She flushed deeply then, her eyes growing wide with astonishment as she sank into her corset. He had rendered her speechless, which he apparently noticed, or expected, because he stood at that moment, adjusted his coat, then walked around the tea table to gaze down at her face. She just stared at him, unsure what to do, thoroughly confused by his motives. He reached out with his hand, palm up, and after several seconds of gaping at it, she realized he wanted her to take it and stand before him. Reluctantly, she grasped his fingers as gently as possible, and he helped her rise on shaky legs to meet the level of his gaze, his thumb closing over her knuckles to keep her from pulling away.
“Your price sounds reasonable and I accept it, madam,” he murmured softly. “I will be here in the morning for our first sitting. Is ten o’clock a good time?”
She nodded in slight, jerky movements, captured by his mesmerizing eyes.
He raised her hand to his mouth, his gaze never moving from hers as his lips lingered and his warm breath caressed her delicate skin, making her shiver within.
“I’m very much looking forward to tomorrow,” he said huskily. “Until then.”
She didn’t argue. With a brief curtsey, she simply muttered, “Your grace.”
And then at last he released her and turned, walking out of her parlor, his shoes echoing on the parquet floor as they had at his arrival.
It took minutes, it seemed, for her heart to stop pounding, for her body to move again. But instead of leaving the parlor herself, she fairly fell into the sofa, her skirts crumpling around her in a heap she hardly noticed as she tried to put some rationale behind their most atypical conversation.
He had changed dramatically from the thin, dying man she’d tried to help all those years ago. That he had filled out muscularly to become a stately, virile gentleman was a complete understatement, though she couldn’t quite decide why such an acknowledgment of his amazing recovery intimidated her. And it wasn’t just his appearance that caused her so much worry. The fact that he had reentered her life so unexpectedly, and in such a peculiar manner, made her question every single thing he said and did. Frankly put, she didn’t believe in coincidences this great, which meant she couldn’t trust him at all.
But she had her own card to play should he threaten her in any way. After spending hours with him in the dungeon, where he’d spoken in a drug-induced haze, sometimes incoherently, sometimes clearly, she knew a secret or two about him that, should he endanger her or her son’s future, she would use as a weapon in confrontation. True, her confusing feelings for him were as acute as they had been five years ago, but now she understood herself better, and she realized with fortitude that she wouldn’t be so quick to fall victim to her attraction this time.
No, all things considered, she had a power to stay ahead of whatever game he might be playing, or even worse, whatever war he intended to wage. That thought in mind, she stood, straightened her skirts, then walked swiftly out of her parlor to make the needed arrangements for their first sitting tomorrow—while considering every possible angle to ensure her social and financial survival.
Chapter Four
He tried to stand today, but soon realized they’d chained him. Watching him struggle makes my heart ache so. . . .
Ian sat at the large oak desk in his study, listening to the steady rainfall outside, staring at a letter he was trying to write to his sister, Ivy. It was of little use, however, as he simply couldn’t concentrate on mundane topics that might interest a marchioness and expectant mother. And he certainly wasn’t going to let her know of his contact with Viola. The two ladies had met five years ago, during his captivity, as Ivy had tried to find and free him, but even as a famous seer, his sister had never felt any malicious intent from Viola, as she had from the woman’s sisters. Ivy could be very stubborn, too, and he knew from either experience or some shared intuition that his twin would be mighty mad at him to learn that he intended to establish some justice of his own where the former Miss Bennington-Jones was concerned. But even as he tried to simply answer the trivial questions she’d posed in her last letter, his mind, usually centered and controlled, kept wandering to the fascinating Lady Cheshire.
He would be leaving shortly for his first portrait sitting, and he expected her to try to keep the conversation between them formal, the topics general and of a social nature. Keeping his own words and thoughts in check would likely prove to be difficult, however. He knew he made her uncomfortable each time they were together, and that she was drawn to him—something he would use to his advantage. When he’d first started this quest for justice, he hadn’t been exactly certain how each detail in his plan would be accomplished. But after spending a bit of time with her and witnessing her inability to hide her confusion at his unexpected return into her life, her unsettling attraction to him, and, most of all, her fear of being discovered, he now had a better idea of how to bring a woman like Viola to her knees.
A light rapping on his study door cut into his musings.
“Come.”
Braetham entered. “Your grace, Mr. Cafferty has arrived.”
Ian looked at the large clock over the mantel. Three minutes to nine. As always, Cafferty arrived precisely on time.
“Send him in,” he said, sitting forward and adjusting himself in his oak rocker.
Braetham nodded. “Very well, your grace.”
Ian had hired Milo Cafferty, a distinguished and rather exclusive investigator who worked only for those with the means to afford him, to do his level best at uncovering each secret the Lady Cheshire kept to heart. He’d been well worth the hefty expense, too, as the man had been able to discover her whereabouts in London within four days of his hiring, learn some of the more intimate details of her marriage and the state of her finances in less than two weeks, and let him know the moment she’d officially come out of mourning. They generally met once a week for updates, but late last evening the man had sent word of new information regarding Lady Cheshire and had requested they meet as soon as possible. Ian had obliged him, asking Cafferty to be at his town house before he left for his sitting. As always, his well-paid agent of inquiry did his bidding without question or argument.
Ian stood as he heard footsteps in the hallway, taking note as he always did of the man’s extremely lean and tall frame when Braetham admitted him into the study seconds later. Now in his midfifties, Milo Cafferty had been retired from the metropolitan police force for some seven or eight years due to a foot injury incurred during a building collapse at the docks, which had resulted in a very pronounced limp. And yet what struck Ian every time he met the man was his overtly cheerful nature, emphasized by his oiled, thin mustache that he curled into the shape of a long smile in front of his cheeks. Quite a contrast to the image one would have of a retired, injured police officer who no doubt lived in a measure of constant pain.
“Good morning, your grace,” Cafferty said in fair English, staggering somewhat inelegantly across the Persian carpet, arm extended, the usual grin spanning his gaunt face.
“Morning, Mr. Cafferty,” Ian replied, moving around his desk to greet the man. After shaking hands, he directed him to one of the wing chairs across from him.
Cafferty lowered his body with effort, then stretched his injured foot out in front of him. “Shall I begin, your grace?”
Ian returned his rocker. “Please. You said it was important news?”
“Fascinating news, more like it, sir,” the man countered, his conspiratorial-laced excitement charging the air. “And I’m not sure what to make of it.”
Ian remained silent, allowing the investigator to gather his thoughts.
Cafferty pulled at the collar of his shirt as if it strangled him. Then after clearing his throat, he asked, “Have you ever heard of the artist Victor Bartlett-James, your grace?”
Ian’s brows rose very slowly. “I have. I believe his artistic endeavor
s border on the salacious, do they not?”
“Precisely,” Cafferty acknowledged. “Most of his art was sold privately, to gentlemen of means, usually at auction for great sums. He’s been retired now for quite some time, and because he apparently no longer works, his portraits and drawings are highly prized.” He chuckled. “Where one might hang a salacious portrait is beyond my imagination, sir, but there you have it.”
Intrigued yet totally puzzled, Ian rocked back in his chair. “And somehow this artist of provocative work is connected to Lady Cheshire?”
Cafferty rubbed his fingertips across his mustache. “I’m not certain if they know each other as professional artists, your grace. His identity is unknown, at least to the general public. But last evening, through one of my contacts, I learned that Lady Cheshire met with her solicitor yesterday afternoon, and during a twenty-minute conversation, requested that he put a rare Bartlett-James charcoal drawing that she apparently owns up for immediate auction.”
Ian slowly sat forward. “Are you certain?”
Cafferty nodded heartily. “I am indeed, sir. My sources are quite reliable. It’s to be auctioned Saturday, at Brimleys.” His thick brows creased in thought. “Rather exclusive gentlemen’s club seems like an odd place for an auction, though.”
“Not necessarily,” Ian maintained. “Not for exclusive, suggestive art that only gentlemen would be interested in purchasing. But—why now?”
The investigator shook his head. “Don’t know what excuse she gave her solicitor, since my contact was in the building, not the private meeting itself.”
Ian tapped his fingertips on his desktop, eyes narrowed. “The only reason I can think of for selling something like that now, and for her to risk being caught doing so, is to raise money,” he said. “Lots of it.”
“And quickly,” Cafferty added in agreement.
He remained silent for several long seconds, his mind racing as he attempted to understand the meaning of such an action and the possibilities he could use to his benefit.
She’d obviously made this decision after their tea yesterday. He didn’t know this as fact, but it made sense. He knew he’d shaken her with his sexual innuendos that hadn’t quite been advances, flustering her and perhaps even distressing her with discovery so deeply that she’d felt threatened and had needed to act immediately. But for what purpose?
Ian stood and walked behind his rocker to stare out the long window to the gray and misty morning, folding his arms over his chest as he watched rain pellets strike the sidewalk of his small garden in mind-numbing rhythm. Cafferty remained quiet, waiting for comment or instruction, likely as confounded by this news as he was.
He’d paid to have Viola followed by Cafferty’s men for several months now in order to learn her established routines, who she knew and the places she frequented. Thus far there had been nothing surprising or out of the ordinary about her as a widow of her station. She had a son, whom she kept close at heel, but that in itself was unremarkable. She painted in her own studio in the back of her town house, lived on her husband’s assets, and rarely entertained, though that would no doubt change as her mourning period had ended. And all of this information had been relayed to him on a regular basis while he’d waited patiently at Stamford, hoping to be rewarded by any shred of news that he could use against her. But nothing about her movements or daily habits had been startling or even remotely interesting—until now.
This unusual development troubled him. Obviously she couldn’t sell certain assets of her husband’s estate, nor would she if she could, with her son as legal heir. But the selling of one of her husband’s personal extravagances, one that perhaps had embarrassed her at the purchase, made sense if she needed money quickly. And the only reason she might take such a risk was if she planned to run from him. He might actually have done the same thing had he been in her shoes.
Still, he had the advantage of knowing her plans ahead of her actions. The problem for him was how to use this piece of information.
Suddenly he flipped around to stare at Cafferty. “How much is she asking for the piece?”
Cafferty blinked. “Your grace, she’s asking two thousand pounds as the starting bid for the work.”
Ian scratched his jaw, thinking. Then the fog of uncertainty cleared in his head, and a small smile of triumph spread across his face. “I need you to meet with her solicitor,” he said. “Today, if it can be arranged.”
Cafferty struggled to sit up straighter in his chair. “Pardon me, your grace, but don’t you think it will raise his suspicions when I reveal my identity to him?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re making an adjustment to the plan,” he said, walking toward his desk once again. Instead of sitting, he stood behind his rocker, clutching the back of it with both hands as he looked at Cafferty directly. “I want you to have Lady Cheshire informed, through her solicitor, that you are an agent of inquiry, hired by a secret buyer’s private banker. You don’t know the buyer, just the banker, and his name is also confidential. This secret buyer of erotic artwork has heard of the upcoming auction, but he doesn’t want to bid for it because the situation with his wife is . . . delicate, and he does not, in any way, want her to know. He will, instead, pay the owner three thousand pounds for the Bartlett-James piece before the end of the week.”
“Make an offer to buy directly from the owner?”
“Precisely,” Ian replied. “And you don’t know who the owner is, of course, just that the artwork is for sale.”
“She might not sell for that sum, your grace, especially if she’s counting on competition for the piece to bring in more.”
Eyes narrowed, Ian thought about that for a second or two, then said, “If it’s not enough, increase the increments by a thousand pounds until a sale is established.”
Cafferty’s mouth dropped open so far that his thin mustache curled up tightly. “Sir, that could grow to an outrageous amount of money.”
“Yes, I know,” he agreed, his tone matter-of-fact. “But I want you to bid, offer to counteroffer, until she yields.”
The investigator shook his head, his expression dubious. “And if she questions how this . . . buyer learned of the upcoming auction?”
Ian shrugged. “It’s irrelevant, though probably through gossip at Brimleys. Certainly the club is looking forward to the publicity. Regardless of how, you don’t know the buyer anyway, so you can’t possibly say.”
Cafferty nodded minutely. “There’s always the possibility she won’t sell at all—”
“She will,” Ian cut in with assurance, feeling strangely satisfied that he could so easily manipulate the woman’s situation without her knowledge. “If she’s looking to raise money quickly, Cafferty, she’ll be more than eager to accept a private sale than risk a public auction where someone might learn she’s the owner, even if she suspects my involvement, which is unlikely.” He dropped his voice a fraction to add with wry amusement, “And if she retracts and chooses not to sell the piece because someone has learned of her predicament, it will put her in a tight spot financially once again, and I will have the advantage of knowing she isn’t prepared to make any significant moves yet.”
Cafferty remained quiet for a long moment, appearing hesitant, even slightly uneasy as he eyed Ian closely, his characteristic smile gone from his mouth, his lank form rigid in his chair. Ian understood his concern. The man had no idea on earth why the Duke of Chatwin wanted information regarding an average, aristocratic widow so badly he would have her followed for weeks, then pay such an enormous sum for a piece of lascivious artwork she’d tried to secretly sell. Cafferty wasn’t paid to ask questions, and he’d so far not been required to do anything dangerous or illegal. But this new request grew very close to compromising their working agreement because it aroused a suspicion that hadn’t been there before. And Ian didn’t need him suspicious.
; Smiling pleasantly, he released the back of the rocker, straightened, and clasped his hands behind him. “You needn’t be concerned, Mr. Cafferty,” he assured the man, his tone and bearing regal. “My intentions toward the Lady Cheshire are entirely noble. But they are private, as I’m certain you also understand.”
The investigator nodded as he drew in a long breath, his apprehension quelled for the moment. “Of course, your grace,” he answered formally. “I’ll see to this matter immediately. Is there anything else for now?”
Ian shook his head as he walked around the desk. “No, that’ll be all. But do let me know as soon as you confirm the sale and I’ll have a bank draft drawn at once. If she insists on placing it at auction even after you’ve continued to make offers, or withdraws the sale completely, I need to know that as well.”
Cafferty leaned heavily on the armrest of his chair and raised himself awkwardly. “I’ll do what I can, sir.” He paused as he adjusted his posture and put weight on his injured foot. “I suppose you want the drawing?”
He hadn’t thought of that, but having it in his possession might prove useful should he decide to use it against her in some fashion. “Yes, have it brought here. But under no circumstances let anyone know I’m the purchaser.”
“Certainly, your grace.” Cafferty’s smile lit his face. “And I wish you all the best in finding a place to hang it.”
Ian chuckled, reached out, and shook the investigator’s hand. “Braetham will show you out.”
“Good day, your grace,” Cafferty said with a slight bow. Then turning, he hobbled from the study.
With ten minutes remaining before he had to leave for his sitting, Ian returned to the window. The rain had finally eased to a sprinkle and the color in his flower garden gleamed vibrantly as the morning began to brighten. It reminded him of Viola, so vibrant and lovely and full of color, whose dewy soft cheeks would one day gleam from her own tears of sorrow.
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