The chambermaid brought her tea and bad news at about noon. The Quintons had been called away suddenly a few days before. They weren’t at home, and their servants didn’t know when they’d return.
Thomas planned to invite Miss Brotherton for a stroll or a drive in the park, to see if they could find common ground that didn’t involve anything antique. He’d ended up having to hear the talk about barrows and shuddered to contemplate a lifetime of such entertainment. Until he thought of Maria and Sarah and their future and the thirty or forty thousand pounds he needed to find to dower them respectably. For the sake of his sisters, he could put up with ancient tombs at meals, especially if the conversation was occasionally varied with more congenial topics.
He could do this. There was nothing wrong with Miss Anne Brotherton, nothing at all. And everything right about her fortune.
It rained all day, but the next dawned bright and sunny. In London, one couldn’t call on ladies at a sensible hour, so he left his hotel and headed east for a walk around Leicester Square. All London seemed to appreciate the change in the weather. There was a cheerful liveliness in the air and on the faces of people in the streets: shoppers, delivery boys, and street sellers. A pretty young girl, little more than a child, tried to sell him some violets, and he promised to buy them on the way home. Wooing was supposed to be done with flowers. Mrs. Townsend would like them too. She was just the kind of woman to appreciate a simple posy.
He enjoyed this particular route, its mixture of shops and residences giving him plenty to look at while he took the air. After a brisk twice around the square, he caught sight of a picture in a window, a view of Odiham Castle. He’d never paid any attention to this particular establishment. Glancing up, he saw that it wasn’t really a shop but more like a private house, quite a substantial one, with pilasters dividing the window bays on the upper floors. A discreet brass plate bore the words Isaac Bridges, Picture Seller.
On impulse, he knocked at the door and was admitted by a liveried servant, who directed him upstairs to a large rectangular room, unlike any Thomas had seen. Full two stories high, it was ingeniously designed to admit as much daylight as possible, from the double row of windows on the street front and others set into a raised ceiling. Like Mrs. Townsend’s drawing room, framed pictures covered every inch of the walls. The furnishings were also like a drawing room, with sofas and chairs upholstered in red velvet and marble-topped tables of various sizes, some bearing bound folios and loose prints. Additional works were displayed on easels. A servant served tea to a pair of gentlemen who occupied places in front of a large canvas depicting a scene of sword-bearing Romans. They spoke in tones of respectful solemnity, but Thomas, seeing the expressions of exaggerated nobility worn by the toga-clad subjects, wanted to laugh.
His exploration of the gallery was interrupted by a fellow with the dress and manner of a gentleman but just enough servility of air to place him in the tradesman class. He asked, very politely, if he could offer his assistance.
“I am Castleton,” Thomas said. “I’m interested in the picture of Odiham Castle in your window.”
Though not a well-known figure in London, his title was sufficient to identify him to a merchant who doubtless made his living catering to the aristocracy. The man’s bow perceptibly deepened.
“A watercolor by Mr. Sandby, Your Grace. A charming little work. Your Grace will be interested in a view so close to your own house.” Thomas wondered whether a study of the peerage, and perhaps The Seats of the Nobility and Gentry, was a necessary qualification for employment by Isaac Bridges. “I’ll have the piece brought up for you and inform Mr. Bridges of your presence.”
A tall figure in black, minutely examining one of the larger canvases, had escaped his attention until the man turned around. He and Denford recognized each other, and the other duke walked over.
“Good morning, Colton,” he said to the attendant. “How are you?” Thomas had never seen Denford behave as affably.
“Very well, thank you, Mr. F—, Your Grace.”
“Bridges said he’d let me know about the Guido Reni this morning. Is he in yet?”
Colton seemed flustered. “Indeed. I was about to let him know His Grace had arrived. I’ll tell him Your Grace is here too. Thank you, Your Grace.” He bobbed his head twice, toward each duke, backed away, then turned and positively scurried through a door in the corner of the room.
“Poor Colton,” Denford said. “I’ve been buying and selling pictures here for years, and he doesn’t know how to deal with my elevated status. When I was a callow youth, Bridges would have him make insultingly low offers for my pictures, or refuse me credit when I wanted to buy. It pains him very much to think he treated a future duke so rudely.”
“Fond of dukes, is he?”
“They are his very favorite thing, aside from van Dykes. He’d be in ecstasy to have two in the gallery at the same time if one of them wasn’t me.”
“He finds it hard to forget you were formerly in the trade, then?”
“Formerly! I’m still in the trade, Castleton. How else am I to live? This cursed title comes with many responsibilities but very little income, until the question of half a dozen instruments of entail, going back almost a century, emerges from Chancery. In principle, I could end up as rich as Beckford or Devonshire. In practice, I expect only the lawyers will prosper.”
Thomas wondered again why Denford wasn’t pursuing Miss Brotherton or some other heiress. Yet he felt an inkling of admiration for the fact that he had a gainful occupation. If he himself were suddenly to lose most of his estate, he feared he’d be in a bad way, lacking any useful skills.
Colton returned, accompanied by Mr. Bridges, who greeted the two dukes with much greater poise than his junior colleague. He was a man of about fifty, attired with discreet elegance and with an air of command to match. He welcomed Thomas with a subtle blend of confidence and deference, such as a trusted man of business might use. He then graciously commended him to Colton, who had brought the picture of Odiham Castle up from below, and stepped aside to converse with Denford.
Colton enumerated the virtues of the piece, then set it on a small easel and invited him to sit and peruse it at his leisure. Thomas refused his offer of refreshment and pretended to ponder his purchase of the Sandby. He didn’t really want to buy the watercolor, agreeable as it was, and wondered what he was doing in the place. Rather than having any real interest in pictures, he was if anything averse to them. His father’s expenditures on works of art were not the main cause of Thomas’s less-than-flush finances, but they’d contributed to the problem.
A view of Venice caught his eye, remarkably similar to one he owned. He walked over to see if he could spot any differences between them and overheard Denford and Bridges, who were standing behind the protection of a large picture on an easel. He gathered Denford wasn’t having much luck persuading the dealer to buy the picture he’d offered him.
Bridges kept his voice low, but Thomas had acute hearing. “I’m sorry, Julian,” he was saying. “I can’t see paying that much for the Guido Reni without the immediate prospect of a buyer. I have too many similar pictures on hand.”
“And no doubt the harvest was bad, your ship went down in the Bay of Biscay, and your wife wants a new carriage. I’ve heard every excuse and used them myself in turn.”
“Very true, except that neither one of us has a wife.”
“Mistress, then, and in that case she’d be asking for a diamond necklace. The fact remains, you don’t want to buy a picture that I need to sell. How inconvenient.”
“There is something that would interest me very much. I heard a rumor the Farnese Titian has reappeared. Or rather that Townsend never let it go. It’s one of the great regrets of my career that I never possessed the Venus. I came close in ’93, but Townsend beat me to it.”
“Me too. Robert could have been a great collector had he the will to persist.”
Thomas gave the conversation his full attention, realiz
ing they spoke of Caro Townsend’s late husband.
“The word is,” Bridges said, “that Townsend never sold the Venus after all. That Mrs. Townsend still owns it.”
“What’s this to me?”
“I know you are on close terms with the lady. You could, perhaps, persuade her to let us find the picture an appreciative home.”
“Where would that be?”
“Come, Julian. You know I’m not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, I know a collector who would pay four, maybe five thousand for it. I’d make sure you profited from your influence.”
“Profited from my old friend’s widow?” Denford sounded amused.
“Don’t pretend to scruples you don’t possess. Besides, there’s no question of underhanded behavior. There’s plenty of profit to be had while making Mrs. Townsend a handsome offer.”
“Assuming Mrs. Townsend has the painting.”
“You think she doesn’t?”
“I think it highly improbable.”
“Will you ask her?”
“I’ll look into the matter.”
The flatness of Denford’s voice struck Thomas. He didn’t know the man well, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn he knew more than he admitted to Bridges. Thomas wondered whether Mrs. Townsend could possibly be in possession of a picture worth five thousand pounds. He had observed that the Conduit Street household was hardly a lavish one, remarkable in that it housed, as a guest, one of the richest women in England. Mrs. Townsend didn’t appear to share her cousin’s prosperity. Thomas wondered what kind of a man Townsend had been, to leave his widow in such straits.
Bridges spoke again. “I bought several of Robert Townsend’s pictures when Quinton was selling up his belongings, trying to settle his debts and leave something for the widow. I asked about the Venus, of course, and was told Townsend disposed of it before he died. I find it odd that such a great work of art should vanish from sight. When I heard a portrait of a nude Venus had been seen in her house, I thought the mystery solved.”
“Caro does indeed have a nude in her drawing room,” Denford said, “the work of one Oliver Bream, a young artist patronized by Robert Townsend.”
“Never heard of him. Should I look into this Bream? Townsend always had a good eye.”
“My dear Bridges,” Denford said. “You know better than to ask me. I’d say Bream has a certain facility with the brush, but I have no time for modern art. Why don’t you see if you can hawk the Sandby to Castleton. Or better still, that hideous Caracci. His father would buy anything.”
Thomas cleared his throat, loudly.
“There you are, Castleton.” Denford seemed quite unabashed.
“I’ve decided I’m not in a buying mood today,” Thomas said. “Your premises are impressive, Bridges. Good day.”
“In that case, I’ll walk out with you. I’d like to see that black eye in full sunlight.” Denford took his arm. “Quite nice,” he said once they reached the street. “A sinister combination of colors worthy of Caravaggio.”
Not having any idea who Caravaggio was, Thomas let the comment slide. “I’ve a bone to pick with you, Denford. While I appreciated your coming to Mrs. Townsend’s and my assistance the other night, you prevented me from hitting Horner.”
“And why did you especially wish to hit Horner? Not that I don’t applaud the sentiment. His taste in coats alone is enough to drive a man to violence. What did he do to arouse your ire?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like stripes. And I don’t like his attitude toward Mrs. Townsend.”
Denford leaned on his walking stick, an elaborate ebony affair with a silver top whose assistance he certainly didn’t need, and fixed Thomas with an unwavering and unnerving regard. “What’s Caro to you?”
“She is Miss Brotherton’s cousin.”
Denford raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Caro can look after herself. Let her deal with Horner.”
Thomas’s chest shook with the onset of an unexpected rage. Denford had been Robert Townsend’s friend, as had Oliver Bream. Yet instead of looking out for his widow, all they did, as far as Thomas could see, was batten off her. “A lady,” he said through clenched teeth, “should not have to deal with a man like Horner. Her friends should deal with him on her behalf.”
“I grant you the man’s a reptile. But you can rest easy for a week or two. He’s left town for Newmarket.”
Chapter 9
The absence of the Quintons was a blow. Since the mail had already left that morning, Caro had to spend another night before returning to London. A lady taking a bed for the remainder of a night, while on her way to visit a well-known local family, was one thing. A female staying alone without a maid for no particular reason was not likely to win respect or good service from the staff of an inn used to serving a well-to-do racing crowd. Nor was she able to sweeten her reception by the expenditure of largesse in the way of tips. She had enough money for her return ticket, her bed, and modest board, but little more.
No doubt there were people she knew in the neighborhood, perhaps even in this very inn, which was already filling up with sportsmen arriving for the spring meeting at Newmarket Heath. Though betting on horse races wasn’t Robert’s preferred method of gaming, he never entirely eschewed an opportunity to lose money. But she was not eager to make herself known. Her presence here wasn’t going to do much for her reputation. At other times, this wouldn’t have bothered her much, but she was Anne’s chaperone now. And her pride rebelled at explaining to anyone why she had traveled all the way to Newmarket, only to turn around and go home a day later.
Very inconvenient her pride. Once delicate inquiry had shown that Anne wasn’t in a position to assist her, she’d fobbed her off with a story about her sudden need to visit Cousin Eleanor. If she couldn’t bring herself to confide in her dearest Annabella, she certainly wasn’t going to confess her problems to a mere acquaintance.
Not wishing to stay cribbed in her room on a fine day, she slipped out for an afternoon walk, protected from the breeze and curious eyes by a wide-brimmed bonnet and shawl. Despite a stiff wind, she relished the wide-open spaces of the heath, the sun on her face, the distant thunder of hooves, the splendor of superior horseflesh crossing the gallops. Though flat compared to the rolling hills of Somerset, it took her back to the happier moments of her childhood. Growing up, she’d longed only for the bustle and excitement of town life. She and Robert had lived most of their married life in London, rarely visiting his country estate, overshadowed as it was by the gloomy, neighboring presence of Caro’s mother. But on a day like this, country life didn’t seem so bad. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air free of coal dust or the myriad town stenches.
Not even the exhilaration of wide-open spaces, however, could keep her mind off her predicament for long. Alone, without the distraction of company, she could no longer deny her financial straits. She couldn’t continue as she had. She’d never pay off Robert’s debts, and, meanwhile, she was accumulating her own. As for Horner’s thousand pounds—and interest, that terrifying concept designed to sink its fangs into a debtor’s flesh and bleed it dry—it was hopeless. Who would lend her such a sum? And if someone did, how would she ever pay it back?
Once Anne married, she might be able to give Caro the money. Unless she had to get permission from her husband. Would Castleton allow Annabella to rescue her? Caro had no idea. The duke confused her. Her instincts told her he was a good man, but her inconvenient attraction to him made it hard to judge his character.
His decision would doubtless come down to duty, weighing Anne’s duty to her cousin against his own family needs.
Her best solution was no doubt, as Julian had suggested, to find another husband, a prospect that filled her with little enthusiasm. Not only was she unlikely to find a man who inspired the ardent love she’d felt for Robert, she also feared a husband would wish her to mend her ways, make her settle down to respectability as Robert had never demanded. Her marriage to Robert had been perfe
ct. Whatever anyone said, she would never find another who made her as happy.
The question was moot, however. Not only did she have no one in mind as a possible husband, no one had her in mind either. She could think of quite a number of men of her acquaintance who’d be happy to take her to bed, but not a single one who’d marry her. Unless one counted a young painter, a friend of Oliver, who regularly proclaimed his undying passion for her. He’d be delighted to marry her and come and live in her house, off her income. Her only masculine recourse was Sir Bernard Horner and his ilk.
A trio of horses thundered by, including a gorgeous gray, mane and tail flying as it passed its companions, neck extended fully as though reaching for a finish line. She envied the creature the simplicity of its life, no decisions to make, no answers to complicated questions to seek. Merely to run as fast as it could and reach the end first.
Her return to the Greyhound coincided with the arrival of a traveling coach in the inn yard, an equipage of some luxury. Its occupant looked at her through the window as it passed. She huddled into her shawl, turned her face away, and hurried into the building, but not before she recognized the man. Judging by the surprise on his face, he’d seen her, too.
“Sir Bernard Horner’s arrived,” she heard the hall porter inform one of the servants. “Mr. Hobbs will want to know and show him up to his rooms himself. Tell the cook, too. She knows what he likes.”
Five minutes later, as she stripped off her outer garments in her room, she tried to decide whether the coincidence of Horner’s staying in the same inn was a blessing or a curse. Perhaps she should see it as a sign, an opportunity. The trouble was, she could think of only one way to make him forgive the debt, and she wasn’t at all sure she could stomach it.
Expecting to dine with the Quintons, she’d packed an evening gown in her valise. She rang for a chambermaid and asked the girl to bring her hot water and press the muslin. She washed most of her body—she couldn’t afford a bath—and drew on her best silk stockings, smoothing them carefully over her knees and making sure the garters were snug.
The Importance of Being Wicked Page 9
