Page 12 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
He wrinkled his nose but did not argue.
“You must truly dislike numbers to be shadowing us this morning,” Fiona said as they stepped into line with him. “And into a public conveyance as well.”
He cast a glance right past her to her sister, his eyes hard yet soft at the same time. He grunted, hailed a hack, and soon, they were crowded into the odiferous interior, each of them leaning into their own corner, sinking into their own shadows.
She’d given the driver the address on the rumpled calling card, and they rumbled that way much too quickly. Would Lord Lysander be there with this Mrs. Blake? And would he want the information she hoped to share with him? Would he share what he knew with her? The thought of sharing anything with that horse’s arse made her want to stay in the hack, no matter how pungent. But she would do it because she would do anything for her family, and it was the only thing she knew to do to salvage this shipwreck of a situation.
Five
When the orange glow of sunrise rolled across Zander’s face, he was already awake, thinking. Nothing else to do but think—of a solution, of his next move, of the dowager and where the hell she’d run off to.
Some thoughts, he tried to avoid—the very real possibility something nefarious had happened to the woman, a thousand nefarious scenarios, the Frampton family and their shock last night, the role he’d played in that, the green-eyed dragon who liked to fake a swoon and did so with skill. He laughed. Couldn’t help it. Who faked a swoon? Forger. Fake swooner. What else could the lady do? She had great talent. Clear as day, that. Likely even Rubens couldn’t paint in his own style as well as she could. Not that it mattered. Her talent didn’t matter in the least to his investigation.
He groaned. Between his thoughts and those he avoided, his brain had quite turned to mush. And he was scheduled to leave London in a few hours, to hie to Scotland and procure a family heirloom of some sort for a family who had no heirlooms but needed them to gain the status they craved like a starving man craves food.
He rolled out of bed and stood at the window, watching the sky turn pink then yellow before he turned with a sigh and dropped into a chair near the cold grate, his arms falling heavy to either side, the knuckles of one hand wrapping the top of the table. He hunched forward with a grunt, massaging the bridge of his nose. Another day, another work of priceless art to procure for the highest bidder. Priceless? Ha. Everything and everyone had a price, especially art. When he’d learned that lesson years ago, he’d found a vocation that suited him better than the church ever had. Just because your parents are friendly with the Archbishop of Canterbury does not mean you’ll suit that line of work.
Zander much preferred buying and selling, finding the newly rich but title poor and helping them fill their hallways with those signs of cultured class they were not supposed to have access to, helping them climb the social ladder just as his own family, titled and ancient, nose dived into financial ruin.
He fumbled on the table next to him until he felt the time and habit-smoothed edges of the old wedge of broken glass he’d left there last night. He picked it up and tapped it against the tabletop, creating a rhythm to think to.
He’d head to Scotland. Had to. A Manchester Midas had promised him enough money to help his brother fix the roof of the family manor if he delivered that damn family heirloom. But he could stop at the dowager’s London townhome once more before leaving town, see if he could discover another clue or jog the memory of some neighbor. Or perhaps she will have returned. He rolled his eyes, tapped the bottle-green stained glass. Not likely, that. Too bad he was headed north. Her country home lay to the west, and he’d not be able to spare time to visit in such an out-of-the-way locale. He’d annoyed her solicitor quite enough and worried the next time he stepped foot on the premises, the man might have him shot.
Tap, tap, tap.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” he said to whoever stood out in the hall. Maggie, likely. This was his sister’s home. Hopefully she’d not brought her husband, Tobias Blake with her to make ridiculous comments and think himself funny indeed. Zander felt too sour for quips.
The door eased open, and Maggie appeared. “Good morning, Zander.” She had the same brown hair as her brothers but more neatly kept. Even in a proper morning gown, she looked a little imp and always had. Their father had named her Magnificent, and Zander and his brothers had always considered the name rather apt. They doted on her.
But why the wariness? She did not usually succumb to such emotions.
“What have you done?” he asked.
“Now, don’t overreact.” She swung the door wider and looked to her right. His youngest brother Theo stood there, hands in greatcoat pockets, seriousness etched into every line of his face. As usual.
“Not him,” Zander moaned. “Go away.”
“No.” Theo stepped into the room. “I’m as curious to know what happened last night. Maggie wrote to say that you came home looking like death, refused dinner, came up here, and cried.”
Zander scoffed. “I certainly did not cry.” Might have felt like it, though. For a moment or two.
Maggie shut the door, closing them all in between the four cozy walls. “I certainly said nothing of the sort. No fibs, Theo. But do tell, Zander. We have a right to know. Did you finally speak with the forger?”
Zander let his head fall back onto the chair with a groan, and he flatted the glass on the table with his palm. “Yes. A disaster. It’s not the man, the jeweler, Mr. Frampton.”
“It’s not?” Maggie said.
“Who is it, then?” Theo demanded.
Zander dropped his chin to his chest and started up the tapping again. “The man’s daughter. Miss. Fiona. Frampton.”
Maggie gasped. “Delightful!”
“Delightful?” Zander lifted, heavy, to his feet. “The family had no clue of the girl’s criminal activities, and I’m the one who told them. And apparently, she forges art only to earn enough blunt to provide her sick mother with the care she needs. The girl knows nothing of the dowager or the location of the originals.” Zander had not failed to note the similarities in their reasoning, and he felt about her actions the way he felt about his own. He understood the desperation and felt keenly the foolishness.
He cringed and opened a box on the mantel to drop the glass inside where it tinkled against a handful of other worthless trinkets. He reached inside and felt around, grabbed a random object, and pulled out a rusted copper button. He tossed it in the air and snatched it.
