Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  “Egypt? Rome? Athens?”

  “Rome, I suppose.”

  He followed Strickland to a library table. Several bound volumes of prints showing the sites of Rome appeared. Ewan began flipping through them.

  Since luring Strickland to inebriated indiscretion would not work today, he tried a different tack.

  “I will confess that I also came for another reason,” he said, as pages of ancient ruins flowed by. “I have reason to think that I purchased some forgeries. Not from you, so do not swoon on me.”

  “They must be very good ones if they got by you.”

  “Excellent ones, needless to say.” He did not like letting anyone think he could be duped, least of all a purveyor of prints. But duty called and all that. “I suspect they were made here in England.”

  Strickland stepped closer and spoke in a whisper. “Who sold them? You must tell me. I cannot risk—”

  “I do not even know if I am correct, and will not impugn another man’s reputation until I am. However, I intend to get to the bottom of it. I thought you might help.”

  “I will do whatever I can. Such a scandal will affect all of us.”

  Ewan left the volume open to a view of the Pantheon. “Let us assume that my prints are superb forgeries. Expertly copied from original old masters. Who here in England could do work like that? So perfect, so accurate, that it left me merely wondering instead of certain?”

  As Strickland thought about that, his gaze surveyed his shop, keeping an eye on things. “Damned few. It has crossed my mind that both Leighton and Jameson have the skill. Not that I would ever suggest—”

  “Of course not. That goes without saying.” Strickland was right. The engravings from both of those studios were of the highest quality.

  “Of course, it need not be a reproductive engraver. Many a peintre-graveur could do it, if he put his mind to it,” Strickland said.

  “Only if he could resist improving on the original. Real artists almost never can.”

  “My father once told me that there were several sudden discoveries a few decades ago that he found suspicious. The men involved were dead or inactive at the time he confided, however, so that is not useful now.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “I am sorry, no. If anything comes back to me, I will let you know, however.”

  “Please try to remember. An inactive forger may have turned his hand to it again.” Ewan closed the volume. “Send this folio to me, if you will.”

  Strickland’s gaze was still deep into his shop. Ewan glanced over his shoulder to see what captivated his attention, but nothing appeared untoward.

  “Did you hear me? I said send this volume to me.”

  “My apologies. Of course, we will see to it.”

  “What has you so distracted?”

  “I am not sure. Possibly a thief. She has been at it for some time and appears to know what she is looking for.”

  Ewan turned and tried to see the woman Strickland referred to.

  “There, at the bin in the corner,” Strickland said. “The big red one.”

  Ewan jolted alert. His gaze lit on her. The simple cap did not completely obscure the coppery curls.

  What was Bride doing here? She was supposed to be spending his inheritance at modistes with Lady Mardenford today.

  “She came in and asked some odd questions, and has been checking the prints for an hour now,” Strickland said. “She knows what she is looking at. We can always tell the serious collector from the person wanting mere wall decoration. Her appearance does not indicate she can pay for the quality she studies, however.”

  Bride moved to another V-shaped bin and methodically began turning the large sheets of paper. She lifted one and held it to better light.

  “What odd questions did she ask?”

  “She wanted to know if a young man had been here the last year, asking about the best studios and printers and such.”

  Ewan experienced a sharp irritation. Bride had come to London to search for her “friend.” She was still hoping for a miraculous reunion with her worthless former lover. Evidently, Walter was an engraver, too.

  “Had there been a young man here, asking such questions?”

  “I would not remember. A lot of questions get asked in the course of a year.”

  Ewan noted that Strickland’s attention had not wavered from Bride. “It appears that you will remember her questions, however.”

  Strickland grinned. “Quite likely, but only because she is lovely.”

  Ewan did not care for that grin. Now that he thought about it, Strickland was a rather silly man, given to airs and posing. His whole romantic persona was overdone.

  “I should tell you that I know the woman. She is not a thief.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Can I impose on you to make a social introduction?”

  “I think not. Please remember to send the volume along.”

  Bride lifted a large sheet bearing a reproduction of Raphael’s “The School of Athens.” She examined the burin work carefully, then put it back in the bin.

  It had been a most successful visit. In her head she had created two lists. A short one noted the names and addresses of the best London studios, those that employed superior engravers.

  The other list consisted of studios that produced mediocre prints and might be amenable to giving work to a woman who surpassed their own employees in skill.

  Her only regret was that her inquiries about Walter had yielded nothing. If he had come to London tracing those stolen plates, he would have called on shops such as this to obtain information with which to trace the forgers. It was possible that Mr. Strickland did not remember Walter and his questions, however. It could have been as long as a year ago.

  She wondered how many more shops there were like this. London was very big, much larger than Edinburgh. It had taken a long time to walk to this shop. She had only learned its address from perusing Lord Lyndale’s portfolio yesterday, while sitting with Joan in that scandalous salon.

  As she flipped through the rest of the prints in the bin, she considered all the duties facing her in the days ahead. She would have to seek out other such shops, and start visiting engravers. And papermakers. Yes, the key might be the source of the paper. Forging the special paper used in banknotes would be as hard as forging plates.

  She also needed to find a way to be shown any rarities these sellers had tucked away for special patrons. Not only the banknote plates had been stolen from her trunk. If another of her father’s plates had been printed and made available for sale, that could give her a good clue as to who had the entire cache.

  “The tonalities in that one are very weak, don’t you agree?”

  The voice at her shoulder startled her.

  London might be very big, but it appeared it was not big enough.

  She pasted a smile on her face and turned to the towering presence at her side. “Lord Lyndale, what an unexpected pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is yours alone, although this is certainly unexpected. What are you doing here? I gave instructions that you were to accompany Lady Mardenford today.”

  “Given a choice between garments and art, I decided I would prefer art.”

  “I do not remember giving you a choice.”

  “You did not really expect me to forgo the rich artistic culture of London in favor of being measured and pinned, I am sure.”

  “What I expected appears to be of no account to you.” He gestured to the bin. “Are you finished here? If so, I will give you an escort. My carriage is nearby.”

  She was not really finished, but she did not want Lyndale hovering while she completed her investigation. Deciding she had accomplished enough for her first day, and not relishing the long walk back to Belgrave Square, she accepted his offer.

  He handed her into a little carriage.

  “If you had done as you were told, you would be traveling in style today,” he said as he took the ribbons. “I have had thi
s cabriolet for years, and should probably replace it.”

  “It is like the furniture in that second drawing room, you mean? That is the only chamber where everything is not new. It is understandable that you would be sentimental about some possessions and want to keep them.”

  He moved the horse into the flow of carriages. “I am not sentimental. I am a man, and we never are, unless we are among the young, silly, poetic types one trips over all the time now. Like Strickland back there.”

  “Mr. Strickland did not appear silly. I thought he was very dignified. Handsome, too.”

  “You are too generous. I would describe him as nice-looking, at best.”

  “Well, I think he is handsome. He is also quite elegant.”

  “Only someone who has been in London only one day would say so.”

  He was being very prickly. She assumed it was because she had not done as he commanded about the visits to modistes. “Are there many shops like that?”

  “At least six worth visiting. There are others that only have prints of the most popular sort. Booksellers and such. On occasion, however, something of interest can be found in them.”

  “I look forward to visiting every one.”

  His brow knit. Not in disapproval, but thought. “Would you like to visit a few now?”

  “With you?”

  “You do not have to look so shocked at the invitation.”

  “You seemed very determined to avoid such obligations when Mary was trying to corner you.”

  “I have no interest in escorting a child about London, nor seeing sights and amusements I have visited often before. However, I frequent the print shops and enjoy them myself.”

  She would not be able to learn anything she needed from those shops with Lyndale by her side, but she agreed to accompany him. At least she would learn their locations, and see what they sold.

  They spent the next two hours perusing the holdings of two large print shops. They debated quality and argued authenticity. They mutually admired great artistry or craftsmanship. They agreed as one mind or bickered like children when at odds in their judgments.

  Lyndale’s command brought forth the most valuable rarities for their consideration. At Ackerman’s Repository of the Arts, however, the clerk resisted laying out his copy of Caraglio’s “Loves of the Gods” when Lyndale requested it.

  “My lord, the lady . . .”

  Lyndale sighed with exasperation. “She is a mature woman and the images are barely risqué. There are paintings by Titian on display for all to view that are more explicit. Furthermore, she is schooled in the arts and knows visual metaphors when she sees them. Now, let us see the engravings.”

  They were produced. Lyndale set two side by side on the table. “These are copies, not originals,” he said. “There were many copies down through the centuries. I have personally seen four separate examples, and there is no addendum in any of them. The extra six are missing. They appear to have been excised from the series very early.”

  Head-to-head they pored over the images, with Lyndale pointing out the signs that heralded a copy. He had Bride so thoroughly engrossed that she did not initially notice an unusually long pause that developed while her nose was stuck to the paper.

  Eventually the silence penetrated her awareness. It carried a tremor that woke her womanly instincts. She turned her head to find Lyndale’s attention on her, not the prints.

  He did not appear predatory, even though it was a man’s consideration that he gave her. His expression hinted that he found her peculiar and confusing.

  She straightened and turned away from the prints. “It is getting late in the afternoon.”

  “So it is. We should be on our way.”

  He escorted her to his carriage. When they were moving down the street again, he raised a subject she had hoped he would forget.

  “Did you bring them with you? Your father’s collection, including the extra Caraglio prints?”

  Of course she had. She had brought all of the legacy with her.

  She had enjoyed the last hours sharing their common interest. Now she needed to rebuild the barrier that kept this man ignorant of her activities and history and problems.

  She definitely could not allow Lyndale to see those Caraglio prints again, either. If he did, if he compared them to the originals in the suite he owned, he might identify them as forgeries, just as he had the ones at Ackerman’s.

  “They are deep in a trunk that I have not unpacked.”

  “If you retrieve them, I could conduct the study I mentioned in Scotland. Then you would know what you have.”

  She already knew what she had.

  He did not press her, but she could tell he wanted to see those prints again. Silence fell as he drove through the city streets. She wondered if he thought her avoidance of the topic was suspicious.

  “Thank you for inviting me to visit those shops. I enjoyed it very much, and will feel more at ease entering such establishments in the future.”

  He moved the carriage around a corner, onto a long, wide street filled with coaches and people. “You cannot do so dressed as you are today. The combination of your obvious expertise and poor appearance led Strickland to think you were a thief.”

  “A thief!”

  “It did not help that you were a stranger. The proprietors know the clientele.”

  “I am already known at three shops, and will be at others soon. My appearance should not be questioned by any of them in a week or so.”

  “I agree. For one thing, you will be presentable by then.” He angled the horse to the side of the street and stopped behind a large coach. He threw the ribbons to a footman tending the other carriage, and hopped down.

  Bride looked around in confusion. “I thought we were returning to Belgrave Square.”

  “I never said so. That is my coach there. In front of it is Lady Mardenford’s. That indicates Lady M. and your sisters are abovestairs with the modiste who occupies this building.” He offered his hand. “It is late in the day, but I expect that something can still be done for you.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  This one here, but in this color.” Lyndale’s arm intruded between Bride and Lady Mardenford. His finger pointed at two plates. The design he favored featured a mantle trimmed in fur. It would cost a small fortune.

  Lady M., as Lyndale often addressed her, stifled a sigh. “How many carriage ensembles do you think she needs, Lyndale? She just chose one.”

  “It was very plain and boring. I think this one is more elegant.”

  Bride propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands.

  She had expected Lyndale to bring her up here, introduce her to Lady Mardenford, and leave. Instead he had poked around the modiste’s salon, picked through lace, intruded on every decision, and turned the excursion into a trial.

  She glanced to the woman lending aid to the impossible task of making Bride Cameron presentable. Lady Mardenford was all elegance and grace, with a delicate, pretty face and dark hair styled in the fat ringlets and curls worn by women of society.

  Upon meeting her, Bride had been cowed into cooperating on this mission. Lady M. made her feel so clumsy and rustic, so big and antique, that thoughts of resistance instantly disappeared.

  Lady Mardenford gave a strained smile to the man peering over her shoulder. “There really is no further need for you to delay your day’s plans. I have things well in hand here.”

  “I do not mind helping.” His hand darted again and reached for another stack of plates.

  Lady Mardenford smacked his wrist. “If you insist on favoring us with your opinion, sit. Right there. If you continue to buzz like a fly we will never finish.”

  Lyndale took the indicated seat on the other side of Lady Mardenford. Bride stifled a yawn. This had been fun the first hour, but she was growing weary. Her sisters had long ago finished and now sat in exhausted stupors on the other side of the room. Jilly had fallen asleep in her chair. />
  Oblivious to his lack of welcome, Lyndale began perusing the plates his last foray had grabbed.

  “What are you looking for?” Lady Mardenford said.

  “A dress like yours. The greenish one you were wearing yesterday.”

  “I bought that months ago. I doubt the design is still offered.”

  “I will be very disappointed if that is true.”

  “Perhaps I should give Miss Cameron mine, since you favor the style so much.”

  “If she were not far too big for your dresses, I would accept the offer.”

  Silence fell. Lyndale did not notice. He examined the plates much as he did his collection.

  “Lyndale,” Lady Mardenford admonished.

  He looked up, confused by her tone. Her piercing glare provoked comprehension. “Ah, let me rephrase. If she were not so stately, so statuesque, I would accept.”

  “If you decide to kill him, Miss Cameron, I promise not to lay down information.”

  “I am not offended. I do not apologize for my height. I had no choice on the matter, and it has been useful on occasion.”

  “See?” said Lyndale. “She is not some vain woman who requires false flattery. She takes pride in that which makes her unique. She is not a slave to fashions of beauty, nor does she seek to be predictable. She is well aware that she is magnificent just as she is.”

  Magnificent?

  Lyndale gestured for the modiste. “More plates, madame.” He beamed boyish delight at Lady M. “I had no idea how diverting this is. No wonder women spend so much time at it.”

  “And so much money. You will clean your pistol when you get the bills, but it will be your fault, so aim for your own head, not mine.”

  With a reptilian smile, the modiste thrust a stack of plates displaying luxurious evening gowns under Lyndale’s nose.

  Lady M. gave the modiste a scolding glance. The modiste chose to ignore it.

  Lyndale discarded ten plates in rapid succession, creating a blur of richly decorated bouffant skirts and bulbous sleeves. Suddenly he stopped.

  “This one. Just like this. Same color, everything.”

  Lady M. angled her head to see it. “You are being reckless now. Where will she wear such a gown?”