The story was quick to spew out. “It was by mere chance that I encountered Sloane in Rome,” began Stoughton. “I was accompanying a friend on the Grand Tour—”
“You mean leeching off a friend, to escape creditors here in England,” cut in Sheffield. “Yes, I heard the story from Milton.”
“Bloody hell, you know how it is, being a second son with no blunt to cut a decent dash here in Town.”
“No more interruptions, Sheff,” counseled Wrexford. To Stoughton he added, “We care only for the facts, not your whinging.”
“Before I left England, Canaday and I were commiserating on how hard it was to keep from sinking into debt—The River Tick has a strong current and is damnable deep. And so much of a man’s wealth is entailed in the estate,” continued Stoughton. “Canaday was especially upset about the moldering paintings hanging on his walls. They would bring a fortune if he were free to sell them. We talked about the need to be . . . creative in ways to fill one’s coffers.”
Or criminal, thought Charlotte.
“I saw right away from his copies of Italian masterpieces that Sloane possessed a remarkable artistic talent—and it soon became clear that he yearned to return to England and win recognition for his own original art. So I had an idea.”
He paused to clear his throat with a raspy cough. “Brandy—I need some brandy.”
Sheffield wordlessly fetched a glass of spirits.
Stoughton gulped down a swallow and then resumed his story. “It seemed to me that we could both help each other. So I offered to pay his way home. His wife presented a problem as she was a cold, calculating termagant. Try as I might, I couldn’t get her to warm to the idea, though a woman of her low birth should have been flattered by any attention from a gentleman. But Sloane finally prevailed.”
Another thirsty gulp. The glass was now empty. “Once he arrived back in England, I introduced Sloane to Canaday and”—a nervous glance at St. Aubin—“and other gentlemen who might be useful to him.”
Or, rather, to gentlemen who would use him for their own purposes, thought Charlotte. Anthony, at heart an innocent, could not see guile in others.
“So far I’ve heard nothing that might serve as a bargaining chip for your life, worthless though it is,” said Wrexford.
The warning spurred Stoughton on. “We had the connection to introduce Sloane to people who might help him gain admittance to the Royal Academy.”
But you didn’t.
“In return, all we asked was for him to copy some of Canaday’s Old Masters paintings—no hardship to him, as he did it as an artistic exercise to keep his skills sharp. St. Aubin and I had friends on the Continent through whom we discreetly brokered the sale of the baron’s paintings to several collectors in the German principalities. The copies were inserted into the original ornate frames, and Canaday kept the real paintings and shared his profits with the two of us.”
“Sloane received no money for his labors?” interjected Wrexford.
Stoughton blotted his brow with his sleeve. “H-He received our patronage, which he felt was more v-valuable than a p-price for his paintings. It was all a very agreeable arrangement until—”
A feral growl from St. Aubin made him pause.
“U-Until he fell ill,” finished Stoughton lamely.
“You’re diddling us with half-truths,” exclaimed the earl in disgust.
“The English courts have no call to charge us with a crime,” began Stoughton.
“Be damned with playing cat and mouse. Pull the trigger, lad.”
CHAPTER 22
Had he miscalculated?For an instant, Wrexford feared that Charlotte was going to obey his order. Her eyes were hidden by the crescent sweep of her hat, but a terrible grimness had hardened the curves of her mouth.
Her finger tightened, a barely perceptible twitch of pale flesh on gunmetal grey.
“No!” screamed Stoughton. “That’s God’s own truth about the art copies, I swear it. But yes, there’s more concerning Sloane’s death and I was just about to tell you about it.” With a swindler’s instinct for self-preservation, he sought to distance himself from his partner in crime. “It was all St. Aubin’s fault! He and Canaday went too far!”
The earl held his breath. Charlotte had every reason to act the avenging angel, but he sensed she would deeply regret it.
St. Aubin lunged at his companion, but Sheffield caught his collar and held him back.
“Hold off, lad,” murmured Wrexford.
