One More Kiss, page 6
Mrs. Kendrick was seated on the other side of Lord Jess. Across from her and next to Miss Wilson were Lord Crenshaw and then Cecilia, which put her twin between Lord Crenshaw and the marquis, Lord Destry.
Beatrice watched her sister. The marquis was an unknown, but Lord Crenshaw was an acquaintance of a year’s standing. Beatrice was sure Cecilia was nervous but equally certain that her sister was well prepared for this modest challenge.
Before she could turn to the Earl of Belmont, Lord Jess bent to her. “Miss Brent, do you see that one of the little people on the branch is wearing spectacles?”
Beatrice looked in the direction he indicated and saw that he was not teasing. Next to the miniature in spectacles was another little person holding a dog and talking to a gentleman wearing a red kerchief.
“Why, she has each one of us represented. I wonder where Ceci and Papa are?” She looked up and down the table as the other members of the party made the same delighted discovery.
“After dinner, the fairies will be moved to the mantel in the Square Salon, where we will meet later so that you can admire them. Please feel free to take your fairy as a favor and a reminder of this party.” The countess’s face showed how much pleasure she took in this scheme.
Lord Jess leaned over and touched the figure with the spectacles. “I imagine some of us might like to have someone else’s fairy as a token.”
Beatrice shook her head and then said exactly what she was thinking. “Not an hour ago you all but gave me the cut direct and now you seek to charm. Why?”
“I saw how much Lord Crenshaw values you and I decided that I should not abandon a chance to know you better.”
What did that mean? Beatrice wondered. She was sure the two had no use for each other. Her first thought was that she did not wish to be a bone they fought over like two dogs, then almost as quickly she decided it might be interesting to be in the middle. It would certainly be good preparation for London.
“My answer is as honest as your question,” Lord Jess insisted.
“You will excuse me if I will now wonder which Lord Jessup Pennistan I am seated next to. The one who charms or the one who challenges.”
He laughed at her asperity, which made her blush. Did he think she was flirting? Or did he just never take anything seriously?
She gave him her back and turned her attention to the earl. “Your fairy is easy to identify. That shock of white hair is as unique as it is distinguished. But why is his chin in his hand in such a contemplative pose?”
The earl laughed quietly. “The countess is a clever woman. But I do wonder who fashioned these. A doll maker, perhaps?”
“We could ask her after dinner.”
“Where’s the fun in that, Miss Brent? I should rather investigate and work it out ourselves, then ask the countess if we are right.”
That was a little odd, Beatrice thought, and moved to change the subject. “Tell me, my lord, what are your interests beyond Parliament and your estates?”
“Can you not guess? I love a puzzle, a riddle, even deciphering codes. If there is a mystery to be solved, I’m the one for the job.”
“So your figure is mulling over some conundrum as you sit on the branch.” It explained his inclination to seek out the answer rather than ask. He was not like any gentleman she had ever met, but then she had never met an earl before. He was, most likely, unique among his peers as well. What fun it would be to come to know him better.
“I do believe the Belmont on the branch has solved a puzzle and is ready for a new one.”
“Truly? Here is a conundrum for you.” Beatrice began to explain what she called “the mystery of the false Rembrandts.”
The earl looked sincerely interested and Beatrice did not even think of Lord Jess for the next little while.
CECILIA COULD NOT believe she was seated next to Marquis Destry. At least Lord Crenshaw was known to her, but the rule of table etiquette meant she would have to speak with both of them for an equal amount of time.
She would be so much more comfortable where Mrs. Kendrick was sitting, between her father and Lord Jessup Pennistan. Lord Jess might be unacceptable to her father but he had been kind when she met him earlier in the evening and not nearly as intimidating as a man who was heir to a dukedom.
Cecilia held her hands tightly in her lap and waited for the footman to serve the first course. Her fairy looked back at her, seated on an elegant chair surrounded by flowers but otherwise unremarkable.
Was she the only one who had no distinguishing characteristic? How awful. She examined the miniatures more closely. The baron’s figure was coatless with his fists raised, ready to fight anyone who might round the branch, and Lord Destry wore his signature red kerchief.
“The countess has the right of it with you, Miss Brent.” Lord Crenshaw nodded toward the figure.
“Do you think so?” She did not mean to sound coy but was curious about what his interpretation might be.
“But of course. You are seated on a throne, queen of all you survey.”
“Oh, my goodness. That cannot be.” She looked from the baron to the marquis, making an effort to include him in her conversation with Lord Crenshaw. “Surely our hostess is queen of this realm.”
“I imagine you could interpret Miss Brent’s figure in a number of ways,” Lord Destry said. “It could be—”
“There is no doubt of your representation, Destry,” Lord Crenshaw interrupted. “Your figure is the smallest on the table. We might have overlooked it were it not for the red scarf you use to call attention to yourself.”
Lord Destry ignored the comment and continued to speak. “It could be that a woman of Miss Brent’s obvious refinement needs no more entertainment than to sit and observe the world pass by. Look, even the flowers gather around her.”
“I do love the garden and spend as much time there as I can. Perhaps that is the symbolism the countess intended.”
“The flowers are only a frame for your beauty,” Lord Crenshaw added.
“I think the flowers rest at your feet in homage,” said the marquis.
Was this a contest to see which one of them could embarrass her the most? “One thing I observe,” Cecilia tried, desperate to turn the conversation away from her avatar, “is that we will be served in the Russian style this evening.”
“Ah, yes,” Lord Crenshaw said, “the centerpiece would hardly allow for the placement of the French service.”
“I prefer the Russian,” Destry added. “The food is usually warm and you have more to choose from than the few dishes arranged in front of you in the French service.”
“Yes,” Cecilia agreed, “but with the Russian service I am always tempted by every dish offered and end up with enough food for a glutton.”
“Miss Brent,” Lord Destry began, “I suspect that there is not an unkind bone in your body if you are even afraid of offending the food that is offered you.”
At a word from the countess the marquis turned to her, leaving Cecilia to wonder if what he’d said was a snub or a compliment. She blushed. She might wish it was a compliment but could not doubt it was a snub.
Chapter Seven
“SO YOU BELIEVE that the false Rembrandts are not a deliberate fraud, but rather artists of Rembrandt’s school who were attempting to emulate him?”
“Yes, exactly, Lord Belmont.” Miss Brent sat back in her seat, smiling at his quick grasp of her idea.
“But how can you tell the true old masters from the fakes?” Jess asked before he recalled that he was not part of the conversation, just an eavesdropper. She had drawn him in with her scent, the intensity in her voice, the way her enthusiasm radiated from her body. He felt like a hapless player ensnared by a game of luck.
Belmont did no more than raise his eyebrows at the interruption. Beatrice Brent did not seem to take offense, but that may have been because she was so enthusiastic about art.
“As I explained to Lord Belmont, my lord, there is a certain style that only Rembrandt maintains. He has a way of seeing the world that is only his and cannot be duplicated.” She picked up her fork, then put it down again without sampling the beef on her plate.
“But is that not only a matter of opinion?” Lord Jess went on. “There is a Rembrandt at Pennford Castle and I wonder if it would meet your criteria.”
“It is not my criteria only, my lord. This has been a discussion among true experts, not just students of the subject like me.”
“But could a supposed expert not tell the owner it is a forgery and then buy it at a reduced price and resell it as an original?”
“You suppose everyone has as devious an imagination as you do, Jess.” Belmont signaled for more wine even as the footman came forward with the decanter.
Beatrice tilted her head to one side. “I’ve thought of that myself,” she said to Belmont with a mischievous smile. She leaned back to include Lord Jess. “I prefer to think of it as a clever construct and not devious at all.”
“And I meant no offense, Miss Brent.” Belmont returned her smile with one of his own. “To you or to Jess.”
“None taken, Belmont,” Jess acknowledged. Belmont was hardly the only one who thought his actions were motivated by ill will. His brother the duke had once asked him if gaming was his way of defaming the Pennistan name.
“It would be fun, though, would it not?” Miss Brent went on. “I mean to see if one could carry off the idea of claiming a true Rembrandt was a forgery.” She had such a charming way of leaning toward him as she spoke, as if confiding a secret. He stayed where he was, close enough to count the gold flecks in her brown eyes, enjoying the exquisite torture. He nodded in answer to her question.
He might have considered flirting with her as a way of distracting her from Crenshaw’s possible suit, but at the moment he was doing it solely because she was irresistible. Later, he told himself, later he would come to his senses, but for now discussing Rembrandt and forgery was far more innocent than it sounded and the dinner table was a perfectly safe place to allow himself to be captivated.
“The problem is,” Belmont spoke, ending the reverie, “one would have to be an expert on Rembrandt and willing to jeopardize one’s own reputation if the trick did not work.”
“Only if you were caught, my lord.” Beatrice looked from one of them to the other. “I would think that the risk would be part of the fun.”
Belmont raised his eyebrows yet again, which Jess read as an unwillingness to commit himself one way or the other.
Jess nodded slowly as it occurred to him that this gently reared young woman may have a good bit of her brother’s wildness in her, very carefully tamped down, which made him think of any number of things it would be “fun” to do with her.
“Exactly how would you undertake the fraud?” Lord Belmont asked. Jess feared that a question like that was similar to lighting a fuse.
This time Beatrice ate some of the pâté before speaking, though Jess was willing to wager she had no idea what she was chewing so thoroughly. He watched her expression as her clever brain worked out the perfect crime. From puzzlement to idea to wicked certainty.
He glanced at Belmont, who was watching her too, but with a smile that could only be called avuncular.
“I would choose someone who is not well schooled in art, someone who only bought the Rembrandt painting to impress others.”
She must know many who fit that description among the circle of newly rich mill owners in Birmingham, Jess thought.
“Then I would hire a competent forger to create a copy. I would confront the owner of the original about its authenticity, using my knowledge, which would certainly be far superior to his. I suppose that is prideful to say, but do you not think that someone who has spent years pursuing an interest is naturally more informed than a newcomer?”
“Yes, I do,” Jess agreed, thinking of his passion for gaming and the way he was torn between educating newcomers or taking all their money.
“That’s true for many of us at this very table,” Lord Belmont said with a serious face. “Your father when it comes to business, the baron and fisticuffs, Lord Destry and riding, the countess and entertaining. I do not know your sister well enough to guess what her expertise is, but it is the rare person who does not excel in some area.”
“Thank you, my lord. Somehow that is very reassuring to me. Lord Jess, what is your area of expertise?”
“Gaming,” he said, and waited to see how she would react.
“Yes, you and Ellis shared that interest for a while, but you did bring my brother back to us. For that I am grateful.” She searched his eyes as if she was trying to find that goodness. Generosity and guilt she might find, but very little goodness.
“So you are now confronting the owner of the Rembrandt and are about to convince him it is a fake,” Lord Belmont reminded her. Jess was grateful to have her vivid imagination focused on her “clever construct,” as she phrased it, and away from his virtue or lack thereof.
“I will not bore you with the technical details but I could easily convince him that someone had duped him. His pride would be savaged by the thought and he would willingly let me take it away for further study.” She paused and gave them a look. “Does this work so far?”
Jess pretended offense, matching her mood. “Theft is not one of my areas of expertise. Belmont would know better.” His inference was quite deliberate and Miss Brent gave all her attention to the earl.
Belmont shook his head. “What Jess means is that I have helped several friends find lost items. As I told you, I can never resist a puzzle.” Belmont finished off his wine before adding, “It sounds plausible so far, Miss Brent. Pray, continue.”
She closed her eyes as though that would fortify her as much as the wine was fortifying Belmont. “I would replace the real painting with the forgery and return it to the owner with the sad news that it is not truly a Rembrandt—the advantage being that when I am able to sell it, the buyer could announce the discovery of the original from which my owner’s forgery was copied. Is that too complicated?”
“Not at all complicated, my dear,” said the earl and then waited for the footman to step back after refilling his glass.
Despite the amazing amounts of wine the man imbibed, he was never foxed. The only sign that Jess could find was when he began to call the ladies “my dear.” Was it because he drank only wine, never brandy or other spirits?
“Not too complicated,” Belmont repeated, “but it does involve at least one other person who could attempt blackmail at some later point.”
“Do you think so?” Beatrice said with some disappointment, but after a brief pause she shook her head. “But I would know that he is an art forger, which is an equally valid basis for blackmail. It would be quid pro quo.”
Her naïveté was showing here, Jess thought. “Yes, but that would end the moment either one of you admitted the forgery and theft to someone else,” he said.
“I am sure neither one of us would be foolish enough to do that,” she insisted with a firm shake of her head, as if she knew the forger as well as she knew herself.
“So you think you could keep your own counsel. Never speak of it to anyone, not even your sister, your twin?” Or your lover? He kept that one to himself.
“Yes, I am sure I could keep the secret. There are many things I never tell Ceci. She does worry so much. About everything.”
“I can see why, if constructing clever ways to steal art is one of your hobbies.” He smiled.
“The earl did ask, my lord.”
“You mean all one must do is ask in order to lead you into a life of crime?” Or sin?
Belmont’s bark of laughter drew both their attention. “Jess, you deserve to be in her black books to even hint that Miss Brent would so easily stray from the right path.”
“Belmont, you are a devil. How do I answer that? It would be rude of me to say that Miss Brent is too sensitive or that I was not teasing at all.”
“Which was it, my lord?” Miss Brent asked, without a smile now. She moved in her seat so that even her skirt was not touching him.
“Neither,” he insisted, feeling trapped.
Miss Brent turned to Lord Belmont. “So here is another mystery for you to solve, my lord.”
Belmont smiled. “Lord Jess’s behavior is no mystery at all, my dear Miss Brent. But I will leave you to decipher it from the clues you have.”
Miss Brent looked from one to the other, clearly wondering what Belmont knew that she did not.
“In the meantime,” Lord Belmont went on, “do tell me how you can tell a real Rembrandt from his lesser imitators. I find I am fascinated and want details, if you please, my dear.”
Jess turned to Mrs. Kendrick, reminding himself that Miss Beatrice Brent was a woman he had no business trying to charm.
LORD DESTRY FINISHED his opening conversation with the countess and, before he turned to her, Cecilia watched him take the salt and sprinkle some into his wineglass. Puzzled, she wondered exactly what that would do to the wine. Anxious to fit in, she took some salt from the cellar nearest her and did the same thing.
“Miss Brent, do tell Miss Wilson that I speak the truth when I say that Birmingham is a far lovelier town than Manchester.”
The question from Lord Crenshaw made Cecilia start, but before she answered, she realized why his questions were always worded like an instruction with only one possible answer. Still, it was an easy enough subject and she was grateful for the escape.
Cecilia leaned forward and spoke to Miss Wilson, who was seated just beyond Lord Crenshaw. “Oh, indeed it is. At least, I think so. Birmingham has such lovely gardens, and a river runs through the middle of the city. There are walking paths and the shops. While it is not at all equal to London, it is far superior to any other city in the Midlands.”
Lord Crenshaw turned to Miss Wilson, who smoothed her hair before answering. “I do believe you show some prejudice, Miss Brent, as Birmingham is your home.”
“We cannot all live in London,” Lord Crenshaw teased. “And Mr. Brent must remain close to his interests in Birmingham.”
