Lawrence had never heard of a Mr. John Wagner.
Ribblesdale was more than two hundred miles away.
Likely that was by design. Father would not have chosen buyers with the means to make his life uncomfortable were the deception uncovered. That he’d involved Baron Vanderbean must have been an act of desperation.
Or was it? Nineteen years ago, the baron had just arrived in England. He was reclusive and eccentric, and, as Lawrence vaguely recalled, the gossips assumed the baron would soon return to Balcovia.
That he had made a home here in London instead would have initially been a blow to Father’s plans, but once it was clear Vanderbean was not fussed in the least about pesky details like provenance, it was no wonder that Father had tried to take advantage of him again and again.
Until Albus Roth hosted his first public exhibition, and the paintings turned important overnight. Each piece of art became evidence of a crime. Father would have been desperate to switch the forgery for the original before the Wynchesters uncovered his deception.
Not just the Wynchesters…allof the innocent people the duke had swindled.
Lawrence scrubbed his face with his hands. The first thing he needed to do was get the papers—and the real paintings—to their rightful owners.
And hope a sincere apology would make up for years of deception.
28
Chloe curled up in her favorite window seat with a copy ofEvelina, but her mind was far from the reading circle. Lawrence had said he would return their painting, but days had passed with no sign of him. It was impossible to concentrate on fiction when reality was so uncertain.
With a crackle of iron wheels on gravel, a coach came to a rest in front of her house.
She pressed her fingertips to the window. It was Lawrence!
He fed a bit of carrot to Elderberry and Mango, then cupped his hand over his eyes and turned his face up toward the house as if scanning windows in search of Chloe. Lawrence combed his fingers through his hair. It was immediately ruffled again by the wind. He straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels and waistcoat.
Chloe smiled. She had touched those lapels, unbuttoned that waistcoat. She couldn’t wait to touch them again.
She marked her page with a pink silk ribbon and dashed to meet him.
As she stepped into the sunlight, he glanced up and saw her. His wide smile lit his blue eyes with desire and sent a jolt of answering electricity streaking along her skin.
“Did you bring our painting?” she asked.
He held out his arms. “Yes.”
“In that case…” She launched herself into his embrace.
His body was warm, the contours of his muscles familiar. She lay her cheek against him and breathed in the smell of his skin. His swift heartbeat kept time with hers.
The clock ticked too quickly for them both.
She peered up at him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
His eyes twinkled. “I wanted to see what it felt like to appear on your doorstep unannounced. Should I have brought a false Great-Uncle?”
“Tommy would have been excellent in the role. If you think you found her convincing as Great-Aunt Wynchester…”
He grimaced. “Don’t tell me she could take one stroll down my Hall of Portraits and make herself up like the sixth Duke of Faircliffe.”
“All right.” Chloe batted her eyelashes. “I won’t tell you.”
He groaned. “She’s probably already done so.”
“And worse,” Chloe promised, then pantomimed sewing her lips closed.
“What about you?” His smile was warm, his gaze indulgent. One could easily imagine herself adored. “What were you doing when I arrived?”
