“What is the man’s name?”
“The agent?”
She nodded, waiting, feeling a nagging tension begin to coil up within.
Duncan rummaged through sheets of paper on his desk until he found a card. “Ah, here it is. A Mr. . . . Milo Cafferty.”
Milo Cafferty. She’d never heard the name before. “And you say he’s representing an anonymous buyer?”
He reached across the desk and handed it to her. “Actually, he’s representing the banker of the buyer.”
She stared at the printing, seeing nothing but a name and title on an ordinary, inexpensive white card.
“Why would an investigator be hired as a third party to speak to you about buying art, even art of this nature?” she asked, looking back at Duncan. “What is there to investigate?”
“I had to wonder that myself,” he remarked with a half-grin. “Even for a work by the elusive Victor Bartlett-James, this seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed.” Viola tapped the card against her fingertips, thinking. “Did you find this Mr. Cafferty suspicious?”
He shrugged. “Not particularly. Seemed like a regular chap. But I do find the entire circumstance a bit suspicious.”
“How so?”
“Well, why wouldn’t the potential buyer just send his banker? Or for that matter, why not trust me as a solicitor to manage the anonymity in the best interest of both parties—buyer and seller?” He shook his head as his features grew serious. “I suppose it could be said that this gentleman—I’m assuming it’s a gentleman—might simply be a private collector with a great deal of money and influence, trying to protect his reputation by being secretive. But what strikes me as most odd is his going through such ridiculous, roundabout channels to acquire something an intermediary could bid for in just a few days. Even if he’s hiding such a purchase from a suspecting wife, she would surely not attend an auction at Brimleys.” Frowning deeply, he eyed her candidly. “It’s one thing to remain anonymous; it’s another to hide one’s identity to this extreme. Cafferty refused to tell me even the name of the banker.”
Silence ensued as he gave her a moment to contemplate his words. Viola turned and stared out the small window, seeing only the ivy-covered brick wall of the building next door. It wasn’t much of a view, but it did allow daylight to enter the office. And if nothing else, staring at a brick wall allowed for no distractions when one tried to think, as she did now.
Although this turn of events disturbed her, she refused to panic. It was entirely possible that this anonymous buyer truly had reasons to keep his identity hidden from everyone, especially if he was a very important individual, perhaps working in government or high office, or for the royals. On the other hand, with all the unusual events that had transpired in her life these last three weeks, she couldn’t help but be as dubious as Duncan seemed to be. And she trusted Duncan. He was the only person alive who knew she was the actual artist of the infamous erotic work, and in all these years, he’d never once belittled her for creating it, treated her with disdain for selling it, or betrayed her secret for any reason. And for his good judgment, she paid him handsomely.
But this new situation seemed to bother him, and that in itself alarmed her. Duncan knew nothing of her past and had no reason to wonder if what she’d been through five years ago had suddenly caught up with her in the name of Ian Wentworth.
A sudden thought occurred to her, chilling her enough to make her visibly shiver. With a quick glance back to her solicitor, she asked, “Could someone suspect I’m the artist, then hire an investigator to find out if it’s true by coming to you and pretending to be interested in a purchase?”
Instead of answering her immediately, he cocked his head to the side to regard her thoughtfully.
“Did you mention the upcoming auction to anyone, Lady Cheshire?”
Her lips tipped down a fraction. “No, nobody, though I’m certain many people know about it by now since it’s less than a week away.”
He nodded, thinking. “But you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Absolutely not,” she repeated a bit more forcefully. “I think you know my reputation would not remain unblemished should others learn of my connection to Mr. Bartlett-James’s work.”
That firm answer satisfied him for a moment. Then he asked, “What about your staff?”
His ardent inquiry sent a whirlwind of new and frightening thoughts through her head. “I keep my staff completely ignorant of details, but even if they knew I was the artist of such work, I don’t think any of them are reckless enough to risk unemployment without a reference, especially if they have no proof.”
“Have you received any threats to your person or husband’s estate?”
Just Ian Wentworth’s threatening kiss. . .
She fidgeted. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“And nothing’s been stolen?”
“Stolen?”
He gazed at her shrewdly. “I’m just wondering if this might be the start of some sort of blackmail plot against you.”
That thought had never occurred to her before, and hearing such a warning put into words made her mouth go dry and her body turn cold. “I don’t actually keep any of my Bartlett-James work out in the open in my home,” she answered, trying to control the shake in her voice. “All my paintings and sketches, when finished, are locked in my attic, the only key in my possession, and I never leave unfinished work unattended in my studio—for obvious reasons.”
Duncan nodded in understanding. Then with a large inhale, he sat back in his chair, his thick brows furrowed, palms resting on his rounded stomach. After a few seconds of silence, he stated matter-of-factly, “I hope you’ll not suspect anyone in my employ of being indiscreet, Lady Cheshire.”
That notion hadn’t occurred to her, either, though it led to greater doubts. “You’re still the only person who knows I’m the actual artist, correct?”
“Absolutely,” he replied, nodding firmly. “I’ve never said a word to anyone. But my secretary and bookkeeper both know you’re the individual placing a rare Bartlett-James drawing at auction. Such information couldn’t be avoided, I’m afraid. I assure you, however, that they assume it belonged to your husband and you are simply now wanting to rid yourself of this . . . uh . . . risqué piece of art.” He squirmed in his chair a little. “If you’ll pardon me for being blunt, Lady Cheshire.”
“Of course,” she said with refined grace. It was the closest Duncan had ever come to a personal remark about her work, and if she hadn’t been so suddenly worried about her future, she might have smiled at his attempt to be tactful. Instead, she returned to her original question.
“Let’s assume, Mr. Duncan, that at this point in time nobody but you and I know I’m the artist,” she maintained. “Would it even then be possible for Mr. Cafferty to somehow learn this secret as an investigator in some indirect way?”
“Indirect way?”
“Through . . . record keeping or old books, maybe from miscellaneous notes regarding past sales or inquiries?”
Frowning, he replied, “I truly don’t think so. I keep my closed files and old records locked in a safe at all times, and even if he tried to access my accounts or files to discover something incriminating, directly or indirectly, I would be made aware of it immediately.”
She didn’t know whether to feel disheartened or relieved. “I see.”
He scrutinized her for a second or two, then suggested, “Perhaps it would be better if we look at it from the reverse perspective. Can you think of anyone who would go to such trouble and pay an investigator to learn certain secrets about you that could then be used against you personally?”
Don’t underestimate me, Lady Cheshire. . . .
She swallowed hard and evaded the question. “I’m not sure. Is this what an agent of inquiry is hired
to do?”
His thick eyelids thinned as he considered it. “Not usually, but I suppose anything is possible for the right price. In my experience, these investigators are former runners or policemen, hired to track down stolen items, follow husbands to learn of certain indiscretions, or find missing people, though not necessarily to investigate them.”
Find missing people. . .
A violent wave of incredulity washed over her at that moment.
Don’t underestimate me, Lady Cheshire. . . .
“Impossible . . . ,” she breathed.
Duncan’s brows shot up. “Pardon?”
Viola stood, tossing her gloves and reticule on the cushion of her chair before walking slowly to the center of the small room, staring at the tiny yellow tulips on the light blue carpeting, her palm closed over her mouth as she began to put the pieces of the puzzle together to form the most outlandish picture imaginable. And one that in an instant made so much sense.
He’d hired someone to find her, and when that deed had been accomplished, he’d made a grand entrance back into her life, startling her at her first party out of mourning, pretending to not recognize her, doing his best to control their discussions, to confuse her into believing their encounter again had been pure coincidence and that his attraction to her was genuine. And he’d called himself an art collector, just like this so-called buyer who now wanted to purchase her artwork, sight unseen.
The fog in her mind lifted as it all suddenly became so clear—every conversation, every question, and the motives behind every action. He blamed her for her family’s deeds all those years ago, and as she’d been the one to escape unscathed, he had reentered her life to enact some kind of despicable or costly revenge. She supposed she had always suspected that he would come for her one day, a reason she’d stayed in the city, but after so much time had passed, she had slowly lowered her guard. She just really wished she knew how much he remembered from his drug-induced haze, how much he’d learned about her and her life from his investigator, why he’d waited so long to return. At this point she had no proof that he knew she had once painted as the famous Victor Bartlett-James, only that she was trying to sell one, which, as Duncan had confirmed, his investigator could more easily have discovered simply by following her and asking a few questions. If that was the case, Chatwin would certainly want to know why she would suddenly be attempting to part with one. And until his motives for trying to purchase the work from her directly became clearer, she didn’t dare give him the benefit of learning she had created it. She could easily believe that a man held hostage, freezing and dying for five long weeks, would seek his own revenge if he thought justice had not been served, and the greatest revenge she could think of would be blackmailing her about her Bartlett-James persona. That he hadn’t done so yet hopefully meant that he didn’t have the necessary information to put the clues together. She could only thank God that she’d had the good sense to send John Henry to the country before Chatwin had pounced. For now her son was safe, though should the man decide to go after him, he wouldn’t be so difficult to find.
Still, for the moment she had the advantage; wealthy, distinguished, charming Ian Wentworth didn’t yet know she’d caught on to his scheme. At least there seemed no reason to think so, though he had to realize she wasn’t stupid or naive and would certainly be skeptical of his every move. And there could be no middle ground in her assumptions. Either she and Duncan had uncovered the truth of his masquerade by their suspicions and careful deduction, or she was completely wrong about everything and her imagination had finally gotten the best of her. What she needed now were facts and her own plan of action—before he ruined her future and her child’s destiny, which she vowed to protect with her life.
Cursing both her fears for controlling her and the handsome man who continued to take advantage and fill her with misgivings, Viola groaned and put her entire face in her palms.
“Lady Cheshire?”
Several miserable seconds passed before she said, “I may know who this person is, Mr. Duncan.” Raising her head and crossing her arms over her breasts, she looked back at her solicitor and admitted, “But I can’t be certain, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t give you his name at this time.”
Duncan nodded. “If that is your wish.”
He didn’t sound at all offended or wary, and she supposed that he knew his place, like any good solicitor.
She began to pace the carpet in a large circle. Duncan remained in his chair, watching, waiting for comment or instruction. Finally, she asked, “Is there any way to discover, beyond question, who hired this investigator?”
After a fast exhale, he replied, “Frankly, I doubt it, especially if he’s paid well. The main reason these men are retained is because they tend to be extremely discreet.”
Of course. And this one would certainly be well paid if he worked for the Duke of Chatwin, she conceded. That meant she might not learn of Ian Wentworth’s definite involvement unless she confronted him herself.
Abruptly, she paused in her stride and glanced up, a small grin of triumph spreading across her mouth.
“Mr. Duncan,” she said with utter satisfaction, walking back to her chair, “please inform Mr. Cafferty that I would very much like to accept his client’s offer, but I won’t settle for anything less than five thousand pounds for the work, since it’s what I would expect to get at the auction.”
Duncan sat forward very slowly again, nodding. “As you wish.”
“Also,” she continued, lifting her gloves to don them again, “please advise the owner of Brimleys that your client has sold the drawing privately and the auction for this Saturday has been canceled. However, your client may be interested in auctioning a larger Bartlett-James painting in the near future, which would bring in substantially more money for everyone. That should placate them for the trouble.”
Duncan’s brows rose as he placed his palms on the arm of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. “Is there any need to explain the change?”
She shrugged a shoulder delicately. “I don’t think so, but do please let them know that this particular painting, if I choose to sell, should startle the gentlemen who frequent Brimleys into spending plenty of money on whiskey and driving up the final price. As the club receives ten percent from the sale, they should be more than pleased.”
“You’ll have the work for Cafferty delivered here as usual?” Duncan asked, pulling down on his waistcoat.
She offered him her gloved hand. “If Mr. Cafferty’s client is agreeable to my terms, I’ll send it at once.”
He took her fingers in his and gave her a slight bow. “Very good, madam.”
“And I know you’ll remain as discreet as always.”
“Of course, Lady Cheshire,” he replied without any hint of offense. “I’ll send word as soon as I hear from Mr. Cafferty that his client has accepted or rejected your offer.”
With an unusual sense of elation, Viola bid her solicitor good day, then turned and walked swiftly from the office.
Chapter Seven
I stole the key to the dungeon today and went to him just after she drugged him. I could finally nurse him and care for his needs without him knowing. . . .
Ian sat at his desk in his study, staring out his window to the darkness of nightfall, holding a full glass of whiskey in one hand. He’d poured it himself nearly three-quarters of an hour ago, but his mind had been so overwhelmed by confusing thoughts of Viola that he really hadn’t been interested in taking a sip.
He couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss—a kiss he’d never planned but one he’d wanted urgently the moment she’d defied him in her studio. She hadn’t just teased him coyly into forcing her hand; she had challenged him directly, and no man alive would allow a woman to remain in charge after denying his demand with such a sarcastic, albeit clever, rebuke. And kissing her into subm
ission in front of a servant only helped his cause. By now, the entire neighborhood would know that not only had the Widow Cheshire come out of mourning literally but she had also already begun to offer her charms to another man, and one with a greater title than her late husband. In the end, such speculation might work perfectly into his plans. What bothered him, though, was realizing just how much he’d actually enjoyed kissing a woman he despised and vowed to ruin.
He really didn’t want to feel anything for her aside from contempt, even as he now realized how difficult staying focused on that goal was going to be. She no doubt had some decent qualities, most notably that she loved her child and would risk much for his well-being. But he didn’t need the complication of admiring her for something any mother would feel and exhibit. He would need to be very careful not to allow compassion for her to develop as he pursued her.
He supposed he should have expected his desire to be intense. He hadn’t been with a woman in a long time, and since his captivity he’d never felt a thing for any of those he’d bedded beyond the need of the moment. They had been a means to an end, as Viola would be now. But to his dismay, he suddenly couldn’t wait to bury himself within her soft, warm walls and give in to the momentary pleasure. And what truly angered him was accepting the fact that for now, the only person he wanted to satisfy him was Lady Cheshire. Naturally, his desire for her would diminish once he bedded her, as it had with all the others, but since that first sitting a week ago he hadn’t been able to focus on anything but the memory of her tantalizing breasts so close to his face, and kissing luscious lips that had surrendered to him without any real persuasion.
His disorientation had started the moment she’d innocently touched his brow. By brushing his hair back from his face, she had disarmed him, sparking a memory that he still couldn’t quite piece together to form a complete picture. He’d always known she’d been in the dungeon with him, but he didn’t know how often, or the length of time of each visit, and quite frankly, due to the constant darkness and the drugs given him day to day, he hadn’t often been able to tell the difference between her and her sisters. But as if awakening after a violent storm, he now recalled a specific instance when she’d brushed that same hair off his forehead while he’d lain on his cot, the warmth of her body as she’d spoken to him in a muffled voice that had soothed regardless of the words that, at the time, he hadn’t understood.
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