This had Charles laughing at Callum’s lack of fashion, all questions dropped. Just as he’d intended. With a nod of farewell, Callum made his way through the throng. One hand slipped into a pocket; with thumb and forefinger, he worried at the silver thimble he’d taken from Isabel.
He had put it into the pocket of his black clothing the night before. After leaving Isabel’s house in the dim dawn hours of the morning, he’d abandoned the torn and blood-soaked clothing in a dark alley near his rooms on James Street. Let the rag-pickers make of the fabric what they could.
The thimble he had kept, transferring it from his damaged clothes to his everyday breeches. It was silver, worth enough that he could have been transported for stealing it. He ought to return it. But he knew that he wouldn’t. Isabel had given it to him, and even though it didn’t fit and was far too fancy, it reminded him of her.
He slid onto the bench also occupied by Butler. “Mr. Butler, I believe?”
Butler grinned. “You hear correctly, stranger. You remind me of someone I know; can’t place him, though.”
“Best not, no.” Callum looked up at the front of the room, where Fox would ordinarily hold sway. “Our magistrate’s busy with some of your friends. What’s on with them?”
The pleasant wide face folded into lines of disappointment. “They’re no friends of mine, as you see. I went to the headquarters of the Royal Academy this morning, taking a painting I’d done. One that was recently returned to my keeping.”
“I know the sort of work you mean,” Callum said dryly.
“Right. I was proud of it and told West I wanted it in the Summer Exhibition. They let anyone enter, did you know? Anyone from the public, and if your work is accepted, it goes up in Somerset House.”
“That would be a coup,” Callum said. “Though if the painting in question were a copy of a painting notable in society, there might be . . . well, questions.”
“Right you are,” Butler sighed. “Old Westie spotted a stamp on the rear of the picture. Duke of Ardmore’s stamp. Right on the back of the canvas!” He sounded shocked.
“You don’t say.” Callum’s insides pitched. “I’d no idea the duke stamped his artworks. Though that’s not the sort of thing someone like me would commonly know.”
“I should have known. Noticed, that is.” Butler looked grim. “Faint it was, but the stamp was there. West called in a bunch of his cronies and they all marched me over here to see me arrested for theft.”
“As you haven’t been arrested, Fox must disagree with the charges.”
“Ah, well, that’s interesting.” Quickly as it had appeared, the grim expression vanished in favor of a sly look. “A lady was here just a short while ago. I didn’t know her, of course, but she said her name was something like . . . Lady Isabel Morrow? I think that was it, yes. She had popped in to leave a message for one of the Runners—”
“Officers of the Police,” Callum corrected reflexively. Isabel? She had come here with a message? “What message?”
“Police. Right. You’ll have to ask your magistrate about the message. If it’s for you, which it might not be, as you don’t know the lady. Or do you? I don’t know either of you, so I don’t know who you know.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
Butler held up one huge hand, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. “Little bit, yes.” He grinned again. “So when that lady saw all the to-do and asked what it was about, she looked at my canvas, and she said there couldn’t have been any theft, because she’d visited the duke only yesterday and seen his original painting in his study. And if it had been stolen, surely he’d have reported the matter.”
“Bold,” Callum murmured. “Very bold. I wonder if she really did call on the duke yesterday.” Why would she have done so? Unless they’d left some clue behind. The tools and rope dropped outside couldn’t be traced to anyone. Had there been some other sign?
“Everyone will find out, because Fox sent a messenger to the duke to confirm what the lady said. If Ardmore’s still got his painting, I get to leave.”
“How do you explain the stamp, then?”
“My fault.” The artist adopted a pious look. “It was unwise of me to try such a perfect copy. After I painted the picture, I thought to put the sort of stamp a collector puts on the back. As an artist, I’ve seen many paintings the Duke of Ardmore has loaned to museums and galleries.”
“It’s as likely a story as any alternative I can think of,” Callum said.
“I wonder what will happen if the duke says his painting has been stolen,” Butler said idly.
“He won’t,” Callum realized. “He can’t do that. If he hasn’t got a Botticelli painting, he hasn’t a way to pay his debt to Angelus. Which ought to be a private matter, but somehow everyone in London knows.”
With this, the unsettled tilt of his stomach righted itself. Perhaps Angelus circulated the information about his debtors, to ensure they’d pay what they owed. However it got about, this fact—that the Duke of Ardmore could not afford to lose his Botticelli—would be the saving of their foolhardy but necessary midnight errand. It would be the saving of Ardmore, too, not that he’d ever know it—and the saving of Andrew Morrow’s reputation, and Lucy Wallace’s marital prospects.
All in all, it had been a good night’s work. And afterwards, a better night’s pleasure.
“Paintings in exchange for debts,” Butler mused. “I like the idea. If I could sell some paintings of my own, I’d be in fine shape. I’d have my Angelica and our daughters here as quickly as a ship could go back and forth over the Atlantic.”
“I’ve no doubt you’ll make it happen. Though why submit a copy to the Royal Academy, rather than an original work?”
Butler drew himself up straight. Even seated, he was a large person, and he drew nervous glances from more than one of the chicken-necked snobs scattered about the room. “You’d think a man like me, big and dark-skinned, would draw notice. But instead, established artists overlook me. They make a point of it. As soon as a man gets ahead a little bit, he can’t wait to put his heel on the forehead of the person struggling behind him. All the better if that person hasn’t the same color of skin, or accent, or an address in the same part of London.”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry for it.” Callum sighed. “Damned sorry. So you put in the copy because you knew they wouldn’t kick Botticelli down. And maybe they’d even be curious about who copied his work so well.”
A sliver of a nod.
“I know you don’t need me to tell you this,” Callum said. “But your painting is the finest I’ve ever seen. Fox will clear you. If you like, I’ll remain here until he does.”
One side of Butler’s mouth pulled up, making the curled tip of his moustache dance. “It’s all right; be off about your work. As you say, I’ll be cleared. I only have to wait for a note from the duke, or for the duke himself.” His brows lifted with a sudden realization. “I hope it’s the duke. I’d like him to have a look at my work.”
Callum nodded. “You’re a brave man, Butler.”
The older man fired a dark glance at the suspicious artists who had dragged him to the courtroom. “Officer Jenks, I am what I have to be.”
Chapter Fourteen
With Lucy in tow, Isabel met Nash at the Bedford Square property, hoping to like it. She had set the hour of the appointment with Nash for late morning, before the round of essential social calls to be paid in the afternoon.
The first glimpse of the house was promising. It was one in a row: three stories of gray brick, with a doorway quoined in decorative stone, and dormer windows peeking out from the slate roof. The pavement before it was wide and clean, with trees overhanging the edge from the garden square. And was that birdsong? In the middle of London? The leaves of the trees whispered yes. On a bench in the square, a governess attended a baby in a pushchair while a girl about nine years of age chased a butterfly.
Isabel kept her face composed, but she wanted this house with
a fierceness entirely unfamiliar.
“I should like to see the inside,” she said demurely.
The knocker was off the door, the house’s furniture sold off. The servants had been dismissed and the home locked up. Isabel tapped her toes, impatient to get inside, as Nash fumbled through a ring of jingling keys in search of the right one.
Inside, the house was just as she’d hoped. Oh, the plasterwork was damaged here and there, and the paint needed refreshing. But the size of the rooms on the ground floor was good, the woodwork lovely, the floors neat and nice in marble and parquet.
The scent of the morning room was what cemented her decision to take the house. Still sun-warmed at this hour, its wooden windowsills had a musty, baked smell that rang some tiny bell deep within her. It was the scent of the wood-paneled entryway in the home of her grandparents, long-dead people who had treated her with love and kindness the few times she had been taken to visit.
She edged Lucy aside, out of Nash’s hearing, and asked, “What do you think of this one? Do you like it?”
“I do if you do.” Lucy smiled, her golden hair a halo that peeked out from beneath her bonnet. “It is very nice.”
Isabel pressed her. “What if I don’t like it? Would you still want to live here?”
“Oh, no!” Blue eyes opened wide. “I couldn’t live in a place you didn’t like.”
You do right now, Isabel thought, but she didn’t speak the words. Lucy was financially dependent, and that made her vulnerable. Isabel mustn’t press her too hard for an opinion Lucy was afraid to give.
“Run upstairs, then,” Isabel said, “and let me know if you see a bedchamber you would like for yourself.” While Lucy looked upstairs, Isabel descended into the basement, where the kitchen and servants’ hall shared space with the coal cellar, scullery, larder, and butler’s pantry. It seemed a good arrangement of the space, with plenty of light from skylights and high windows, and a large modern oven and cooktop.
Yes. This house was the right one. The one in Russell Square might be more fashionable, more elegant, more spacious. But this one was right. It was sturdy and pin-neat, half the size of her current house. She could dispense with the liveried footmen that Andrew had found so necessary, and some of the army of maids. She’d have Selby continue as her butler, of course, and would promote the best of the maids to housekeeper. Polly Anne; she knew just the one. And Celeste would remain her lady’s maid.
Which would leave Isabel to do . . . what?
She hesitated, one foot still on the servants’ stairs and one on the ground floor, and considered the answer.
She would sell the Lombard Street house, that was certain. As soon as ever she could remove her things from it. Maybe before. Nash could sell it furnished if the buyers wanted any of the pieces.
Once she was settled here—why, Bedford Square was closer to Bow Street than the old house was. It would be easier for Callum to make the trip to and fro. Easier for Isabel, too. He must not always be the one making the effort, reaching across great pieces of London. And if the barriers to being together were smaller, the distance shorter . . .
Did she want that? Was he to be a part of her life anymore? It seemed that only crime brought them together. Was there liking enough, esteem enough, to hold them together without an external cause?
She had gone to Bow Street this morning to see him, an impulse she now wished she’d checked. Society said men should be the pursuers of women, not the opposite. Of course, society also said women should remain chaste unless wed, and she had been pleasurably delighted to break that rule with Callum.
When she was finished going over the lower floor, she located Lucy, who had indeed found a sunny chamber to her liking, and then found Nash. He had appeared relieved that they hadn’t brought Brinley with them today. Throughout the whole tour of the house, in fact, he had been less supercilious than previously. Wise man. London was full of house agents. If Nash had treated her with arrogance, she would have gone through a different agent to buy the house.
“I have decided that I will have this house,” Isabel informed him, then named the amount she was willing to pay. “You will negotiate in good faith with the sellers, Mr. Nash. Convince them that they will be sellers, not merely renters.”
“That’s what you’ll do, and what Mr. Nash will do. And what will I do?” Lucy said impishly.
Isabel smiled. “You will accompany me on our errands and calls today. Fashionable ladies must keep up appearances.”
Just now, that was all it felt like: an appearance, to be kept up. The shadowed frippery of her current house was like clutter on her soul. The strong, well-kept lines of this empty house, gently gold-soaked by mist and sun, was like an embrace.
It reminded her of someone. Someone who was becoming a part of her thoughts every day, her dreams every night. But as a fashionable lady, she could not, just now, allow herself to speak his name.
* * *
Butler had been right: Fox had the note from Lady Isabel in his pocket. It was a few hasty lines, scrawled on Fox’s letter paper when Isabel had realized Callum wasn’t in the building.
Going to look at a house in Berkeley Square today.
Wanted to see if you’d like to accompany me.
—I
I, she said, as if the initial would be unmistakable—and it was. The short letter was so familiar, so casual. It stung him like water on raw new skin. She wanted him to look at a new house with her? She wanted him in her world?
He had told her she could not bring him into it. But now she was changing her world, and—and maybe she could find a place for him in it after all.
In early afternoon, he was finally able to head in Isabel’s direction. With her note in one of his coat pockets and the thimble in another, he loped off to Lombard Street. A rap with the door knocker brought the thin, inscrutable form of Isabel’s butler to the door.
“Officer Jenks,” said Selby. “Good morning to you.”
“Her ladyship sent me a message,” he said, “and I bring her a reply in person.”
“Her ladyship is not at home.”
Callum narrowed his eyes. “Is this the sort of ‘not at home’ where she just doesn’t want to come down the stairs and meet a caller? Or is she really not here?”
The corner of Selby’s mouth twitched. “The latter sort. Her ladyship has instructed me to admit you to her presence upon any occasion you might visit the house. At this time, however, she is viewing a house with a house agent, then intends to pay calls upon friends. Will you come in and wait?”
Callum glanced up and down the street. It was so quiet here, with not a cutpurse or pie wagon in sight. The familiar scent of coal smoke pervaded the air, but it was broken by breeze that carried fresh hints of dew. Sky peered blue between dithering rainclouds.
It was less than two miles from his rooms on James Street, yet it was a different city. He hunched his shoulders. “No need. I won’t stay. If she’s paying calls, she must be done looking at the Berkeley Square house. What do you know about it?”
Selby presented a blank expression. “Her ladyship appeared optimistic about the possibility of resettling in Berkeley Square.”
Callum mulled this over. If she took a new house, it would mean something. He just wasn’t sure what.
But, he realized, he had an opportunity before him on the stoop of Isabel’s house. A chance to learn more not about Isabel, but about the man who’d left her a widow. He had vowed to himself, and to her, to sort out his questions related to Andrew Morrow’s death. Selby could help.
“What do you recall,” he asked the butler, “of the late Mr. Morrow?”
Not with the flicker of a lid did Selby express surprise at this question. “His name, age, height, and approximate weight.”
“That’s the sort of nonanswer I would give,” Callum said. “Well done. What I truly want to know is whether he got on well with the servants.”
Selby’s brows lifted. “Is there a purpose to these question
s?”
“I’m not sure.”
The noncommittal answer, far from clamping the butler’s jaw shut, seemed to set him at ease. “You’re investigating the master’s death.”
“I am.”
Selby stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. His voice was low, hushed. “Has some new evidence come to light?”
Did the old evidence ever get a fair analysis? “Not as such. Lady Isabel said I might look into the matter.” Sort of. She’d accepted his insistence, perhaps because she hadn’t believed anything would come of it. And maybe it wouldn’t.
But after he’d wrapped her sprained ankle and spoken to her of justice thwarted, he wanted to see a bit more justice done.
“I am sure I don’t know what sort of information might help,” said the butler.
“Why don’t you give me something to start with, and I’ll decide if it helps?”
Selby’s face was admirably expressionless. “The late master paid a generous salary.”
“Why?”
“To receive good service.”
“You wouldn’t have given good service if he hadn’t paid more than the going wage?”
Ha. The butler’s nostrils flared. “Of course I would have. I merely indicate that he was not a closed-fisted man.”
Yes, but it was Isabel’s money he was spending. He’d come to the marriage with little but charm and connections—though it seemed to have been enough.
“Officer, can you truly expect to learn more about his death after this amount of time?”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“No, Officer.” The butler hesitated. “I have questions of my own.”
“I see. Did you have questions when he was alive?”
“I was not paid to have questions.”
Callum rolled his eyes. “A butler is a man sometimes. And then he can think of all the questions he pleases.”
Selby’s storklike frame relaxed. “Just so. I did not always know what to make of Mr. Morrow. He was gracious to the servants, and yet . . .”
Lady Rogue Page 18
