by Kelly Bowen
“What is it, Dufour?”
“Your cousin and his wife are currently in residence. Summoned by the estate’s solicitors, as I understand, to deal with the matter of your—” He stopped abruptly. “Your succession and inheritance, my lord.”
Eli was frowning. “They are here? Now?”
Dufour shook his head slightly. “They are out at the moment. Though in the sennight that they have been here, they have always retired quite early. I can’t imagine that they will be late.”
Eli’s jaw was tight. “I will try to return with due haste. Should I be delayed, please assure them that I will be available first thing in the morning to address any concerns that they might have and answer the questions I know they will.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Eli put a hand at the small of Rose’s back and guided her toward the stairs, leaving the butler standing behind them.
“What are you doing?” Rose asked under her breath as they retraced their steps.
“I’m going to get my paintings back.”
“What? From whom?”
The earl didn’t answer, only stalked across the expanse of his hall.
“Dammit, Dawes, you can’t just appear and disappear again. Shouldn’t you stay? Deal with your cousins? Your staff? You—”
He stopped without warning, and Rose almost crashed into the back of him. “And if you were in my shoes, right now, at this very moment, what would you do?”
She felt her lips press into a thin line. “I would go and get my paintings back.”
He smiled, though it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Exactly.” He spun and headed for the door.
“Will you at least tell me where you’re going?” Rose demanded as he stepped out into the night.
“You’ll see precisely where I’m going,” Eli answered grimly, tucking the reliquary under his arm. “Because you’re coming with me.”
Chapter 16
A small crystal dish of cards bearing the now-familiar crown emblem sat on the edge of the massive mahogany desk. But Rose barely noticed, so overwhelmed was she with the masterpieces that graced the walls around her. An art dealer, was how Eli had described the man they had come to see, one through whom most of Eli’s collection had been accrued. A man from whom anything might be had for a price. A man as famous for his fine tastes and extravagance as he was for the shadows that concealed his past.
Rose circled the room, drawn again to the wide canvas that dominated the wall across from the desk, and ignored Eli, who was pacing beside her. As a student in Italy, she’d been told that this painting had been lost. She’d seen a copy of its sister image, but that work had not possessed the aura of…ruthless purpose that this one did. A young woman, depicted in a black dress and wearing an expression of chilling detachment, stood over a prostrate man, his mouth open in a silent scream. With one hand the woman shoved the man’s head back, and with the other she severed his neck with a gleaming blade. Beside her an old woman smiled, clutching a bag and whispering encouragement in her ear.
“Do you like it, Miss Hayward?”
The question came from the doorway, and, a little unnerved, Rose turned from the painting to find a man watching her with keen interest. Beside her, Eli coiled like a panther about to spring.
“King,” Eli said, his greeting lacking any warmth.
The dealer acknowledged Eli and then returned his attention to Rose. “Well?”
“It’s one of his best, I think,” Rose replied slowly, eyeing the man who was walking into the room. He was fair, with reddish-gold hair that was reminiscent of the early Tudors framing pale-blue eyes set in an austere face. He was impeccably dressed, one hand resting atop an ebony walking stick.
“Rubens, you mean,” he said.
“No. Caravaggio.”
“Ah.” A red-gold eyebrow rose in approval, as though she had just passed a test of some sort. “For the record, I had the Rubens, but I sold it. This rendition of Judith beheading Holofernes is much more…visceral.”
Rose didn’t answer but merely glanced at the painting again and wondered just how this man knew who she was.
“You do not find the violence distasteful?” he inquired.
“Distasteful? Holofernes was about to destroy her home and her people. Judith did what needed to be done.”
“As do we all,” the man murmured. “Well said, Miss Hayward.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention to Eli. “It took you long enough to get here, Lord Rivers.”
“I beg your pardon?” Eli’s voice was like gravel.
The man strolled across his office and settled himself gracefully behind his desk. “I wasn’t sure you were ever coming back from that miserable little farm in Belgium.”
Rose heard Eli suck in a breath.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised, Lord Rivers,” the man chastised. “You can’t honestly believe your solicitors, whose names I scrawled on those documents, actually had the wherewithal to find you.”
Rose could see Eli’s fingers curl into fists at his sides. “It was you?”
“Of course it was I who tracked you down. Well, I suppose that’s not entirely accurate. I hired the wife of a friend. She’s very good at finding people who don’t want to be found.”
“Why?” Eli asked through clenched teeth.
King tapped his fingers on the silver handle of his walking stick. “Your collection is not large, but it is one of the finest private collections of Renaissance art in England, Lord Rivers. After your father died, I did not want to leave it at the mercy of whatever ignorant buffoons took over your estate. There was some uncertainty over whether or not you were actually dead. And I abhor uncertainty.”
“So you stole them?”
A shadow of cold impatience flickered across the man’s face. “I am going to choose to assume your manners have slipped during your sabbatical and ignore whatever slur you may have just made upon my honor. If I had intended to steal them, Rivers, I simply would have taken them. I would not have gone to the expense and trouble of verifying your survival.”
He leaned back in his chair and gestured at the reliquary Eli had left on the desk. “I would never have left you my card to find if and when you decided to return. Or left a paper trail of finely forged documents that even a child could follow.” He paused. “Now that you’ve finally chosen to live out the rest of your days as an earl and not a swineherd, you’ll have your paintings back. I merely kept them safe for you until your return.”
“You expect me to believe you did this out of what? Kindness?”
“Kindness,” King repeated silkily. He chuckled, as though he found that amusing. “It’s good business, Lord Rivers. You have always been one of my best and most discerning clients. You’re worth far more to me alive and in control of your fortune than you are penniless and scraping shit out of a pigsty.”
Rose stared, disconcerted by the emotionless manner in which that sentence had been delivered. She understood why this man revered the Caravaggio hanging on the wall behind her as much as he did. She rather suspected he might share a disturbing kinship with Judith.
Eli swore under his breath. He put his hands on King’s desk, his knuckles white around the edges. “And if you’d discovered that I was dead?”
“Only then would I have redistributed your collection to places where their worth would have been appreciated.”
“You would have sold them again.”
“Of course I would have.” There was no apology in his reply. “Art does a dead man no good.”
“Where are they?”
“Secured. I will have them delivered first thing tomorrow.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you feel the need to verify their condition before then. I am assuming that is why you decided to bring Miss Hayward with you this evening.”
Eli straightened and stepped back, his body partially shielding Rose. “Perhaps.”
“I take no offense, Lord Rivers. In fact, I applaud your insight. I can’t say
I wouldn’t have done the same. Miss Hayward’s reputation as an authority on such pieces precedes her.” King smiled an empty smile and pushed himself to his feet languidly.
Rose stiffened. “With all due respect, you do not know me,” she said.
“On the contrary,” King murmured. “I know a great deal about you. I know where you’ve studied. I know that you are too gifted to be spending your time rendering likenesses of insufferable children and intolerable lapdogs. I’ve seen your work.”
“Competent portraits of children do not make one gifted,” Rose said evenly. “They make one able to pay bills.”
He came around the side of his desk until he was facing her. “I’m not talking about those portraits, Miss Hayward. I’m talking about the ones so superbly sinful they possess the power to rob a man of breath and stir his blood. The ones that uncover everything extraordinary about a woman who might once have believed herself to be less than ordinary.”
Rose could feel the color drain from her face. Against her, Eli tensed and shifted.
King studied her. “Mmm. You think that’s a threat.”
“Is it?” The content of each of those paintings was her insurance that privacy was guaranteed for both artist and client. In all the years that she had been painting them, there had never been so much as a whisper. Yet that hadn’t kept her from being inordinately careful. She’d left no signatures, no clues, nothing that could ever be traced back to her in the event that one of her paintings should come to light.
It wasn’t herself she took those steps for. The reputation of Haverhall School was still tied to the Hayward name, and she had known from the beginning she could do nothing to jeopardize that. Rumor was a cruel and merciless adversary. Rose understood that better than anyone.
“Have a care, King,” Eli said in a voice that sliced through the silence and could not be mistaken for anything but a threat.
The man facing them stroked his chin, seemingly immune to Eli’s anger. A bloodred ruby on his little finger glittered in the light. “I am not in the habit of threatening those whom I hold in great esteem, Rivers,” he said, leaning his walking stick against the desk. “It serves no purpose, especially when I require something from that individual.”
“What do you want?” Eli demanded.
“Only Miss Hayward’s valued opinion.” The man stopped near a covered canvas, resting against a towering bookcase, that Rose hadn’t even noticed.
Rose eyed him suspiciously. “My opinion?”
“I’ve recently come into possession of something that I think will interest you both greatly,” he said, grasping the edge of the fabric covering the canvas.
Eli’s hand curled around her shoulder. “I’ve endured too much, I think, to suffer any more of your manipulations. We’ll take our leave.”
“I would consider it a favor. And I wasn’t asking you, Rivers. I was asking Miss Hayward. I’m quite certain she can speak for herself.”
Rose extracted herself from Eli’s side, curiosity edging out her better judgment. “My opinion on what?” she repeated, stepping closer to the bookcase.
“This.” King flicked his wrist, and the cloth slid from the painting it had concealed.
Rose stood rooted where she was, unable to tear her eyes away from the canvas. It was a masterpiece of sumptuous color, the nude woman seated against a background of midnight, a robe of rich garnet draped over her legs. Her fingers skimmed the single strand of pearls around her neck as she turned to gaze at her reflection in a mirror supported by two winged cherubs.
Rose wasn’t aware she had moved until she dropped to her knees in front of the painting.
“Venus with a Mirror,” she whispered. She leaned closer, studying the intricate detail and composition of each figure.
“Yes,” King agreed, stepping back slightly. “And not, I think, a copy by Rubens or Van Dyck. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“No.” Rose shook her head. “I’ve seen copies. This is his. This is Titian’s. The version he did for the Spanish king.”
“As I thought.”
Rose slowly got to her feet, unable to look away. “It’s…” She couldn’t even come up with a word that would adequately describe the value of the treasure before her.
“It’s rather poignant, don’t you agree? The…appraisal of one’s own appearance. Reflections are complicated things, are they not?”
She remained silent, unwilling to acknowledge the deliberate calculation of his words and unsure if they were aimed at her or Eli. “Has someone bought it?” she asked, if only to divert the conversation into less treacherous waters.
“No,” King said after a brief hesitation. “At least not yet. Though I do have someone in mind. There aren’t many who could afford such a prize.” He tapped a finger on the head of his walking stick. “Why do you ask, Miss Hayward?”
She gazed at the portrait. God, what she wouldn’t give to possess this. But a Titian was far beyond her means. “A work this exquisite should go to someone who cannot just afford it but who will appreciate its significance. Understand the narrative.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” King murmured. “Tell me what you see. What you hear.”
Rose studied the woman in the painting, her voluptuous beauty of a type that had been extolled by Renaissance poets over centuries. Fair skin flushed pink, soft blond hair, delicately arched brows, and red, generous lips. “This is a woman who has been told over and over that she is beautiful,” Rose said quietly. “The cupid is holding up the mirror so that she may admire her perfection. But she chooses not to. Her eyes are focused not on herself but on something—someone else. Someone who is not in the picture but is of greater importance to her than her reflection.”
“Perhaps the artist himself?” King asked.
“Yes. I’ve always liked to think that Titian was in love with this woman, whoever she was. And she with him. And this was his way of expressing his belief that a great love can eclipse all earthly vanities.”
“Hmmm. You have a way with words, Miss Hayward.” King stepped closer to the painting again. “I see his influence in your work, you know. Titian’s. This one in particular. Yet I believe you may be that rare case of a student surpassing the master.”
Her eyes flew to King’s, and she found him watching her again with the same unsettling intensity he had shown before.
“You capture the very essence of each soul. Their secret wants and desires, all there to see, should one only take the time to look carefully.”
“Thank you,” she managed, feeling uncomfortably adrift under this man’s scrutiny and praise. As if he were peering into her soul and all the secrets she kept there. “Where did it come from?” Another question to deflect attention away from herself.
King hesitated, as if weighing his answer. “The French have been almost as accommodating with their recent wars as they were with their revolution,” he finally said, gathering the cloth and draping it once again over the painting with unhurried movements. “All the treasures that their ambitious emperor…collected in his travels across the Continent have ended up in the most unexpected places now that he’s no longer here. I traded a crate of inferior brandy for this painting in a brothel in Marseille.”
Rose watched as he straightened and then finally turned back to Eli, who had remained silent during their exchange.
King was gazing at Eli, a strange glint in his pale eyes. “You see, Lord Rivers, what is lost when one does not understand what one possesses?”
Chapter 17
Three days.
Three days of meetings and paperwork and appointments. Three days of traipsing back and forth between the courts and offices and his home. Three days of assuring a staggering number of clerks and lawyers and magistrates that he was exactly who he said he was while avoiding and deflecting the inevitable questions that followed. Eli endured the expected stares and whispers, though it was difficult to tell if that was because of his appearance or because he had, in effect, risen
from the dead.
When faced with his cousin who had, until very recently, been poised to inherit an earldom, Eli had braced himself for conflict. But to his astonishment, Horace Dawes had nearly wept with relief at the sight of Eli. Armored in thick woolen tweed, thick silver whiskers, and a thick Irish accent, Horace had immediately confessed that he wanted nothing to do with any of it. He was a simple country man, given to simple pursuits, and he had come to London only because his conscience and sense of familial duty would not allow him to do otherwise. Horace and his wife had had their bags packed and passage booked before the sun set that evening. They left the next day, wishing Eli well and beseeching him to get married and have sons.
As many as possible and as quickly as possible.
Eli wearily rubbed his hands over his face. Outside his gallery window, the day had slipped away and darkness had fallen. He gazed up at the painting now restored to its rightful place above the mantel. A survivor of the many religious bonfires of centuries past, secreted away and finally rediscovered. A little like himself, he thought with no little irony.
It possessed the clean contours so characteristic of Botticelli’s work, and the centaur and the maiden he gazed up at had been painted as if caught in the dying rays of a sunset. The woman, dressed in a gossamer gown, had one hand on the beast’s back and the other on the bow the centaur clutched. She looked surprised, as if she had just discovered something unexpected and wasn’t entirely sure what to do next.
Not unlike how Eli felt after his disturbing visit with King.
Of course it was I who tracked you down.
Eli had turned King’s words over and over until he realized that dwelling on them was pointless. Whoever had found him and whatever their motivations, it didn’t change the present. Eli had, however, continued to second-guess the wisdom of bringing Rose with him. He had underestimated King’s cunning. He should have known that the man would know as much about Rose Hayward as he seemed to know about all those who might call themselves allies or enemies. And there had been muddy undercurrents churning beneath that entire conversation that Eli hadn’t understood or liked one bit.
