He moved to sit in the large leather chair behind his desk, indicating she should take the seat on the opposite side. Gwendolyn quickly did as he suggested, surprised to find her knees were knocking together. Schooling herself carefully to hide her ner vous agitation, she racked her brain trying to decide the best way to begin.
“Emma and I made a most distressing discovery today in the portrait gallery at Moorehead Manor,” she said. “A piece that Emma painted hangs there, in place of the original work.”
“What a preposterous notion. Emma’s painting, indeed. Naturally you are mistaken.” Uncle Fletcher’s face creased into a frown. “I certainly hope you did not mention this to the viscount. He would no doubt think you both mad.”
“We said nothing to Lord Fairhurst, mainly because we were at a loss to explain how this had happened. That is why I needed to speak with you.”
“What could I possibly know about Lord Fairhurst’s paintings?”
“A great deal, I believe.” Narrowing her eyes, Gwendolyn fixed them on his. “’Tis said that confession is good for the soul, Uncle.”
“I have nothing to confess,” he insisted with a smug grin. Gwendolyn continued staring at him, saying nothing. Eventually he seemed to realize she was not going to drop the matter until he answered her question. Slowly his smile faded. “It appears you have already drawn your conclusions and they put me in a most unflattering light.”
“I apologize,” Gwendolyn replied with an uncertain sigh. “I should not speculate. But you must agree ’tis past time that we were truthful with each other.”
“Honestly, Gwendolyn, this does not concern you and there is no need for you to worry about it. I have everything well in hand.”
“Normally I might be persuaded to walk away, but in this instance I find that I cannot. Not with Emma so directly involved.” Gwendolyn folded her hands primly in her lap. “Emma told me that you arranged for her to copy the painting. She also said that you were the only one who viewed it when she was finished. Therefore, I must conclude that you know how it got from the third floor storage room here to the portrait gallery at Moorehead Manor.”
Uncle Fletcher picked up the letter opener in front of him and began tapping the tip of it noisily on the desk-top. “I was near speechless when I saw it. Such a beautiful painting, a most extraordinar y effort. I had never before realized Emma had such talent. Pity she is but a girl. If she were a man, she would already be established as a master artist.”
The distraction of her uncle’s genuine praise for Emma’s talent lasted but a moment. “How did Emma’s painting come to hang in the manor’s gallery?” Gwendolyn asked.
“I put it there.”
Gwendolyn looked at her uncle levelly. “What happened to the original? Was it damaged?”
“No. It was sold.”
“By whom?”
Uncle Fletcher’s jaw was rigid. “Cyril Ardley handled the actual transaction, but I took an equal share of the money, so I must accept an equal share of the responsibility.”
“You stole the original painting?” Gwendolyn asked, trying to keep her wits about her. Suspecting her uncle’s involvement and learning the truth were two entirely different matters. Her face pale, Gwendolyn pressed her hand to her forehead.
“We did not steal it. We borrowed it. We always intended to return it, but then time passed and there were other more pressing accounts to settle. The painting had to wait.”
Gwendolyn looked at her uncle, dumbfounded, her eyes going so wide she feared she must look like a de-mented bullfrog. “Oh, Uncle Fletcher, how could you?
’Tis bad enough that you put yourself in such a perilous predicament, but to involve Emma was disgraceful.”
Uncle Fletcher walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Damn it, girl, I never meant for it to turn out this way. The idea to switch the paintings only came to me after I saw how well Emma was able to copy the original.
“Ardley located a dealer interested in the piece. I wanted to sell him the copy, but Ardley feared an expert would detect it was a fraud. Instead, he struck a deal that would allow us to buy back the original. We both thought the copy would hang in the galler y for a few weeks, a month at most. By then we would have enough funds to reclaim the original and put it back where it belonged. No one would be the wiser.”
“But why would you do such a thing?”
“For money!” The serious set of her uncle’s face shifted to a grimace. “Our funds were perilously low, so we sold the portrait to a dealer in London who guaranteed us the opportunity to buy it back within six months.”
“But you never did.” Gwendolyn found herself blinking like the village idiot. “Why do you so desperately need money?”
“I have creditors and bills that must be paid. I tell you,
’tis no small task to keep you and your sisters.”
Gwendolyn bristled at the idea that she and her sisters were such an extreme expense. They lived a modest life, genteel and comfortable, but far from extravagant.
“In addition to our dowries, I know my father left an allowance to be paid per annum for our upkeep,” Gwendolyn said. “Surely that covers our obligations and places no significant financial burden on you and Aunt Mildred?”
Uncle Fletcher made a face. “Your quarterly allowance is a paltry sum that barely keeps you girls in bonnets and gloves.”
Worry shivered down her spine. Were they really such a burden? But why had Uncle Fletcher never mentioned this before? And why had he not asked them to econo-mize more? Gwendolyn opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to think of a way to phrase her next remark without causing too much offense.
“No matter how pressing your debts, you still did not have the right to steal from Lord Fairhurst,” Gwendolyn finally muttered.
“I’ve already explained about that,” he replied defensively. With an exaggerated sigh, Uncle Fletcher finished his drink, then poured a second.
“Yes, well, that plan seems to haven fallen short. I think it is paramount that you buy back the painting and return it as soon as possible. Surely there are other funds you can tap? At least temporarily.” Gwendolyn gazed out the window as she racked her brain for a solution. “My dowry, perhaps?”
Uncle Fletcher could not hold back a short, closed-mouth cough and Gwendolyn knew she had come painfully close to uncovering another truth.
“It won’t help,” he said morosely.
“Is it all gone?” she asked quietly. Her uncle nodded and Gwendolyn slowly let out the breath she had been holding.
“After the scandal broke, I knew you would never marry. Initially, I thought the funds could be added to Dorothea’s and Emma’s portions, but my need became pressing so I used some of the money. Within the year, it was gone.”
The assumption that she would never marr y, while truthful, still stung. “Yes, Uncle Fletcher, we all know that I am destined to end my days alone, with no family of my own. If I am lucky, I might become a favored aunt to Dorothea or Emma’s children. Or else I shall have to be content living alone and raising a large quantity of cats.”
Uncle Fletcher’s face scrunched in puzzlement. “You don’t like cats.”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Then I suppose I must learn to tolerate them.”
She jumped up from her chair, crossed the room and joined her uncle by the sideboard. Boldly she poured herself a splash from the crystal decanter, then downed the contents in one long swallow.
“What are you doing? Young women don’t drink strong spirits. Especially at this hour of the day.”
“And guardians don’t spend their charges’ dowries to pay off their debts. And by the way, I do not believe it is only household expenses that has gotten you into this mess. I know how much you like to gamble.” Gwendolyn glared up at him, almost daring him to deny it.
He was silent for a long moment. The he turned with a jerky movement, picked up the decanter and poured her a second drink. “You’ve got me there, gir
l.”
Gwendolyn’s shoulder’s slumped. “What of Dorothea?
And Emma? Is there any of their dowries left?”
“Dorothea’s is gone. Along with most of Emma’s.”
Uncle Fletcher rubbed his fingers together. “But I have prospects that should offset the losses. There won’t be as much as your father left them, but I’ll do the best I can.
Fortunately there are no prospective suitors for either of the girls, which should give me time to replenish part of what I borrowed.”
Borrowed! Stolen was a more apt description. Gwendolyn’s head could not seem to stop spinning. It was difficult to dredge up any pity, despite how repentant her uncle looked. She had just discovered that he had spent most of their dowries on gambling debts and had even resorted to stealing from the viscount to pay off additional monies he owed. The truth hurt, cut deep, but Gwendolyn knew lashing out at her uncle would not ease the pain. Nor would it solve the problem.
“What is to be done, Uncle Fletcher?”
“I will make amends, Gwendolyn. I swear it.”
Gwendolyn looked down at the whiskey in her glass.
The first swig had tasted terrible, burning her throat all the way down to her stomach. But in the ensuing minutes, she had noticed a slight numbing in her fingers and at the edges of her mind. She scrunched her nose tightly and took another sip, shuddering until the liquid hit her nearly empty stomach.
Oh, how she wished with all of her heart that her uncle was telling her the truth. She had to believe that there was a way out of this mess and she knew she had little choice but to wait, hope and pray her uncle could resolve the matter.
“We must stand together or fall alone,” Gwendolyn declared solemnly. “I will keep your secret, Uncle Fletcher.
And trust that you do right by all of us.”
The terrible tension between them broke. “Leave it to me. I will do you proud, my girl. I swear.”
Gwendolyn smiled wanly and nodded. The emotions of the day, along with the whiskey she had so rashly consumed, were starting to catch up with her. After her uncle departed, she sat alone in the study, tr ying to regain her equilibrium.
Emma found her that way, twenty minutes later.
“My goodness, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.
I’m nearly bursting with suspense. What happened?”
Emma asked, as she came into the room.
Gwendolyn’s eyes found Emma’s and she tried to smile with encouragement. “It was Uncle Fletcher, Emma, just as you suspected.” Quickly Gwendolyn related the conversation she just had with their uncle.
Emma’s concerned face turned to sheer panic as she digested the news, so clearly distressed she did not even acknowledge their uncle’s praise of her artistic talent.
“Oh, this is horrible! We must tell Lord Fairhurst the truth,” Emma insisted.
“I know.” Gwendolyn reached up and sharply pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to ease the ache in her head. “But I promised to give Uncle Fletcher some time to fix this mess on his own. I cannot go back on my word.”
Emma bit her lip, her brows lowering. “I do not have a good feeling about this, Gwen.”
“Neither do I.” Shaking her head, Gwendolyn muttered a stringent oath. “But for now, we must wait and put our fate, and our faith, in our uncle’s hands.”
Chapter Fifteen
Three days later Jason sat in his bedchamber for more than an hour, with a decanter of his brother’s finest brandy as his only companion. Sunshine streamed into the room, making everything glow with nauseating cheerfulness. It was almost more than Jason could bear. Stumbling from his chair, he yanked the heavy window curtains closed, yet was unsuccessful in keeping out all traces of the light. Still, the gloomy dimness was a vast improvement. Returning to his seat, he lifted the cr ystal decanter resting on the small table beside him, splashed a liberal amount of the amber liquid into his glass and tossed it back. Then he slowly poured another.
“Hell and damnation!” A male voice swore loudly as the individual stumbled over a low stool, almost toppling to the ground.
Feeling mildly curious at the interruption, Jason glanced over at his valet and grimaced. “Go away, Pierce.”
The ser vant regained his balance and tugged his jacket into place. “I have long suspected that you had the potential to make brooding an art form. I see now my theory is proven correct.”
Ignoring his employer’s orders to leave, the valet went directly to the window and pulled open the curtains.
Sunlight once again filled the room.
“Leave them closed,” Jason ordered in a sullen tone.
“And break my neck in this gloom? I think not, sir. I am an aging man with failing eyesight. I do not relish the notion of spending my days limping because a badly broken limb did not heal completely. You may return the chamber to a state of mourning once I have finished with my chores.”
Jason grumbled, sipping at his drink. “Has the post arrived? Were there any letters for me? Any correspondence at all?”
“There was nothing.”
Damn and blast! Three days. It had been three days since he had last seen Gwendolyn. She had refused to receive him when he called upon her, and she had not responded to the urgent letters he wrote and hand delivered to her home. The one thing she had done, with unfailing determination, was keep her promise to avoid him.
Jason lifted his glass, realized it was nearly empty, then reached for the decanter. He ignored his valet’s loud sniff of disapproval and poured himself a generous portion.
“If I may be so bold as to inquire, is there a particular reason why you are swilling such fine brandy like gin?”
“’Tis not the smooth taste or fine quality that I am savoring,” Jason responded. “I seek the numbing effect.”
“Ah, yes. I saw the sheets the other morning.”
Jason paused, the glass at his lips. “The sheets?”
“On your bed. The bed where Miss Ellingham spent the night.”
Straightening in the chair, Jason gave his ser vant a warning glance. “What was wrong with the sheets?”
“The linens were bloodstained. A virgin’s blood, if I am not mistaken.” The valet removed a coat from the wardrobe, inspected it, then began vigorously brushing one sleeve. “I am also well aware that you did not sleep in the guest chamber that night, even though you asked the housekeeper to air the room and made a point of thanking her the next morning for doing such a fine job.”
The liquor burned a path down Jason’s throat and hit his stomach sickeningly fast. “Does the entire household know about me and Miss Ellingham?”
“No. I rumpled the bed in the guest chamber and mussed the coverlet so the maids would be none the wiser.”
“Thank you.”
Pierce scowled. “I did it not only to protect Miss Ellingham, but to preserve your brother’s good name. He would not be pleased to be labeled an adulterer. Many individuals do not seem to care one whit about their employee’s opinions, but I have been told that the viscount enjoys his staff’s greatest respect. Besides, ’tis highly unlikely Lord Fairhurst would become involved with another woman. I understand that he is most devoted to his lovely wife.”
“Nauseatingly so,” Jason replied, but the bite of sarcasm was missing from his tone. Instead, there was a great feeling of envy. Jasper was devoted to his wife, besotted completely, and she with him. It was precisely the type of relationship that Jason had avoided for so long and now he craved almost compulsively.
Had he come so close yet again, only to lose it at the last moment? He shuddered with regret.
“I assume you will require a bath and a shave later this afternoon?” the valet asked. “Though perhaps it might be better to wait until tomorrow before you pay a call on the Ellingham household. It would hardly make a stellar impression if you arrive three sheets to the wind when you ask Mr. Ellingham for his niece’s hand in marriage.”
Jason
scrubbed his face with his hands, then laughed darkly. “Mr. Ellingham will think me mad if I say I wish to propose to his niece. They are all very aware that Lord Fairhurst is a married man.”
Pierce’s left eyebrow rose. “Ah, yes, well that should make it an even more interesting visit, revealing your true identity. Might I suggest that you instruct Miss Ellingham to break the news to her uncle before you arrive? That might make it a more civilized encounter.”
“She doesn’t know.” Jason’s chin fell forward onto his chest as he stared into the bottom of his nearly empty glass. “She believes that I am Fairhurst. I waited too long to tell her the truth. I tried several times before she left the manor the other morning, but could never get her alone. Now she refuses to see me.”
“This is a dilemma.” Pierce scratched his head. “You could write her a letter, yet this is hardly the sort of predicament that is easily explained. It would more than likely confuse her further.”
“A letter would do little good. She has returned the first two unopened. My third request was a meeting between us and I have yet to hear from her. But I am not hopeful.”
“What are going to do?”
Jason lifted his head. “Drink?”
“That never solved anything.” To emphasize the point, the valet moved the decanter to the opposite side of the room. Unconcerned, Jason watched, knowing the servant would not dare to remove it from the bedchamber.
“I have offered to marry her,” Jason insisted. “It was the proper thing to do after the night we spent together.”
“How romantic.” The valet moved to the washstand and straightened the towel placed beside the porcelain bowl. “All women adore the notion of being married due to a guilty conscience.”
Jason frowned. “It wasn’t like that, Pierce. I love her and I told her of my feelings. I realize of course that she had difficulty believing my sincerity.”
How to Enjoy a Scandal Page 22
