There was something else, however, that made the hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stand on end. That conversation he and Sophia had overheard was still fresh on his mind. And it was far too coincidental to imagine that there was more than one conspiracy at work in their little village.
With a quick nod, he indicated that his brother should continue.
“According to Mainwaring, your tiny Sussex village has over the past year or so been flooding the homes of the newly rich and shall we say, artistically unfamiliar, with forgeries of valuable and coveted paintings.”
* * *
Immediately, Ben thought of Sophia, though it pained him to do so.
How long had it been since her arrival at Beauchamp House?
Almost nine months exactly.
“What makes them think that the culprit is in Little Seaford?” he asked, careful not to reveal what he was thinking.
“They’ve traced the origins of the forgeries to one of the two galleries in the village,” Freddie said, his mouth twisted in amusement. “Who would have thought a tiny village like this would have more than one gallery? I’d say it barely has enough inhabitants to sustain one.”
“There’s an artist’s colony at Primrose Green,” Ben said distractedly as he tried to recall if Sophia had ever sold her paintings through the local galleries. He wasn’t as familiar as he might have been with her work because most of his time since arriving in the village had been spent getting to know his parishioners and ministering to the poorer families of the area. He’d attended a few social gatherings at Beauchamp House and the other gentry residencies, but he was hardly so well acquainted with Sophia that he knew the details of her business transactions.
To his frustration, Freddie noticed his shift in attention. “You’ve thought of someone,” he said with a sharp gaze.
Ben cursed himself for a fool and despite his instinct to protect Sophia, he decided to trust his brother.
“There is a local artist.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking down so that Freddie couldn’t read his expression. “She’s been here for about the same amount of time as you’ve indicated. But I have no notion of whether she sells her work through either of the local galleries. I don’t know enough about her art to assess whether or not she’d be able to create the sort of copies you’re talking about.”
He looked up and saw that Freddie’s expression had turned sympathetic. “That’s the way of things, is it?”
Unable to remain still, Ben stood abruptly and began to pace. “Don’t make assumptions,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I barely know the lady. But I have found her to be a pleasant enough companion and I suspect she is quite talented since she’s one of the four Beauchamp House heiresses.”
This had Freddie cocking his head. “Is she indeed? Of course we’d heard about Lady Celeste’s unusual bequest, since Leonora runs in intellectual circles—the sort that welcome ladies, I mean. But I don’t think I knew there was an artist amongst them.”
“A classicist, a mathematician, an artist and a naturalist,” Ben said. “But surely she would have no reason to do paint forgeries now that she’s safely in Beauchamp House.” He didn’t add that he wasn’t convinced that she had the sort of questionable morals necessary to pass her own work off as someone else’s.
“Isn’t there some sort of contest amongst them?” Freddie asked. “Whoever remains longest gets to keep the house?”
“Yes,” Ben said, waving his hand in dismissal. “But I think they’ve agreed at this point to simply share the house amongst themselves. Two of the ladies have married peers, and have no need of the house as a domicile, and the other two, Miss Hastings the artist, and her sister Miss Gemma, the naturalist, would be content to share, I think. As far as I can tell, she has no need for funds.”
“It is difficult to know what goes on beneath the surface with some people, Ben,” Freddie said gently. “For all you know the lady has gambling debts or dressmakers bills or some other sort of financial troubles.”
But Ben couldn’t see it. Then, something occurred to him. In context of what Freddie had said about the forgeries, he ran back through the conversation he and Sophia had overheard at Morgan’s.
“Would people who trade in forged art be the sort to eliminate a conspirator who no longer pulled his weight in the scheme?”
Freddie’s gaze sharpened. “Absolutely.”
Quickly, Ben related the details of what he and Sophia had overheard.
When he was finished his brother gave a low whistle—something their mother would have skinned him for if she’d been there to hear it. “I’d say you stumbled onto the very men Mainwaring is looking for,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “What are the odds?”
But Ben was lost in his relief that Sophia was no longer a suspect. His gut had told him she couldn’t possibly be the person Mainwaring hunted, but it was calming to know that was true.
“And you have no idea who these two were you overheard?” Freddie asked. “There was no hint of an accent? Or perhaps a phrase someone you know uses?”
“No, neither Sophia nor I could decipher who they were. Their voices were simply too low.”
“Sophia, is it?”
Dash it. Ben knew better than to speak to Freddie when he was fatigued. His brother was a master at reading his weaknesses.
“Miss Hastings,” he corrected himself. “I misspoke.”
“Did you, indeed?” Freddie didn’t seem convinced. “So, it was the Beauchamp House artist you were secreted with when you overheard our schemers? That is fascinating. Tell me more about this lady, whom you know so little about.”
“Freddie?”
“Yes, Ben.”
“Shut up.”
Chapter 6
Sophia spent a restless night, both because of her ankle and plagued by memories of the conversation she and Ben had overheard. Though ice from the icehouse helped with the swelling, the next morning it was still paining her enough that she welcomed Serena’s suggestion of sending for the doctor again.
“At the very least he can feel if anything is broken,” Serena said, her blue eyes dark with sympathy. “And perhaps give you something for the pain.”
Having managed only to move from her bedchamber into the adjoining sitting room, Sophia sighed. “You know I detest being ill,” she said, “but it is time to call Dr. Holmes. I thought perhaps when he was unavailable yesterday that I should be well enough, but it’s time for him to look at it.”
“Good girl,” Serena said with a nod of approval. “I’ll go send for him at once.”
The chaperone left her alone, and Sophia slumped back against the settee.
If she didn’t have such a fear of becoming like her mother, who took to her bed at the slightest hint of illness, she’d have agreed more readily to calling in the doctor. But though she loved both her parents, she had no wish to emulate either of them. Her father, the younger son of a Yorkshire baronet, made a prosperous living for himself as a solicitor in York, and had married as much for social standing as for affection. The former Miss Laetitia Gorham, now Mrs. Hastings, was a beautiful but rather spoiled beauty, whose wealthy parents had indulged her every whim. And her husband had continued doing so, allowing her to take to her bed with smelling salts at the least provocation. That Sophia and Gemma had gained any sort of standing in their chosen fields of study was entirely due, Sophia was convinced, to their Aunt Dahlia, the eccentric younger sister of Mr. Hastings, who lived with them.
It was from Dahlia that Sophia first learned to hold a paintbrush, and Dahlia who taught both Sophia and her sister that though they’d been born female, they were entitled to use the intellect they’d been gifted with to better themselves and the world. If it hadn’t been for their aunt, Sophia strongly suspected she and Gemma might have developed into the same sort of empty-headed young ladies she’d seen on the ballroom floor last evening.
Theirs had been an unconventional upbringing, to be sure,
but it had led them to be chosen by Lady Celeste Beauchamp to be her heiresses, and for that she had to be grateful.
She did wish, at this moment, however, that she’d been a bit less enthusiastic with her painting yesterday. Though, she reflected crossly, if it hadn’t been for the mysterious men on the bluff she’d not have gone flying over the edge.
Sophia wasn’t left long to brood, however.
Only moments after Serena’s departure, Ivy, Daphne and Gemma crowed into her cozy sitting room, followed by a maid carrying a tea tray.
“We thought you might need a bit of cheering up,” Ivy said from where she’d settled onto an overstuffed chair beside the tea table. “And tea always makes things better.”
“But you said we were going to quiz her about her tête-à-tête with Lord Benedick.” Daphne’s nose crinkled in confusion as she perched on the arm of the sofa where Gemma sat. “I do so hate it when I’m disappointed like that. Maitland has some very interesting theories about how they passed the time and I wished to prove him wrong.”
Gemma and Ivy groaned at their friend’s words, but Sophia simply sighed and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows, which was suddenly feeling tight.
“Daphne,” Gemma chided, her wide mouth quirked with frustration, “that was the part we weren’t going to talk to Sophia about, remember?”
“No, no,” Sophia said with a “pray-continue” gesture, “by all means, make your inquiries. Though I’m afraid the details of my time with the vicar last night will be sorely disappointing to you.”
“Well, you cannot blame us for being curious,” Ivy said, handing her a cup of steaming tea. “Lord Benedick is deliciously handsome and his manner last night when he tucked you into the carriage was quite solicitous.”
A memory of that moment when he’d been close enough to kiss flashed into Sophia’s mind, but she ignored it. “He is a kind man, who took it upon himself to help me. It’s hardly surprising given his vocation. I daresay he’d have done the same if it had been Gemma or Serena who needed his assistance.”
“I’ve never seen him look at Serena the way he looked at you,” her sister said dryly. “Though if you wish to pass it off as mere Christian kindness, then I suppose that’s your right.”
But Daphne looked disappointed. “Do you mean to tell me that nothing happened when you and the vicar were alone in the gallery?”
Thinking back to the conversation she and Ben had overheard, Sophia thought that Daphne’s assessment wasn’t entirely incorrect, but kept her own counsel on the latter. Instead she said, “Nothing like what you lot were hoping for. I must say I thought marriage would have both of you focused on your own affairs, but it would seem that it’s turned you into hopeless romantics. Not every conversation is a prelude to a kiss, you know.”
“They cannot help themselves,” her sister said reaching for an almond tea cake. “It’s like an illness they can’t help but wish on everyone else.”
Setting the silver teapot back down on the tray, Ivy then dropped a lump of sugar in her own tea and stirred it. “Just you wait, Gemma,” she said with a knowing smile. “It will happen to you and when it does I will be the first to congratulate you.”
“Then I hope you will live to see that day,” Gemma replied. It would take more than teasing to convince her sister that love was something she should consider, Sophia knew. Another personality trait that could be laid at their parents’ door. “Though I cannot think it will happen in either your lifetime or mine.”
“Never say never, my dear Gemma,” was Ivy’s only response as she sipped her tea. “There was a time when I thought no man could possibly be secure enough in himself to want a wife who could match him in wits and sense. But then I met Quill.”
To Sophia’s surprise, it was Daphne who played the peacemaker. “We only want you both to be happy, Gemma,” she said with a sweet smile. It was times like this that made friendship with the unconventional mathematician worthwhile. “I certainly never thought a man like Maitland of all people could bring me such joy. But here we are.”
Seeing the mulish set to her sister’s jaw, Sophia intervened before she could say something cutting. “And do not think we don’t appreciate it.” She gave her sister a speaking look and Gemma had the good grace to look sheepish. “Of course we do. Especially since we’ve seen your transformations for ourselves. But you must know we have to make our own ways. And sadly, there are no more of Lady Celeste’s nephews coming to stay, so it might take a while.”
Ivy colored a little. “I’m sorry, ladies. I just want your happiness, as Daphne says.”
The marchioness could be a bit autocratic at times—not because of her title, but because she was used to knowing exactly what she wanted—but she meant well, and Sophia loved her, bossiness and all. Sophia’s ankle gave a throb of pain then, and she winced, adjusting the cloth covered ice on it.
“Oh, dear,” Ivy said, noticing Sophia’s discomfort and setting down her cup and saucer. “We shouldn’t have descended on you like this. You’re obviously in pain.”
A brisk knock at the door sounded before Sophia could respond.
“Only look who’s come to look in on you, Sophia,” said Lady Serena brightly, as she preceded Ben into the room.
The vicar looked a bit nonplussed to see all four of the Beauchamp Bluestockings assembled, but soon regained his aplomb.
He was dressed for the country, in a pair of fawn breeches that showed his muscular legs to perfection, and a cutaway coat that did nothing to hide the broadness of his shoulders. But it was the way his gaze zeroed in on her once he stepped into the room that made Sophia’s breath catch.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, bowing. “I had hoped to see you up and walking, Miss Hastings, but I’m sorry to see that is not the case.”
To Sophia’s surprise, he proffered a small posy of pink roses and nasturtium to her. “I had my housekeeper choose these. I’m afraid I’m hopeless at such niceties. In town one only needs the services of good florist, you see.”
Their hands brushed as she took the bouquet, and to cover her blush, she buried her nose in the blooms. “They’re lovely, my lord. Thank you so much.”
Ivy and Gemma exchanged a look, and soon they rose and none too gently pulled Daphne along to join them. “I’ve just recalled that we were planning to organize the library section on animal husbandry this morning,” Ivy explained as she and Gemma dragged a protesting Daphne from the room.
“I’ll send up the doctor when he arrives, Sophia,” said Serena before she too decamped.
Left alone, with a half empty tea tray between them, Sophia and Ben stared at one another in disbelief.
Then burst out laughing.
* * *
“Oh, I am sorry,” Miss Hastings, said as she wiped tears of mirth from her face. “I don’t know what has got into them. It’s as if they’ve never interacted with human beings before.”
He was glad to see she’d kept her humor intact despite her injury and last night’s disturbance. On his walk over to Beauchamp House, Ben had debated whether to share what he’d learned from Freddie last night with her. There was no need to drag her into the matter, especially if, as the conversation they’d overheard had indicated, the men involved were ruthless.
Now, settled across from her in a tastefully appointed sitting room, he welcomed the moment of levity. Faced with the sight of her draped ankle, propped on a tasseled pillow, and the obvious shadows beneath her blue eyes, he was reluctant to add to her worries. Though he knew he must do so before the visit was over.
“There’s no harm done,” he said, leaning back a little in a surprisingly comfortable armchair. “And they are clearly fond of you.”
The easy manner between the ladies of Beauchamp House had been something that struck him when he first met them. It was not unlike the sort of bonds formed at school. And with the various upsets and disturbances they’d faced together over the past year—including attempts on two of the ladies’ lives—thos
e ties were more than skin deep. These friends genuinely cared about each other.
“Yes,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. “I just wish they didn’t all turn into Mrs. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice when a gentleman calls.”
At the mention of Miss Austen’s novel, he grinned. “So long as they don’t cast me in the role of Mr. Collins. I am a vicar, but I hope that is where the resemblance ends.”
This surprised a laugh from her. “I hardly think Mr. Collins would be the recipient of longing gazes from nearly every female in three counties,” she said tartly.
“Do not go on about that again,” he chided, referring to their discussion the night before. “I’m of no more interest to the ladies of the village than the next man.”
“If you say so,” Miss Hastings replied, not convinced. “Though I suspect there is a surfeit of baked goods in the vicarage kitchens that would contradict you.
“Well, I do say so, Wallflower,” Ben returned. “There is nothing unusual about the ladies of a village trying to feed their bachelor vicar. It’s a time-honored tradition.”
Her response to the endearment—warmth in her cheeks and a nervous nibble of her lower lip—sent a jolt of awareness through him. He might not be moved by the blandishments of the other women in the village, but putting this particular lady to the blush was dangerous to his own peace of mind.
“The tea is still warm,” she said with false brightness. “Shall I pour you a cup?”
Taking the proffered distraction with gratitude, he agreed and watched as she drew the teapot toward her and began fussing with the silver.
“Have you learned anything more about the mysterious men we heard last night?” she asked, as she handed him a cup and saucer.
Something of his dilemma must have shown on his face, because Sophia gave a little gasp as she looked up. “You have. Who were they? Do you know who it is they mean to harm?”
If he revealed to her what Freddie had told him, it might just endanger her further. But the intelligent gleam in her eyes told him that keeping the information to himself would likely do nothing to dissuade her from searching for more news on her own. Which might be even more dangerous.
Wallflower Most Wanted Page 6
