That was a relief, at least, Ben thought, relaxing a little. He’d been prepared to give his brother’s friend a dressing down. But given that Lady Celeste seemed to have engineered much of this herself, he could hardly blame Mainwaring for her actions. He might be a spymaster, but he wasn’t a mind reader.
“Miss Hastings is heavily involved now,” he told the earl pointedly. “Mostly because we both overheard Morgan and the gallery owner Framingham arranging to rid themselves of the artist they’d been using to paint their forgeries. Though I imagine Freddie told you that.”
“He did, indeed,” Mainwaring agreed. “And of course we know about Framingham’s murder now. Do you think Ryder is responsible? I believe he’s the one who found the body.”
Ben told him about what he and Sophia had witnessed in the gallery the afternoon of the murder, not leaving out the scene between Ryder and Sophia he’d come upon.
The earl’s brows rose in surprise when he was finished. “I knew he was a rough customer, but I hadn’t realized his thuggery ran to threatening ladies as well. I wonder you didn’t plant him a facer then and there.”
“I considered it,” Ben admitted. “But Miss Hastings reined in my temper. Not for the first time, where Ryder is concerned. Then, of course, we heard the commotion of him finding Framingham’s body and the matter was put to the side.”
“It sounds as though the lady has become quite the influence in your behavior, Ben,” said Mainwaring with a smirk. “Watch out or you’ll find yourself, a vicar, caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”
Ben rolled his eyes at the joke. “How long have you been waiting to use that line?”
“Since you took holy orders, actually,” Mainwaring said with a grin. “Given that the swathe you cut through the ladies back in the day rivaled Freddie’s, it wasn’t unreasonable that you’d one day find yourself snared.”
While it was true he hadn’t been a saint in the years before he joined the church, Ben wasn’t sure it was fair to say he’d been as profligate as Freddie. Still he couldn’t exactly defend himself when there was a grain of truth in what the man said.
“As it happens,” he said with a grin of his own, “Miss Hastings and I have agreed to make a match of it. Though you needn’t look so pleased with yourself. If anyone is responsible for our betrothal, it’s Peter Morgan and his insistence upon plotting the demise of his protegé in so public a location.”
“Oh, come now,” Mainwaring argued. “If I hadn’t sent Freddie down to Little Seaford with instructions for you, do you really think you and Miss Hastings would have become so involved in this business?”
“Clearly you’ve never met the lady,” Ben said, “Freddie or no Freddie she’d have found a way to look into the matter. I’m just grateful I was there to curb her impulse to confront Morgan and Ryder on her own.”
At the mention of Ryder, Mainwaring raised a finger. “Speaking of Ryder, while I agree that he’s a cretin, and up to his eyeballs in this business, I must warn you that the Home Office isn’t sure that he’s the only artist who’s been involved in this business. In fact, we believe Morgan has a partnership with a group of artists. Which makes sense given that the forgeries are of works from artists from different eras and different styles. It would be rare for a single man to master so many different styles with the sort of skill necessary to paint such convincing fakes as these.”
The hairs on the back of Ben’s neck rose. “A group of artists? Do you have any idea who they might be?”
“There’s a couple in the area,” Mainwaring said with a shrug. “I believe they’ve turned a local manor house into a haven for artists? The Primbles?”
Chapter 24
“Primrose Green,” Ben said, feeling like a fool for not realizing it before. The Primbles had been so ready to offer up Ryder as the forger amongst them. But if they were working with Morgan, then it would make sense for them to do so. Ryder was just one of many cogs in the wheel of this operation. As such, he was expendable.
“That’s the place,” Maitland agreed. “Celeste was friendly with the wife, in particular. And even confided about her father’s lost collection in her. She never had proof the paintings were coming from Primrose Green, but it would have only taken a bit of investigation on the Primbles’ part to get a list of the paintings from the insurance company. And Celeste hadn’t told anyone else about the loss.”
“Why wouldn’t she tell Sophia about this?” Ben asked. “She gave her the list of paintings and told her about how she discovered the forgery scheme, but she left no word about the Primbles or the Home Office involvement in the investigation.”
“I can only imagine that she was not in possession of all her faculties at the time she wrote the letter to Sophia,” Maitland said with a frown. “Or that she hoped, out of misplaced loyalty to her friends the Primbles, that they were not responsible for the scheme. The last time I spoke to her she was still hoping Ryder was the only forger. Celeste was an intelligent woman, but even she was capable of being swayed by ties of friendship.”
“And do you know anything about who murdered Framingham?” Ben asked, suddenly worried that he’d left Sophia in Little Seaford with only the household servants and her fellow heiresses as protection. If the Primbles were involved, they had a houseful of artists whose livelihoods were in danger if their crimes were discovered. Not to mention that Morgan and Ryder were still in the village. What had he been thinking to travel to London at this time?
“Northman has concluded it was likely a thief who was interrupted in the process of attempting to steal from the gallery,” Maitland said with a snort. “It’s ridiculous, of course, but then Northman is a fool. I think it very likely it was one of his fellow conspirators. Especially given that the man summoned you there to presumably tell you about the whole scheme. So, either Morgan, or the Primbles.”
Ben stood.
“What’s your hurry, man?” Mainwaring asked, frowning. “We’ll have something to connect one of them to Framingham’s murder soon. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s fine for you to say from the comfort of your home in London, Mainwaring,” Ben said as he headed for the door. “But Sophia is in Little Seaford with only three other ladies and a houseful of servants to protect her from these people who have already killed once to hide their scheme. Forgive me if I don’t share your sanguine view of the situation.”
“Damn it,” the earl muttered as he stood as well. “And Maitland and Kerr are in my drawing room. I think. But surely they won’t dare to threaten Miss Hastings without provocation.”
“Sophia promised me not to confront Ryder while I was gone,” Ben said as he stopped for a brief moment in the doorway. “And she knows better than to speak to Morgan alone. But neither of us knew anything about the Primbles’ involvement. For all I know she’s invited them to dinner at Beauchamp House tonight.”
* * *
“I knew it!” Gemma said, throwing her arms around her sister’s neck upon the news that Sophia had accepted Benedick’s proposal.
The sisters were in the library of Beauchamp House, along with Ivy and Daphne, the morning Ben departed for London. Sophia had wanted to give them her news the evening before but she’d been exhausted from the events of the day and had gone to bed early. But today, rested and ready to take on whatever the day brought to her, she’d come to the library after breakfast in her room to do a bit of research on the other artists in the list of lost paintings Celeste had left for her.
When she found Gemma and the others were already immersed in their own research projects in the library, she’d decided to share her news with them. She hadn’t considered, however, just how many shrieks of joy and surprise the announcement would elicit.
“From the moment you met I saw sparks,” Ivy said with a grin of satisfaction. “I can’t wait to tell Quill. He discounted my ability to tell when couples are in love, but this is twice now I’ve done it.”
“Who was your other success story?” Sophia asked, m
omentarily distracted. She tried to recall her first meeting with Ben and failed. It may have been when they went to discuss Daphne and Maitland’s wedding plans, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d have to ask him later.
“Daphne and Maitland, of course,” Ivy said with a smug smile. “Quill will be quite put out. But I do have a bit of knowledge about the subject, given my study of love poetry.”
Gemma frowned. “You can hardly be the only one to see that Maitland was smitten, Ivy, dear. He was gobsmacked from the moment he saw her.”
“And he’s not exactly one to hold his cards close to his chest,” Daphne added with a smirk. “He’s a terrible card player.”
“Oh, I know Maitland was easy enough to see,” Ivy retorted, “But Daphne herself was a different case altogether. And I could tell she was smitten as well. For all that she didn’t let anyone know it.”
“I was not!” Daphne objected, the telltale flush creeping up into her fair cheeks telling a different story. “I hardly noticed him.”
“Dearest,” Sophia said to the tall blonde with an affectionate smile, “you must know that’s impossible. Your husband might be many things, but easy to ignore is not one of them. Even I noticed him. Any woman who wasn’t dead or dying would. He is a handsome man.”
By this time the other two had risen from their various study spots and gathered around the Hastings sisters.
“You are right about that, I suppose,” Daphne said with a grin. “Maitland is quite good-looking. But so is your vicar.”
“There’s a reason the church is filled every Sunday since his arrival in the village, Sophia,” Gemma agreed. “You’ve made yourself the most hated woman in Little Seaford by accepting him.”
“This calls for a celebration,” Ivy said with a grin. She went to the bell pull and when Greaves answered she requested a pot of tea and some celebratory cakes. “You are to congratulate Miss Hastings, Greaves. She has accepted a proposal of marriage from Lord Benedick.”
Sophia had been afraid that her easy relationship with the butler might have been ruined by the situation with Lady Celeste’s letter, but the man didn’t seem to hold a grudge over the scolding she’d given him. And since she was no longer angry about the omission, given his reasons for keeping it from her, she was pleased to see they could go on without further awkwardness.
“I am very pleased for you, Miss Hastings,” the butler said with a deep bow. “May I offer my best wishes for your happiness. Lord Benedick is a good man. I hope he will make you very happy.”
Touched by the older man’s words, Sophia went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Greaves.”
At that the butler turned bright red and murmured something about the tea and beat a hasty retreat.
Some minutes later, the heiresses were once more seated around a tea try and discussing one of Lady Celeste’s letters.
Knowing that Greaves’ role in keeping the letter away from her would likely poison them against the butler, Sophia had chosen to blame the delay in her receipt of Celeste’s letter on her own failure to discover it amongst the documents in the studio.
“How extraordinary of Celeste to leave it up to chance for you to find her letter to you,” Ivy said with a frown. “Though I suppose she was ill at the time she decided to do so.”
“I think she must have been,” Sophia said, sending a silent apology to the brilliant woman who had done so much to bring them together. “But the good news is that I have it now. And as a result we now know not only that the forgers are purposely recreating lost masterpieces, but also that they attempted to make it look as if Celeste was selling off a collection that her father had falsely claimed lost at sea. Whoever these people are, they are not only trying to profit from forged paintings, but they also sought to ruin Celeste’s reputation.”
“There are any number of people who must have been unhappy with Celeste and the way she chose to live her life,” Gemma said, frowning. “She was outspoken on a number of sensitive topics. Even in Little Seaford she wasn’t universally loved, though I believe she counted most of the local families as friends.”
“With a few exceptions,” Sophia reminded her. “I don’t believe she got on very well with Peter Morgan, though by the time he arrived in the village she was already becoming ill. Her description of him in her letter to me is not flattering and she does seem to have suspected him of being involved in some way in the forgery scheme.”
“It can hardly be a coincidence that the forged paintings found themselves into the homes of his cronies,” Daphne pointed out. “The odds of that happening purely by chance are beyond even my calulatory abilities.”
“No, it can’t be just by chance,” Sophia agreed. “He must be involved. And I think it very likely he had Framingham killed. Perhaps the art dealer was not comfortable with Morgan’s scheme to have Ryder killed once he’d become a liability.”
“But I don’t understand why Ryder is still alive if Morgan had decided to get rid of him,” Gemma said, frowning. “Even if he did say he wanted to wait until after the exhibition—presumably to show Ryder as an artist in his own right, and therefore hide his forgery—it would seem that the murder of Framingham made Ryder even more of a liability. He has to know that Morgan is the man behind Framingham’s murder.”
It was a conundrum, Sophia thought. Then, another possibility occurred to her.
“What if Ryder isn’t the forger?” she asked excitedly. “What if we’ve been looking at the wrong artist this whole time?”
“Explain,” Ivy said with a nod.
“It’s just that Ben and I have assumed ever since we visited Primrose Green with Lord Frederick that it was Ryder who had forged the paintings. Which made some degree of sense given what we’d overheard Morgan and his accomplice—probably Framingham—say at the cliffs. Ryder is Morgan’s protégé. He had plans for the man to be the star of the exhibition. After the exhibition, he would have served his purpose in making Morgan look good. The Primbles were full of stories about how unpleasant Ryder was and his skill at copying other artists. So, we put those facts together and agreed that Ryder was the likely culprit. But there’s more than one artist in the area. And Primrose Green has at least a dozen.”
“Are you saying the Primbles lied to you all?” Gemma asked, looking shocked.
“The only reason we were predisposed to believe them was Lady Celeste’s supposed friendship with Evelyn Primble,” Sophia said, “but if we work from what Celeste told us in her letter, about her father’s paintings, who among her acquaintance in Little Seaford was she more likely to speak of about her father’s lost treasure trove of valuable paintings?”
“Another artist,” Ivy said with a look of understanding. “Celeste confided in her friend about the paintings her father lost and Evelyn took advantage of it.”
“Celeste likely could find no proof that it was the Primbles,” Sophia said. “If she had she most certainly would have put some clue about them in her letter to me. All I can guess is that she had a suspicion. She knew Morgan was involved without question, given it was his friends who’d bought the forgeries. But beyond that she didn’t know.”
“Poor Celeste,” said Daphne with one of her rare bursts of emotion. “She trusted Evelyn Primble and was betrayed. Again.”
The four were silent for a moment as they considered how badly their benefactor had been treated by those in her life. Not only had she been murdered by someone who should have loved her, but her good name had been used to perpetrate a fraud within the very art world she held dear.
“We’ll simply need to avenge her,” Sophia said, her chin tilted in determination. “And I know just how we can do it.”
Chapter 25
As it happened, Ben was able to meet with the archbishop just after he left Mainwaring’s house. The man was taken aback to be summoned from his bed by his old friend’s son, but he’d always had a soft spot for the Duke of Pemberton’s boys and though he scolded over the reports he’d had fro
m the Bishop of Chichester, the church leader signed the special license with a flourish.
“Tell your father he owes me a game of whist,” he told Ben as he sent him on his way.
Sending a prayer of thanks that his father had happened to attend Eton with the future leader of the Anglican church, Ben returned to the Pemberton townhouse, intent on packing his bags for the journey back to Little Seaford.
He was met there by the Marquess of Kerr and the Duke of Maitland, who’d come as soon as their host had informed them of his presence in town.
“Why didn’t you tell us what was going on?” Kerr demanded with a scowl. He’d become a friend during Ben’s time in Little Seaford, and was clearly annoyed at being left out of the matter. “We can ride back with you in the morning.”
“I planned on heading back to the village tonight,” Ben said with a warning look. If they needed a night’s sleep before traveling then they would do better to remain in London and travel at a more leisurely pace.
“Do you really think that’s sensible?” Maitland asked, giving Ben a chiding look. “You’ve got bags under your eyes I could pack my entire wardrobe in. And your horse is likely exhausted from today’s journey. It will do neither of you any good if you have an accident on the journey back.”
Ben was about to argue, when Kerr added, “And Sophia is, in all likelihood, safe in her bed by now. If we set out early tomorrow we can arrive in time for luncheon.”
He stared at them, thinking. He’d been charging around on the energy his fear for Sophia had given him. But as if it had been conjured out of pure ether, he suddenly felt the weight of fatigue descend upon him like a water-soaked blanket.
“Come, man,” said Maitland. “She won’t thank you for getting yourself killed. Get some rest before you take to the road again.”
With a sigh, Ben scrubbed his hands over his face. “You’re right. I’m in no condition for another long ride.”
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