“That bone was sacred to a good Catholic,” the marquis said frostily.
The earl made a rude noise. “Hunt wouldn’t care about that.”
“Perhaps the man who stole it did,” the marquis said.
All heads turned his way. Even Antoine, who was stowing his lace in a wooden chest, stopped to stare.
A painting, a figurine, and-and a bone, all stolen! Daisy tried to catch Julian’s eye, but he was frowning at Philippe. “Stolen?” she asked. “When?”
“Earlier this year, I believe.”
“That is correct,” Julian said. “Hunt mentioned it to me in passing. He was grateful that they hadn’t taken his cage cup, which is far more valuable. Where did you learn of it, marquis?”
“From my servant, Antoine, who sold lace to Mrs. Hunt.”
“I wonder,” Julian said, “if perhaps it was the work of the same thieves who stole the figurine from Lord Hythwick and the painting from Mr. Field.”
“Unlikely,” Philippe said. “The distances are too far.” He noticed his hovering servant. “What, are you still here, Antoine? Be off with you.”
Glowering, Antoine left the room.
“I agree. There are thieves everywhere,” Melinda said. “Burglars stole a pair of gem-encrusted candlesticks from the Bishop of London last winter.”
Candlesticks, too! Daisy thought. Had she unwittingly stumbled upon the plan of a gang of thieves and written it into her book? “So very many thefts,” she faltered. Julian placed a warm hand over hers.
“How horrid for the bishop,” Gloriana said. “He must be most distressed.”
“No, he brushes it off as nothing,” the earl said. “He is far too involved in ill-fated reforms to care.”
“The abolition of slavery is not ill-fated,” retorted the marquis with a challenging glance at Gloriana.
“Pshaw,” the earl said. “That, as all other reforms proposed by fools, is doomed to failure.”
Daisy bristled. She was supposed to be unobtrusive, but she couldn’t remain silent in the face of such infamy.
Julian squeezed her hand. “Nonsense! The life and liberty of every individual must and will be accorded more weight than mere profit,” he said. “I suppose you believe women are intellectually less capable than men, too.”
The earl’s eyes widened. “That is not a matter of belief, but of proven fact. Why else would they be known as the weaker sex?”
“Because the so-called stronger sex fears their power,” Julian said. “It’s a case of making the subjugated believe they are inferior.”
Daisy’s mouth dropped open. How very progressive of him.
“My dear man, they are inferior,” the earl said.
The marquis snorted. “I’ll wager you also hold to the absurd view that wives must obey their husbands.”
“It is in the marriage vows,” the earl said. “Although it need not be, as we are the stronger sex.”
Gloriana’s clamped lips were white and bloodless. Philippe sat back, arms crossed, with a tight smile of satisfaction. Poor Gloriana. Everyone was doing the utmost to show her what a mistake she was about to make.
Oblivious, Lord Hythwick returned to the previous topic of discussion. “Other collectors from the north were there—I don’t recall who—but I’m sure old Garrison also bought something from that Breton fellow. Nothing significant, or I would have remembered, for had the item been truly desirable, I should have purchased it myself. And yet I distinctly recall his presence, as he was not in the best of health but nevertheless had traveled all the way to London.”
Gloriana reassumed her habitual hauteur with a touch of truly grim determination. “The chess set?” She indicated the board and pieces displayed on the table by the window. “It’s of Spanish origin, so it might easily have belonged to someone in France. I don’t think it’s one of the items we’ve had for generations, such as the Book of Hours.”
“Ah, yes, the Book of Hours,” the earl said. “I should like to have a glance at it whilst I’m here.”
“Certainly.” Gloriana preened as if the presence of the book in the Garrison collection was due to her own efforts. Her glance flicked to the marquis and away again.
Philippe de Bellechasse said nothing. Daisy had the feeling that he too wished for a glimpse of the precious book, which would doubtless have religious significance to a Catholic, but knew better than to ask.
After an uneasy pause, Daisy steered the conversation back on course. “Might it indeed be that very chess set?”
“It’s not,” Miles said. “He bought that set when I was a child. He was an avid collector all his life.”
A polite host would, at this point, offer to show his guest said collection. Miles did not.
Another awkward pause ensued. Melinda busied herself with the tea tray again. Daisy dragged her mind away from useless contemplation of Gloriana’s folly and concentrated on the strange facts they had just learned, and how they might be connected with The Lady’s Revenge.
There was no chess set amongst the charms in Daisy’s novels, and Garrison House wasn’t in Manchester, the next location in her list after York, so most likely whatever old Lord Garrison had bought didn’t matter. But what if someone in Manchester was about to lose a valuable item? She widened her eyes at Julian, who squeezed her hand again and whispered in her ear. “We’ll discuss it in private.”
She nodded, wishing they were alone together now.
“The fruits of his travels are all over the house,” Melinda said, when it was clear from the stubborn tilt of Miles’s chin that he’d had enough. “Everywhere one turns, in fact. That painting, for example—” She indicated a still life over the mantel. “I believe he found that in Italy. By what Miles has told me, most of the collection was purchased well in advance of the Revolution.”
“And cost him a great deal more, I expect,” the earl said, accepting a cup of tea from her. “The Revolution afforded collectors some excellent bargains, as well as giving us the opportunity to play our part in rescuing some of France’s great treasures from the canaille.”
“And, needless to say, you intend to return them to their previous owners when the time is right,” the Marquis de Bellechasse murmured.
The earl laughed. “They’re all dead, my dear marquis, courtesy of Madame Guillotine.”
“But they may have living descendants,” the marquis said. “Here in England, or in Austria or elsewhere.”
“Indeed, indeed, but while that upstart rules France, they have no hope of regaining their lands, and therefore lack the ability to repurchase their belongings.” He gave another windy sigh. “I believe these particular treasures are in England for good.”
“Did your family lose many such items?” Melinda asked with ready sympathy.
“I was estranged from my family by the time our chateau was attacked and burnt to the ground,” the marquis said. “It is likely that some items were removed, whether by family members or thieves. As to their whereabouts . . .” He gave a Gallic shrug.
“Do you not long to recover them?” Melinda asked.
“Why? Possessions are fleeting. Perhaps someone else enjoys them now. One hopes so. And if they were destroyed . . .” He shrugged again. “The past is gone. Why dwell on it?”
“How very philosophical,” Gloriana said sarcastically.
“It’s a good attitude,” Melinda retorted.
“Most commendable,” Miles said.
Gloriana sniffed. “To you, perhaps. To me, it is incomprehensible. Let’s get up a table of whist. Lord Hythwick is an excellent player.”
“Perhaps Lady Kerr would deign to play pianoforte for us first,” the marquis said.
“What a good notion,” Melinda said. “I hear you are a most accomplished pianist, Lady Kerr.”
“So very kind,” Daisy said, wondering whether to plead shyness or fatigue. Not that she would ordinarily object to playing, but she had other things on her mind.
“Not a tedious sonata, but a ballad,” Philippe suggested. “A rousing song of the common people.” He sent a mischievous glance at Gloriana, whose eyes widened with dismay.
“Another time,” Daisy said. Why must he continually bait Gloriana? Her choice of husband was no business of his.
“You’re tired, darling.” Julian stood, pulling Daisy with him. “Pray excuse us, Lady Garrison. My wife and I wish to retire early.”
Melinda laughed and murmured something about newlyweds. Heat surged within Daisy. She must surely be crimson all the way to her eyebrows.
With a bow and a curtsey, they left the room.
Chapter 11
The instant Julian shut the drawing room door behind them, Daisy grinned at him, glowing with excitement. “Oh, my God, did you realize?”
“Yes, love,” he said, sure he was grinning madly back.
She flung her arms around him. “We’ve solved the mystery!”
He returned the embrace, breathing in her scent, intending to enjoy this while it lasted. It was a great deal more pleasant that contemplating the likelihood that his close friend was a thief. Which was far better than being a spy, but that Philippe, the man who defended and educated the poor and oppressed, would threaten Daisy and try to kill her . . . His mind still spun in circles at the thought.
His body was far more interested in the fragrant bundle in his arms. “Mm-hmm,” he murmured, inhaling again—Lord, she smelled delicious—and dropped a tentative kiss on her hair.
Predictably, she pushed away, but she was blushing and still smiling. “Well, we didn’t really solve anything. We were handed the—”
“Hush,” he said. “Let’s discuss it upstairs.”
She took him by the hand and hurried him toward the staircase. He glanced back, but the Great Hall was silent and dark. And yet, the drawing room door, he had noticed as they left, had been slightly ajar. Perfect for an eavesdropper.
He lit one of the candles waiting at the foot of the stairs and followed her up. Daisy scurried along to her bedchamber and flung the door open. “Come, hurry, we have to discuss it!”
She shut the door behind him and waited impatiently while he lit a branch of candles. “It’s hard to imagine Lord Hythwick being useful for anything, but he well-nigh laid it out for us, and then the marquis mentioned yet another theft. You don’t suppose he could be the thief, do you? Boasting about his exploits in a roundabout way?”
Caught off guard, Julian asked, “The marquis?”
“No, silly! He didn’t even think the thefts were connected. I mean Lord Hythwick! It would be a lovely solution. He would be brought low and Gloriana wouldn’t be able to marry him.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think so,” Julian said, relieved. He thought the marquis had mentioned the theft for quite the opposite reason—because better to mention it now, in apparent innocence, when it might easily be revealed later that he’d already known of it. He had certainly upset Antoine by doing so. “Did you have a chance to make that list?”
She went to the desk and riffled through the papers there. “Yes, and that’s what I wanted to check. It’s not only the items stolen that match the charms in my story, but some of the locations, too.”
Julian enumerated them on his fingers. “Candlestick in London, Lord Hythwick’s goddess figurine in Melton Mowbray, the painting owned by the Fields in York, and the reliquary in Newcastle. That’s only a few miles from where Hunt lives.”
She found the list and gave it to him. “The goddess charm was lost in Melton Mowbray, but it was recovered in Leicester.”
“Close enough, but in any event, the thief didn’t know that until The Lady’s Revenge was published.” Julian glanced down the list. “I think similarities between the thief’s plans and your stories were sufficient to cause concern. I’ll wager that, if we make inquiries, we’ll find that a crown of sorts—a tiara, perhaps—was stolen in Cambridge and a medieval triptych suffered a similar fate in the Scarborough area.”
“You were in Scarborough recently,” she said. “Did you hear anything?”
He shook his head. “I’ll write to my friend there and find out.”
“It must be a collector,” Daisy mused. “Someone who values precious art, but perhaps cannot afford to purchase it for himself.”
“Perhaps,” Julian said. It was an excellent theory, but he was almost one hundred percent sure it was wrong.
“I almost jumped out of my chair when I realized that a bone had been stolen. That’s what made me realize.”
He smiled at her. “I noticed that, love.” Had the marquis seen her excitement, too? Probably. Philippe was no fool.
“It must be someone who has lately traveled to the towns on my list, at least as far as York. He may even now be in Manchester! We must prevent any more thefts. You should write to the authorities in the morning.”
Since Julian had no intention of doing any such thing, he found himself staring blankly at her. “To whom?”
“To the magistrate at Bow Street, perhaps? He may know the particulars of all the thefts, and will be able to warn the appropriate people in the next locations on the list: Manchester, Shrewsbury, and Oxford.”
“I can’t do that without revealing your connection in this matter. I believe that should be avoided at all costs.”
“But what about the people whose belongings are about to be stolen?”
“Instead, I think we should speak to Lord Garrison. He may know of collectors in Manchester, whom he could warn that he’s heard rumors of a gang of thieves. We’ll find a way to alert similar collectors in Shrewsbury and Oxford.”
Daisy sank onto the sofa. “I suppose that will do . . . but I hate the thought of any collector losing precious items because of me.” She paused. “Although I must say I thought the marquis was correct, not only about abolishing slavery, which is obviously necessary, but about not benefiting from the misfortunes of the French aristocrats. That’s despicable!”
“True,” he said, seating himself next to her. “It is.” He’d never thought of the marquis as a hypocrite, but he still wasn’t sure what he believed.
“There must be some way of alerting the authorities without involving me,” she said.
Julian preferred an alternate solution: stopping the thief.
“I knew nothing of the thief’s plans,” Daisy said, “so how could I have written about them in my book?”
“You might have overheard something.” Such as a conversation in the Diving Duck, which, because it hadn’t made any sense or seemed in any way important, she had forgotten.
“If I had overheard someone planning to break into people’s homes, I would remember!”
“One would think so,” he said, wanting to suggest that perhaps she’d half-understood something in French. A conversation between Philippe and his servant, perhaps. She might have remembered names and items but not how they were connected, although it did seem far-fetched . . .
“And even if I overheard something and have forgotten, and somehow wove it into my story, what is the likelihood that anyone will make a connection between my books and the thefts?”
“Or even realize that the thefts were connected,” he mused. “We wouldn’t have thought of it if someone hadn’t threatened you.”
“The thief should have left well enough alone.”
“Perhaps he panicked because of the popularity of your books. The Bow Street Runners aren’t likely to read them, but one of their wives just might, as might the wife of any one of the men whose items were stolen.” He added ruefully, “Not that anyone would be likely to listen if one of them proposed such a theory.”
<
br /> “It was kind of you to speak up for women just now,” she said.
“That wasn’t kindness, it was outrage. I was almost roused to sympathy for Gloriana.” She wasn’t his problem, thank God. “We’ll speak to Lord Garrison in the morning.” In the meantime, he intended to have an extremely serious conversation with Philippe de Bellechasse. After that, he could get on with winning Daisy.
She smiled at him, and his heart turned over.
“Oh, my love,” he said, standing. “You mustn’t smile at me like that.”
She stood as well. “It’s just that I’m so, so pleased and relieved, and—”
“And intoxicatingly beautiful because of it.” He bent and kissed her, purposely not trying to pull her close. She pressed her hands to his chest, but kissed him back. Arousal took hold, but this wasn’t the time or the place or even the right moment. Even if he could get his mind off the perfidy of the marquis . . . “Don’t be too relieved yet. Until we can identify and stop the thief, you are still in danger.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t feel as if I’m in danger. I feel . . . exhilarated.” She kissed him again, and for a few sweet moments, he gave in to the drunkenness of passion. She broke the kiss, panting. “And, oh, a little bit afraid, but not because of that.” She blushed in the candlelight, and her bosom rose and fell.
“Tell me why you’re afraid,” he said.
Idiot, Daisy berated herself. Why had she mentioned her fear? For a few precious moments there, she hadn’t been afraid. How must it feel to look forward to passion with anticipation, and no fear?
“Confide in me,” he said. “You’ll feel much better when it’s over with.”
Not likely.
“Maybe I can think of some embarrassing moments to confess to you.” He knit his brows. “I have it. Since we’re discussing sexual matters, let’s see . . . Hmm. My father caught me pleasuring myself when I was only fourteen years old.”
Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3) Page 20
