Page 23 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“Fiona!” her father roared.
She flung open the door and entered the shop once more. “Coming!”
But would Lord Lysander come? And when?
* * *
A fire glowed, low and dying, in the grate as Zander slipped into his bedchamber soon after the clock chimed twelve. It had been a busy day, but he’d made a pretty penny, and thankfully, he’d stopped by Frampton’s before heading home. Wondering, unable to resist checking… had she left him a note yet?
She had.
He lit a candle and pulled the slim piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it near the flame. Finally, a clue. Miss Frampton had discovered something of importance. His own attempts to uncover the dowager’s whereabouts of late have proved fruitless and frustrating.
He leaned close to the light, cursed, and pulled a pair of wire-frame glasses from his coat pocket, slipped them on. The swimming words focused, and he read.
Dear Mr. B,
Nothing is happening. This cannot be the best way to conduct this investigation. I suggest we make a change.
Miss F
* * *
Less than half a day was all it took to receive Lord Lysander’s reply. When Fiona slipped into the shop to open up the next day, she entered through the alley door, checked behind the brick and found the note. She read it in the dim, early dawn light.
What the deuce do you think we should do instead? You know, you remind me a bit of my eldest brother, the marquess, though I cannot think of him that way. He is and always will be Raph. You are, and always will be, impatient, I presume. It’s notwaiting. It’s biding our time. Hell, woman, please do find something else to occupy your overactive brain.
P.S. Notice I have not written even a hint of our names. Please do follow suit.
P.P.S. God save me from silly andamusingwomen.
Well.Well. He certainly had not had to write that last bit. She’d gathered in the past that he thought her amusing qualities were good things. Now she saw what he meant with that word—nuisance, ridiculous, silly. Same as always from everyone around her.
She was supposed to be finishing up the dreadfully dull still life she couldn’t bring herself to work on, but she sat down and wrote a letter instead.
* * *
Zander leaned against the alley wall in the late afternoon sun. He had a mind to stomp into the shop and demand she explain herself, but since that would defeat the entire purpose of sending the cursed letters, he did not. Instead, he read the note again.
Dear Mr. Muttonhead,
What the deuce do I think we should do? I’m so glad you’ve asked, as I have many excellent suggestions. First, we should locate all her former servants and interview them (unless you’ve done that already, and it seems you might have). Second, we should seek out gossip from the art world. Has anyone procured a Rubens recently, for instance? Third, we could certainly do something underhanded like put out rumors one of us intends to buy a Rubens. Then, we would wait and see who contacts us. I could put my considerable skill to work and forge another painting, put it about we have an original for sale and see if the dowager or someone else contacts us. As you see, sir, there are a multitude of options more productive thanwaiting.
As you can infer from the above observations, God has saved you from a ridiculous, silly, andamusingwoman because I am certainly not one of those, no matter what the rest of the world thinks.
I wish I could meet this marquess of yours. He sounds utterly delightful. Much more so than his insulting brother.
Have a horrid afternoon,
Miss Brilliant and Bold
The hell of the letter was it made him want to laugh. The double hell of the letter was some of her ideas were not half bad. He located a third hell, too—he’d not meant to insult her and felt bad that he had. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and used the door to write, then he folded it, slipped it back behind the brick, knocked, and ran.
* * *
Fiona stared, mouth slightly agape, at the note in her hand. She could still hate him. She had that right, and he’d given her more than enough reason. But she could fully believe the man who’d penned the missive between her fingers was as charming as he claimed. She read it a fifth time and allowed herself a chuckle.
Miss Brilliant and Bold,
