Page 27 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“I cannot deny what you say, Lord Lysander. Only… I hope it is not true. I refuse to think it of her.”
“That would mean our Lady Balantine is in trouble, or she was in trouble and is now no longer troubled by the woes of life, if you take my meaning.”
“I do, and I do not like it.” She sniffed and took a drink of wine. “Let us assume she is still alive and hatch a plan to bring her back to London.”
What an optimist she was with her pink cheeks and bright eyes and determination to do whatever it took to support her family. Even break the law. He understood that impulse if not the optimism. The world was broken. He knew that better than she, obviously. But she had not seen how those with money could have whatever they wished, those without be damned. A system he abhorred, though he certainly took advantage of it, procuring whatever it was the rich wanted by any means necessary, accepting their payments. To help his family. Just as she had tried to help hers.
No, he could not shatter her likely hard-protected optimism. “Bring her or her captor”—he could not very well say murderer after she’d asked him not to—“back to London. Because if she has been captured, it’s the fiend who abducted her who has the paintings now.” He knocked the locket against the wood.Tap, tap, tap.
Miss Frampton finished her wine and slapped her hand over his, stilling the steady beat. “That is quite a distraction.”
He curled his fingers around the locket and froze. Partly because she’d been so brazen as to touch him and partly because neither of them wore gloves. Their skin rested warm together, and that warmth spread past knuckles and tendons, spread up his arm and through the entire network of his body—to nerves, blood, muscle, and bone. He snatched his hand away.
“What is it?” she asked, her gaze flicking down to his clenched hand.
“Nothing of consequence. A broken locket.” He pocketed it. “I like to keep broken things about me. Things no one wants because, at some point, the thing was wanted. It may be forgotten now, but it held value for someone once.” Hell, he’d had too much wine. To be spouting such nonsense.
But she brightened and leaned closer to him. “Do you know what my favorite painting is?”
“How should I?” He flinched. He’d devolved once more into a growling beast. “Something famous, no doubt.”
She shook her head. “My sister painted it when we were little. It’s of my mother and father.” She bounced out of her chair and across the small room. “Come here. Look.” She nodded at a framed painting to the side of the fireplace and above the armchair.
He rose slowly and joined her, peered into the frame. Blue sky and green grass, a man and woman holding hands. Sort of? The limbs were different sizes and there was no sense of proportion or perspective.
He hissed. “I assume your sister does not have your talent, then.”
“Not an ounce of artistic talent. She’s an excellent head for business, though, and if given a good design, she can fashion a gorgeous and durable bit of jewelry. This is one of her last paintings. She gave it up soon after.”
“I can’t blame her. Looks like my brother Raph’s work. I swear he has ten thumbs on one hand and none of them know how to hold a brush.”
She laughed, and it sounded like gold threads wrapping round him, like sunlight shattering the shadows of the night. Hell. Neither of those thingshad sound. Definitely too much wine.
“You love your brother,” she said. No question. A direct statement.
“I do. I love all my brothers, though they’re often right pains in the arse.”
“How many do you have?”
“Four. Maggie—Mrs. Blake—is my only sister. But she’s more delight than pain.”
Her whistle bounced off the close walls. “Four pains in the arse is a lot to have. I wish I had more, but…” Her voice trailed off as she stared up at the child’s painting. The woman in it stood. “The doctor said my mother should have no more. Not after…” She shivered. Her shawl had slipped from one shoulder, and she pulled it back into place.
“Cold?” he asked, rushing to the empty grate. “I can light a fire.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Let us return to planning. I should get home shortly.”
They sat, and though he ached a bit to ask about her mother, he did not. He did not need to know more about her. What he knew already was far too appealing, how it made him want to know even more, a greater danger. He’d not indulge the impulse further. He’d make use of her cleverness, and when they’d accomplished their mission, he’d never see her again.
Ten
They left the shop by the alley entrance, and though a chill snaked through the spring night air, Fiona felt warm to her very toes. Confident, too, that together, they would find the dowager and the paintings. He would put it about that he had a rare Rubens in his possession and wanted a buyer. Knowing the state of his family’s finances, not a soul would question his wish to sell it. Then they would wait to see if the dowager bit. Or if someone else bit. Then, if it was not the dowager, they’d ask questions.
A breeze whipped her skirts as she set her steps toward home, and a hand wrapped tightly around her upper arm pulled her to an unexpected stop,
She yelped and swung around to glare at Lord Lysander in the darkness. He merely locked her arm snug into his and pulled her close.
“Don’t stray too far from me,” he grumbled. “After dark, all streets of London are dangerous.”
