CHAPTER 1
Narrow house frontages, darkened with years of neglect and grime, spindled down seven dark passages coated with slippery, malodorous filth. With one wrong turn along a shadowed alley, Fitzwilliam Darcy would be easy prey for the drunken thieves and villains who called Seven Dials their home. He was fortunate to still have possession of his threadbare coat and patched boots.
In the center where a sundial had once marked the hour, Darcy struggled to maintain his firm stare at the ragged woman grinning up at him from the other side of her market table. Her smile was as tender as a grandmother’s, but her soft cheeks concealed wolfish eyes sharpened by decades surviving in London’s most forsaken rookery. She would take him for every last sovereign in his pocket unless he could gain the upper hand.
It was a losing battle, and he knew it. So did the woman.
Already she had extracted an exploitive amount from him for a pair of alabaster-handled scissors for which he had no use. She knew her power over him, sensed the depth of his pockets, and she pressed her advantage. Darcy took comfort knowing that the old woman would be well-fed for a considerable time, but he had lingered too long. The perceptive vendor would not be the only one to see through his disguise.
He must encourage her to give him the information he sought, and quickly. Thismarché ouvertwas his final lead.
“You have a painting”—he held his hands up, a foot apart—“about this size, a landscape with a river flowing under a stone bridge.”
Her eyes gleamed greedily. “Two fishermen in a boat? A storm brewing in the clouds?”
She knew the painting! It was here! Darcy’s pulse thrummed so strongly he was certain the woman would notice. Finally the hunt was over, and he could take his heartbroken sister home to Pemberley.
Taking a leisurely breath, as though this were not the culmination of months of dedicated searching, he shrugged. “I believe so.”
She crossed her arms and widened her stance, clearly in no hurry. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”
Darcy had neither the time nor patience for her to play coy. It was not a bargain he sought but a masterpieceto recover. Reaching inside his coat, he extracted a heavy pouch and handed it to her.
Her eyes darted about as she made quick work of concealing her prize in her stained apron. She leaned closer. “I had the painting.”
Had?His stomach sank. “Where is it now?”
“I sold it yesterday.”
Darcy’s head spun. He leaned against the stall table, gut-punched. He had missed the precious painting by one day. One wretched day. “Do you have a name?” he groaned.
“I never ask, and he didn’t say.”
A man, then. “What can you tell me of his appearance?”
“He had silver hair. Average height. Average man except for the eyes.”
“What was remarkable about them?”
She paused for a moment. “He wore spectacles, but his eyes were young and clever. They… laughed. He were a sharp one, but not mean.”
Darcy softened toward the woman once again. She would not have experienced much kindness in this place.
She shoved a bronze statue toward him. “Twenty pounds! It’s a bargain!”
He was notthatsoft. Nor did he have any money left after the pouch he had just handed over to her. “What of the man’s clothing?” he pressed. When she turned away indifferently, he added, “Was there anything noteworthyabout his dress?”
No response.
“Was he a gentleman?” He winced at the note of despair in his tone.
She released her hold on the statue and considered him at some length. Darcy held her gaze, meeting her eye confidently, if not comfortably. “If he were a gentleman, his pockets weren’t as deep as yours. His coat was worn, but it weren’t borrowed.” She looked about again. “You’d best get out of here, young man. It’s not safe for the likes of you.”
“How much did he pay?” He should not have asked—the answer was certain to add burning coals to his flaming frustration—but he had to know.
A sly spark brightened her eyes, and she looked side to side once more before leaning forward and motioning for him to do the same. Darcy held his breath. If she bathed once a week, she must certainly be due. “Fifty pounds,” she proudly whispered into his ear.
Darcy felt sick. To miss such a valuable work of art by one miserable day was grievous enough, but to learn that it had sold for fifty meager pounds was an insult!
