From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  “Ah, Sparrow, do join us.” One knee crossed over the other, Sunny sat with one long arm draped across the back of the salmon settee where he’d cavorted with a strumpet not so long ago. “I say, where did you get that jacket? It’s sublime.”

  Sparrow cast a cursory look at his pale blue tailcoat. “Gibbs picked it up at an establishment called Milford’s on Bond Street.” He glanced over at a bald, short man standing before Emilia’s copy of Youth in Profile, studying it with an intense look on his doughy face. “Jerome Onslow, I presume.”

  “Indeed.” Sunny spoke in that languid way of his, as if he could not be hurried, not even when hundreds of pounds were at stake. “My curator here tells me this has all been some terrible mistake.”

  “Is that so?” Sparrow returned dryly.

  Onslow faced him, his expression determined. “This is not the original.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Sunny drew out the words in a sarcastic fashion. “We have already deduced that. What we have not been able to parse is how a fake ended up on my gallery wall when I paid a small fortune for what I thought was the original.”

  “That, I cannot tell you.” Onslow stepped toward the duke. “What I can assure you, Your Grace, is that that piece”—he pointed to Emilia’s copy—“is not the same one I purchased on your behalf and had mounted in a place of honor on this gallery wall.”

  Sparrow crossed his arms over his chest. “Yet, all we have is your word on this.”

  “Certainly not.” The man held himself with dignity and decorum. “I had the piece authenticated by one of the curators of fifteenth-century Italian art at the British Museum.”

  “Do you have the man’s name?” Sunny asked.

  “I do. You are welcome to speak with him. He will verify what I have told you.”

  Sparrow studied the man. Unlike Titus Bean, this keeper of the gallery did seem to possess some integrity and pride of person. “When did you take delivery of this piece?”

  “Well over a month ago,” the curator said.

  Sunny tilted a look in his direction. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because this copy was stolen from Miss St. George just two weeks ago.”

  Comprehension lit Sunny’s eyes. “I see what you’re getting at.” He frowned. “And I don’t like what it implies.”

  “Very understandable.” Sparrow considered the possibilities. “Because that means whoever stole Miss St. George’s copy not only infiltrated the St. George house—”

  Sunny finished his sentence for him. “But the culprit has also been in my house and my gallery within the past fortnight.”

  A chill raced up Sparrow’s spine. Whoever was involved in these art thefts was either skilled enough to breach two of Mayfair’s finest homes undetected, or he was someone who had been invited in, someone who moved among the city’s elite.

  One of their own kind.

  —

  Feeling self-conscious, Emilia tugged at her bonnet, wondering if she’d made a mistake in allowing Sophie to dress her in a much smaller hat than she usually wore. The straw piece was undeniably lovely and stylish, but it did not cover her hair the way her larger bonnets did.

  “Do stop fiddling.” Edmund advised in a patient voice as he escorted her up the stairs to meet his grandfather the Duke of Arthington. “You look lovely.”

  She stared at him. “I do?”

  “Why do you seem so surprised?”

  “Because you rarely compliment my appearance.”

  He frowned. “How can that be?” Then shrugged. “I suppose I assume you know how comely you are and don’t need to hear fripperies.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She was very nervous about this private audience with the duke. It felt like drunken butterflies were racing around in her belly, ramming against the walls of her stomach. So Edmund’s compliment buoyed her a little. “A little flattery is never amiss.”

  He smiled. “I shall endeavor to remember that.” He took her elbow, hurrying her along. “Come. It won’t do if we’re late to our appointment with His Grace.”

  “Why does he want to see us?” She’d seen his reclusive grandfather just once, at their betrothal party several months ago. He’d been an intimidating figure, assessing her with probing eyes when she’d been presented to him.

  “I couldn’t say.” He appeared at ease, but she registered the underlying tension in his voice. “We’re just to take tea with him and then he’ll dismiss us. It shouldn’t take long.”

  They came to two large doors. Edmund knocked.

  “Enter.” The duke’s imperious voice beckoned.

  They went into the private study, a long narrow room with mahogany paneling that made the space feel darker. At the center sat the duke at a surprisingly small desk for such a powerful man.

  “Miss St. George. Delightful to see you again.”

  She sank into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.”

  Edmund bowed. “Grandfather.”

  “Sit, sit.” The Duke of Arthington rose and came around, ushering them to four comfortable plush chairs arranged around a low marble table. He was not a tall man, but he carried himself like she imagined the King of England might—if he wasn’t mad. As if on cue, two footmen entered with tea trays bearing a broad assortment of cakes and sandwiches.

  Once they were settled and served, the footmen withdrew and once again Emilia was alone with her betrothed and his intimidating grandfather.

  Arthington sipped his tea. “You are feeling better, I hope, Miss St. George.”

  She focused on maintaining the perfect posture of a lady. “I am very well, thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Well enough, I hope, to go through with the wedding this time.”

  She almost choked on her tea. She put the porcelain cup down on the marble table in a very careful movement. “Yes, I very much look forward to it.” But as the words left her mouth, she knew that was no longer true. Since learning about Edmund’s mistress, as well as his indebted state, her doubts about the wedding had magnified. They gnawed at the back of her mind, making her question her choice and wonder whether she and the man sitting next to her were suited to a lifelong partnership.

  His grace’s expression remained inscrutable. “Good. The joining of our two families pleases me immensely. Your father and I were at Cambridge together. If you have half the sense your father has, my grandson will be very well served.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  But he’d already turned his attention to Edmund. “When will you notify Ambassador Lord Whitworth of your intention to leave your diplomatic post?”

  Edmund darted a quick look at her before replying. “He is aware, Your Grace. Although, I haven’t settled on a firm departure date as of yet.”

  Emilia stared at him. “Leave your post?” She must have misheard. “At the embassy in Paris?”

  Edmund cleared his throat. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

  Her thoughts were confused. “Are you moving to another assignment?”

  “No, I am leaving the diplomatic life.”

  “I don’t understand.” She shook her head, disbelieving. “You do not intend to pursue a diplomatic career?”

  Edmund’s gaze was intent on hers. “It will give us more time together, my love.”

  She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Disappointment hollowed out her chest. Her dreams of traveling to Paris and Italy and Greece, of painting at the Louvre, unraveled before her eyes, a mirage that vanished just as she reached out to touch it. “What will you do?”

  The duke, who’d watched their exchange with quiet interest, interjected, “Edmund, I take it you have not informed your betrothed of your intentions?”

  “Not as of yet. I intended to, of course.”

  Anger began to kindle in her chest. “When?”

  His surprised gaze swung from his grandfather to her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When did you intend to tell me?”

&nbs
p; “In good time.”

  “After the wedding?” Had he intended to trick her?

  “This is hardly the time to discuss this matter,” Edmund said in gentle reproach. With that, he effectively dismissed her concerns on the matter, and turned the conversation to the duke’s business in the House of Lords. She barely heard the rest of the conversation. Her mind reeled from what she’d just learned. Edmund had lied about taking her abroad, about living a life of travel and adventure. Without that, what would they have together?

  When it came time to take their leave, Emilia was all too happy to escape. As they exited, Edmund offered his arm, which she dropped as soon as they were out of the duke’s presence.

  “Emilia—” Worsely began.

  She pulled ahead of her betrothed, anxious to escape this place, and him. “You lied to me.”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “No?” She halted and turned on him. “You said we would have a life of travel and adventure.”

  “And so we will.” He spoke in a reassuring tone. “The end of my diplomatic career doesn’t signal the end of our travels. Quite the contrary. Now we shall be free to wander at will. As a diplomat, I cannot control where I am posted, and I am very tied to the embassy schedule.”

  “You still intend to travel?”

  “More than ever. I thought you’d be pleased. After all, I did do it for you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “For me?”

  “Everyone is aware of how much I enjoy diplomatic life.”

  That was what she’d always believed. “Whyever would you quit?”

  “As I said, for you, my love.” He reached for her hand, which lay limply in his. “Because now I will be at your service to travel wherever you please, whenever the fancy strikes you.”

  She didn’t know what to think. “If you left the diplomatic life for me, then why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Why keep it a secret?”

  “Well, now you’ve gone and ruined it.” He smiled, that dazzling smile that lit up his face and drew everyone in the room to him. “It was meant to be a surprise, my wedding present to you.”

  “Oh.” She felt nauseated. If what he said was true, it meant one of the very things she found most admirable about Edmund—his diplomatic profession—was what he intended to give up in order to please her.

  “Our life together will be even better than you can imagine.” He took her hand and placed it firmly on his arm. “Now, shall we go?”

  Chapter 15

  “Do you believe Mr. Onslow?” Emilia asked Sparrow. “Did the duke’s curator truly buy the original Youth in Profile?”

  “So it would appear.” They exited the British Museum after Emilia’s final private sketching session. “The curator here confirmed the piece he saw mounted on Sunderford’s wall was the genuine article.”

  Emilia tapped her forefinger against her lower lip, as she often did when she was thinking. He found it adorable. That was the problem. Of late, he found far too many things about her to be adorable. “Which means the original was stolen from the duke’s private collection shortly after he purchased it.”

  They came to Sparrow’s well-appointed carriage, where Sophie was leaned back against the carriage talking animatedly with the coachman, who stood with one palm propped up against the barouche, just above her head. “I told you they were sweet on each other,” Emilia said quietly to him.

  “I never noticed.”

  “You aren’t the most observant person.”

  He was about to protest, but he could hardly argue the point. If he’d paid closer attention five years ago, he’d have seen what a prime article Emilia was and would have married her while he had the chance. He was paying attention now, of course, when it was too late. Not only was he in dire financial straits, but Marie had ruined him for all women and Emilia was set to wed that jackanapes Worsely in less than two weeks.

  His coachman caught sight of them and immediately straightened, moving quickly to open the carriage door and set down the step. A giggling Sophie practically scampered inside. Sparrow frowned. Sophie was usually cool and sly; he’d never seen her behave like a giddy girl enjoying her first crush.

  His coachman held out a missive. “This came for you, my lord.”

  “Who from?” he asked as he took the note.

  “Can’t say, my lord. A street urchin delivered it.”

  He unfolded it. It was from Sylvie, the strumpet from Sunny’s naked croquet party and Mrs. Gaston’s place. She had information, she wrote, about Dominick Ware. He must come and see her within the hour because her latest protector intended to take her to the country later today. “How long ago was this delivered?” he asked his coachman.

  “Nearly an hour ago.”

  Sparrow cursed silently to himself.

  “What is it?” Emilia asked.

  “A lead, but she is only available to speak with me right away because she is leaving for the country.” He helped her into the coach. “I’ll have to drop you at home very quickly.”

  “Nonsense.” She settled next to Sophie while he took a seat opposite them. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” He shifted on the seat. “That’s not possible.”

  “Whyever not? Obviously it might be important or you wouldn’t be hurrying to speak with this woman. Who is she, anyway?”

  “No one I can discuss with you.”

  “Oh?” He immediately regretted his words because interest blazed in her eyes. “Why?”

  “She is not the sort of woman you should be seen in company with.”

  “Why? Who is she? Your mistress?”

  “Certainly not,” he snapped, aghast to be discussing ladybirds with her. “I do not have a mistress.”

  “Then why can I not come along?”

  He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh before opening them again. “Because she is the sort of woman who would be some man’s mistress.”

  “How intriguing.” Her beautiful eyes were alight with curiosity. “What information does she say she has?”

  “It supposedly has to do with your cousin.”

  “Nick?” She shifted excitedly in her seat. “Then I’m coming for certain.”

  “No, you are not and that’s that. I haven’t got time to argue with you.”

  “Then don’t. I’ll just stay in the carriage while you speak with her.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “It will take too long to take me home. You risk missing her altogether before she leaves for the country. Do you even have any idea when, or if, she’ll return?”

  “I’ve no idea. Very well,” he agreed with great reluctance because he didn’t want to miss seeing Sylvie. “However, you must promise to remain in the carriage with Sophie and the coachman.”

  She sat back, obviously pleased with the compromise. “I promise.”

  They traveled in silence for the rest of the way, until the coach came to a stop in front of Mrs. Gaston’s off Wilton Street in Kensington. Emilia peered out of the window. “What is this place?”

  He grimaced. Mrs. Gaston’s was practically a bawd house. St. George would have his head if he ever learned Sparrow had brought his daughter to this establishment. “Never mind that.” He jumped out of the carriage before she could question him any further and walked up to the front door.

  A butler of sorts answered and led him to a salon where Sylvie awaited him. She was dressed in traveling clothes, with a packed bag at her feet. It was the most covered up he’d ever seen her. “You are very late,” she said, bending to pick up her bag. “I must go.”

  “I just received your message.” He placed a gentle staying hand on her arm. “Please tell me if you’ve learned anything.”

  “My protector awaits.”

  “Very quickly, then.” He produced a few coins from his pocket. “Please.”

  Accepting his offering, she dropped them into her reticule. “Your Dominick Ware was here last night talking with a gentleman.”

  �
�Who was the gentleman? Do you know?”

  “I did not recognize him, but some of the other girls did.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Alfred Bertis. The girls say he’s a fence.”

  Which appeared to confirm his suspicions that Ware was involved in nefarious dealings. “I don’t suppose they know what kind of stolen goods Bertis deals in.”

  “Expensive things.” She jerked a chin in his direction. “The sort of goods nobs like you would be wanting.”

  If only she knew. He didn’t especially care for expensive things and couldn’t even afford the ones he had. “Anything in particular?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Now, I really must go.” She bent to pick up her bag. “My protector awaits.”

  “Godspeed, then.” He watched her go, her posture proud and unbent, despite the fact that she was forced to sell her body in order to survive. “Sylvie.”

  She paused and turned. “Yes?”

  “This new protector of yours…I hope he is good to you.”

  Wryness touched her smile, as if she thought him extremely naïve. “He pays well.” And she went out.

  —

  Emilia tapped her foot against the carriage floor while impatiently waiting for Sparrow to emerge from the perfectly respectable-looking house.

  She peered out the window, studying the brick-front terrace home he’d gone into. She found it difficult to believe this unremarkable structure could be one of those houses she’d heard about, where men engaged strumpets for a night’s entertainment. Jealousy sliced through her chest. Sparrow must be familiar with this place. How else would the soiled dove who resided within know who he was and how to contact him? For all she knew, they were doing something scandalous inside right at this moment. The idea made her temper spark.