Leo crumpled a vellum invitation to an afternoon tea and took aim at his cousin’s head.
“Better luck next time,” Simon said as the projectile landed a foot away. He kicked it into the fireplace, where it hissed and sparked with greenish flames. A foul odor wafted out of the fireplace and wreathed around them.
“I hate the scented ones,” Simon said, waving his hand in front of his face. Then he pointed to the wall above the fireplace, where a painting was mounted. “That’s it,” he said, “That is how you lure your guests.”
Leo looked at the painting. In coarse brush strokes, it depicted a group of cherubs clutching small golden harps in their chubby fingers. Streams of warm, golden light shone down on their fluffy, white wings.
Simon tilted his head. “What is that monstrosity worth? A hundred pounds?”
Leo shrugged. “Perhaps. My father imported it from Germany.”
Simon inspected another painting. “I don’t know much about art, but I know many of your fellow lords are collectors. They would love to have a chance to peruse the Briarwood collection, and the matrons of society adore an exhibit. If you host one, they will demand to come and bring their daughters. You will have the whole of theTon’s marriageable ladies under your roof.”
Leo looked at the horrid cherubs glaring at him from the wall. As a child, he’d thought they looked more like trolls than angels. He’d had nightmares about the winged creatures flyingout of the clouds and bludgeoning him with their harps. He would be glad to be rid of the piece, and there were hundreds more dusty paintings in storage.
“An auction it is,” Leo said.
*
Leo clenched hisfingers around the railing of the ship as the calm water of the Thames washed against the hull. Gulls squalled overhead, diving into the murky depths near the rocky shore.
Being on the water was an uncomfortable reminder of everything he had lost. He would never forget the hundreds of bodies bobbing in the waves amid the flotsam.
The blare of a horn pulled him from his thoughts. The boat shuddered as it docked, making him break out in a cold sweat. He shoved past the other passengers to the gangplank, clutching the railing in a white-knuckled grip. The lapping waves beneath his feet made his stomach perform somersaults. It did not help that so close to the water’s edge, the sour smell of what the river had washed ashore was overpowering, like a slop heap left to rot.
He inched across the narrow bridge until at last he was free. Nothing had ever felt so sweet as the solid and immovable earth beneath his feet.
The clip-clop of horse hooves drew his attention. He searched until he found the source, a hansom cab meandering down the street. He raised a hand in salute. The driver chirruped at his horses, nudging through the crowd.
Leo flicked the driver a guinea. “Sheffield and Sons. I am late for an appointment with my solicitor.”
The cabby, a grungy-looking man in a dusty, black coat and bowler cap, tested the guinea with his few remaining teeth then pocketed it. “Right, guv’, git in.”
Leo opened the door and settled inside to rattle down the London streets. How many years had passed since he’d sworn never to return? The weeks had blurred together, punctuated by moments of brilliant clarity in his art. Painting was the only light in his life, distracting him from the utter silence of a home that should have been filled with the chatter of managing relatives.
Family. He could have it again if he wanted. But the edges of his soul were still ragged and bleeding, unable to bear another loss. Better to keep to himself and avoid further hurt. He did not want to become like his mother, so damaged by grief that she could no longer participate in any of the social activities she had once loved.
The cab hit a rut, and his teeth clacked. He closed the drapes tighter, keeping the revolting sights from his view. He longed for the serenity of his studio, but there was something he had to do first.
Finally, the cab rattled to a stop, and the driver rapped on the roof. “’Ere we are, guv.”
Leo jumped out, placing his feet to avoid the piles of horse manure that covered the road. He stepped inside the white building, then held up a hand to greet his solicitor, who was sitting at a desk on the other side of the room, wearing a dark-green suit jacket with bronze buttons.
“Lord Briarwood!” The man rose quickly, scattering papers to the floor. “I did not expect you.” He gathered the papers in his arms and returned them to his desk, then pulled out a smooth, glass container and tilted it back and forth so the rich, amber liquid inside sloshed around. “Drink?”
It was a tempting offer, but Leo’s stomach had not yet settled from the trip. “I will get straight to the point,” he said, going on to explain his theory.
Percy paled, making the hollows around his dark brown eyes even more prominent. Between that and the sharp lines of hischeekbones, he could have passed for a specter in the dark of night. “Stealing? How is that possible?”
Leo examined his solicitor’s expression and judged that the man’s surprise was genuine. He had not wanted to believe his most trusted advisor could have betrayed him, but Percy was one of the few who knew his secret, that the paintings he supplied under the alias “Ravenmore” were his sister’s creations. Had she lived, the paintings might have slipped through history unnoticed. But with the help of the pseudonym Ravenmore, her work finally had the acclaim it deserved.
It was the least he could do, considering he was the reason she was dead. He only wished he had thought of the idea before the accident.
He cracked the joints in his hand. “I don’t know. I recovered a painting from a private collector and confirmed its authenticity, but the museum did not report it missing.”
Percy’s brows knitted. “If the thief, or thieves, are selling to private collectors, it will be difficult to catch them.”
“I have decided to host an auction at the Briarwood Manor,” he said. Then he withdrew an envelope with Percy’s name scrawled on it from his pocket and held it out.
