Page 18 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
She groaned, covered her face with her palms. Impossible, infuriating man. “That much is clear. But what do you plan to do inside?”
“Same as you, I suppose. Have a look around. I would never have known the paintings were missing had I not had a key made.”
“You’re a devil.”
He shrugged. “One does what one must.” A glow, low and sultry sparked in his eyes. If a glow could laugh, it would. “Why areyouhere again?”
“I had you followed so I would know when you returned to London. I needed to speak with you, to make you see sense.” She’d been denied a place in the practical whirl of life as long as she could remember, and she was… she was cursed tired of it! She would not be shut out of having a say in her own future any longer.
He laughed, long and loud, and yes, that glow in his eyes fed on the sound, encompassed his entire body. If she hadn’t been so enthralled by it, by him, she’d have been a bit insulted. As it was, she barely registered that sheshouldbe insulted.
When he recovered from his mirth, he pushed the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Thiswoman? Wants to makemesee sense?” Another chuckle. “Well, Miss Frampton, what is it you’re determined to make me see sense about?”
“A partnership.” She took several rapid steps forward, passing him by entirely to grab the crystal decanter on the table behind him. She took a long swig of it and tried to pretend it didn’t burn. But the coughing and sputtering likely gave it away.
He merely crossed his arms over his chest and watched her with an amused eyebrow raised high on his forehead. When she stopped sputtering, he said, “I am not in need of a partnership. You see, I’ve just returned from Scotland, and while I found out nothing direct about the missing dowager, I did discover that there’s a particular type of picture frame sometimes used to hide documents. I brought one back to London for a client, procured for pennies off an old duchess up north. I recognized it immediately. Lady Balantine has one, too. I fully intend to search the dowager’s frame and, hopefully, discover something of import. Have you done as much while I’ve been away?”
No. She had not. “I cannot just ask our clientele about Lady Balantine.”
The amusement faded, and he tilted his head. “Pardon me? I asked what you have done, not what you haven’t.”
“I’ve wanted to do it. I have access to any number of women who are friendly with the missing baroness. They come into our shop, but I cannot ask them outright what’s happened to her lest I create an association between me and her in their minds. I can have nothing connecting me to her in the public eye. To protect my family.” Frustration made her restless, and though she knew she’d regret it, she took another swig of the whisky. “Heavens that’s horrid,” she said as the fire in her throat calmed.
He sauntered toward the table—and her—and propped his hip against its edge, facing her. “Understandable. I suppose if I had not already interrogated all her closest friends ages ago, your poking around for information that way would be helpful. I have also queried her only son. A nasty man who answered my questions with grunts. Says he’s not seen her or talked to her in years. No love lost between them, apparently.”
Her spirits fell. All the way through the floor. “Are you sure they were telling the truth?”
“I am.”
“Why would they tellyoutheir secrets?”
He shrugged. “I am a marquess’s brother. A handsome one.”
“I cannot believe this,” she said. “I’m the one who will hang at the end of a rope if this entire enterprise is revealed. But you are the true scoundrel. Having keys made, browbeating barons, seducing old ladies.”
“No seduction necessary, love.” He winked.
“I dislike you.”
“The feeling is”—he leaned in low, the glow coalescing in his eyes once more, and tapped the tip of her nose—“not at all mutual.” He turned, walked away, and she heard thethunkof the tumbler on the table before he turned back around, arms crossed over his chest, stretching the fine lawn of his shirt and the silk of his waistcoat across the breadth of his chest.
“What does that mean?” she demanded, plopping into a cloth-covered chair.
He sauntered across the room to a where a portrait hung on the wall. “It means I find you amusing.”
His glow hidden by the dim shadows of the dark room, she could finally let his insult take her. “Amusing? And what doesthatmean?”
“It means, Miss Frampton, that I find you funny. A delightful little dragon that makes me feel a bit less tired.” He cocked his head to the side and scratched the back of his neck. “The frame is like the other I saw in Scotland, but not identical. Hmm.” He ran long, skilled fingers down each edge of the frame, then removed it from the wall entirely. Turning it over, he inspected every inch before replacing it on its hook.
He left the painting and fell into another chair-shaped lump facing her, bracing his elbows on his knees. “No hiding place for documents.” He dropped his head between his hands. “Go home, Miss Fiona. A vain effort, I suppose.”
“You tried. That’s what matters.”
His head shot up, and his dark eyes blazed as they pinned her. “You’re comforting me? I thought you didn’t like me.”
She sat on her hands and shrugged. “You seemed to need it. But I’m also comforting myself. Your failure is mine as well. If we speak about this, I’m sure we can find a way my help is valuable to the search.”
“We cannot.”
