An Artful Seduction Page 2

  Silence reigned, then Amelia spoke. “By how much did Huntingdon outbid you?”

  “By too much.”

  As it stood, the fifty pounds she had intended to spend on the Jan Wilden’s forgery was close to their entire savings. But it would have been worth it.

  The alternative was unthinkable.

  Amelia took a deep breath. “I can finish another, you know. We can sell it and disappear—”

  Eliza shook her head. “No! I refuse to follow in Father’s footsteps.”

  “But we’ve done it before,” Amelia argued.

  “Once and never again,” Eliza swore.

  One week after their father had disappeared they were forced to leave their modest town home. They were left with little money—just enough to rent the shop and the small rooms above where they’d lived and to buy food to last them through the winter. Eliza had been in a panic. They hadn’t the money to heat their living space and Chloe, then only twelve, had developed a lingering cough.

  Since that frightening winter, the thought of using Amelia’s skill to masterfully forge paintings had always been in the back of Eliza’s mind, but she had feared the worst.

  Arrest. Imprisonment. Deportment.

  Amelia twisted her hands in her lap. “What do you think we should do, Eliza?”

  Eliza hesitated, then worked to keep all expression from her voice. “I have to get the painting back before Lord Huntingdon discovers the truth.”

  Amelia looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “You can’t be serious? It’s too risky.”

  “He doesn’t know who I am,” Eliza pointed out.

  “What if he suspects you?” Amelia countered.

  Eliza stood and stiffened her spine with resolve. “He won’t. My acting skills have been honed over the past five years.”

  Chloe’s nose crinkled. “You are overreacting, Lizzie. The dead viscount had that painting for years and no one suspected a thing. What makes you think anyone will now?”

  Because of him. There had been something sinister in Huntingdon’s jet eyes. Something that raised the hair on her nape. He was not a man to be trifled with, but to be taken seriously.

  Her future course of action was clear. The truth must never come out, no matter the price.

  Chapter Two

  Eliza stared at the white stone walls of the imposing mansion in Mayfair. She clutched her cloak with one hand, held a leather satchel with the other, and drew a deep breath.

  I can do this, she thought. I’ve fooled many men over the years.

  She proceeded to the front door and lifted the heavy brass knocker. A moment later, a somber-faced butler opened the door and stared down at her.

  “Mrs. Eliza Somerton to see Lord Huntingdon.”

  “His lordship is not receiving calls this afternoon,” he said coolly.

  Eliza handed him an embossed card. “This is my establishment. Lord Huntingdon expressed an interest in some rare prints to add to his collection,” she said with just the right note of impatience. “I assure you he will want to see me.”

  The man’s mouth thinned with displeasure, but he nodded curtly and opened the door wide for her to pass.

  Eliza stepped inside a grand vestibule with black and white marble tile, crystal chandeliers, and a winding staircase with a gilded balustrade. A footman immediately appeared to take her cloak.

  Eliza followed the butler down the hall. Opening a door, he motioned for her to enter. “Wait here while I advise his lordship of your presence.”

  Eliza entered a drawing room and surveyed her surroundings. It was decorated in shades of blue, with striped azure silk drapes, an Oriental carpet, and Roman inspired settees. Eliza hadn’t set foot in such an elegant room since she was a child and her father had visited a duke intent on commissioning his portrait.

  She felt dwarfed by the tall frescoed ceiling, but it was the gilt-framed artwork on the walls that caught her breath. Works by sporting artists George Stubbs and James Ward were displayed for her perusal. She walked close, marveling at the meticulous detail of hunting dogs and muscled prized stallions with glistening coats. She wondered if Huntingdon had a private gallery in his mansion and if the treasures displayed here were but a sampling of his collection.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  She spun around at a masculine voice. Huntingdon stood in the doorway—tall, broad, and compellingly male. Her heart started to pound. Goodness! In the afternoon sunlight from the drawing room windows, he was even more handsome than at the auction. He was dressed in a meticulously tailored jacket of navy superfine, buff-colored trousers, and shiny black Hessians. His dark hair curled around his collar, and he appeared to be a gentleman of fashion that matched the artwork in his drawing room.

  But Eliza wasn’t fooled. There was a predatory gleam in his dark eyes that simmered beneath his polished veneer.

  How long had he stood there observing her?

  “I was told you weren’t receiving,” she said.

  “I wasn’t. Until Hutchins informed me I was to buy artwork from you.” His tone held a note of challenge.

  She forced herself to smile, all the while wondering if he would have her thrown out.

  But the earl strolled into the room and held up her card. “The Peacock Print Shop. What precisely do you sell?”

  “Paintings, engravings, and decorative items. Work from aspiring, local artists.”

  “You compete with Ackerman’s in the Strand?”

  “Not its clientele. Our customers are well-to-do merchants who wish to own a piece of art, but not pay Ackerman’s exorbitant prices,” she said.

  “Fascinating.”

  She looked at the frames on the drawing room wall and struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. “I don’t see the Jan Wildens painting that you purchased at the Tutton auction.”

  An appealing smile curved his lips. “Ah, I knew there must be more to your visit than you led my butler to believe, Mrs. Somerton. For a moment, I thought you liked me.”

  Could he tell she found him attractive? She struggled to calm her racing heart and gave him a pointed look. “Let us speak plainly, my lord. I don’t believe you truly desire the Wildens painting.”

  He tsked. “Untrue. I plan on hanging it in my private gallery. Would you like a tour?”

  She’d love one. She could spend hours in a museum if she were not a struggling tradeswoman. “Thank you, but no. I truly am here on business.”

  “Business?” He arched a dark eyebrow as if the mere thought of a woman visiting for business purposes was ludicrous.

  “Yes. I have a proposition for you.”

  He walked closer, his smooth movements reminding her of a jungle cat. “A proposition? What an interesting choice of words.”

  Her pulse skittered alarmingly at his nearness. “A business offer, my lord.”

  “You have my interest.” He gestured toward a pale gold settee. “Please sit, Mrs. Somerton. If we are to discuss your offer, let’s be comfortable.”

  He ignored a nearby armchair and sat beside her on the settee. Leaning against the cushions, he stretched his long legs, his polished Hessians shining in the sunlight streaming from the windows.

  Eliza was not easily intimidated. She was no longer a young girl straight from the schoolroom, but a woman who worked for her living. But Lord Huntingdon was an imposing man…a big man. Everything about him was alarming, from his height of over six feet, to his broad shoulders, and his chiseled features. He was rumored to be immensely wealthy, a much sought-after bachelor who could be charming when it served him, and highly intelligent.

  It was the last trait that concerned her.

  “It’s not every day a beautiful lady visits with a business proposal.”

  His voice, deep and sensual, sent a ripple of awareness through her.

  She took a breath. “It should come as no surprise to you that I want the Jan Wildens painting.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  She place
d her leather case on a dainty end table and withdrew an engraving. “I plan to sweeten the deal. As I stated, I sell works from aspiring, local artists. They are exquisite pieces. As an influential art critic and enthusiastic collector, I’m sure you will be interested.”

  Just as she thought, his curiosity was piqued at the mention of the artwork. The engraving was of a religious scene, Madonna with child, and the work painstaking and impressive. The artist, an unknown laborer, displayed his work at Eliza’s shop. Once sold, they would split the earnings.

  Huntingdon sat forward and studied the piece. “The detail is quite astonishing for a new artist.”

  Hope blossomed in her chest. “You can have it plus the fifty pounds I had planned to pay at the auction in exchange for the Wildens painting.”

  Pushing the engraving aside, his dark eyes studied her intently. “It’s not enough.”

  Her heart sank.

  Then he leaned close, very close, until she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Her pulse quickened and a disturbing tingling began in the pit of her stomach. She’d been wrong about his eyes, she realized. They weren’t black, but a rich, coffee brown.

  “There are other types of beauty,” he said, “living beauty which I crave.”

  Her heart thundered at his outrageous words. “How dare you! I’m not for sale, my lord.”

  “Ah, but you are, Mrs. Somerton. You are very much for sale, and I—”

  She came to her senses and reached up to slap him. But he was too quick, grasping her wrist before she made contact with his cheek.

  His eyes narrowed. “The Jan Wildens oil is a forgery, albeit a meticulous and frighteningly good one,” he said, his voice cold and exact.

  A cold knot formed in her stomach. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “You’re very good. At first I thought it was your father’s work, but the brushwork is slightly different, the signature not a perfect match. You were taught well. I’m not surprised since you’re Jonathan Miller’s daughter.”

  He knows!

  She felt as if her breath was cut off. He thought she had created the forgery. She’d go to her grave before she confessed it was Amelia’s work.

  Her voice wavered. “You can’t prove it.”

  “I am an expert.”

  “You were wrong before, as I recall,” she said sharply.

  She could have bit her tongue the moment the words left her lips. His face hardened like granite at the mention of the past when he had been fooled by her father.

  His fingers tensed on her wrist. “I lost my credibility as a critic at the Royal Academy because of your father. It took me years to earn back my reputation. Jonathan Miller was never found and tried for his crimes.”

  She was right; Huntington thirsted for revenge. She’d come here to prevent disaster, but had caused it instead. She suppressed the panic rising in her chest. She couldn’t give in to it now, not when she needed all her wits about her to survive.

  He released her wrist suddenly. “Your choice of artwork to forge is interesting. The Flemish painter Jan Wildens—an artist who often painted backgrounds for the popular Peter Paul Rubens.”

  “I’m duly impressed by your artistic knowledge.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Wildens is someone your father would have chosen. Miller never copied the masters, but less acknowledged artists, oftentimes a master’s students or assistants. That way the history of a painting’s ownership was much more ambiguous and could be concocted by a crafty and shrewd art broker.”

  It was true. Amelia had followed her father’s reasoning when she’d chosen to forge Jan Wildens.

  Despite her inner turmoil, Eliza lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze. “Since you’re certain of your opinion, I shall see myself out—”

  “Oh no, you won’t. You’ve come to bargain, remember?”

  “I have nothing you want.”

  He gave her body a raking gaze. “To the contrary, I like what I see.”

  An alarming heat curled low in her belly. Could she do it? Trade her body for the painting…for their survival?

  Yes, if it means protecting Amelia and Chloe.

  She swallowed hard and looked into his eyes. “Just what are you proposing?”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “As tempting as I find the offer, Mrs. Somerton. I’ve never forced a woman into my bed. I’ve never had the need.”

  She felt her face grow hot with humiliation. Had she misinterpreted so badly? “Then what do you want?”

  “A painting has been stolen. Rembrandt’s 1624 early self-portrait, Artist in his Studio. The owner has requested my aid.”

  A Rembrandt! It would be priceless! “I don’t know anything about it. I swear to you,” she said.

  “I’m not accusing you of the theft.”

  “Then what?”

  “Where is your father?”

  Her father? He believed her father had stolen the Rembrandt? “He’s gone.”

  “He’s dead, then?”

  “No. Just gone. He left five years ago after…after he was accused.” She wanted to say by him, but she held her tongue this time.

  “He left you alone? And your two sisters?”

  She shouldn’t be surprised that he knew about Amelia and Chloe. He was too intelligent and ruthless not to have done his research. “We opened the print shop.”

  He watched her intently, his brow furrowing. “He left you without funds and protection? It must have been difficult for you.”

  He had no idea. She had spent countless sleepless nights worrying whether they would survive.

  The well-rehearsed lie came smoothly to her lips. “You misunderstand. Mr. Somerton opened the shop after we married.”

  “And after your husband’s passing? You continue to run the shop alone and support your sisters?”

  Her chin thrust forward in defiance. “We manage.”

  His frown deepened. “So Jonathan Miller is gone and you don’t know where he is?”

  “I swear.”

  “Then you must help me find the Rembrandt.”

  She blinked in astonishment. “Me?”

  “You are the oldest. You will recall where to find the immoral and corrupt brokers who can fence a stolen painting of such notoriety.”

  Her mind whirled with the possibilities. Perhaps not all was lost. She no longer maintained contact with her father’s underworld acquaintances. She knew a few of their names, of course, as they were regular guests growing up under her father’s roof.

  But could she find them?

  “If I help you, will you promise to return the Wildens painting?” she asked.

  “Why do you want it back so badly?”

  “I am a respectable shopkeeper now. I do not want to spend time in Newgate for past mistakes.”

  “The painting is yours if you keep your end of the bargain,” he said.

  Her hands twisted her skirts. “What if I help you and you fail to recover the stolen Rembrandt?”

  “I’ll return your forgery to you nonetheless.”

  “What about my father? Is this just a farce to find him?” she asked.

  “It is not. The Rembrandt is my utmost concern.”

  She felt impaled by his steady gaze, but she refused to look away. Instead she searched his face for signs that he was lying. A moment passed, then two, before she nodded. “Then I’ll agree to those terms.”

  Eliza stood and held out her hand.

  He rose and took her hand in his larger one. “I’ve never shaken a woman’s hand before.” His palm was warm through her glove and she suppressed a shiver as his thumb traveled over the satin.

  “There’s always a first,” she said.

  “I know of a better way to seal the bargain.”

  He stepped close, and her stomach dropped. Was he truly going to kiss her? And why did that thought fill her with a strange anticipation rather than panic?

  His sensuous lips curled in a smile as if he knew the effect he had on her senses. His
arrogance was enough to fight the devastating pull of attraction. She was no longer a young, innocent girl. If he was trying to intimidate her, then he would quickly learn that she was a woman who was accustomed to fighting for her very survival.

  She eyed him warily. “You said your interests lay elsewhere, Lord Huntingdon.”

  He arched a dark eyebrow. “I never said I didn’t find you attractive, Mrs. Somerton. To the contrary, I find your questionable roots quite stirring. I’ve never kissed a forger before.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said tersely. “I’m a shopkeeper now.”

  “No matter. In case you plan on reneging on our bargain, you should know there is nothing stopping me from calling the constable and handing over your forgery,” he warned.

  She glared at him. “I’ll keep my end of the bargain. But remember this: Our arrangement does not include a liaison.”

  He chuckled and released her hand. “Don’t fret. I’ll keep my distance.” Walking to the drawing room door, he held it open for her. “Expect me at your shop at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Have a name for me.”

  She halted halfway to the door. “Tomorrow? So soon?”

  His mouth quirked with humor, and he nodded. “Time is of the essence. If the Rembrandt is to be recovered, we must act swiftly.”

  …

  Clutching her leather case, Eliza departed Huntingdon’s mansion. Her nerves were wound as tightly as clock springs. It wasn’t only because of the arrangement she’d just struck with the earl, but because of her unexpected physical response to him. When he’d held her hand and stepped close to kiss her, her heart lurched and her knees grew weak. She shook her head at her foolishness. An attraction to the Earl of Huntingdon was dangerous—certainly something she couldn’t risk.

  At least the visit wasn’t an entire failure. Huntingdon knew about the forgery, but he’d offered her a deal, and if she played her part well, she’d get the forgery back. Her goals would be achieved: the print shop would survive and her sisters would be protected. As for how she would find her father’s old acquaintances, she didn’t know. But she’d think of something…she always did.

  The hackney had remained just as Eliza had instructed. The driver was standing outside, and he opened the door as she approached. “I have your guest, Miss.”