The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

  When he had disappeared, Brett turned on her. “I ought to wring your delicate neck! The Quinarian system of classification? What the devil is he talking about?”

  A sputter of laughter escaped her. “I have no idea. But your opinion on it should be edifying,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face. “Oh for goodness’ sake, just look wise, nod your head, and murmur in a scholarly tone, very interesting, most complicated, or not really up to date on all its details. You will be fine.”

  “Very interesting? Most complicated?” At her laugh, he scowled. “I will be edifying indeed.”

  “I did say that you did not need to make this visit with—”

  “Yes, yes,” he cut her off, and then arched a brow. “It appears Drummond has confiscated your evidence. Very interesting. Most complicated,” he teased, smiling at her frown. “Did he mention this when you met with him, or was he too busy trying to kiss—?”

  “No! He did not mention it. But he worked with Jason and they were friends. It is not surprising or out of the ordinary for him to make this offer. In fact, the company probably directed him to do so.”

  Brett emitted a noncommittal grunt. “We should determine if the sympathetic Mr. Drummond was acting on his own recourse or if it was at the request of the East India Company. But for now, do you have another plan?” He arched a brow. “Any other source of incriminating evidence?”

  She lifted her chin. “We will go to London and meet with Jason’s clerk as planned. Determine what he knows. And then we will proceed from there.”

  Brett nodded. “Fine. But together. I concede that you may not have needed me here, but in London things are different. We work together. And please, no more birds.”

  “No more birds,” she agreed with a smile.

  Chapter Eight

  ACKERMANN’S Repository of Arts? This is a print shop?” Melody said.

  Brett almost laughed at his sister’s woebegone expression, which she gamely tried to hide. He, Emily, and his sisters were strolling the length of the Strand, one of London’s busy shopping districts. The spell of April rain that settled in at the beginning of the week had finally abated and the clear skies beckoned, so they’d had Taunton’s coach let them out to continue on foot.

  He and his sisters had joined Emily and her father at Keaton House over a week ago. True to her word, Emily had shifted through the stack of invitations she had received, selecting those she thought his sisters would most enjoy. She had drawn up a calendar, alerted Brett to those events at which his attendance was expected, and set about contacting Jason’s former clerk to arrange a meeting. Lady Emily Chandler was nothing if not efficient. However, the present excursion was added to their itinerary per his request.

  Emily was not the only one with a mission.

  “Do not worry, Melody,” he said. “Ackermann’s also publishes illustrated books and sells master paintings, art supplies, and sundry other decorative items. I am confident you will find something on which to toss away your allowance—that is if you have any left after your shopping excursions.” He grumbled the last as he weaved through a group of pedestrians on the busy thoroughfare. “I can point out some clever political and social caricatures that might amuse you.”

  “You are too kind,” Melody said sarcastically.

  Emily laughed. “Pay him no mind, because what he neglected to add is that Ackermann is best known for a monthly periodical he publishes. Its arrival is eagerly anticipated because it covers the current trends on everything from art, literature, commerce, and politics to fashion.”

  “Yes, he did choose to omit that part,” Miranda said, casting a reproving look his way.

  “So I did,” Brett said, unrepentant as he winked at her. It was his job to tease his sisters, and over the years, he had become rather adept at it.

  “We can examine the newest styles and determine what best suits your taste. Some periodicals provide patterns and fabric samples.” Emily cocked her head to the side and peered at Brett. “In fact, the shop has become a popular gathering place for Londoners. I am surprised your brother knew of it, let alone recommended it.”

  “What? Do you not think I like to mingle among the sophisticated set?”

  “No.” All three women answered simultaneously.

  They knew him too well. “You may be right, which explains why I am already regretting my decision to escort you here.” He had forgotten about the fashion section in the magazine. His purse would be paying the price for that. He frowned as Melody caught Miranda’s hand and pulled her ahead to point out an item in a shop window. “They’re going to be broke by week’s end,” he muttered.

  Emily laughed. “London does come at a price. So do you have business at Ackermann’s? Melody was telling me that your cousin Prescott was an accomplished painter. Did he purchase his supplies here? Ackermann manufactures much of the art materials that he sells.”

  He needed to remember Emily had a good memory and a clever mind. “I thought it would be a good place to start.”

  “Have you had a chance to speak to any of his friends, while I have been keeping your sisters busy spending their allowance?”

  He smiled. “You have upheld your part of the bargain, occupying my sisters too well. Unfortunately, I had some business matters to attend to and have not had a chance to make any social calls. But I will.” He took her arm, guiding her around a puddle as they continued down the street.

  “Melody said you hired a new business manager. Is he not able to handle most matters?”

  Melody again. His sister was a veritable leaking font of information. If he did not plug up this breach, Emily would become as well versed as he on the affairs of the Curtis family. And there were subjects he preferred to remain private. Emily was not the only one with secrets. “Yes, he is efficient, but I still need to be consulted. It is my company, therefore my responsibility. However, I did hold a meeting on another matter that might be of interest to you.”

  She glanced at him. “Oh?”

  “I spoke with that contact I mentioned to you, a friend who works at the East India Company.”

  She stopped short and cast a glance at his sisters before she spoke. “You asked me not to do anything in regard to this matter without you at my side. Well, in return, I ask that you—”

  “The man is discreet,” he said quickly. “And loyal to me because if not for my assistance, he would be in debtor’s gaol. As you say, London can exact a price, and that price is high indeed if one gets sucked into its gaming clubs. I promise you, he has climbed out of trouble, has no wish to sink back into it. He will find out what we need to know without creating a ripple.”

  She stared at him and finally nodded. “Fine. What did you ask of him?”

  “To find out what he could about what Jason’s work entailed and what he knew about Drummond.”

  She frowned. “You are making a mistake about Drummond. I know the man, have for years. He is vain, arrogant, and does not like his attentions to be rebuffed, but those character flaws do not make him a murderer. He does not have the mettle for it.”

  “You may be right. But I find it curious that he is an obstacle we keep tripping over. As you say, he is a dandy. In my experience, most fops are not known for altruistic deeds that do not benefit their person or feed their vanity. Drummond’s offer of assistance was a quiet act of virtue. If the company did not direct him to collect Jason’s papers, it makes me wonder if Drummond had an ulterior motive in doing so of his own volition.”

  She pursed her lips and appeared to mull over his words. “Fine. You can follow that lead.”

  “Thank you,” he said, amused at her officious manner. As if he needed permission to protect her.

  “I have arranged to meet with Jason’s clerk at the end of the week,” she said.

  “Let us hope it progresses more smoothly than my meeting with Weston.”

&
nbsp; “It should.” Her lips curved “After all, he is not an ornithologist.”

  “Good. I am quite birded out.” He lifted his arm for her.

  “I understand.” She smiled, and after a slight hesitation, she curled her hand around his elbow. They ventured forward to catch up with his sisters, who had wandered ahead. “I believe he is a medicinal herbalist.”

  He stumbled to a stop, appalled. “Surely you jest?”

  “I do,” she said with a laugh. “I could not resist.” Her cheeks colored to match the bell-shaped skirts of her rose-colored walking dress.

  Good lord, she was lovely. He drank in her bright features and swallowed.

  “Here we are. The Repository of Arts.”

  Miranda called back to them, shattering the spell holding him transfixed. Pedestrians tossed them curious glances, forced to weave around them. He found his voice. “Shall we continue?”

  Her laughter had faded, and she dropped her eyes from his. “We shall.”

  They caught up to his sisters, who waited for them before the front doors. The sight of another stone heraldic carving above the entrance restored Brett’s humor. A crowned lion and a unicorn stood on their hind feet, their front legs propping up the crest. The beasts were perched atop Ackermann’s name in large block letters etched deep into the stone. “Latin again. I think it says, ‘Ye who enter, be prepared to pay a high price.’ Perhaps we should leave.”

  Laughing, Melody shook her head, and shoved him forward.

  They entered the elegant shop, where patrons milled around the floor, studying the paintings and prints gracing the walls, while others flipped through the large racks of prints. Stacks of paper and other decorative items littered shelves. There was a long table with stools before it, where customers could sit to study his illustrated books.

  “Come, let us grab those empty stools and devour his most recent fashion plates,” Emily said.

  “Will you be all right?” Miranda said, turning to Brett.

  He smiled at her worried expression. “I will be bereft without your company, but have no fear. I shall heroically persevere in an effort to entertain myself.” He bowed low. “All I ask in return is that you enjoy yourselves, and of course, that you do so without spending a farthing.”

  Emitting an inelegant snort, Melody stomped off, while Miranda rolled her eyes before turning to follow.

  Emily and his sisters settled themselves, their heads soon bent over fashion plates. Brett scanned the premises. A friend of his had directed him to the shop after Brett had mentioned having some paintings he was interested in selling. Brett later met with one of Ackermann’s clerks and arranged for the shop to be the sole distributor of A. W. Grant’s works, with Brett acting as the liaison between the shop and the reclusive artist.

  Now more than ever it was imperative that his cousin’s identity be kept secret. It was one matter for the dispensable fourth son of a duke to dabble in trade, but it was an altogether different matter for Drew to continue to do so as the Duke of Prescott. The English aristocracy had strict guidelines about crossing class boundaries, and they took umbrage at those who defied them. Drew’s lucrative artistic career not only ignored their rules but also shattered them all. More so, in selling the mythological nudes, he ventured well into scandalous territory.

  Ackermann’s clerk, Mr. Greenfield, being tall and lean as a flagpole, was easy to spot, towering a foot over most people. He usually could be found peering down at the patrons through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez spectacles perched on the end of his imperious nose. Always impeccably dressed in austere black, with a gold watch fob tucked into his pocket, he was a difficult man to miss.

  Brett located Mr. Greenfield at the back of the shop, his hands folded behind his back, head bent toward a man who gesticulated toward something in a glass case. Brett walked toward the pair, stopping to idly study a series of decorative hand-colored prints depicting fashionably dressed young women. A few minutes later, a voice interrupted him.

  “These prints are showcased in the latest edition of our periodical. This ball dress of tulle over pink gros de Naples is lovely. Notice the detail in the satin leaf ornaments and the décolletage is trimmed in pearls. Exquisite work.”

  “I am not a student of fashion, but I recognize high-quality goods when I see them. It is my job to do so. My sisters have accompanied me here. Please steer them clear of ball gowns lined in pearls or any other priceless gems.”

  Mr. Greenfield bowed. “Of course. I shall see if we carry any prints of gingham. Is that not popular in America?”

  Brett studied Mr. Greenfield’s straight-faced look and grinned. “Perhaps we can meet in the middle? If you keep me out of debt, I will be in yours.”

  “Fair enough, sir. So how can I be of further assistance to you? Dare I hope you carry news of the enigmatic A. W. Grant? We sold the last three paintings you delivered, but that was nigh over four months ago, and a few patrons have inquired about the artist. How do you wish me to respond?”

  “Unfortunately, I am not certain of the artist’s plans, because he has recently gone into seclusion.”

  “Ah, yes. An artist’s temperament can be capricious.” Greenfield nodded. “Understandably, it can make them difficult to work with.”

  Brett suppressed a snort at the understatement. “At present, I am finding that is the case. You mentioned some patrons had inquired about his work. Was there someone in particular who showed interest? My friend was mulling over the idea of doing some commissioned work,” he lied glibly.

  “I did have an unusual encounter a few weeks ago. A gentleman came into the shop who appeared to be visibly upset. He demanded to see our collection of A. W. Grant’s paintings. I informed him that we had sold out of all our pieces, but hoped to get more in shortly.”

  “Did he wish to purchase some?”

  “He did not say. He inquired if we were the only distributor of Grant’s work. When I explained we were, he pointed out that if that were the case, how had a friend of his acquired one of Grant’s pieces in an antiquities and consignment shop in Kent. He insisted the shop vowed this particular work was an original, not a resale.” Mr. Greenfield spread his hands helplessly. “He was not pleased when I could not explain the matter and had no knowledge of the shop or the transaction. However, it does beg the question: Are we still, as contractually agreed upon, the exclusive purveyor of A. W. Grant’s works?” His amiable expression had disappeared, his coal black eyes piercing.

  Brett stiffened, bristling at the implication. “I have not authorized anyone else to sell A. W. Grant’s works, nor have I delivered any other paintings to be sold since the last four I placed in your hands. You are Grant’s sole distributor. I give you my word.”

  “Very good, sir.” Greenfield dipped his head, appearing to be pacified.

  “This gentleman was certain the piece his friend purchased was one of A. W. Grant’s?” Brett said.

  Greenfield shrugged. “I asked the same. He said the painting had Grant’s signature on it.” Greenfield paused, but after a moment, he lowered his voice. “It is not our policy to divulge information about our patrons or their interests in a particular item, but in light of your friend’s choice to remain anonymous and his inventory is slim, I will make an exception in this case.” Greenfield glanced around the shop as if to ensure they were not being overheard.

  Brett frowned, wondering at the man’s manner.

  “You might wish to inform the artist that interest in his work has reached another level. This gentleman who visited us is from one of the most prominent families in England. In fact, he himself has come into a dukedom.”

  Brett froze.

  Reverence dripped from Greenfield’s voice as he continued. “His father and his heir recently died in a tragic accident, so this gentleman has suddenly found himself holding the title.” He lowered his voice further. “It is the talk
of the ton as he was originally fourth in line.”

  “Prescott!” Brett muttered.

  Greenfield blinked. “Yes, well, as I said, I do not like to mention names, but I see that we understand one another. Needless to say, when an exalted member of the peerage deigns to sponsor an artist, a fashion, or a sport, it does tend to set a trend.” He shrugged. “Look at the impact Beau Brummell made on fashion. You would be wise to tell your artist friend that it is in his best interest to increase his output.”

  “I will do so. Without naming names, this esteemed customer visited the shop how recently? A few weeks ago? Sometime last month?”

  “I believe it was a few weeks ago, early March.”

  “Did he happen to mention the name of his friend who had purchased one of A. W. Grant’s paintings in Kent?”

  Greenfield tapped his fingers to his lips, considering the question for a moment, and then nodded. “I suppose I can divulge that as the individual was not a patron of ours. He said Lord Haversley had bought the painting. I believe he said it was an oil of a four-rigger lost at sea.”

  “Thank you. This has been most interesting.” Brett dipped his head.

  “Please do remember to pass this information on to the artist. And do let Mr. Grant know we are most honored to carry his paintings, and hope to continue the relationship. I will leave you to your sisters. Should they or you have any further questions, I am, as always, at your service.” Greenfield bowed, and then left Brett with his churning thoughts.

  How the devil had one of Drew’s paintings ended up in a shop in Kent? Of course, Drew would be concerned over the question as there was the small matter of payment for the purchase. The shop in Kent would have no way of giving A. W. Grant his portion of the sale because they did not have his address—or his identity. Drew did not need the money, but he would not appreciate being fleeced. Nor did Brett. He frowned, disturbed at this turn of events.