more she stepped into position and aimed at the dummy. “Shouldn’t we put it to use?” She pulled the trigger, and this time the dummy’s sleeve fluttered. She lowered the gun with a pleased smile. “I hit it!”
“You hit the sleeve. Load again.”
“The sleeve is what I aimed for,” she protested, doing as he said.
“Aim here.” Jamie tapped the middle of his chest. Olivia paused, picturing the damage a shot to that spot would cause. “I mean it, Livie. Aim for the center. If you miss, you’re still likely to wound. If you aim for the arm and miss, the shot goes wide and you’re defenseless.” When she didn’t move, he came forward and took out the second pistol. “There’s a reason a man travels with two pistols. There’s not time to stop and reload if you’re in danger. If you feel you must fire, do it seriously.” As he spoke he loaded the second pistol, his actions smooth and practiced. Without hesitation he raised his arm, pulled back the hammer, and fired. To Olivia it seemed he barely glanced at the target, but the dummy recoiled, and a dark hole marked the coat, just left of center, when the sapling stopped swaying. “If Clary comes at you, he won’t be so delicate,” Jamie said gently, putting the pistol back down. “He’ll mean to harm you. Aim for the center.”
She raised the pistol, hesitated, then lowered it. “How?”
He stepped up behind her and put his arms around her. His hands closed over hers on the pistol stock, and he settled his cheek next to her. “Imagine him pushing Penelope into the freezing cold river,” he murmured, guiding her to raise her arms. “Picture him catching you unawares. What would his face look like?” Olivia’s hands started to shake as the image filled her mind. “Now picture him coming at you,” Jamie whispered. “Right there, in the dark green coat.” Her fingers twitched on the trigger. The flintlock snapped closed, and the pistol fired. This time the dummy lurched sideways. “Better,” said Jamie in approval.
Olivia stood holding the pistol. Her ears rang from the percussion of the shot, but the image of Clary coming at her stayed in her mind, a grotesque specter looming over her. “We need to set a trap for him, don’t we?”
Jamie didn’t say anything. She turned around. He was still right behind her, and she looked up at him until he sighed. “I don’t know what sort of trap.”
“We have the painting,” she pointed out.
He looked away. “I’m afraid that’s not enough. Benedict is certain Wellington will be outraged. He may be, but Gray is probably right that the duke won’t be eager to prosecute the case. Without Wellington’s firm support, the outcome is far from certain. Clary has connections, after all. I don’t want to risk him going free.”
“But if we give the painting to Wellington—” she began.
“Clary would be even more enraged at you, for putting it out of his reach,” Jamie said softly. “And he would still be a free man.” He framed her face in his hands as her stomach knotted at the thought. “That only means we need a tighter trap—one he cannot escape. The painting is part of it. You must be part of it. It’s the rest I haven’t got worked out yet.”
What could ensure Clary’s conviction? The answer came to her quite quickly: Henry’
s other diary, the one that showed his income. The smuggling diary hadn’t been in code, just ordinary abbreviation. If she could get that other book, it should show who had paid Henry for the stolen art—and, if Jamie was correct, it should also show commissions paid to Clary for his help. Surely that would persuade Wellington that Clary had been an integral part of the plot and should be prosecuted.
And she knew who had that diary.
Chapter 20
They returned to London the next day, to the Weston home in Grosvenor Square. Olivia had been a visitor many times in this house, but never a guest. She’d batted aside every invitation, saying that it was silly when she lived so near. But this time she was installed in a large, elegant bedroom overlooking the square, and when she peered out the windows, it was hard not to marvel at the view.
“Will it do?”
“Of course,” she said with a smile. Jamie leaned against the doorway, his arms folded. “You must be glad to be at home again.”
He shrugged. “This is my parents’ home. But it’s safe and convenient. No one will be admitted without my permission, and the footmen will be watching the doors.”
“Where is your home?” She had never known where he considered himself home. It might not even be in London. He certainly left the city enough not to need a permanent residence here.
“I haven’t got one,” he said. “I never stay in one place long enough to need one.”
Stay with me, she thought in longing. But Jamie hadn’t said a word about the future. Olivia had ordered herself not to expect that, when she told him she loved him; it was quite possible their chance for a happy life together had come and gone years ago. But every moment she spent in his company, every night she spent in his arms, made her more certain than ever that he was the only man she would ever love. He was the person she wanted to see every day for the rest of her life. It was only as time went on that she became unhappily conscious of the fact that he might not feel the same about her.
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