Perhaps now, though, they could finally be useful. His mother had told him that the paintings were his heritage. Were they? Or were they images of a life he’d never had and would never know? A lie in rainbow hues.
But they weren’t useless. If they were his inheritance, he would do what he needed to with them in order to gain himself a future. Because staying here and brooding over things about which he had no control would get him nothing but madness.
He pushed upright, then headed upstairs to shave and put on some suitable clothes. He needed to do something he’d sworn never to do in his life. He needed to go see the Marquis of Dunston.
Chapter 26
“Do you have any idea how poorly this makes you—us—appear?” George Sullivan, the Marquis of Dunston, strode the length of his office and back again to his desk beneath the garden window. “You were damned irresponsible, Oliver.”
“What I know,” his eldest son Oliver, Viscount Tilden, returned, “is that his name is connected to ours whether we attempt to ignore that fact or not. Simply because no one discusses him to your face doesn’t mean they don’t talk. I won’t have a damned thief going about to dirty our good name.”
“So instead we have rumors flying about Mayfair of a false arrest and your jealousy over a horse.”
“The arrest wasn’t false,” Oliver retorted. “One of his damned shifty friends burgled McGowan, and you know that. The truth will come out.”
“I don’t want the truth to come out. And what I know doesn’t signify, Oliver. It’s what the rest of London thinks that concerns me. And they think you used your high station and influence to have someone arrested for no discernible reason other than your jealousy. And you’ve managed to make a private matter public. Now the Sullivan and Waring names are irretrievably linked in everyone’s mind and on everyone’s tongue.”
“I—”
“Even worse, you’ve made him a sympathetic character.”
“Then we’ll allow it to be known that he’s taken up with Lady Isabel Chalsey. That should take care of him.”
The marquis rounded on his son. “What would be known is that she favored a nothing over you, a viscount. You would all be ostracized. And I will not have my heir spoken of in the same manner as that…upstart.”
“This is ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’ve done everything wrong. And the moment you suspected that Lady Isabel preferred Waring, you should have distanced yourself. Obviously the chit has no sense of propriety.”
“Obviously,” Oliver repeated. “I’ve remedied that error now.”
“Now everyone believes her to be the innocent party in this. Avoiding her will reflect poorly on you.”
“I never want to set eyes on that doxy again.”
“You will dance with her at the next opportunity. Then you may avoid her.”
The viscount clenched his jaw. “This is a damned cartload of horse shit.”
“All of it begun by you, so you will set it right. We will not be sneered at or gossiped about. Is that clear?”
“As glass,” Oliver commented darkly. “What of Waring and his thievery?”
“He’s earned a reprieve. If he begins it again, you will leave it to me to deal with him. It is none of your affair.”
“No, it was your affair that began this.”
Dunston reddened. “None of that, boy!” he roared. “Now get out and try to prove yourself worthy of my regard again.”
Oliver stalked out of the room. A moment later the front door opened and slammed closed. Bah. Oliver could pout all he wanted, so long as he did it in private. Which was where this entire debacle should have stayed—in private.
Because his oldest boy was correct. Whether his friends and acquaintances dared make mention of it to his face, the family had been delivered a blow. Sullivan Waring might have begun the insulting behavior, but Oliver had allowed himself to be drawn into it. And now the Sullivan family, a bastion of propriety, had suffered a blackened eye. It would take some work to recover from the injury.
The butler appeared in the open office doorway. “My lord, you have a caller.”
“I’m not in.”
His servant hesitated. “I understand, my lord, but…”
“What is it, Milken? For God’s sake, speak up.”
“Your caller, my lord. It’s Mr. Sullivan Waring.”
For a second Dunston stared at the butler. Clearly he’d heard the man wrong. But Milken’s expression remained tense, his body angled as though he were ready to flee the room. Waring. At Sullivan House. “Where is he?”
“On the front steps, my lord.”
Outside, where anyone passing by could see? “Show him to the morning room. I’ll be there in a moment.”
With a quick bow the butler hurried out of the doorway and back down the hall. Dunston paced back and forth in the small office for five minutes. No sense giving the impression that he was anxious.
What could it be, anyway? A threat of blackmail? Assurances that Oliver would no longer make accusations against him? Swiftly he ran all the possible reasons for the unprecedented visit through his mind, and came up with responses to all of them. Only then did he walk down the hallway.
Sullivan stood in the middle of the morning room. Dunston’s morning room. He could have seated himself, he supposed, but just walking through the door had been difficult enough. Making himself comfortable—that was both impossible and out of the question.
Dunston took his damned time, but finally he opened the door and walked into the room. “What are you doing here?” he asked without preamble.
The marquis drew out the word “you,” making it sound as though he would sooner have expected to see Bonaparte on his doorstep. Since Sullivan would rather have been in France, in all likelihood it equaled out.
“I wish to discuss something with you,” Sullivan returned, keeping his voice low and even. There were two other Sullivan offspring and the spouse in residence here, and he didn’t want to see any of them.
“You have brought rumor and disgrace to my doorstep. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I want to leave London.” He’d thought the words over and over during his ride to Mayfair, but saying them aloud felt…final. That was what he wanted, though. A stop. A different direction for the remainder of his life.
Dunston started to answer, then closed his mouth, already pinched in perpetual disapproval. “Good. Go, then.”
“I have a successful stable here. Relocating my stock and employees and expanding my business will take funds.”
The marquis’ brow lowered. “You want money? From me? I will not be blackmailed or threatened into any—”
“You took some things that rightfully belonged to me,” Sullivan interrupted. “I am prepared to give them to you, in exchange for a fair price.”
“You stole them!”
“I only took them back. Now I will sell them to you, as should have been my right in the first place.”
“And what would I do with them? They’re considered to be in the possession of the Mayfair Marauder.”
“I don’t care what you do with them. Tell everyone that after my arrest the thief realized he would be caught sooner or later, and you were able to step in and negotiate their return.”
“No.”
With effort Sullivan kept his stance relaxed and his fists from clenching. This was the plan. Dunston would go along with it, because staying on in London, knowing how close he was to Isabel and being able to do nothing to change the circumstances of his birth, would be impossible. “Yes, you will. I can make the rumors Oliver’s roused seem like nothing. And I will do so.”
“Blackmail. I despise it. And you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have made me.”
“I should have had you drowned at birth.”
“You’ve already told me that.”
“It’s still true.”
Sullivan looked at him. “You know, I wondered why my mother liv
ed as your tenant even after you refused to acknowledge me. I’ve figured it out. You loved her. And she cared for you, even after she married William Perris.”
“I don’t—”
“That’s why you did nothing where I was concerned. Your damned obsession with propriety wouldn’t let you acknowledge me, but drowning me or sending me off to be raised elsewhere would have angered my mother. And then you would have lost her.” He took a slow step closer. “And her memory is why I am going to give you the thirteen paintings I’ve recovered, along with the other items from the homes I visited. In exchange, you are going to give me ten thousand pounds.”
“Ten th—”
“I’m not asking you to acknowledge me, because I know you never would. I’m not asking for an apology, because I know you would never admit to being wrong about anything. This is not an inheritance or a gift. You are paying me what you owe me for the items you took and that I am now making into a legal, private exchange.”
For a long moment Dunston glared at him. If the marquis refused to make the bargain, Sullivan would do exactly as he threatened. He wouldn’t like it; he’d found that love had dulled his taste for vengeance. His so-called father could thank Isabel for all of this, not that either of them would ever know it.
“Ten thousand pounds, and you will sell a horse to Oliver.”
“No.”
“I imagine you want all rumors regarding you and that bit of muslin you’ve been mooning af—”
“Do not insult her. I won’t warn you again.”
“You want the rumors gone,” Dunston revised. “Sell him a horse and they will be.”
Damnation. It had to be done, he told himself. And it would help Isabel. “My Hector is going up for auction at Tattersall’s day after tomorrow. He’s the best stud stallion I own. Tilden can bid for him.”
“A private sale would be more effective.”
The marquis was correct. “Very well. I’ll sell him my bay gelding, Paris. My private mount, in a private sale. As long as I don’t have to see him or speak to him. And the amount is one hundred fifty pounds. No negotiation.”
“Done.”
He was fond of Paris. This was supposed to be painful, though, he decided. More painful. “I’ll send the horse and the items here tomorrow, separately. You have the cash money here for my man McCray at noon.”
Dunston nodded. “Anything else?” he asked, his tone trying to be sarcastic and not quite succeeding.
The pain went both ways, then. Good. Whether Dunston’s came from being forced to part with money or from knowing to whom he had to give the funds, or even from something deeper, Sullivan didn’t know. Neither did he care. “No. Yes. There is to be no further snubbing of or gossip about Lady Isabel Chalsey. Anything you can do to help recover her reputation, you will do.”
“She does seem to be a mostly innocent party in this.” The marquis drew a breath in through his nose. “It will be done.”
“Thank you for that. The rest makes us even. Good day.” Sullivan turned on his heel and headed for the door.
He expected a parting insult, steeled himself against it. The sound of silence from the morning room behind him seemed almost like a…victory. A very small one, but he would take what he could get.
And that left only one more thing to do.
If Isabel had any doubts that her parents truly meant to leave Town before the end of the Season, the fact that they’d packed the entire household in three days proved it. She loved Cornwall, and she loved Burling, the way the breeze from the ocean came up in the afternoons, salted and wild. But leaving London meant leaving every possibility of a life with Sullivan behind. That made their imminent departure almost too painful to consider.
She didn’t argue or balk at any of the whirlwind around her—after all, this was for her benefit. Even so, she couldn’t help glancing out her bedchamber window every few minutes to see whether Sullivan would appear on the drive.
His things had mysteriously vanished from the tack room. Her younger brother said nothing about it to her, and she hadn’t quite felt up to asking. Now, though, she’d begun to debate whether her imaginings were better or worse than hearing that yes, Sullivan had sent over a note, and yes, he’d mentioned that he didn’t want her to know anything about it. Or worse, he hadn’t mentioned her at all.
“Tibby?”
“I’m upstairs, Mama,” she called back, stirring from her seat by the window to pretend that she’d been assisting Penny with packing up her clothes.
The marchioness practically floated through the open door. Something had lifted her spirits. Isabel stopped rifling through her hair ribbons to watch.
“Tibby, look at this. We’ve been invited to a dinner party at Lord and Lady Clements’s home tomorrow.”
Isabel frowned. “They’re good friends of Lady Dunston.”
“Yes, they are. I think this bodes very well.”
“Does this mean we’re delaying our departure?”
Her mother looked from her to the invitation. “I would like to, but neither do I want anything to happen that might…cause more damage.”
“I’ve already done enough of that,” Isabel returned feelingly. She knew other families who would have banished or disowned a daughter for the chaos she’d caused. But bereft as this had left her, she still felt their warmth and caring and concern wrapped around her. “I’ll do my utmost to be charming and innocent.”
With a smile, the marchioness kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll decide on our plans after the weekend, then. Who knows? This may signal the end of the nonsense.”
Uncertain whether her mother meant the rumors Oliver had raised or her own behavior, Isabel smiled back. “I do hope so.”
The dinner party did go well, and so did the soiree after that, and the ball on the following Tuesday. Isabel didn’t understand quite what had happened, since no new other scandals had erupted to take everyone’s attention, but her so-called indiscretions had apparently been forgiven and forgotten.
So the family unpacked again, and she pretended that she didn’t still look for Sullivan on the face of every rider who passed the house or who rode by while she exercised Zephyr in Hyde Park.
“Did you see the bonnet that Fiona Meston was wearing?” her friend Barbara asked as they stepped down from the barouche they’d taken shopping.
“Someone should tell her mother that freckles are endearing, not something to be hidden away.” Isabel lifted a hatbox and stepped back as Tom the footman came to unload the remainder of her purchases. She wouldn’t say anything more about Fiona; it would feel like gossip, and she avoided that with a passion.
Barbara glanced around them, then took Isabel’s arm. “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” she whispered, “but Phillip took me to Tattersall’s yesterday morning.”
Isabel’s heartbeat quickened. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Now she couldn’t hear mention even of the horse auctions, because Sullivan frequented them. Stop it, you silly chit. “I’m so glad that Phillip has finally realized how wonderful you are,” she said aloud, knowing that was not what her family was trying to keep from her.
“Yes, he’s quite wonderful himself.” Barbara blushed prettily. “But the thing is, we saw…him there. His prime stallion, Hector, was up for auction. It sold for four hundred and eighty pounds.”
He’d sold Hector? Why would he sell the most sought-after stud in the country? She realized that Barbara was looking at her expectantly. “That’s odd,” she offered.
“And there’s something el…” Barbara trailed off as she looked beyond Isabel’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon,” the cool drawl of Oliver Sullivan came from above and behind her.
Squaring her shoulders, Isabel turned to face him. “Good—” She stopped, staring at the horse he rode. “What are you doing with Paris?” she demanded.
“I purchased him. He’s a fine boy, too, aren’t you, fellow?” He patted the gelding on the neck.
“But—”
/> “I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment,” Lord Tilden continued, dismounting.
“Are we speaking now?” she retorted.
“I hope that we might be.” A muscle in his cheek jumped. “I—My father, that is, recently acquired the paintings and other items taken throughout Mayfair. Apparently the Marauder grew worried that the authorities would catch up to him, and so he contacted Dunston. So I asked if I might return your family’s pieces to you, and apologize at the same time for any…trouble I might have brought to you.”
She watched him speaking. He knew who the thief was, just as he had to have realized that she did. This tale, then, wasn’t for her benefit. “Thank you,” she heard herself say. “Will you bring them inside?”
“Of course.” He pulled a flat package from the back of his saddle.
“Tibby, I’m to have tea with Mama and Julia,” Barbara said, looking from her to Oliver. “Unless you—”
“I forgot. Thank you, Barbara. I’ll see you tonight, yes?”
Barbara kissed her on the cheek. “You shall.”
Once Barbara climbed back into the barouche and the vehicle rolled onto the street again, Isabel motioned for Oliver to follow her up the shallow steps and inside the house. “I’m surprised to see you,” she said. “We didn’t part well.”
“And my behavior was unforgivable. By way of explanation,” Oliver continued, nodding as Phillip, accompanied by Douglas, trotted down the stairs to join them, “I’d badly wanted Paris from Mr. Waring, and he’d refused to sell the animal. I had no idea what would come of everything. Thankfully we’ve made amends, and as you just saw, he did agree to part with Paris.”
“Yes, and why is that, again?” she returned, taking the Francesca Perris painting from him and handing it to Douglas. “Please spare me the nonsense.”
His jaw clenched. “The details are exactly as I said. Anything else, Isabel, is none of your affair.” He pulled the porcelain dove, small crystal bowl, and silver salver from another satchel and placed them on the hall table. “I assume this is everything.”
After the Kiss Page 29
