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“Because I am the artist, Inspector,” Lizbeth said.
Lewis’s head snapped up and he stared at Lizbeth. “You are the artist in question?”
“Yes.”
“And you have proof of this?”
“Indeed. My initials are at the bottom, right-hand corner of each painting.”
The two men looked at each other again, a smile breaking out on Lewis’s face. “This is quite interesting.” He continued to look over the documents they’d brought.
Once he was through, he asked, “I assume I can keep these?”
“As long as we receive a receipt for them,” Marcus said.
Inspector Lewis grinned. “Smart man.” He began to tap the table with the end of a pencil. “I assume Mr. Walker—who I know to be a legitimate art dealer—would be willing to come in for a statement?”
“Absolutely,” Lizbeth said, her heart pounding in her chest. She could almost taste victory. “Mr. Walker said he had suspected from the start that Mrs. O’Leary was falsifying her claim to the paintings.”
“Yet he took them.”
“Yes, but he had not paid her when Mr. Mallory found the paintings. Mr. Walker said he was not comfortable doing so until he met the artist, who Mrs. O’Leary said lived the life of a recluse,” Lizbeth said.
Inspector Lewis continued to read the documents over one more time. “Please wait here and I will get a receipt for you.”
Both men stood and left the room. Marcus turned to Lizbeth. “I finally feel as though we are getting somewhere.”
Lizbeth let out a deep breath. “Yes. I can’t tell you how happy I am. Mrs. O’Leary will finally be charged with something.” She paused. “She will be charged, won’t she?”
“They have to, love, the evidence is right there in their hands.”
Lizbeth chewed on her lip. “What if the police tore up the papers?”
Marcus took her hand. “You are fretting over nothing. First of all, I have faith in the police department. And second, even if they were that corruptible, Mr. Walker will just sign another paper and we can go higher up.”
“Suppose they—”
“Enough.” He squeezed her hand. “Please don’t worry. It will all work out. I promise.”
The two men returned. “Very well, here is your receipt,” Inspector Lewis held out a paper to Marcus.
“Will we be notified when she is arrested?” Lizbeth asked.
“No. We do not notify victims with the steps we take. However, if we need you to provide additional information, I assume you are at the same address?”
Marcus stood and tucked the paper into his jacket pocket, then took Lizbeth’s arm. “Yes, we are both residing at Berkshire House. Thank you, Inspector.”
They left the building and headed to the carriage. “I feel so good about this.” Lizbeth smiled. “At least this time they believed us, and I honestly feel like justice will be done.”
Marcus took a deep breath. “Don’t get your hopes up too much, sweeting, about how fast this will work. The law moves slowly.”
They were quiet on the way home. Lizbeth kept envisioning Mrs. O’Leary in handcuffs. She knew it was unkind and un-Christian like for her to applaud someone’s downfall, but it provided her with one more step away from what had happened to her. Maybe she would even heal.
Why that word made her glance over at Marcus was not something she wished to dwell on. Yes, he was handsome, and charming, and honorable, and caring, but he was still a man. With a man’s desires and needs.
What would intimacy be like with Marcus? Surely, with what she could see with him in his clothes, his form would be quite acceptable without them. With his caring he would certainly not make her feel that she was being used like the two men she was forced to endure at the brothel. And considering his reputation as a rake, whether present or past, he would be an excellent lover.
She shivered, thinking of his hands on her body. Hands that didn’t grope, squeeze and otherwise hurt her, but loving caresses. The thought of his hands on her flesh caused her nipples to harden and the place between her legs to moisten. Whatever did that mean?
