Page 14 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Maggie frowned. “Did they provide their names?”
“Miss Frampton and Miss Fiona Frampton.”
The energy of the rising sun filled him to the brim, and he snapped to his feet. Theo and Maggie straightened, too, looking to him for guidance. He was, after all, the only one of them who had any acquaintance with the Frampton sisters. He gave Maggie a nod.
“Show them to the back parlor, Barnett, and have Mrs. Patricks bring in tea.”
The butler bowed low and left, and Maggie ran.
“I need a more formal frock,” she muttered, racing down the hallway.
Theo lumbered toward the stairs. “I admit to curiosity, but I’ll be leaving now. I’ve an appointment with the last ofFather’s artists.” No mistaking the disdain dripping from those words. Their father’s will stipulated that they continue to patronize three of the artists he had supported while he’d live. Theo had been working since his death to find the artists new patrons so they did not bleed from the family hundreds of pounds a year.
“Two down, one to go,” Zander said, leaning on the doorframe. Theo had placed a sculptor fellow with a rich Italian patron a few months ago, and he’d waved a painter off to Scotland last week.
“Hopefully none after this morning.” Theo grimaced. “She has a house, Zander. Father bought the woman a house on top of presenting her with a yearly stipend.”
“A whole damnhouse?”
“Thankfully, he did not put it in her name. Raph owns it.”
“Was she… Father’s…”
“Mistress? God no. I can’t imagine that. He hardly ever came to town. Couldn’t stand to leave Mother. And this woman’s not a by-blow, either. Raph’s solicitor says she’s an earl’s daughter. Hardly matters, though. She’s a leech on our resources, and she must be removed.”
“Poetic, brother.” Zander sank low in his seat. “And sympathetic.”
Theo grunted, waved, and left. “Take a bath.”
Zander lifted an arm, sniffed again, and choked. Yes. Very well. A quick bath before facing the Framptons. Facing the dragon. Why in hell were they here? Hadn’t he made a hash of their lives last night? And their realities, in turn, making a hash of his? Perhaps that’s why they were here, to bring down some sort of biblical vengeance on his head. He’d revealed the girl’s nefarious secrets to her entire family.
He likely deserved vengeance.
In less than half an hour, he ran down the stairs and shoved open the door to the back parlor. And stopped dead in his tracks at the happy laughter of the three women in the room.
“Making fast friends, are we?” He sauntered inside, chose a chair far from the others, and stretched his legs out before him, adopting a pose he hoped spoke of nonchalance.
The Frampton sisters sat around a small round table with Maggie, who had changed into a more formal gown faster, apparently, than a winning horse at Ascot. The sister who was not the art forger sat straight as a fire poker, her gaze full of ice, and the sister who was the forger looked ready to bounce from her seat. If the one was cool composure, the other was ecstatic activity.
Maggie held a teacup in her lap and glared at him. “Miss Frampton, Miss Fiona Frampton, I hope you will excuse my brother’s poor manners. He’s a bit sleep deprived at the moment.”
He yawned. For effect. “Sleep deprived and curious. Tell me, Miss Fiona, have you received news from the dowager in the few hours we’ve been parted? Or did you remember something of import to my search?”
Ah—there it was—that barely contained energy bouncing her out of her chair. “Oursearch, Lord Lysander.”
“Our? I hardly think—”
“Then catch up, sir, as I’ve done nothing but think last night. And this morning. In bed, breaking my fast, on the ride over here, standing on your doorstep. Think, think, think. And here is the conclusion I’ve come to. The both of us have insight into the dowager’s life but from different perspectives. We should work together to—”
“That’s why I left my card with you last night.” He slammed to his feet, her energy coursing across the room and making him feel the necessity of movement, banishing his exhaustion. “So you could send polite word if some bit of information crossed your little nose, not—”
“Not a particularly bright idea, Lord Lysander.”
“Hell, woman!” A laugh exploded out of him, her sauciness the gunpowder and the spark that made it go boom. “Will you insult me twice before I’ve even broken my fast?” He grinned, couldn’t be grumpy about it, about her.
She tilted her head to the side. “You’ve not eaten yet? Hm. That’s your fault, is it not? Not mine. You could be facing insults with a full stomach.”
Well damn him, she had a point. He strode to the table resting like an island of sanity in the middle of a female ocean of madness and almost cried with relief when he saw a pile of scones. He snatched one up and bit off half of it. She wanted to help, did she? And in an active way, it seemed. But how would she do that? He was a known member of the art world with contacts—shady and legitimate—and people who owed him favors. He routinely traveled the length of England in search of expensive pieces and thus needed no justification for his presence anywhere he pleased.
