The door opened, his footman blinking at him. “Something wrong, sir?”
His confusion was fair. Wesley rarely broke his routines, and even more rarely came down to the basement. “I need a telegram sent first thing.”
“All right, sir.” Ned hid a yawn behind his hand. “Begging your pardon, but if you’ll give me a moment to dress, I’ll come upstairs and—”
“No need,” Wesley said brusquely. His father would be turning in his grave, but Wesley had lost his taste for perfect social etiquette on the battlefield. He didn’t want to take a bloody half hour for a two-line telegram; he wanted to get this done, then go back upstairs and have his drink alone and be done thinking about Sebastian de Leon.
Because here he was. Still thinking about him.
Wesley gritted his teeth. “Have you paper and pen? It’s a short message, I’ll write it out now.”
“Yes, sir,” Ned said again, and disappeared into his room.
Wesley took the opportunity to glance around the basement. No one would ever have made the mistake of calling Wesleysoft, but he preferred his staff to be discreet, and a comfortable man was a loyal man. Wesley made sure his staff were better paid, and had better quarters, than most, and in return, not a one of them said anything when he had men stay overnight in the guest room that was very close to his own.
The basement appeared clean and well-kept, and looked as it always did.
Except.
Except also hanging on the wall was a large, Impressionist-style painting of exceptional quality. Church steeples rose out of the tightly packed city, rooftops under a bright sun and the blue ocean in the distance. In the foreground, a couple, hand in hand, walked away from the viewer, toward the edge of the painting.
It was mesmerizing, drawing even Wesley in. As Ned reappeared in the doorway, Wesley said in surprise, “Isthisthe painting from Arthur?”
“Lovely, innit?” Ned said, with real pleasure. “Bloke delivered it on behalf of your American friend in May, same day Mr. Kenzie and his friend Mr. Brodigan left. Real gentlemanly gift of Mr. Kenzie, we all said.”
Ned added, in a confiding tone, “That’s a painting of Barcelona, that is. Would be a nice place to visit, eh? That golden beach along the sea?”
Wesley furrowed his brow. Arthur had never seemed to have much more than the polite interest in art required by society and their parents. Wesley had not expected a genuinely lovely work delivered in an odd and clandestine manner to his staff.
But come to think of it, Arthur had behaved terribly strangely the day he had left. He and his boyfriend, Rory, had never come back to the townhouse that night, leaving behind all of their bags. A telegram from Arthur had arrived the next morning, explaining they had gone to Paris by boat and that Wesley needed to get the hell out of London for a few weeks.
With a reminder that Rory had enemies and a strong implication that Wesley could be in danger too.
Wesley stared at the painting.
Barcelona.
A strange thought curled in Wesley’s mind, the memory of a younger man on his street, attractive enough to stir Wesley’s blood with nothing more than a fleeting glimpse. “Tell me about the man who delivered it.”
Ned snorted. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you ought to be asking Elsie. Every time she passes by on her way to the kitchens with her mum, she giggles about the handsome man with the Spanish accent who brought the painting.”
Wesley’s eyes narrowed. “Have the painting brought to the study at once, I need to examine it,” he said crisply. “And a second telegram must be sent, to the Earl of Blanshard.”
At 5am, Wesley was still awake, and now seething.
Both of his telegrams had gone for delivery. Arthur was back in America and Wesley might not hear from him for an age, and he hadn’t heard hide nor hair from the Earl of Blanshard for nearly three years.
But Jade had asked about Blanshard last night, and she had planned to tell Sebastian de Leon of their conversation. Jade was so convinced de Leon was a reformed criminal, but did she know the man had been to Wesley’s home in May? That the man had been on Wesley’s street mere days ago?
Lord Blanshard needed to know de Leon was interested in him.
Wesley had pored over every inch of the painting—removed the canvas from its frame and gone over that too. He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly—code, perhaps. De Leon had spoken in code with the other bootleggers in New York, referring to Rory Brodigan as aparanormal. Perhaps the painting held a clue or a cipher.
Maybe you deserve to know more, Jade had said.Do you want to come with me?
Wesley had walked away from the lunacy, only to find it in his home. Now, he damn well wanted to know more.
At 4am, Wesley had finally stuck the canvas in the tub in his bathroom and upended a can of turpentine over it.
