From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  Distaste twisted in his gut. If this colorless imitation of the genuine article was the person Worsely had chosen to wed, the pompous blunderbuss would never appreciate discovering who Emilia really was. He bit back the urge to say something, to warn her off, because he had no say in her future. Not anymore. He’d given up that privilege. Even so, he didn’t have to subject himself to this farcical scene any longer.

  He came to his feet. “I shall leave you two lovebirds to it,” he said, and bade them farewell.

  Chapter 7

  The following day, Emilia was strolling in Green Park with Sophie when she spotted Sparrow charging in their direction.

  She couldn’t help taking a moment to enjoy the view. He cut a fine figure of a man in his fitted olive-green tailcoat and snowy, impeccably wrought cravat. She couldn’t recall his being such a fine dresser when they were betrothed. Perhaps his sartorial style had improved once he gained the Vale title. He certainly wore the latest styles well. The manner in which his fawn breeches gloved his strong thighs made her sigh and got her wondering what it would be like to draw his impressive physique.

  As he drew nearer, she realized his nostrils were flaring. “You are the most stubborn, careless chit in God’s creation,” he all but shouted.

  “Hello to you too, Sparrow. That’s quite a greeting.”

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” A muscle twitched in his precisely cut jaw. “It is not safe for you to be out and about.”

  She lifted her chin. “Sophie is here and seems quite capable to me.” She patted her reticule. “And I’ve got that dainty little dagger you gave me.”

  “You should at least have a footman with you for protection.”

  “They have enough duties to attend to. Besides, this is not where I usually stroll and I am wearing a rather large bonnet, which shields my face quite well.”

  He set his hands on his hips. “I recognized you, which means others will as well. I cannot believe your parents would allow this.”

  “Well,” she prevaricated. “They didn’t precisely allow it. But they didn’t exactly forbid it either.”

  He glared at her, anger making his impossibly blue eyes even more vibrant. “They don’t even know you are out of the house, do they?”

  “They are at an event for Papa’s business concerns.”

  He stared up at the sky and shook his head. “Your recklessness is beyond belief.”

  “Were you looking for me?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Yes.” He let out an exasperated breath. “I’ve found Bean.”

  “Have you?” She perked up. “When are we going to see him?”

  “Your crooked curator spends every Monday and Wednesday afternoon at the British Museum.”

  “Today is Wednesday.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are we going now?”

  “That is the idea.” He turned abruptly, marching away in long, angry strides. She paused for a moment, eyeing his departing form. His physique looked as impressive in retreat as it did on approach. He halted and practically growled at her over his shoulder, “Are you coming or not? They close at four o’clock.”

  “Of course.” She hastened to follow. “I wouldn’t miss it for all of the ices at Gunter’s.”

  At one time, the British Museum on Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury had been the most spectacular building in the metropolis, a mansion that had originally been home to the Dukes of Montagu. It was one of Emilia’s favorite places, from the Shakespeare statue that graced the entrance hall and the staff in red-and-blue livery to the modern works of art, manuscripts, and antiquities. She could easily spend hours there. What she wouldn’t give to be able to copy some of her favorite drawings and engravings.

  Light filtered in through large arched windows as they made their way up the grand staircase to the second floor, where they found Titus Bean in the gallery studying a wall of engravings.

  “Looking for a way to steal those?” Emilia asked the horrid little man. Unscrupulous and shifty, Bean was a sharper of the worst sort.

  Bean turned his perpetually sarcastic expression in their direction and distaste rippled through her. Not a particularly tall man, his slight, almost girlish, figure appeared downright diminutive next to Sparrow’s strapping form. He had a surprisingly full head of blond hair for a man who appeared to be well over forty. His expression grew even more caustic when he recognized her.

  “Miss St. George,” he said with a curl of his lip. “It must be my lucky day, running into you like this.”

  “It’s no accident,” she said with false brightness. “We sought you out.”

  His mouth twisted. “Oh, joy.”

  She gestured toward her companion. “This is Viscount Vale. And we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  He turned back to studying an engraving. “I no longer discuss the unfortunate events related to the Walden Collection that occurred last spring.”

  “I don’t blame you,” she retorted. “If I had gotten away with such a massive fraud, I wouldn’t want to discuss it either.”

  “Although,” Sparrow added, “it must be hard to stop yourself from boasting about it.”

  Bean’s expression grew still more sour. “It is difficult to decide who is less charming,” he said to Sparrow, “you or your companion.”

  “There is at least one other person who shares your sentiments,” Sparrow said in an amiable tone. “So much so, in fact, that someone tried to put a period to Miss St. George’s existence.”

  “What?” Bean’s eyes widened. “Who?”

  Emilia cocked her head. “We thought you could tell us.”

  “Me?” Bean flushed when he caught her implication. “Believe me when I tell you I want nothing more than to stay far away from you. I’d rather take up with the spawn of the devil than involve myself with you in any way.”

  A skeptical hum sounded from Sparrow’s throat. “Your emotions concerning Miss St. George are rather strong.”

  “And we already know you are an unsavory sort,” Emilia added.

  Alarm swamped his sharp little features. “I am a thief, not a murderer. I cannot stomach violence of any sort.”

  “Well, at least you admit to being a thief.” Emilia crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s progress of a sort.”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” His voice grew shrill. “I’ve lost my occupation, and no one in London will engage my services thanks to you. As if that wasn’t ruinous enough, you now seek to accuse me of attempted murder?”

  His raised voice caught the attention of a couple perusing a drawing nearby.

  Sparrow drew her away. “What do you think?” he asked quietly.

  Warmth spread in her chest that he would value her opinion enough to ask for it. “How expensive are Graves’s services?”

  “Very.”

  She shot a nasty look at Bean. “As much as I dislike the toad, I must admit he’s probably too stingy to pay anyone the kind of wage your professional killer might demand.”

  “I agree.” He stepped back to exchange a few more quiet words with Bean, but Emilia had had quite enough of the little swindler. She crossed over to one of her favorite drawings, a red charcoal sketch of a male nude; she never failed to marvel at the artist’s use of shading to define the man’s muscular chest and abdomen.

  “Why, Miss St. George.” She felt Sparrow’s warm breath at the back of her neck and resisted the urge to shiver. He’d come up behind her without her realizing. His masculine scent drifted over her. “I’m shocked you would look at such things.”

  Her cheeks burned to be looking at a naked man—with his most private appendages faithfully re-created for the entire world to see—with Sparrow of all people. But she refused to show any embarrassment.

  “Pray don’t act like an idiot schoolboy,” she said briskly. “This is an Italian Renaissance masterpiece. It’s called Portrait of a Young Man in Repose.”

  “How apt.” She heard the sm
ile in his voice. “He certainly does appear to be very relaxed.”

  “The way the artist has been able to capture the play of light is one of the remarkable achievements of this piece.”

  A beat. “Don’t tell me this is the piece you wish to copy.”

  “It is. I was able to copy a similar piece, a painting, by the same Italian master, but this drawing is my absolute favorite.”

  “I begin to see why Mrs. St. George disapproves.” He moved to stand beside her, peering more closely at the drawing. She pretended not to be discomforted that they were both staring at a naked man together. “If this is your favorite, why did you not copy this piece instead?”

  “Because the painting I copied was in the private collection of a family friend, not in a public gallery. He has since sold it, though. Too bad really. It’s a spectacular piece.”

  “May I see it?”

  “See what?”

  “Your copy of the painting.”

  “Why?”

  “You seem very passionate about being a copyist. I should like to see your work.”

  “If you like.” She shrugged as though it was of no matter to her, but her insides glowed at the thought of Sparrow’s taking an interest in her passion. Edmund never specifically asked to see her work, and when he had happened to glimpse a piece, he’d only given it a cursory glance.

  “Thank you.” His eyes were warm and kind. “I would.”

  She noted then that they were alone in the gallery. “I see that sorry little skunk of a man is gone.”

  “He is, but I know where to find him should we have the need.” He offered his arm to escort her out. “But, like you, I cannot see a weasel like Bean having the wherewithal to hire a professional of Graves’s caliber.”

  They went down the wide grand staircase gliding along the ornate iron railing. “That means we are no closer to finding our villain than before,” she said.

  “Precisely. Which is why you should keep to home until we find the cur.”

  Dread churned in her belly. “I cannot stay cooped up for weeks on end.” She hated being stuck indoors. “I swear, Sparrow, I cannot bear it.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  She regarded him warily. “What kind of proposition?”

  “The museum closes at four o’clock.” They crossed over toward the exit. “If I can make arrangements for you to visit after hours, say from four to five o’clock to sketch your copy, will you agree not to leave your house without adequate escort?”

  Her mouth fell open. “You could do that?” She halted. “How?”

  He paused before an enormous marble statue, which loomed over him. “I am not without my resources. What do you say?”

  Excitement fluttered in her stomach. “Two hours.”

  “What?”

  “I want at least two hours to sketch.”

  “Agreed. Two hours, twice a week, for the next week.”

  That wouldn’t be enough time. “Two times a week for the next two weeks.”

  He shook his head. “You drive a hard bargain. Worsely really has no idea what he’s getting himself into.” She heard the reluctant admiration in his voice as he led her out the front entrance. “Very well, two hours, twice a week, for a fortnight, and in exchange you will also avoid public outings involving large crowds.”

  She resisted the urge to whoop with triumph. “Until my wedding, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “The exception being the Duke of Sunderford’s ball in two weeks’ time.”

  “What?” His distaste was plain. “Why would you want to attend Sunderford’s affair?”

  “The ball is the only respectable gathering ‘Sinful Sunny’ hosts all year.” She grinned conspiratorially. “Of course I’m not going to miss it. It’s the most talked-about event of the Season and the only time all year a respectable girl can visit Sunderford House without causing a scandal.”

  Adam Fairfax, Duke of Sunderford, was perhaps London’s most debauched gentleman. Sparrow ought to be in a position to know. Rumor had it that the two were friends and frequently went out carousing together.

  “Sinful Sunny?” he repeated. “Do people actually call him that?”

  “They do, and I am going to attend his ball. I refuse to be a complete hermit.” She shot him a sharp look. “As much as you’d like for me to be.”

  “There will be too many people there. It won’t be safe.”

  “I’m told he has a magnificent art collection and I intend to see it.”

  “I can see it will be of no use to argue with you,” he grumbled as he led her out.

  “No, it wouldn’t.” She smiled broadly, thinking of how the afternoon had turned out to be quite productive indeed.

  —

  When they arrived at her home, Emilia took Sparrow to the abovestairs sitting room her parents had allowed her to convert into a studio.

  Sparrow surveyed the chamber. “Very nice.” It felt strangely intimate for him to be here in her private studio where few visitors ever ventured.

  “It suits my needs.” In truth, she loved her studio, her own private space. She looked around, trying to see the room through Sparrow’s eyes. The walls and high plastered ceiling were a soft bluish-gray, and the floor-to-ceiling window, which took up half of a wall, provided plenty of light for her to work. Aside from her easel and worktable, which was littered with sketchbooks and supplies, the only furnishings were a red chair and an old cream sofa pushed into a corner near the window.

  He paused at the panel door built into the wall. “Where does this lead?”

  “It’s a servants’ staircase. It leads to the pantry off the kitchen by the back door. When my parents are entertaining, I can slip up and down the stairs without being detected.”

  “Very convenient.”

  “It is, especially if I require tea or other refreshment once I’ve sent Sophie to bed when I stay up particularly late painting.”

  Sparrow moved to the far wall, which she’d covered with different artworks, some hers, others by artists she admired. He pointed to a painting of a young man with a Roman nose and deep-set eyes. “Is this it? The copy of the Italian Renaissance master?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.” She held her breath just a little, anticipating his reaction. Although the piece had been painstakingly wrought, the strokes had a loose, almost carefree, feel about them. “The original is called Portrait of a Youth in Profile.”

  “Remarkable.” He turned to face her. “You are immensely talented.”

  Pleasure made her feel buoyantly warm, but all she said was, “You needn’t look so surprised.”

  “But I am. When we were betrothed, I was, of course, aware that you had an interest in art, but I had no idea it was such a serious endeavor.”

  Her chest tightened at the memory of how he’d barely noticed her back then, but she forced a light tone. “Perhaps you should have paid closer attention.”

  “I should have.” His intense blue eyes focused on her and, for the first time during their long acquaintance, she felt truly seen by him. “I beg your pardon that I did not.”

  She turned away with a constricted feeling in her throat. “That is all in the past.”

  “It’s an extraordinary piece of work. I should think you would want to display it in one of the more public rooms, rather than hiding the painting away in here where no one can appreciate it.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Why don’t you give others the opportunity to as well?”

  “Because the canvas is the wrong size.”

  “Truly?” His attention went back to the piece. “It looks fine to me.”

  “A copy is never supposed to be the exact dimensions as the original so there can be no question of forgery. But the man who makes my canvases for me made an error and made the dimensions exactly the same size.”

  “I see, so you hide the piece to avoid any cases of mistaken identity.”

  “Something like that.”


  He knelt before a half-finished canvas leaning up against the wall, of a reclining woman surrounded by grieving figures. “You haven’t finished this one. Is it a copy as well?”

  Grandpapa’s painting. A sense of loss swept through her. She missed him so. “That’s Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin.”

  “The virgin surrounded by the apostles.”

  She regarded him with surprise. “You are familiar with the piece?”

  “I’m not very informed about art, but I was in Paris long enough for someone to drag me to the Louvre, where this painting hangs.” He looked from the canvas to her. “Why haven’t you finished it?”

  “It’s my grandpapa’s work but he…passed before he could finish, so I am going to complete it for him after I’m wed.”

  Understanding lit his handsome face. “Ah, I begin to see. While Worsely spends his days at our embassy in Paris, you plan to be at the Louvre.”

  She nodded. “It’s what I promised Grandpapa. He taught me everything I know about drawing and painting. We always worked together. It will be our final collaboration.”

  “Paris is not as safe as you might think,” he said gravely. “There are many who believe the current peace will not hold for much longer.” After almost a decade of hostility, England had recently signed a peace treaty with France, but skeptics doubted it would take.

  “I just need for it to last long enough for me to complete Grandpapa’s painting. After that, I am content to go wherever Edmund’s diplomatic travels take us. There is an entire world to discover.”

  He straightened from his kneeling position to his full height and crossed over to her. “Does Worsely know?”

  “Know what?” She began to organize the sketchbooks on the worktable, anything to keep her hands busy. Their conversation had veered into far more intimate territory than she had anticipated.

  “About your art?”

  “Of course he knows.” She stacked the drawing pads.

  “I mean to say, does he truly know?” He stood across the worktable from her. “Not as a hobby as I did. Does he know it is a passion for you?”

  She avoided meeting his gaze. “What does it matter?”