From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  That got Sparrow’s full attention. “Any painting or artist in particular?”

  “The painting Ware is after is called Portrait of a Youth in Profile.”

  The very piece that had been stolen from Sunny. Sparrow whistled. “Well, now.”

  “Is that helpful?” Tanner took in his reaction with canny eyes.

  “It could be.” A dozen possibilities dashed through his mind. “Any idea why he wanted to acquire that particular painting?”

  “Said he has a buyer for it, a swell willing to part with plenty of coin to get his hands on the original.”

  “Is that a fact?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Sparrow leaned a shoulder against wall. “Has he had any luck locating the painting he is seeking?”

  “My sources tell me he’s meeting with a potential supplier this very eve.”

  Sparrow straightened. “Where and when exactly?”

  Greed gleamed in Tanner’s dark eyes. “That information might cost a little extra.”

  “The devil you say.” The words held a warning. “You will get our agreed-upon price and not a shilling more. Now, where and when is this meeting taking place?”

  Chapter 18

  Ware turned out to be a creature of habit, at least when it came to his choice of meeting places. When Sparrow arrived at the Golden Lion in Covent Garden where the two had met before, he spotted Emilia’s cousin sitting far back in a shadowy corner of the crowded coffeehouse.

  Sparrow made his way over, the scent of newspapers, coffee, and smoke swirling around him. The coffeehouse was dimly lit; the proprietor no doubt hoped to save on tallow because few candles were burning. Most of the light came from the immense stone hearth where a large iron vat of coffee brewed over a boisterous fire. He passed men huddled in groups drinking, eating, and discussing politics.

  As he drew nearer to his quarry, Sparrow’s attention went to the man positioned opposite Ware. Despite the inadequate light, he had little trouble discerning whom Emilia’s cousin had come to meet. Sitting across from Ware was none other than Titus Bean.

  “What a coincidence to find the two of you together again,” he boomed as he approached the two men. “Another chance meeting, I presume.”

  Ware’s face darkened when he looked up and registered Sparrow’s presence. “This is a surprise.”

  “I’m sure it is.” He slid in beside the crooked curator, who instinctively shrunk away from him.

  “Now see here,” Bean began, wary fear stamped on his rodentlike face. “If this is some sort of trap—”

  “It’s not,” Ware interrupted in a firm tone. “I have no business at all with Viscount Vale.”

  “That much is true.” Sparrow rested his elbow on the scarred table and cupped his chin. “But the two of you appear to have business together. I do wonder what that could be.”

  “It’s none of your concern,” Ware said coldly.

  Bean started to fidget. “It is getting late—”

  “Yes, we’ll continue this at another time.” Ware shot Sparrow a contemptuous look. “In a more private venue.”

  Sparrow allowed his gaze to wander slowly from one man to the other. “Need privacy, do you?”

  Ware seemed more annoyed by his presence than anything else, but Bean exuded raw sweaty fear the way stink emanates from a cornered skunk. The crooked curator popped up, almost tripping backward over the coffeehouse bench. “I’m not certain I can be of assistance,” he croaked to Ware.

  “We shall see.” Ware spoke with the supreme confidence of a man used to getting others to do his bidding.

  After Bean scurried away, Ware fixed a frigid gaze on Sparrow. “What are you about?”

  “Isn’t it funny that I was just about to ask you the same thing?”

  “You are interfering in matters you know nothing about.”

  “I’d love to be enlightened.”

  Ware fell silent for a moment, clearly assessing him. “I must have your word as a gentleman that what I tell you goes no further.”

  Sparrow dipped his chin. “As long as this mysterious endeavor of yours doesn’t threaten Emilia’s safety.”

  “I’m going to assume that, having been with the Home Office for a number of years, you are capable of discretion.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  Ware bristled, not bothering to conceal his dislike of Sparrow. “From time to time, I undertake certain investigations on behalf of Bow Street.”

  Sparrow’s eyes widened. “You’re an undercover runner?” he asked, referring to the officers who operated out of Number 4 Bow Street, pursuing and arresting criminals on behalf of magistrates.

  Ware scoffed. “I don’t take coin for my endeavors. I simply assist the magistrate, who is an old school friend of mine.”

  “James Read.”

  “Yes.” Wary interest lit his eyes. “Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Only by reputation.” Read was known to be determined but fair. “What does this have to do with your wanting to acquire a valuable piece of art recently stolen from the Duke of Sunderford?”

  Grudging respect glinted Ware’s gaze. “Know about that, do you?”

  He began to see Emilia’s cousin in a new light. “I gather you’ve charged Titus Bean, a man known for dabbling in stolen art, with finding Portrait of a Youth in Profile for you.”

  “We are investigating, yes. The theft of a significant piece of art from the home of a duke is of great interest to Bow Street.”

  “Is that why you met with Onslow, the duke’s former curator, at Mrs. Gaston’s?”

  Ware’s brows lifted. “You have been busy. But, yes, as you surmised, he’s been a critical source in the investigation. We were in need of an expert who could tell us which pieces were fakes and which were genuine.”

  Sparrow regarded the man thoughtfully as the pieces of the Dominick Ware puzzle began to fall into place. “Your mysterious disappearances begin to make sense.”

  “My investigations do take me away from society from time to time.”

  He could also understand why Ware had been tasked with this particular inquiry. “An average runner can hardly be expected to mix with dukes and earls, so they brought you in on the case.”

  Ware nodded his assent. “Precisely.”

  Propping both elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “What have you learned?”

  “I believe Edmund Worsely is involved.”

  Sparrow cursed out loud. “That son of a whore. Involved how?”

  “I believe Worsely had a hand in the theft of the painting from Sunderford House. He had both motive and opportunity.”

  “The motive being that he hasn’t got a feather to fly with.” His mind sifted through the possibilities, thinking back to the ball Sunny had hosted. “You think Worsely lifted the thing during the ball, just before Emilia recognized the one on the wall as a fake?”

  “It seems a good possibility. He had access to the copy Emilia had painted and used it to replace the original.”

  “He stole from Emilia as well.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “How do you suppose Worsely got the painting, the original, out of Sunderford House and the copy into the duke’s residence and onto the gallery wall?”

  “He had an accomplice inside the ducal household.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “A servant carried the piece out and delivered it to Worsely that same evening, after the ball.”

  Sparrow couldn’t help but be impressed by how much Ware had discovered about the theft. “This servant has confessed to you?”

  “Not yet. He was observed by another servant in the household who didn’t suspect anything untoward until my people questioned her. By the way, we’ve found the painting—the original, that is—in the possession of a fence named Bertis.”

  “Did this fence confirm that Worsely gave him the stolen piece?”

  “Not yet. But he’s aware Bow Street will go easier on him should he turn over valuabl
e information about his accomplice. In the meantime, the painting will be returned to its rightful owner, his grace, the Duke of Sunderford, without delay.”

  “You must tell Emilia,” Sparrow said heatedly. “You cannot let your cousin marry that bastard.”

  “I haven’t any absolute proof as of yet. Until the fence talks, we’ve only the word of a servant who saw a footman pass something that could have been a painting to someone in a waiting carriage who might have been Edmund Worsely.”

  “I’ll tell her, then.”

  “You’ve given me your word to remain silent on this matter.”

  Sparrow balked. “Worsely’s clearly unscrupulous and possibly worse. You cannot mean to allow your cousin to go through with this marriage.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I won’t take vague suspicions to St. George.” Ware spoke in decisive tones. The man clearly had confidence in his abilities. “I’ve still got a sennight to find solid proof, and I believe I am closing in on Worsely.”

  Sparrow blew out a frustrated breath. “And if you don’t find this elusive proof in time?”

  “I will. Providing…” Ware’s voice trailed off.

  “Providing what, dammit?”

  “Providing you cease interfering with my investigation and stop scaring my sources away.”

  —

  After meeting with Ware, Sparrow headed home to dress for a dinner dance the Duke of Arthington was hosting in honor of his grandson’s impending nuptials. The idea of Emilia becoming Worsely’s wife disgusted him now more than ever. And it wasn’t solely jealousy any longer.

  Worsely was the worst sort of scapegrace—not only a liar, but also a thief. Even if Sparrow did have to keep quiet about Worsely’s involvement in the art thefts, he still intended to make certain Emilia never became the man’s wife.

  He bathed and soon had his valet in raptures over the fit of his evening shirt, a snowy confection the tailor had sent over.

  Sparrow eyed the muslin shirt’s elaborate ruffles with undisguised distaste. “It’s a bit fussy, don’t you think?”

  “No, I do not. You will be in company with a duke.” Gibbs pressed his lips together and Sparrow registered the forced patience in his voice. “Evening shirts must be either pleated or frilled.”

  “Must they also be white? With the white waistcoat, it seems a little…well…much.”

  “They must.” Gibbs circled him, brush in hand, occasionally swooping in to attack any bits of lint he spotted. “Otherwise, what is to distinguish a gentleman of rank from the working class?” At Sparrow’s blank look, he explained further. “White is an indication of wealth. It means you possess enough coin to have your clothing laundered.”

  If an abundance of blunt was the requirement, then Sparrow had no business wearing white, but he elected not to remind his valet of that crass truth. After a few more finishing touches, he slipped into his evening jacket and trotted down the steps, coming to an abrupt halt when he spotted Boyd Douglas, his new steward, waiting in the front hall.

  “If you’ve a moment, my lord,” Douglas said after Sparrow greeted him.

  The butler interjected. “My lord, I tried to inform Mr. Douglas that you have an engagement.”

  “Is something amiss?” he asked Douglas, hoping to avoid being late to the soiree. He hated to leave Emilia vulnerable and exposed among the crowd of guests. With Ware out as a likely suspect, Sparrow was further than ever from identifying and stopping her pursuer.

  “Not at all, my lord.” Excitement shone in Douglas’s eyes. “I come bearing very good news indeed.”

  “Very well.” He waved him impatiently toward his study. “Let’s do this quickly, shall we?” Once the butler pulled the door closed behind them, Sparrow looked expectantly at Douglas. “What is it?”

  A huge grin wreathed the man’s pleasant face. “We’ve found tin at Vale Abbey.”

  Sparrow’s eyes rounded. “Truly? How much?”

  “It is not overly abundant. However, it is enough to make a small difference. We should be able to pay off most of the outstanding debts within the year and then set up a schedule to assist the tenants with the upkeep of their cottages, as long as we spend prudently.”

  “Most of the debts? Are you certain, man?”

  “Quite certain.”

  Exhilaration coursed through his veins. He suddenly felt lighter; a tremendous burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “That is very good news, indeed.” He pointed to the pile of unpaid bills stacked neatly on his desk. “Why don’t you start with those? See which ones must be dealt with immediately and which can wait until we have the necessary coin. As for me, I have someplace I must be.”

  He walked out with a decided spring in his step, pleased to have a way to begin paying off his debts, and unaccountably relieved that he would no longer have to force himself to imagine Amanda Harrington as the future Viscountess Vale.

  —

  Emilia furtively tugged at the low, square neckline of her silk gown as Edmund escorted her through the cavernous rooms Arthington had opened up to his guests. Although this affair was being held in her and Edmund’s honor, many in the crowd were strangers to her; she surmised they were associates and connections of the duke.

  His Grace looked rather fierce in the receiving line, dressed in his evening finery while favoring new arrivals with a murmured word or two before turning to acknowledge the next guests, deftly moving the line along.

  Emilia smiled and nodded politely as she and Edmund moved through the crush. Curious eyes were upon them. Edmund was well regarded, a ton favorite admired for his lean, elegant looks and effortless charm, while Emilia…well, she was probably best known for being the plain spinster who would bring a great deal of coin to their alliance. If many in the ton assumed Edmund was wedding the St. George fortune as much as he was marrying her, they likely approved. After all, a well-regarded and accomplished gentleman of excellent lineage deserved an heiress who could support him in the manner to which he’d been accustomed since birth.

  Emilia dropped her gloved hand, conceding defeat in the battle to yank her bodice up to more modest heights. Sophie had somehow convinced her to wear the pale violet gown, insisting its daring décolletage was not only at the very height of fashion, but also flattering to her fair complexion and the bright shade of her hair. Emilia wasn’t so certain about that, but Sophie did seem to have a good eye for these things. All Emilia knew for certain was that she didn’t feel the least bit at ease with half of her breasts on display. But Edmund seemed to think differently.

  “You are in excellent looks this evening, my dear,” Edmund said. “I shall be the envy of every gentleman here.”

  She murmured something appropriately modest in response, while surreptitiously scanning the ballroom. Sparrow had yet to arrive. He was late.

  “I don’t see Vale.” Edmund’s comment eerily echoed her thoughts. “He likely has more pressing matters to attend to.”

  The way he said the words suggested Edmund knew more than he was saying and was inviting her to probe deeper, which she willingly did. “What sort of pressing matters?”

  “Well.” Edmund paused, pretending to be reluctant to speak on the matter. “His debts are mounting and creditors are clamoring for their payments…as much as one can press a viscount to pay his debts.”

  She frowned. “Surely you are mistaken.” She thought of Sparrow’s beautifully appointed carriage pulled by some of the preeminent horseflesh in London, and of how he always wore the finest tailored designs. Although she’d never visited his town house, her father had said Sparrow’s home was a showplace any peer would envy.

  “Not at all. I have it on excellent authority that Vale scarcely has two shillings to rub together. Even if he does spend extravagantly on the finer things in life.” He swept a glass of champagne off a silver tray proffered by a passing footman. “He’s in a tight spot.”

  She found it hard to credit that Sparrow could be broke, but that would exp
lain his reasons for courting the wealthy Lady Harrington, if one needed a motive beyond the woman’s obvious physical allure. “Perhaps he’ll wed Lady Harrington.”

  “He seems to be dragging his feet on that score. Maybe he finds the lady to be too long in the tooth, or not quite rich enough for his tastes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sparrow might prefer a younger woman.” He sipped delicately from his champagne. “If so, he’ll no doubt apply his attentions to some unsuspecting young heiress, charm or seduce her into believing he finds her irresistible, and take her to wife, all in one fell swoop. That would allow him to meet all of his financial obligations.”

  A cold, hard fist slammed into her heart, making it difficult to draw a breath. She shook her head against the horrible thoughts that crept into her head. Sparrow had made her feel so beautiful and desirable that she’d fallen into bed with him within weeks of his return; she’d practically begged him to compromise her. Was it all part of a slow and steady campaign on his part to wed the St. George fortune?

  Yet he’d said they could not marry. What if—mortification flooded her—what if after bedding her and finding her so severely lacking, he couldn’t bring himself to go through with it? Had she been too brazen? Spoken too freely? She had acted fully herself with him. Maybe Mama was right, after all, about men preferring to take mild-mannered females to wife.

  If Sparrow was truly desperate for money, there were a number of wealthy widows and maidens who’d no doubt line up to shower a man like him with their colossal fortunes. He was titled and beautiful to look at, while she herself would never be a diamond of the first water. Yet she’d felt as if Sparrow had looked past the physical and had not only seen the real her, but actually liked what he saw. What a fool she’d been. Men never found her appealing. Like an idiot, she’d forgotten that.

  But somewhere deep inside her, reason reasserted itself. Ask Sparrow, it said. He has always been truthful with you. But had he? He’d never mentioned his financial woes. She pressed her fingers against her temples. Her head hurt. She didn’t know what to believe.

  “Vale is extravagant not only with himself, but also with his many paramours,” Edmund was saying. “Gems and other artifacts he picked up in Russia.”