An Artful Seduction Page 5

  That she missed him. That she had struggled after he had left, but had managed to survive. That she longed for the old days when their mother was alive and their future was bright.

  Or that she despised him for abandoning them.

  By the time Eliza reached the top of the landing, she felt empty and drained. Amelia was in the front room.

  “Eliza! You’ve returned. What occurred at Mr. Cain’s warehouse?”

  “Mr. Cain provided us with a name.”

  Amelia looked at her in surprise. “Who?”

  Eliza hesitated. How much to tell? Should she confess what she’d learned?

  Looking into her sister’s blue gaze, Eliza knew she couldn’t lie to Amelia. Never Amelia. They’d been through too much together to start keeping secrets from one another.

  “Mr. Cain mentioned an art dealer named Dorian Reed who may have something to do with the stolen Rembrandt.” Eliza bit her bottom lip before continuing. “It’s possible Mr. Reed may know Father’s whereabouts.”

  Amelia frowned. “I’ve never heard of a Mr. Dorian Reed before.”

  Eliza walked farther into the room and set her reticule down on an end table. “Neither have I. But we couldn’t have known all of Father’s contacts. Mr. Reed may know the truth.”

  “Don’t think of it until then,” Amelia said, trailing behind.

  “Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  Amelia looked at her gravely. “You mean find out where Father ran off to? Or if he’s even alive?”

  “Yes.”

  To Eliza’s surprise, Amelia shook her head. “At one time I would have given anything to see him again. But he made his choice. Because of you, we are better off without him.”

  “Me? Not a day goes by that I don’t fear the worst. That the shop will fail, our savings will be depleted, that we’ll be sent to the poorhouse.”

  “You’d never let that happen,” Amelia said with conviction.

  Eliza sighed. “Oh, Amelia. I wish I had your confidence.”

  “You want to find Father badly, don’t you?”

  “I have to know. Is he alive? Sick? Alone?”

  “Chloe still cries for him at night. She was so young and innocent when he left. The poor girl doesn’t remember Mother,” Amelia said.

  Eliza shut her eyes in despair. “Sweet Chloe. All she thinks about is men. I fear she’s trying to replace Father.”

  “We must not tell her about Mr. Reed and the possibility of finding Father. There’s no sense in giving her false hope.”

  “I agree.”

  “You look exhausted. Come sit and I’ll make some tea.”

  Eliza followed Amelia to a small table and sat. She watched as Amelia filled the kettle with water from a pitcher and set it to boil.

  Reaching for her shawl, Eliza draped it around her shoulders. Their living quarters were chilly. The winter seemed endless and they were running out of coal. Most of the precious coal they had was used to heat the shop downstairs, rather than their living quarters upstairs.

  She rubbed her throbbing temples. The day had been exhausting, first battling Lord Huntingdon and then Mr. Cain. And there was Huntingdon’s outburst with Mr. Cain to consider. The earl had been furious with Cain.

  Why?

  He’d gotten the information he wanted. She admitted she was grateful that he’d hauled Cain off of her. She despised the short man and the way he felt free to molest her person. She put up with his repulsive touch only because she had no choice. Without his business, there would be no supplies for Amelia and Chloe, no frames to sell her prints. So she smiled, allowed his fetid breath to brush her nape, and his wandering hands to touch her.

  Amelia handed her a teacup, and Eliza cradled it in her hands. “I’m afraid Mr. Cain will be difficult to deal with on my next visit,” Eliza said.

  “More than usual?”

  Amelia and Chloe had never met Mr. Cain. Eliza had purposely never taken them along. Only Amelia knew of Cain’s moods and what Eliza had to endure to do business with the horrid man.

  “Lord Huntingdon threatened Mr. Cain in order to get him to speak.”

  Amelia’s face lit up. “Oh, how I wish I was there to see it.”

  Eliza thought of Huntingdon’s intense eyes, his fierce expression when he’d grabbed Mr. Cain by his shirtfront and thrust him against the wall. He hadn’t looked like a civilized lord; he’d looked like a savage ready to tear Cain apart limb by limb.

  Eliza shivered. The notion that anyone would fight to defend her honor was somehow…exciting and exhilarating.

  It has been so long.

  Eliza swallowed. “I only hope I’ll be able to smooth Cain’s feathers the next time I must conduct business with him.”

  “You’re right,” Amelia said. “I hadn’t thought of the future. I wish you’d never have to buy from Mr. Cain again.”

  “That’s just wishful thinking. Sooner or later, I must return.”

  “What about Lord Huntingdon?” Amelia asked. “Should we expect the earl again soon?”

  An image of the handsome earl flashed through Eliza’s mind. Her attraction was as perilous as it was unwanted, and it was difficult to think straight in his presence. “No, thank heavens. Mr. Reed is out of town until next week. I have a reprieve from Lord Huntingdon until then.”

  Chapter Five

  Grayson couldn’t stop thinking about Eliza Somerton. He should be pleased with today’s outcome. The inquiry into Jonathan Miller’s whereabouts and the stolen Rembrandt was progressing. He had the name of Miller’s art dealer. He’d soon know if the painting had already been sold and to whom. Thomas Begley, and in turn the duke, would be satisfied.

  But pleased was the last word that could describe Grayson’s mood at the moment.

  He kept reliving the look of well-masked revulsion on Eliza’s face as Cain had touched her. And the anger in her lovely green eyes when Grayson had interfered had been just as jarring. She’d actually been furious that he’d put Cain in his place.

  Maddening woman.

  Clearly she was in a bad position and that was what had spurred him to act. With a few hastily scribbled notes, he’d reached out to reputable merchants and arranged for Mrs. Somerton to buy her supplies from other sellers. Never again would she have to deal with the likes of the perverted Mr. Cain.

  Grayson had no reason to visit the Peacock Print Shop until Dorian Reed returned to London. But the truth was he wanted to see Eliza again. She was so different from any other woman of his acquaintance—the widows who boldly propositioned him for affairs, the silly young debutants and their ambitious mamas who vied for his attention at society functions, and the seductive courtesans who sought to be his mistress.

  He was an earl, a man of wealth and standing who was used to being pursued by women.

  But Eliza Somerton wanted nothing to do with him. Or so she wanted him to believe. There was a spark there, a challenge in her exotically slanted green eyes, the pulse at her throat.

  Yet, she was an accomplished actress. He recalled her performance at the Tutton auction, where she’d appeared a haughty art connoisseur who blended in with the clientele. Then she’d shown up at his front door, lied to his butler, and attempted to barter for the Jan Wildens painting. And most disturbing of all, she’d sought to appear a widow of loose morals at Mr. Cain’s warehouse.

  So who was the real Eliza Somerton?

  She was a refreshing challenge and he was drawn to her like a hunter pursuing his prey.

  Dorian Reed wasn’t expected for another week. Grayson should leave Eliza to her business until then. But he didn’t want to wait, and the troublesome thought in the back of his mind refused to be stilled.

  What if she went back to see Cain before then?

  A low knock on his study door disturbed Grayson’s thoughts.

  Sara stepped inside. “You asked to see me?” Dressed in a light blue morning dress, she looked young and innocent. Grayson had been her guardian since their parents died in
a tragic carriage accident seven years ago. He’d been busy handling the estates after he’d inherited the title and he hadn’t spent as much time with Sara as he’d liked. She had grown into a beautiful albeit headstrong and spirited girl.

  Heaven help the man who married her.

  “Hello, Sara. I want to discuss your behavior the other day. You cannot just climb into strange carriages and speak to—”

  Sara’s face lit. “Is Lady Eliza visiting again soon?”

  “Sara,” Grayson snapped. “Are you listening?”

  “She’s nice. Oh, and I realize she may not be a real lady. She didn’t come in a fine carriage like Lady Kinsdale, but Eliza’s much kinder and I hope to see her again.”

  Grayson raised his hand. “Sara, promise me you will not do it again.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “That’s not good enough for—”

  There was another knock on the study door, and his butler stood in the doorway. “Lord Vale to see you, my lord.”

  “Please let him in.”

  Brandon strolled into the room. “Hello, Lady Sara. You look lovely today.”

  Sara curtsied. “Good afternoon, Lord Vale. I’ll leave you to my brother.” She turned and bounced out of the study, clearly more than happy to take advantage of Brandon’s presence to flee.

  Grayson sighed. “Your timing suited her well. I was lecturing her on her unladylike behavior. Sara chose to introduce herself to Eliza Somerton by climbing into her carriage.”

  Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sara’s getting older, you know. Soon it will be her coming out, and you’ll be sitting through dress fittings.”

  “God forbid,” Grayson said.

  Brandon laughed. “Don’t think of it just yet. Now are you ready to go to White’s? You can easily forget your problems with a good bottle of brandy.”

  Grayson rose from his desk. “I was looking forward to it, but something else has come up.”

  A mischievous glint lit Brandon’s eye. “Again? Don’t tell me, does it have to do with Jonathan Miller’s buxom daughter?”

  “It does.”

  “Have you bedded her yet?”

  “For God’s sake man, is that all you think about?” Grayson glared at his friend.

  “Is that a yes?” Brandon said.

  “No. It’s a no.”

  “Then enlighten me as to why you’re dismissing your best friend?”

  “We visited a warehouse yesterday. The owner was a troublesome sort, but he supplied the name of an art dealer who’d sold Miller’s forgeries. There is a good chance this dealer may have sold the stolen Rembrandt,” Grayson said.

  “What about Miller himself?”

  “I’m hoping the dealer knows where Miller is, too.”

  Brandon’s face lit. “Then why are we standing here? Let’s go question this dealer.”

  “We? This doesn’t involve you. And besides, Dorian Reed is out of town until next week,” Grayson said.

  “But something else is troubling you.”

  Grayson let out a sigh. “I need to see Mrs. Somerton again. I left her in a bad position with the warehouse owner. I want to make amends.”

  Brandon laughed. “Are you actually speaking of Jonathan Miller’s daughter?”

  “I know,” Grayson snapped. “But I didn’t realize the consequences to Eliza or her sisters.”

  “I’d like to meet her sisters. Are they as comely as Mrs. Somerton?” Brandon asked.

  “Truly, Brandon. Do you think of nothing else?” Grayson replied.

  Brandon waved a dismissive hand. “We are titled men, Grayson. We must marry out of duty. But when it comes to our mistresses, we have free will.”

  Grayson understood Brandon’s position. As the eldest son of an old aristocratic family that was admired by Society, but was short on blunt, Brandon had to marry an heiress. His grandmother was insisting he honor a betrothal agreement that was made when he was a young boy to the rich Duke of Townsend’s daughter.

  Grayson himself had inherited a significant amount of his father’s debt along with the earldom, but he had managed to pay off what was owed and earn a large fortune by shrewdly investing in the London Stock Exchange. But Brandon was right about their future. Grayson had to marry a respectable, titled lady. He had Sara to consider, and he required his future wife to help launch his sister properly into society.

  But his duty had nothing to do with his current feelings for Eliza.

  “Do you plan on buying artwork today as well?” Brandon asked.

  Grayson shook his head. “I’m not going as a customer. Mrs. Somerton lives above the shop with her sisters. I want to speak with her.”

  Brandon strode to the door and held it open. “Let’s go, then.”

  …

  It was snowing when they left Grayson’s Mayfair mansion. The weather was frigid, and snow had just begun to stick to the cobblestones. The wheels of the conveyance crunched across the road. They passed the Bond Street shops, and the normally bustling business district was deserted.

  At last they stopped before the Peacock Print Shop. The sign swung on its hinges from a gust of wind. Grayson and Brandon alighted from the coach and Grayson knocked on the shop’s door.

  A young lady peered out the window. Grayson recognized her as Amelia, the middle of the Somerton sisters. She mouthed the words “We’re closed for the day.”

  Clearly she didn’t recognize him. The curled brims of their beaver hats were pulled down to shield their faces from the wind and snow. Grayson took off his hat, shook his head at her, and continued to pound on the door.

  The door finally opened and Amelia stared at them, a look of confusion on her face. She wore a faded dress and her auburn hair was tied back with a simple bow. Her blue eyes shone inquiringly as she glanced from Grayson to Brandon.

  “Lord Huntingdon! The store is closed for the day.”

  “I apologize for my unexpected visit. I’d like to speak with your sister.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. “I’m afraid Eliza’s not here.”

  His immediate thought was where could she have gone in this weather? And had she taken a hackney or walked?

  “Do you know when she is expected back?” Grayson asked.

  “Soon.”

  “May we wait inside?”

  Amelia hesitated for a moment, a flicker of unease passing over her face before nodding. “Yes, of course.” She held the door open wide for the men to pass.

  They entered the shop, and Grayson motioned to Brandon. “This is my friend, Lord Vale.”

  Brandon bowed, his gaze riveted by the lady. “It is a pleasure, Miss Amelia.”

  Amelia blushed prettily. “May I take your coats?”

  Removing their greatcoats, they handed them to Amelia. Grayson immediately noticed it was cold in the shop. Damn frigid, in fact. He glanced at the fireplace in the corner. Two small pieces of coal burned low in the grate. The burlap sack of coal beside it appeared almost empty. A wool shawl was draped around Amelia’s slim shoulders and even with the additional layer of clothing, he wondered why she wasn’t shivering. The temperature in the shop could not be more than ten degrees warmer than outside.

  “It’s quite cold in here,” Grayson said.

  “I apologize, my lord. We limit the coal we use after the shop closes for the day.”

  Just then, a coughing sound came from upstairs, followed by a hoarse voice. “Is that you with my tonic, Lizzie?”

  “Pardon, my lords,” Amelia said. “Our sister Chloe is unwell with a cough. Eliza went to the apothecary to procure a tonic.” She motioned to the settee the customers often sat on while perusing prints. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Would you like tea?”

  “Tea would be lovely,” Grayson said.

  Grayson turned to Brandon and found him openly staring at Amelia. The lady stole one last look at them before departing.

  Grayson punched Brandon in the arm. “That’s not what we’re here for.” />
  “Blast! Did you have to do that?” Brandon said, rubbing his arm. “There’s no crime in looking, is there?”

  Grayson ignored him and waited until he heard Amelia’s footsteps on the stairs leading up to the living quarters. He then rose and headed for the back of the shop.

  “What are you doing?” Brandon asked, trailing behind.

  “Just observing.”

  Grayson parted the curtain leading to the back workroom. Unframed prints and paintings were neatly stacked against the walls. Small collectibles were arranged on a table. An easel with a canvas was situated in the center.

  Grayson walked around to study the work in progress. A palette with wet paint and a palette knife for blending oils rested on the corner of the table. A glass jar was crowded with brushes. The distinctive odor of turpentine wafted to him. The unfinished painting was a landscape of oak trees, rolling hills, and a clear-blue sky. A discarded, paint-stained apron was slung across a rickety chair.

  Grayson leaned close to the canvas. The paint was wet. He studied the leaves of the trees, which appeared to be moving.

  “I’ll be damned,” Grayson said.

  “What?”

  “Amelia is the forger of the Jan Wildens painting, Landscape with Peasants, not Eliza.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Eliza said her sisters didn’t paint. She lied. We must have interrupted Amelia in her work. The brush strokes, the minute detail of the leaves and the bark. The way the puffs of cloud seem to be moving across the sky. She is very talented. Just like her father.”

  “She seems so young,” Brandon said.

  “Eliza’s protecting her sister. That’s why she so desperately wants to reclaim the forgery.”

  She lied to me.

  He should be angry, but he experienced something else entirely.

  Admiration.

  She was completely loyal to her sisters. So much so that she would go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit. Her family loyalty was foreign to him—so different from his own upbringing and his father who had cared more for his whiskey and his club than for his young son and wife.

  He debated whether to tell Eliza he knew her secret. The knowledge was an ace up his sleeve.

  Careful not to disturb anything, they returned to the front room and the settee just as Amelia returned carrying a tea tray. She proceeded to serve them tea.