His Wicked Reputation

by Madeline Hunter

  “He will be more comfortable in the village. This house is too spare for him.” He nuzzled again. “Eva, I think I know where the treasure is.”

  She looked up, angling her head so she could see his face. “You do?” She threw her arms around him and squeezed hard in her excitement. “Where? Can we get our hands on it quickly?”

  “Eva, you are not going to like it. I put off telling you yesterday, but I am convinced I am right.”

  His tone, too kind, too gentle, made her joy disappear. “Tell me. I may not like it, but I pray you are correct.”

  He told her a peculiar story of lords packing up art and sending it north, and of that art disappearing at some time before they went to retrieve it after the war.

  “The pictures in my attic are part of it. Perhaps a third.”

  “This was the art you searched for?”

  “Yes. The question is how it got up there. For now, that is the only question, but of course another is—where is the rest?”

  “Do you fear someone will think you took it? And put some of it here?”

  “That is always a danger. I did not, of course. I think I know who did.” He turned her on her back, and rose up on his arm to look down at her. “A treasure, Eva. Those pictures are worth thousands. When your house was invaded, they pulled out steps to see the space underneath. They pried off wallboards, to see if anything lay behind. Those men did not seek something small, like jewels. Or money. They went to the attics, your attics, because they did not guess that what they sought was in mine instead.”

  She followed his thinking. “You think the treasure that will save my sister is right above us now. It is the pictures.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish you were right, but I do not think you are. If you are correct, that means my brother was involved and put them there. He was not a thief.”

  He caressed her face. “It may have been a prank gone awry. He may have disapproved, and gotten shot while trying to stop them, then could think of no way to return what he had without implicating himself.”

  She glared up at him. “You spent all of yesterday working out those excuses, didn’t you? I don’t think you believe any of that. Perhaps you should share what you do believe.”

  He fell on his back beside her. She was glad. She did not want to look at him now.

  “I think your brother and some friends learned where the pictures were stored. I think they found a way in, and moved them to another place, to wait until the war ended and they could be sold abroad. I think your brother got impatient due to his financial state and took what is in the attic and put it here because no one lived here anymore. He took more than his fair share. Either then, or when they found out, I think he was shot, by either a guard or an accomplice. Probably the latter.”

  And because of his wound, he could not sell anything. The pictures just sat there, a half a mile away.

  “Are you going to tell your brother this story?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat up and turned so her back faced him. She reached for her garments. “You will impugn my brother’s good name without any proof that the treasure they seek are these paintings. You will risk my sister to this bizarre theory.”

  She slid off the bed to go dress somewhere else. His grip on her arm stopped her. “Remember how your paintings were ruined, Eva? The views you had painted years ago? How they had been wiped with turpentine? Someone checked to make sure you had not painted over some of these pictures and hidden them in plain sight.”

  “That was just criminals being destructive.”

  “A lot of trouble for mere destruction. A knife would have been faster and more satisfying.”

  “Nigel died with nothing left but his good name. You are wrong about him. I pray your brother explains the error of your thinking to you, since you will not listen to me.” She jerked her arm loose. Clutching her clothes, she strode out to find another chamber in which to be away from him.

  * * *

  As soon as Gareth heard the horses, he knew Ives had not come alone. He opened the door to see two stallions galloping up the lane. The riders reined in and dismounted.

  “Lance insisted on coming,” Ives said. “He decided an adventure was at hand, and town was boring him.”

  From the looks of things, Lance hoped for a violent adventure. Three pistols and a musket were tied to his saddle. After a nod of greeting, he set about removing them. One by one he threw the pistols to Gareth, then carried the musket to the door. “You told him to leave his law books behind. I know what that means, even if he pretends he does not.” He passed into the house.

  Harold took the pistols out of Gareth’s hands. “I’ll be cleaning these, sir. But first I will ride to the village and inform the inn that two chambers are now needed, not one.”

  “Good man.” He had confided the basics to Harold, whose reaction to the kidnapping had been fierce and dramatic. Such things did not occur in peaceful English villages.

  “The lady will stay again tonight, sir?”

  “Until her sister returns, she will remain here.”

  Gareth went to the library. Ives already lounged on the divan. Lance prowled the first level, peering through doorways, taking stock of the property. “It is better than I remember. As a boy I found this place old and musty, but now it seems comfortable enough,” he said on joining them.

  “You should have seen it two months ago,” Gareth said. “Even the roof was not sound.”

  “It is only comfortable because Gareth has been making those improvements I told you about,” Ives said.

  “Better to spend the blunt that way than on bloodsucking lawyers,” Lance said. “Nothing personal meant by that, Ives.”

  “Apologies accepted.”

  Lance threw himself into one of the chairs and gazed up at the ceiling moldings. “It is just as well that I never favored this lodge. Otherwise, what with the good hunting land attached, I might be tempted to—”

  “Which you will not be, however, having already told the solicitor to drop the matter,” Ives said.

  It was the first Gareth had heard of that. Under different circumstances, he would have celebrated. Today, with Eva remaining invisible and with Rebecca in danger, he only reacted with allowing a corner of his soul to know some contentment that he was officially a man of property.

  Gareth brought out port and brandy and told them to help themselves. “Before you ask, there is only one servant, and he is taking care of your guns and horses.”

  “I’m not above doing for myself.” Lance poured himself a good measure of port. “So, whom are we going to kill?”

  Ives closed his eyes and shook his head. “No one, I am sure.”

  “Hopefully, no one,” Gareth corrected. That got their attention.

  First he explained the discovery of the paintings, and Eva’s unwitting involvement in the production of the forgeries. A long silence greeted the end of that half of the tale.

  “If that stationer Stevenson sold some to families in Birmingham, we must get the names, and contact them for the particulars of those sales,” Ives said. “That will prove neither he nor Miss Russell attempted to pass off her works as originals.”

  “My thinking exactly,” Gareth said.

  “No one has asked my opinion,” Lance began. “However—”

  “We knew we could count on you to give it anyway,” Ives said.

  “As I will. Not that either of you needs me to point out that it is essential to find the rest of the stolen works now. Otherwise, Gareth here becomes a convenient target of accusations. We have enough of that already, so it would be best all around if any revelation he has been in possession of a third of those works comes at the same time my fellow lords are celebrating the return of all of them.”

  “Not that we have any doubts about you, of course,” Ives said to Gareth.

  “None at all,” Lance said. “Of course.”

  “The lady, however—” Ives’s eyebrows rose.

&nbs
p; “She is telling the truth. I know her and she was ignorant from beginning to end,” Gareth said.

  “Again, finding all of the pictures will make that question a moot point,” Lance said.

  “It is already moot. I am saying it is. Her brother, now deceased, may not have been ignorant, however.” He described the invasion of her house two times now, and let them read Rebecca’s letter.

  “As you can see,” he concluded. “We now have a line that leads to the men who executed the theft. Find them, and we will find the rest of the pictures.”

  Silence. Lance and Ives sipped their drinks.

  “My plan is simple. First we need to get the girl back. I will leave a letter at the Four Swans to arrange that, and bring the pictures. You two will lay in wait at the inn, and follow whoever comes for the letter back to their lair. Once the girl is safe, we will pay a call on them, and retrieve the rest of the collection.”

  Ives set his glass down, rose, and strolled to the window, deep in thought. “Where is the lady now?”

  “Right here. In the garden, I think.”

  “It is best if we know for certain where she is from now on. It was wise to confine her here.”

  “I did not confine her. I brought her here to protect her.”

  “Whatever your reasons, the move was prudent.”

  Gareth did not care for the expression on Ives’s face. Normally one saw that scowl beneath a white wig in a courtroom when he served as the Crown’s prosecutor.

  “He thinks you may have interpreted your evidence incorrectly, Gareth,” Lance said, his gaze also on Ives. “I confess that I wonder too. The lady may not be so innocent. She is at the heart of everything you have told us. Do not pretend you have not seen that.”

  “It may appear so at first telling, but her role has been unintentional on all points. You can trust my judgment on that, or you can ride back to London. I do not need to spend my time protecting her from the two of you as well as the others.”

  “If the rest of the pictures are not found—”

  “Then you are to keep her name out of it entirely, Ives. Let suspicion fall on me, if that is how it must be.”

  Ives and Lance exchanged long looks.

  Ives did not press the point further. “Let us say we learn where the rest of the art is hidden. Do you think to ride up to the door and ask for it?”

  “Why not?”

  “We should ignore what that letter said, and bring the magistrate.”

  “If we inform him, he will want to bring fifty men with him. Word of that will travel ahead of us, and we may end up with nothing.”

  Ives rubbed his brow. “We do not want fifty, but it might be wise to have more than three.” He looked to Lance for agreement.

  Lance shrugged. “I’ve five pistols with me. I am expecting immediate surrender if we are well armed.”

  Ives sighed. “Let us have the lady join us so she can write the letter.”

  * * *

  Gareth found Eva in the garden. She sat on an old bench near the rebuilt section of wall. Her sketchbook lay on her lap, unopened.

  “They have arrived?” she asked, not shifting her gaze from where she stared down the garden to a small orchard at its back. Blossoms had formed on the fruit trees. A few more warm days, and there would be a haze of white and pink back there.

  “They are waiting in the library. We need you to write the letter to be left at the inn.”

  She did not respond, or look at him. He waited.

  “Did neither one of them question those copies I made?” she asked.

  “No. They know your character as I do.”

  “You are lying. You seek to protect me by serving up my brother instead.”

  He sat beside her on the bench. “Do you want me to make you the criminal, Eva? Do you want to spare your brother’s name enough for that?” He took her hand between his. “I will do what I can to keep his role from being well known, but they name him as their partner with this bold move they have made. I will not pretend they did not, because it would be convenient or might end your coldness toward me.”

  Her lashes fluttered. Her gaze lowered to the shrubbery and flowers, then to nothing. “I am angry with you, for forcing the truth on me.”

  “I tried alternatives. I had good excuses to offer last night.”

  “It appears we know each other too well for me to believe them. I am so embarrassed, Gareth. For him, and for me. To now face the duke, and Lord Ywain—”

  “They have nothing but sympathy and concern for you, Eva. And relief, that we can settle this quickly and your sister will be back home.” He stood, still holding her hand. “Come and write this letter.” He picked up her sketchbook and tucked it under his arm.

  She finally looked at him. As they walked to the house, she favored him with a small, rueful smile. “Whoever would have guessed that in seeking a few moments of wicked pleasure, I would find such a good friend.”

  He gave her hand a reassuring kiss. Whoever would have guessed.

  CHAPTER 25

  Eva sat in her library, trying to read. Three lamps burned, so anyone looking inside could see she was alone. They could also see ten paintings propped against the walls, their colors glowing like melted jewels.

  The plan was simple and, she hoped, not at all dangerous. She had carried her letter into the tavern all alone, and left it for the proprietor, with nothing untoward occurring. In it she acknowledged she had the treasure, expressed relief someone had finally come for it, and declared she would, of course, trade it for her sister. They were to come tonight and take the pictures that exceeded her brother’s share. If they did not bring Rebecca with them, she had threatened to raise the hue and cry.

  She tried to contain her fears, but they chewed away her confidence as time passed. No matter how often she reminded herself she was in no danger, that three armed men roamed outside and would watch everything, she could not remain calm. If Rebecca were not in the middle of this, it might be different. If Rebecca had not taken the pistol, having it nearby might have helped too.

  There was no telling how long she would have to wait. She tried reading again.

  She had turned ten pages when she heard a gentle commotion outside. Soft voices and quiet footsteps approached the house. She bent forward so she could see the reception hall. The door opened and Rebecca’s yellow dress appeared. Three sets of boots followed her in.

  She stood, and Rebecca ran to her. While they embraced, Rebecca whispered, “I’ve the pistol right here in my shawl. They don’t. Have pistols, that is.”

  Eva looked past her to the three men. One might be thought a gentleman on a good day, but drink had turned his skin ruddy and eyes shallow, even though he was probably only thirty years old. The other two were working men. She recognized the biggest one as one of the strangers she had noticed in the area the last couple of months. The other, smaller one’s presence shocked her.

  “Erasmus? How are you involved in this?” she demanded.

  He gave her one of his grins. “Just making sure no one gets hurt, Miss Russell, least of all you or Miss Rebecca. Some of these sort forget their manners at times.”

  “You can picture my surprise to see him upon being removed from the carriage that took me away,” Rebecca said. “I am very disappointed in you, Erasmus.”

  “Life has a way of doing that, Miss. Disappointing one, that is,” he said.

  The gentleman ignored them all while he peered at the pictures.

  “They call him Crawley,” Rebecca whispered. “Appropriate, since he makes my skin crawl when he looks at me.”

  Right now Mr. Crawley examined the pictures like someone who knew what he was about. These were originals, not her copies, in the event the thieves had very good eyes for art.

  “Where are the others,” he asked. “There should be more. Twenty or so.”

  “The others are my brother’s share. I was told I could keep them.”

  “The shares are not a matter of number, but
value. These here are the smallest, and not one third the value, so the rest is not all yours. Not that offering that was agreed to by me to start. I will need the others too.”

  “My brother insisted the rest were ours. He was very clear on that when he told me the location of the art while on his deathbed. Therefore, I arranged for their sale.”

  Crawley’s expression hardened. “You sold them? That was most unwise.”

  “I said I arranged for their sale. This was recent, and they are not yet sold as I understand it.”

  “Then I ask again, Miss Russell. Where are they?”

  “I expect they are still in the possession of the agent who will facilitate the sale. Mr. Gareth Fitzallen.”

  Crawley’s colorless eyes reflected astonishment, then humor. “Fitzallen! Aylesbury’s mongrel? Now that is delicious. I expect it is back to town for me to speak with him. I regret your sister must accompany me until the share you keep is indeed fair.”

  He gestured to the large, rustic man who had stood silently through the entire exchange, and at Erasmus.

  “Best if you come, Miss Rebecca,” Erasmus said.

  “I do not think so. I will stay here.”

  Crawley sighed with exasperation, and gestured toward her while glancing to the big man. Those heavy boots took two steps.

  Eva dug into the bundled shawl and brought out the pistol. “Neither my sister nor I will be kept as a hostage in this misunderstanding. Go and speak with Mr. Fitzallen if you must. You do not need to travel to London since he lives right up the road. The rest of my brother’s share is there, awaiting transport to the coast.”

  The pistol stopped the big man, who appeared confused at seeing the weapon. He scowled at Crawley, as if the rules in some game had unexpectedly changed without warning. Crawley eyed Eva then the pistol. “I’ve yet to see a woman hit her aim with one of those. Hell, women don’t even know how to load them.”

  “I practiced until I could, after your men tore my property to pieces. I can overlook that if our business is completed with fair dealing, sir, but I will not allow my sister to be at a stranger’s mercy, especially if I have concluded that stranger’s honor is dubious.”