Page 14 of The Viscount's Forgery
It took Lord Bothwell a minute or two to decide, but with a nod, he ran one hand over his eyes and then smiled ruefully.
“I must be a heavy weight upon your shoulders,” he said, glancing at Nicholas. “I know I am very altered from last Season but – ”
“I think nothing of the sort,” Nicholas said firmly. “I want only to help, my friend. Truly.”
Lord Bothwell took in a long breath. “You are. A great deal. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and find Miss Sherwood.”
Nicholas watched with a sense of contentment in his heart as his friend walked away. Mayhap this advice would help Lord Bothwell find clarity, even if it meant ending the connection completely. Reaching for a glass of brandy, Nicholas winced at the tense strain of guilt in his heart, fully aware that he had offered advice that was not his own but had put it to his friend as though it was. Telling himself that it did not matter, that there was no great sin in it, for he had done so for good reason, Nicholas sipped his brandy and then set his shoulders. It was time for him to go and enjoy the rest of the soiree and put Lord Bothwell and Miss Sherwood out of his mind for the time being.
“Good evening, Lord Suffolk.”
Nicholas, who had been enjoying a prolonged conversation with one Miss Fairfax, turned his head to see none other than Miss Eugenia Sherwood looking up at him, her eyes fixed on his and no smile on her face. Miss Fairfax turned her full attention to Lord Hewitt, leaving him free to speak solely with the lady.
“Miss Sherwood,” he said, sweeping into a bow. “I do hope you are enjoying the soiree?”
She did not smile and nor did she nod. There was something in her eyes that seemed to fire sparks back at him, and that Nicholas did not like.
“Is there something the matter?” he asked, as Miss Sherwood nodded. “What is it? If there is anything wrong, then I will do whatever I can to resolve it.” He frowned. “I do hope it is not your sister and Lord Bothwell, for he and I did have a conversation which, I hope, will lead to a resolution between them both, in time.”
With a slight tilt of her head, Miss Sherwood held his gaze. “It is not to do with my sister and Lord Bothwell, though I amgladto hear that your advice was so easily accepted.”
Nicholas swallowed, wondering if, somehow, she knew what he had said – though he quickly dismissed this idea. She had not been present in the library, he was sure and Lord Bothwell was surely not about to explain his intention to Miss Polly Sherwood, surely? “Then what, might I ask, has troubled you?”
With a slight lift of her chin, her blue eyes flashed over her shoulder and then back again. “Might you walk with me for a moment or two, Lord Suffolk?”
The frown returned to his forehead. “Walk with you?”
“Just to the hall,” she said, turning on her heel and beginning to walk, clearly expecting him to follow. “The one where all your paintings and portraits are hung.”
Nicholas walked with her, a protest on his lips but one that remained unspoken. He had very little understanding as to why she had asked him to walk with her there, though mayhap, given her previous interest in another painting, she had seen a similar one on his wall and wanted to speak of it with him? What troubled him the most, however, was the clear change in her expression, for it was no longer warm. When they had spoken at the British Museum, she had been welcoming to him, had smiled and expressed herself with warmth and amiability, but now, she was quite the opposite.
“I do not mean to trouble you at your own soiree, Lord Suffolk,” she said, coming to a stop in the hall, turning to face him. “But I must ask you about something.”
“If it is to do with the works I have here, then I am afraid I can tell you very little,” Nicholas said, as a few other guests mingled near them. “I have a man here in London who makes certain to purchase the very best for me, however. Mayhap he may be able to tell you more about whichever painting it is that interests you.”
Miss Sherwood’s lip curled a fraction, sending a cold blade into Nicholas’ heart. Whatever was the matter? This, to his mind, was not the lady that he had been getting to know over the last few weeks!
“It is important to you to have the very best of things, mayhap?” she asked, as Nicholas’ frown dug deep into his forehead. “It is said in society that you have a substantial fortune, and I can well understand it if you wish to have all that society might expect of you.”
Shifting on his feet, Nicholas shrugged. “It is important to me to have a high standard of presentation in my house, yes,” he agreed, turning around and looking at all that was presented in the hallway. “Yes, I suppose that I should like the very best ofthings, and to be truthful, Miss Sherwood, I do not see that as a troubling thing.”
“Then it would trouble you to know that one of your paintings, the largest and most detailed of all the paintings here, is not an original?” she asked, making Nicholas’ breath hitch. “Or mayhap that is something that you are already aware of and do not want others to know?”
Nicholas swallowed hard, a knot in his throat that made his answer more than apparent, even without him saying anything.
“I see.” Miss Sherwood’s voice quietened, clearly desirous that no other person should hear her speak. “If you would wish to ask me anything further, Lord Suffolk, then I would be glad not only to share my reasons for saying such a thing but also to look at the other paintings in your townhouse. I am sure there are many others.”
A guttural sound came from his throat, shock pushing through him as he coughed, trying to gather himself. “Do you mean to suggest that there might be others within my townhouse that are not as they seem?”
Miss Sherwood’s gaze was clear. “Yes, it may be,” she answered steadily. “But that can only be ascertained by a brief study of each one, Lord Suffolk.”
He could not quite make sense of all she said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have been studying the paintings here since your arrival?”
“Only the first few,” she said, without any hesitation. “It was this one that caught my attention, of course, and I have been studying it since then.”
“How could you know such a thing?” Blinking quickly, he tried to make sense of it all. “How could a young lady such as yourself be able to ascertain whether one piece of work is real or otherwise?”
A red hue began to press into Miss Sherwood’s cheeks. “Because, Lord Suffolk,” she said, clearly but quietly, “I am a bluestocking, well versed in art and the artists themselves. Now, do excuse me. I shall leave you to your contemplations and to your soiree. Good evening.”
