From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  Sparrow’s mouth stiffened beneath hers, but his reaction didn’t deter Emilia. Just this once, she was determined to finally take what she truly wanted, what she’d craved for years.

  She’d longed to experience Sparrow’s kiss during their betrothal. He’d made no attempt to take any liberties, but she’d contented herself with the knowledge that once they married, she would know him physically in every way. Then he’d jilted her and that yearning, that hunger, had never gone away. Now, even though she was to marry Edmund in a few weeks, she still longed to experience intimacy with Sparrow before she became another man’s wife.

  “Emilia.” His voice was strained against her lips. “What are you doing?”

  His manly scent engulfed her, making her blood pound hard through her veins. “I wanted you to be the first man I ever kissed.” She squeezed her eyes shut, too chagrined to see how he’d react to her admission.

  “Oh, Em.” This time the words were soft and tender, almost like a caress. “How is it possible that no man has ever kissed you?” She shook her head and said nothing, unwilling to look him in the eye.

  He cupped her chin, tilting it up until she met his piercing blue gaze. He looked virile and handsome in his evening apparel, the royal-blue coat bringing out the vibrant shade of his eyes. “Well,” he said, “if this is what you truly want, then I guess we shall have to make it worthwhile.”

  Her stomach clenched at his words but, before she had a chance to react, his lips were upon hers, firm and soft at the same time, warm and giving, but also taking as he explored the terrain of her mouth with his. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to part her lips and welcome his sensuous exploration.

  The sensation of his tongue delving into her mouth, tentatively at first, and then confidently, expertly, mating with hers, nearly swept her off her feet. A fire raged through her body, making her knees as wobbly as Cook’s Christmas pudding. He seemed to sense her precarious state because strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, up against a wall of male heat as his kiss grew more urgent. She closed her arms around his narrow waist and hung on for dear life. All too soon, he ended the kiss but kept his arms tight around her. His gaze, warm and intimate, held hers as surely as his arms held her body.

  “Well,” she said, her voice shaky and thin, her body humming with wondrous new sensations. “You most definitely made that worthwhile.”

  He gave a quiet laugh and kissed her nose. “You are so unexpected.” He still held her in a snug embrace, almost as if he didn’t want to let her go. “I should release you. Anyone could chance upon us.”

  “Yes.” She tightened her arms around him, loving the feel of his warm, hard body pressed into hers.

  He stared into her eyes for another moment. Then kissed her forehead and pulled away. “If you want me to apologize for taking liberties, I will most certainly do so.”

  She sent him a saucy smile. “Only if you expect me to apologize for taking liberties with you. I did kiss you first. In fact, I practically forced the matter.”

  He shook his head, his beautiful lips easing into a reluctant smile. “I doubt your father would see it that way.”

  “There you are, my dear.” The sound of Edmund’s voice made her jump. Her heart pounding, she sent up a prayer of thanks that her betrothed had not arrived moments earlier when she and Sparrow had been wrapped around each other.

  Beside her, she felt Sparrow stiffen. She turned to Edmund and was surprised to find an impossibly elegant woman on his arm.

  “This is Mrs. Marie Dubois,” he said when they drew nearer. “Marie, this is my betrothed, Miss Emilia St. George.”

  Emilia tried not to stare, but Mrs. Dubois possessed the kind of beauty and style that invited gawking. Her glistening black hair was piled atop her head in an artistic fashion, and she wore a deep burgundy silk gown that highlighted a modest bosom and impossibly thin form. Standing next to the woman made Emilia feel short, fat, and, with her ridiculous hair, tawdry.

  “Enchantée.” Mrs. Dubois’s husky voice oozed with self-confidence. Sensual appeal radiated from her. “Edmund has told me much about you, Miss St. George.” Barely concealed amusement danced in the woman’s dark eyes, especially when she met Edmund’s gaze and something very private seemed to pass between them.

  Irritation heated Emilia’s chest. What did the woman find so amusing? It was almost as if she and Edmund shared a secret joke to which she, Emilia, was not privy.

  “I fear you have the advantage over me.” Her sweet smile wasn’t entirely sincere. “Because Edmund has failed to mention you.” In fact, she was beginning to realize that her future husband neglected to share a great many things. She knew nothing about his friends or his life in Paris and, except for the public events they attended together, very little about his life in London.

  Wary surprise replaced the confident superiority in those knowing eyes. “It was very naughty of Edmund not to mention me.”

  “I have been remiss,” Edmund said smoothly. “I became acquainted with Mrs. Dubois in Paris, as I believe Vale here did as well.”

  Beside her, Emilia could feel the tension emanating from Sparrow’s tense body. “Indeed.” He barely dipped his chin. “Madame.”

  “Hamilton.” The woman made easy use of Sparrow’s Christian name, which suggested they were very well acquainted indeed. “How lovely to see you.”

  “It is Vale now.” His tone was cool. “That is how I am to be addressed.”

  Emilia had to stop herself from gaping at him. Sparrow was the last man to ask someone to call him by his title. In fact, he seemed to prefer to forget about his ennoblement whenever possible.

  Mrs. Dubois batted her eyelashes. “Ah yes. I could not forget your improved circumstances, my lord.” The way she emphasized the honorific seemed to annoy Edmund, who, despite being the grandson of a duke, was a mere mister.

  A strange sort of aggressive energy crackled in the air around them. Striving to ease the charged atmosphere, Emilia said to Mrs. Dubois, “That is a lovely necklace. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

  Mrs. Dubois fingered the gold chain with the deep green gem pendant on the end. “It was a gift from an admirer. He brought it all the way from Russia for me.”

  Of course he did. Men probably fell all over themselves to gain this beautiful creature’s favor. “It’s stunning,” Emilia said brightly, striving to be generous, rather than petty and jealous. “He must have admired you greatly.”

  Mrs. Dubois dipped her chin in a show of modesty, but everything about the way she carried herself suggested she was accustomed to being adored.

  Sparrow shifted beside Emilia. “Shall we continue?” he asked her. “We wouldn’t want to run out of time to examine Sunderford’s collection.”

  Relieved to have an excuse to stop talking to Mrs. Dubois about her numerous admirers, Emilia happily took Sparrow’s proffered arm. They moved down through the gallery, with Edmund and Mrs. Dubois lingering a ways behind. Sparrow’s arm was stiff and tight with tension beneath her fingers, so different from the soft warmth she’d experienced during their kiss.

  The memory of their intimacy sent a shiver of excitement whispering down her spine. The kiss had been beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Sparrow had seemed to like it, too. Until Edmund appeared with Mrs. Dubois on his arm. Then his countenance had totally changed. A sinking feeling weighted her stomach. Was Sparrow one of Mrs. Dubois’s many admirers?

  “Oh, look.” The sight of a familiar painting distracted her from thoughts of Sparrow and the sly beauty. “It appears the Duke of Sunderford is the person who bought Portrait of a Youth in Profile.”

  Sparrow studied the piece. “This is the original of your copy. The one that was stolen from your studio.” They came to a halt before it. “Yours is just as masterly.”

  She snorted. “You are very generous to say so, but I am no master.”

  “I cannot see a difference. But then again, I am no expert.
”

  Looking at the piece, she couldn’t completely disagree with him. She examined the gray strokes, the carefree, loose feel she’d painstakingly tried to re-create. It did look quite a bit like hers. In fact, more than quite a bit.

  “Blazing bats in the belfry!” she exclaimed.

  —

  Sparrow’s head swiveled in her direction. “What is it?”

  “I think we’ve just discovered what happened to the copy that was stolen from my studio.”

  He stared at her, not quite absorbing her meaning. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying this is no original. This is my copy.”

  His brows shot up. “Are you certain?”

  “I’m positive.” She pointed to a blurred line around the youth’s Roman nose. “I agonized over this stroke because it’s not quite right.”

  “It looks fine to me.”

  “But it’s not,” she said decisively. “How much does Sunderford know about art?”

  “Surely you’re not accusing the Duke of Sunderford of stealing your copy.”

  She shot him an exasperated look. “Of course not. But what if someone sold him this copy claiming it was the genuine article?”

  “Sunny knows almost nothing about art.” He stared at the painting as the possibility that she could be right sank in. “He employs a curator who makes all of the gallery purchases.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This supposed curator of Sunderford’s should have known better. He sounds as inept as Titus Bean.”

  Sparrow leaned in to examine the painting more closely. “Or as crooked.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Do you think so?”

  Edmund and Mrs. Dubois wandered over. “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  “This is my copy, Edmund.” Emilia pointed to the drawing. “I drew this and then it was taken from my studio.”

  “Come now.” Skepticism filled his face. “Surely your sketches cannot be mistaken for the work of the great masters.”

  “You underestimate Miss St. George.” Sparrow battled the urge to use his fist to wipe the patronizing expression off Worsely’s face. The bastard was piling on the insults, first by parading his mistress before his betrothed, and then by demeaning Emilia’s obvious artistic talent.

  “Obviously, they can be,” Sparrow continued. “Because here one sits in the Duke of Sunderford’s gallery, surrounded by other great works. Someone obviously thought Miss St. George’s work good enough to pass muster.”

  “Her work?” Distaste soaked Worsely’s words. “Miss St. George is of a certain class and does not have an occupation. She dabbles in art as a hobby. She most certainly does not intend to sell any of her paintings or drawings.”

  “Of course not,” Emilia said with an impatient wave of her hand. “We need to find the duke and inform him. And then we need to talk to his curator.”

  “We?” Worsely repeated, staring at Emilia with a slightly uncertain look in his eye. “Surely you don’t mean to involve yourself in this business.”

  “I’m already involved.” Impatience edged each word. “After all, that is my drawing on the duke’s gallery wall.”

  Sparrow suppressed a grin. Worsely had no idea what he was getting into by marrying Emilia. She was nothing like the milksop miss she pretended to be in the worm’s presence. In fact, she was quite the opposite: Emilia was vivacious and smart, a force to be reckoned with. This evening was the first time he’d ever seen Emilia act like her true self in front of her betrothed and, from Worsely’s slightly stunned expression, it probably was the first time the slimy bastard had glimpsed the full force of his betrothed’s personality.

  “Come along,” Emilia said crisply. “We must summon the duke immediately.”

  —

  Sparrow found a footman and dispatched him to find Sunny while Edmund and Mrs. Dubois returned to the party. The duke appeared a few minutes later.

  “I paid a fortune for that piece and you’re telling me it’s a fake?” Sunny asked incredulously once Sparrow and Emilia revealed what they’d discovered.

  “Not a fake.” There was a slight edge to Emilia’s voice. “A copy.”

  Sunny frowned. “What’s the difference?” He looked at her. “It’s all the same, isn’t it? A fake, a forgery, a copy—”

  Hot indignation flashed in Emilia’s jewel-toned eyes. “Certainly not—”

  “The difference,” Sparrow interjected before she lost her temper, “is that someone who makes a copy is perfecting their skills by learning from the masters, while a forger re-creates a painting with the intention of representing it as the real thing to be sold. One is attempting to learn their craft, while the other is interested in swindling a wealthy patron.”

  Sunny eyed him. “When did you become an expert?”

  “Miss St. George has been kind enough to explain the nuances to me.”

  The duke turned to her. “And you are certain this is your work?”

  She gave him an assertive nod. “Without a doubt.”

  “Dear Lord.” Sunny slumped into one of the salmon chairs that lined the gallery. Then, belated realizing he was in the presence of a lady, jumped to his feet. “I do beg your pardon.”

  “Not at all,” Emilia said. “Now where can we find this curator of yours?”

  “His name is Jerome Onslow,” he said.

  “Onslow.” The name struck Sparrow as familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place it.

  Sunny nodded. “But I’m afraid you’ll not be able to talk to him.”

  “Why not?” Sparrow asked.

  “Because he’s left my employ.”

  “Left?” Sparrow focused on his friend. “Did you relieve him of his duties?”

  “No, nothing like that.” The duke flattened a hand atop his golden head and exhaled. “But he did leave quite suddenly. Onslow said his mother was ill and he was leaving to be by her side.”

  Sparrow suddenly recalled why the name sounded familiar. According to Sylvie, Ware had met with a man named Onslow at Mrs. Gaston’s, and money had been exchanged. But what did the connection mean?

  “When was that?” Emilia asked the duke. “When did Mr. Onslow leave?”

  “Just recently, last week in fact.”

  She went to stand before the painting. Crossing her arms over her chest, she studied the piece. “And this Onslow advised you to buy this sketch.”

  “He did. He said it was by a great Italian master.”

  Sparrow wondered what was going through Emilia’s mind. “Could he have made an honest mistake?”

  “Only if he is a complete idiot.” She turned to Sunny. “What were this curator’s qualifications when you hired him?”

  Sunny shrugged. “I don’t recall. I only remember that he came highly recommended by the curator at a well-respected gallery in town.”

  “Oh?” Sparrow cocked his head. “What was his name, the curator who recommended Onslow to you?”

  Sunny seemed to search his memory. “I’m afraid I don’t remember the name. He’s the keeper of a small private gallery on the Strand.”

  Emilia shot a look at Sparrow before asking, “Is this gallery called the Walden Collection?”

  Sunny brightened, snapping his fingers in triumph. “Yes, that’s the one. Do you know it?”

  “I do,” she said. “By any chance, is the curator who recommended Mr. Onslow to you a man by the name of Mr. Titus Bean?”

  “Yes.” Sunny was all eagerness now. “That’s the fellow. Do you know him?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth pushed into a grim line. “I certainly do. And it sounds like it’s time for another chat with our Mr. Bean.”

  Chapter 12

  “I don’t suppose I could convince you to let me go and speak with Titus Bean alone?” Sparrow asked as he accompanied Emilia and Sophie to the gallery for her after-hours visit the following day.

  “Of course not.” She took her worn leather satchel from him. “Besides, you should want me to go along. You need someone who knows a
little something about the art world.”

  She pulled out her supplies and settled in front of the museum piece to resume her work while her maid wandered over to examine something on the opposite wall. “Sophie,” she said to the maid, who was clearly curious to see more of the museum. “Pray go look around, there’s no need for you to mind me as if I were a child.”

  She saw her lady’s maid catch Sparrow’s eye. Whatever passed between them seemed to satisfy the girl because she said, “Very well. I won’t go far.”

  After Sophie was gone, Emilia asked, “Just how well do you two know each other?”

  He reached for one of the pens she wasn’t using and fiddled with it. “We worked together in Paris.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “She’s a smart, resourceful girl and an excellent informant.” He absentmindedly tapped her pen against his open hand. “In my previous line of work, it helped immensely to have people like that at all levels of society.”

  “Is that why you told Papa to hire her? So she could spy on me and report back to you?”

  The tapping pen stilled. “Did your father tell you that?”

  “No. I surmised as much.”

  “Very clever of you.” The tapping resumed. “But no, Sophie is not there to spy on you. She’s there to help keep you safe.”

  “As she did the other day by the Serpentine.” A chill passed through her when she recalled how close she and her father had come to being grievously injured…or worse. “If it hadn’t been for Sophie…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes.” His face clouded at the mention of her recent brush with mortality. “As you’ve recently witnessed, having Sophie by your side is an immeasurable asset.”

  “I know it too well.” She was grateful for Sophie’s quick actions at the park and had repeatedly told the girl so.

  Sparrow wandered over, straining his neck to catch a glimpse of her sketch. “How is your drawing coming?” he asked, and she sensed he was keen to change the subject.

  She shifted her body to hinder his view. “It’s coming along well.” While she focused completely on her work, he gave up on having a look at her sketch and appeared to content himself with wandering around to examine the nearby pieces on exhibit.