Page 48 of The Art of Theft
He was also barely perspiring, but he opened a button on his shirt.
She blinked.
“I have enjoyed looking at you today,” he said dryly. “I thought I should return the favor in some measure.”
Before she could respond, he poured himself a glass of water and asked, “Did you learn anything new from the maharani?”
“Did Mrs. Watson not tell you?”
“She appeared preoccupied, so I didn’t ask.”
That was likely the reason he had volunteered to take her place, so that Mrs. Watson could have some time to herself.
“You don’t need to do everything for everyone. Mrs. Watson would also have been all right if she fought me for an hour.”
“If I didn’t do everything for everyone, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”
That was probably God’s truth. It was his great weakness, this sometimes-compulsive over-generosity that arose at least partly in response to his doubts about himself and his place in the world.
When she’d been younger, she’d thought of it as only a weakness. But in time she came to understand that it was also his great strength. The doubts did exist, they were deep-seated, and he would always, in one way or another, try to assuage them. But hewaskind, and hewasgenerous, deeply, sincerely so.
And she—
She looked up at his lean, compelling features, his rueful expression, his thick, dark hair, ever so slightly tousled from exertion—and it startled her, how much she liked him.
It unsettled her.
She set aside her water glass. “I learned something new this morning. Earlier the maharani hadn’t given us the full picture because she didn’t truly believe we would carry through with the task. But today she admitted that there would be no incriminating evidence on or behind the Van Dyck at Château Vaudrieu. That we must exchange the painting for her letters.”
He considered her, though it seemed to her that he was thinkingas much about her suddenly brisk and businesslike tone as about what she had said. “Well,retrievalwas always a euphemism fortheft.”
She didn’t think this would surprise him. Lieutenant Atwood had learned of the situation from him, and everything Lieutenant Atwood had said on the topic at dinner the other night had involved the wholesale removal of the painting.
“And then what?” he asked. “What do we do once we have the painting?”
“We will know only then.”
He frowned. “I told my children I would be back in a fortnight. Not to mention, invitations have already gone out for a house party I’m giving after Christmas.”
“I also don’t want to be gone much longer than a fortnight. Mr. Mears mentioned that Bernadine has been faring tolerably since I left, but I’d prefer to be there myself.”
They were silent for some time. She allowed her gaze to linger for a moment where his shirt opened to show the hollow at the base of his throat.
“Do you think this is but a clever mastermind using others to steal works of art?” he asked, still frowning.
“I wish I knew. I wish I could be certain of something—anything—about our purpose at Château Vaudrieu.” She looked into his eyes. “The only thing I’m certain of is that I don’t know enough to judge the situation yet.”
?The company gathered in the library that afternoon. There was a rich spread of delicacies, both sweet and savory, but only Mr. Marbleton approached it with anything resembling glee. He made a plate for Livia with a few miniature quiches andgougères, and brought her a glass of mineral water.
Lord Ingram had fetched punch and cake for Livia on various occasions, but he did that for any wallflower he happened to know. Sympathy, however, did not seem to factor into Mr. Marbleton’smotives. He spoiled her because he enjoyed spoiling her, an experience completely novel to Livia, and almost as alarming as it was pleasurable.
She smiled at him. The smile he returned was so brilliant, she immediately wished that they were alone—yet was relieved that they weren’t. She looked away, feeling like a train hurtling full bore toward the horizon: The railway was unfinished and she was about to run out of tracks at any moment.
Across from her Mrs. Watson nursed a finger of cognac, looking a little wan. Behind her settee, Lord Ingram stood by the window in a dove-grey lounge suit. Charlotte walked about slowly, examining book spines, sometimes running a finger along the edge of the shelves.
When she reached the door she looked into the corridor outside, closed the door again, then strolled back to stand behind a Louis XIV chair to Livia’s left, where she could see everyone in the room.
Mrs. Watson exhaled and set down her cognac. “I have called everyone here because I am an old fool who took on a task that is much too big for me. It has already proved far more perilous than I anticipated and I must hereby release everyone from any further obligation.”
