Page 30 of Avenging the Earl's Lady
“And if you are not able?”
If she were not able, she would be dead, or locked in the Tower.
She must not think about that.Either result would mean she’d failed the most important person in her life.
“I know there are very few sure things in this life, but I believe I have found one.”
Madame waited.
“I’ve come into possession of a valuable painting.I should like to find a buyer for it.”
“Quietly, I surmise.”
Jane nodded, her pulse quickening.Yes, she would sell the painting quietly, just as quietly as she had slid into this criminal pursuit.
“You must know, my cousin, Guignard, is also skilled in copying such art.”
“Yes, and that is a consideration also.The work has been copied once already, but I know I have the genuine article.”She went to the mantel and retrieved the gold-painted tube.“I’m afraid it has suffered much abuse.”
Two dayslater
Shaldon had just butteredhis toast and started on the pile of that morning’s post, when Kincaid burst into the breakfast room.
Lady Sirena raised her blonde head from the scandal sheet she was perusing and frowned.“Kincaid, should you be up and about with that wound not yet properly healed?Oh, do sit down, and our man will make you a plate.”
He and Kincaid had both been up half the night, moving from one likely haunt to another, and there was still no word of Jane.His few hours of rest had not been enough, and he took the paper Kincaid thrust at him with a meaningful glare.He had one just like it in his stack of morning newssheets.
“’Tis a fact that his lordship takes all the papers,” Sirena said.“And reads them also.”
“Yes, my lady.”Kincaid seated himself and began digging into the food placed in front of him by the footman.
Sirena laughed.“Well, and ’tis also a fact that I’ve a busy morning ahead.”She pushed away from the table and beckoned the footman.“Come along and close the breakfast room door so his lordship and Mr.Kincaid may talk without interference.”
Her cheek dimpled around her grin as the door closed.She’d no doubt be sending a servant out for another copy of the paper Kincaid had presented for her private review.
“’Tis news that you have, I suppose,” Shaldon said, copying his Irish daughter-in-law.
Kincaid rolled his eyes.
“An incipient insurrection?A spurious diplomat?A—”
“A rare painting for sale.”
He flipped to the advertisements, his pulse accelerating.
And there it was.
A rare seventeenth-century painting by a Spanish artist living in New Spain.Lost and recently found.Lovingly restored.Private bids only.Write for information.
The address given was the newssheet’s.
He tapped the paper.The Duque would never offer the painting for sale.So, it had not, as they’d feared, been the Duque’s men on that road.Then who?
And what of Lady Jane?Dread slithered through him.Perhaps shewaslying dead between London and Yorkshire, while he’d been running after the long train of the King’s coronation robe.
“Any more news of Jane?”
Kincaid shook his head.“The only sighting has been that one of Ewan’s.”
