Wallflower Most Wanted--A Studies in Scandal Novel

by Manda Collins

  “He’d have been sacked in any other household in England,” Ben pointed out. He tried to imagine what he’d have done if he learned Jennings was hiding things from him. But the situation was different, he supposed. He was a grown man, and though Sophia was a strong, capable woman, society hadn’t yet come to the realization that ladies were able to make their own decisions. Greaves was a product of his upbringing and despite serving as butler to Lady Celeste—who was most certainly not a conventional lady—he must have made the mistake of seeing Sophia as one. Not to mention that his affection for her had made him fearful on her behalf. As Ben well knew—thinking back to his reacting to seeing Ryder’s arm raised to her—fear of seeing Sophia harmed could inspire all sorts of rash behavior.

  “But this is not any other household in England,” Sophia said firmly. “And for all that he’s made our task of finding who’s behind the forgery and Framingham’s murder more difficult, I cannot be angry with him. He’s a dear man and has taken excellent care of us all. I believe much of the time there’s a tendency to see servants as cold and emotionless. Interchangeable. And I know well enough that there’s nothing farther from the truth.”

  Ben moved to stroke her arm. “You are extraordinary.”

  As he watched, a blush crept up from her neck and into her cheeks. “I’m nothing special,” she responded with a slight smile.

  He was calculating whether he had enough time to kiss her before the butler came back when the man himself returned.

  Presenting a sealed letter to Sophia, Greaves bowed. “Again, I apologize, Miss Hastings. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

  Taking the proffered missive, Sophia nodded. “I know it won’t, Mr. Greaves. Thank you for doing the right thing.”

  With another bow, the butler began to walk back to the door. He was almost there when Sophia called after him. “Mr. Greaves?”

  He turned, “Yes, Miss Hastings?”

  “Thank you for looking out for me.” She gave him a smile guaranteed to melt the sternest heart. “I don’t believe my own father could have done a better job of it.”

  Ben wasn’t certain, but he thought the old man blushed before he gave a brisk nod and slipped from the room.

  * * *

  Once Greaves was gone and the door closed behind him, Sophia slipped her thumb beneath the wax seal bearing the imprint of Lady Celeste’s ring.

  She was frustrated by Greaves’ actions, of course. But she couldn’t help but feel that his impulses had come from a desire to protect her. She didn’t approve of his decision to keep the letter from her, but she couldn’t condemn the man or order him dismissed because he’d acted out of affection and loyalty. It simply wasn’t something she could do and remain content with herself.

  Ben watched her closely as she unfolded the parchment and began to read aloud.

  My dear Sophia,

  I cannot tell you how pleased I am that an artist of your talent and vision has agreed to come to Beauchamp House. You are likely unaware of it, but I attended the exhibition of your work in York two summers ago, and that is what convinced me that I could choose no other painter to join the group of ladies to whom I intended to leave my home. (That your sister is a celebrated naturalist in her own right, and therefore was perfect to round out my quartet of scholars, was a happy coincidence.) Welcome to your new home. I hope that you will find my studio—where I have spent many happy hours engrossed in my own, far less impressive, work—is congenial to your artistic eye and that you will produce more of your wonderful work here.

  As with your fellow scholars, I have a task which I believe you in particular are best suited for. In no way am I insisting that you undertake this investigation, but I do believe that if you choose not to, the very artistic world which you cherish so much will suffer. The decision, however, is yours.

  Now, the facts. For some time now I’ve been aware that one of the galleries in the village has been selling forgeries of some very valuable paintings to buyers who are either unaware that the paintings are fake, or don’t particularly care. I stumbled upon the matter when I visited Mr. Framingham’s gallery one afternoon and came upon the man himself wrapping a painting that looked familiar, while a Mr. Richard Nettles, as he was introduced to me, waited. I had come to pick up one of my own pieces which I’d asked Framingham to frame for me. It was only a quick glimpse, but I was certain I’d either seen the work Framingham was wrapping before—or I’d seen it described. It was Italian, that much I knew. And after consulting one of my collections of art books in the library, I realized that the painting was by Tintoretto. The Temptation of Eve, which dated to 1578. But I knew one other detail about the painting that my books didn’t. This particular work had been part of a collection of some thirty valuable works of art that were purchased from a French Nobleman who was desperate to buy passage for his family out of France as the revolution raged around them. The purchaser was none other than my father, the fifth Duke of Beauchamp, who was in France on business at the time. You will find enclosed with this note a list of those paintings, which were lost in a shipwreck while crossing the English Channel. My father, was, of course, unharmed as he’d returned to England a month before. He was quite upset over the loss, however, and would often lament it when in his cups.

  The realization that this Mr. Nettles had purchased what was surely a forgery was troubling to me, and I approached a friend with ties to the Home Office with the information. That avenue, however, was not productive. So, I endeavored to learn more from Framingham. After a few pointed questions, wherein I hinted that I would like to buy a painting similar to that of Mr. Nettles, I learned the man had been recommended to Framingham by a newcomer to the area, Mr. Peter Morgan. I’d met the man before and found him to be just the sort of bombastic fellow I abhorred, who had no real love for art, but instead saw it as a means of elevating his own stature. I also learned that several more of Morgan’s friends had also purchased paintings at his behest. The identity of these paintings confirmed my suspicions. Someone had a list of the paintings that were lost in the Channel and was painting them to order for the unsuspecting amongst Morgan’s set, who doubtless didn’t know Michelangelo from Vermeer, much less were able to tell a forgery from the real thing.

  I sent my man of business to each of the homes where the forged paintings were now on display, and one by one, he purchased six of them. These six you will find here in the studio cupboard where I put them for safe-keeping. I did not tell the authorities about the scheme because there was one particular detail that my man learned upon his visits to these middle class homes which made that impossible.

  Framingham had told all of the buyers that the paintings in question had come from the collection of an unconventional member of the aristocracy: one Lady Celeste Beauchamp.

  That someone has been forging works that my father lost at sea is one thing. That they would attribute the previous ownership of said paintings to his daughter was outrageous. Not only did it make my father look like an insurance cheat, but it also made me out to be complicit in the matter. I could no more report that to the authorities than I could turn myself in to them. Besides, I’d already gone to them with the news and they’d chosen to either ignore me, or conduct their own investigation without informing me of the details.

  On top of this, my illness has made it difficult, if not impossible, for me to handle the details and day-to-day investigation into this matter. Which is why, my dear Sophia, I leave it in your capable hands. As a fellow artist, I know you will find the notion of these valuable works of art being reproduced as bold as you please, without concern for the harm it does to the wider world, as abhorrent as I do. And as one of my four heirs, I hope you will see the insult to my good name as an insult that must be answered. I am unable to do so, but I hope that with some assistance, you will.

  Feel free to ask my nephews and Serena for assistance should you need it. And please, be careful. I fear that whoever is behind this will not like being exposed for
the charlatan he is. I have my suspicions that Morgan may have something to do with it, but right now it is only a suspicion. I hope that you will find some bit of truth that will prove it one way or another. And if it turns out he is innocent, well, I suppose even one wolf cannot be responsible for all the lost sheep in the world.

  Be well, my dear girl, and be safe.

  Yours in love for the arts,

  Lady Celeste Beauchamp

  Chapter 22

  From behind the letter which she’d been reading, Sophia produced another sheet which was a list of the paintings Lady Celeste had mentioned. At the top of the page was a heading, which read “Items Lost in the sinking of the Mary Frances, May 17, 1788, while crossing the channel from Calais to Bristol.” Beneath it was a list of some thirty paintings, the titles and artists of which made Sophia’s breath catch. These were works that if they hadn’t been lost would be worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. At the bottom of the page was the scrawled signature of the fifth Duke of Maitland, who must have written the list, since it was in a different hand.

  “Lady Celeste certainly didn’t do things by halves,” Ben said as he took the list from Sophia and scanned it. “When she left tasks for you all, she made certain they weren’t easy ones. I have an imagine of her in my head as a goddess on Mount Olympus crafting labors for Hercules.”

  He had a point, Sophia had to admit, as she moved to take out the paintings she and the other heiresses had placed back into the cabinet after looking at them earlier in the week. “I can’t believe she stumbled onto a scheme like this simply by chance,” she said, staring down at a work that rather skillfully recreated a painting by Vermeer called Girl with a Fan. It skillfully, faithfully mimicked the famous Dutch painter’s use of light and the portrayal of one of several female models he used again and again. How close it was to the original, Sophia couldn’t know until she compared it to a print in one of the collections in the library, but she had a feeling it was close. “If she hadn’t recalled the list of paintings her father had lost, she would never have put it together that the work she saw being wrapped by Framingham was a forgery at all.”

  “What I want to know,” Ben said thoughtfully, as he held the list, “is who knew about the lost paintings? Was it widely known that the schooner went down with a fortune’s worth of artwork on it, or did the family manage to keep it quiet? I know it was likely a coup for the duke to purchase such a collection, but the loss of it would have stung. I can imagine he’d do what he could to keep news of the sinking—or more particularly what went down on it—a secret.”

  “That’s something we’ll need to ask Serena, and perhaps Kerr and Maitland when they return from London, about,” Sophia said. “They may have heard family stories. Though I believe the duke himself died before they were born.”

  “If it was kept a secret, then how did Ryder get hold of it?” Ben asked, as usual his jaw tightening at the man’s very name. “He had to know which paintings he was meant to recreate. And I think we’re no longer in any doubt that he is the one who has been painting them, are we?”

  Sophia shook her head. It was possible someone else had been the artist in question, but she’d seen his work during their visit to Primrose Green. And the brushwork, the mixing of colors, it was all very similar to the works she was looking at now. “I think it is him, yes,” she said. “And I would very much like to ask him whether he has any conception of the harm his forgeries have done. Not just in Little Seaford, but also in the art world as a whole.”

  At that, however, Ben shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said with a finality that put her back up. “I will speak to the man if it’s necessary. But you are to go nowhere near him.”

  “You are being unreasonable,” Sophia pointed out with a scowl. “I can speak to him about the paintings themselves. Artist to artist. And perhaps I can convince him to tell us who else is behind the scheme. Especially when he learns that Morgan was planning to get rid of him.”

  “And I’m not comfortable with you being in the same room with the fellow,” Ben countered. “He raised his hand to you, Sophia, or have you forgotten? I can’t speak for my actions if he does such a thing again.”

  She was at once touched by his concern, and annoyed at his high-handedness. Must all the men in her life insist upon protecting her from herself?

  Standing, she moved to slip her arms around his neck, and though he was still annoyed, she felt him relax a little at her nearness. “I cannot imagine he would be so foolish as to do something like that again, Ben. He’s a forger, not a fool. And if you’re with me, he’ll have even more incentive to behave.”

  “Don’t think I don’t realize what you’re doing,” he said, even as he slid his hands over her bottom and pulled her closer. “I know when I’m being coaxed, Miss Hastings.”

  She leaned in and kissed him, just letting her mouth brush across his. “I was Sophia before. Why the formality?”

  “I am trying to be a gentleman, Sophia,” he said on a sigh as she nibbled over his chin. “And you’re making it dashed difficult.”

  She knew exactly how difficult his struggle was—she felt the evidence of his body’s attempt to overcome his mind pressing against her stomach.

  “I don’t need a gentleman just now, Ben,” she whispered against his ear. “I need a man. That’s all. Not a vicar. Not a lord. Not a gentleman. Just a man.”

  * * *

  Ben felt a shudder run through him as Sophia nipped his earlobe.

  She was going to be the death of him.

  But there was one particular part of him that came to life whenever she was near, and it was making a very good argument for the opposite.

  “I can’t just throw you over my shoulder and have my way with you like a barbarian,” he said through clenched teeth. “You deserve to be wooed. To be taken in a bed, with proper attention to detail.”

  His hands stroked over her back as he spoke, however, encouraging her as she kissed a path down his neck.

  When she stopped, he almost wept. “Ben,” she said in a firm tone. “I know what I want. And I do not care about hearts or flowers. I don’t need a proper bed. I only need you. And as shocking as this might be to your delicate sensibilities, I want you.”

  As she spoke, she met his eyes and he found himself awed again by her ability to cut to the heart of the matter. To get past his reservations and respect for the conventions and to speak the truth of what lay between them. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice husky with desire. “Because I’m willing to wait.”

  Her mouth quirked into a half smile before she kissed him hard on the mouth. “I know you are and I love you for it. But I am not.”

  Some recess of his brain where his primitive desires lay took over then, and he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the settee, which was bathed in afternoon light. Gently settling her onto the sofa, he all but sprinted to the door and turned the lock.

  When he returned, he found her sprawled over the deep red velvet of the cushions, her cheeks pink with desire and looking like a sumptuous banquet meant only for him. Never letting his eyes leave her, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and tossed them aside. Then came his cravat, which was a bit more difficult given the slight trembling of his fingers. It went into pile with his coats. His boots took a bit more time, but he removed them with what he considered admirable speed. Turning, he saw that she was gazing appreciatively at him.

  “Don’t forget to remove your shirt,” she said in a sultry tone. “I want to see you.”

  It was the work of a moment to pull the fine lawn over his head and another minute more before he could gather her against him and reverse their positions on the settee, with him on the bottom, and her sprawled over his chest.

  When their mouths met, it was surprisingly gentle. He felt as if he’d been waiting for this moment from their first meeting. Though he hadn’t known it at the time. He’d only known then that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he w
anted her. That thought, like so many that went against his values as a gentleman and a clergyman, had been suppressed. But here, now, he was as fully himself as he could recall feeling in years. With Sophia, Ben was, as she’d said she wanted, just a man. A man who wanted more than anything in the world to make love to the woman in his arms.

  He took his time with her, savoring every soft stroke of her tongue, and answering with parries of his own. Their bodies pressed together, his naked chest against her clothed one, while he explored the rest of her with his hands. While she sighed into his mouth, his hand wandered over the generous curve of her hip, and down over her thigh to gather the loose fabric of her gown and slide it up, inch by inch, until her stockinged leg was exposed and he touched the naked flesh just above her garter.

  She gave a gasp against his mouth, then gave a slight tilt of her hips, encouraging him to move his hand up further. At the same time, he used his other hand to pull down the bodice of her gown, exposing the bosom he’d been dreaming of for weeks. Even from the way she was positioned, in the shadows, he could see that her breasts were every bit as beautiful as he’d imagined. Unable to hold back, he bent his head to take one rosy tip gently between his teeth before laving it with his tongue. Sophia gave a gasp of pleasure and writhed a little against him.

  Needing to feel her beneath him, he flipped their positions until she was on her back and he was kneeling over her, where he could worship one breast with his mouth while he stroked and caressed the other with his hand. Beneath him, Sophia gave a little cry as he suckled her and he felt her hips buck against him, which was sweet anguish to his cock nestled as it was between her thighs. Taking his hand from her breast, he slipped it beneath her gown and stroked up, up until he reached the heart of her, where the gathering wetness revealed the depth of her desire. He stroked a finger over her clitoris while at the same time giving a decadent suck at her nipple and Sophia almost bucked off the sofa.