A Perfect Scandal (17 page)

The corner of Marcus’s mouth twisted with exasperation, and he glared at her. She wondered if he would dismiss her outright, but then he sighed and raised his hand to motion her down the hall.

“Let’s go inside my office, where we can talk privately and you can tell me what brought you here today,” he said.

She followed him down the hall and into his office. It was a substantial space, and she counted ten cabinets for filing and five overflowing bookshelves. Stacks of paper littered the floor in what appeared a random pattern, and additional piles covered a massive desk.

Isabel wildly wondered how on earth he ever made sense of the volume of information or if there was a methodology to his filing system. It was a completely masculine domain, obviously never intended for a woman’s eyes, and she found it fascinating and overwhelming at the same time.

He shut the door and studied her reaction. “I apologize for the disorder. My secretary, James Smith, who is in charge of my filing, has been recuperating from a cold. I wasn’t expecting a visit.”

“It’s fine. I wanted to see how you worked. What your days are like.”

She strode to a wide window behind the desk and was delighted to find an excellent view of Threadneedle Street. From this height, she had a bird’s-eye view of one of the entrances to the Stock Exchange. Serious businessmen rushed about like busy ants to and from their hill, oblivious to everything but their immediate destination. She knew the principal entrance of the Exchange was from Bartholomew Lane through Capel Court, and that there were three other entrances from Throgmorton Street. She wondered how much traffic passed through them each day.

She turned around, and Marcus’s gaze dropped to the package she was holding.

“What’s that?”

She walked over and handed the package to him. “This is my wedding present to you.”

He looked down, surprise written on his face. “This is for me?”

She gave him a mischievous smile. “I had intended to give it to you last night, but I believe I drank a little too much.”

A glint of humor lit his eyes. “That would be an under-statement. What do you recall of last night?”

Her face grew hot. “Enough.”

His grin was irresistibly devastating, and it sent her spirits soaring. Her flesh tingled as memories of his touch lingered in the recesses of her mind.

“Let’s put it behind us, shall we?” he said. “If we are to spend the next six months together, there’s no sense being uncomfortable in each other’s presence.”

“Yes, thank you,” she whispered.

He turned his attention back to her gift. “I’m anxious to see what my new wife has brought me. He pulled the string and tore open the bright paper to reveal a watercolor painting of the trading floor of the London Stock Exchange.

His eyes widened in amazement. “Did you paint this?”

“I’ve been working on it for over two weeks now. It’s the Exchange as I saw it that day when I first came to visit you. I was fascinated by the mass pandemonium, the chaos. The place seemed like a powerful living beast with a pulse of its own, and I knew I had to somehow try to capture the activity on canvas.”

His fingers caressed the golden frame, his eyes devouring her work, and like an anxious child, she realized she desperately wanted his approval.

“It’s stunning,” he said. “You included everything down to the smallest detail. The mammoth elongated hall, the gilt dome, and arched glass roof supported by its sturdy stone columns. There’s even the cherry wood hat rack that runs its perimeter, the high rostrum, and of course, the brokers and jobbers in heated negotiations. The painting captures the energy of the tumultuous arena perfectly.”

He looked at her, his eyes studying her with a curious intensity. “Thank you. I’ve never received such a special gift.”

She swallowed. She felt a curious sweeping pull at her innards, and she found herself entranced by his compelling masculinity, his lean, dark visage. She knew her feelings for him had nothing to do with reason.

“I am a novice at my watercolors,” she said. “There was so much activity on the trading floor that day that I feared only a master could capture the essence of the scene.”

“Nonsense. You are quite talented, Isabel.”

“My father believes it a woman’s passing fancy.”

“Didn’t he pay for your painting lessons?”

“Yes, but only as many as to make me a desirable debutante. Many ladies of my station have lessons in either the pianoforte, singing, or painting. But further instruction is considered unnecessary, a waste even. Young titled women are expected to focus their energies on the Season and Almack’s marriage mart.”

He drew his lips in thoughtfully. “I am most grateful for your talent, Isabel, and I will treasure my wedding present. I plan to hang it in a prominent place in my library office at home so that I may view it for inspiration when I am working.”

She felt a bubbling joy at his sincere praise. “Now will you tell me about the animosity between you and Ralph Hodge?”

“Ah, I see I was unable to distract you.”

“I enjoyed your compliments, but I am most tenacious when I want something.”

His eyes darkened. “I know.”

She laughed at the barb. “I know you believe Lord Gavinport is our leading suspect, but you cannot dismiss Ralph Hodge either. From what I’ve seen, he dislikes you immensely.”

“More like hates me.”

She cocked her head to the side, contemplating his words. “It’s not beyond Hodge to use me to hurt you. I received the distinct impression that it would thrill him to induce me into becoming his mistress just to cuckold you.”

“Just like the swine,” Marcus said bitterly. “He is no different in business. He started out as a jobber before becoming a stockbroker, an unusual jump in professions.”

She held up a hand. “Forgive me. You once told me what a jobber was, but I have forgotten.”

“You should sit.” He picked up a stack of papers from a chair, dropped them on a corner of the desk, and motioned for her to sit. He took a chair across from hers and folded his long legs in front of him.

“Only the stockbrokers have contact with the public. It is the jobbers who buy and sell shares for the stockbrokers behind the scenes,” Marcus said. “Jobbers earn money for their services by inflating the price they offer the brokers; the difference is called their ‘turn.’ Jobbers deal in certain markets, and the markets have their own designated spots on the trading floor. That way brokers won’t waste time soliciting the wrong jobbers. Hodge was a jobber that specialized in the West Indies trade—namely companies that deal with sugar, rum, and coffee.

“When I had started out as a broker, I had a client request to buy shares in the West India Trading Company. I went to the vicinity on the floor where those jobbers specializing in West India companies gathered. I was immediately approached by Ralph Hodge, who was a jobber at the time, and we made a deal as to the buying price. No formal documents were required; a gentleman’s agreement is still sufficient.

“The next morning, my secretary, James Smith, went to confirm the agreement at the Exchange Clearing House and to ensure that the appropriate transfer deeds were drawn up. Everything seemed in order, but on settlement day, a fortnight later, I went to pay for the shares and discovered Hodge had somehow inflated the buying price, listing an extraordinarily high value. He must have bribed a clerk at the Exchange Clearing House to alter the figures. All stockbrokers must pay for the shares on settlement day or their reputations are destroyed and they are expelled from the Stock Exchange. I had no choice but to pay the exorbitant price in order to receive the deed. Later, when the shares were signed and I was to be paid by my client, I gave the client the price we had originally agreed on and swallowed the enormous loss. As a new broker, Hodge almost bankrupted me.”

“How horrible. So that’s why you hate each other?” she said.

Marcus shook his head. “No. There’s more. Once a jobber always a jobber, but Hodge saw an opportunity to rise. His uncle was a well-respected broker, and Hodge convinced the man to take him under his wing. His uncle died soon after, and as his only living relative, Hodge inherited his uncle’s brokerage as well as his clients. Two of those clients, his wealthiest investors, chose to fire Hodge and hire me. Hodge was furious and accused me of soliciting and bribing the wealthy men, a lie, of course.”

“Has he retaliated?” she asked.

“He’s tried by bribing one of the six Lords Commissioners of the Treasury for confidential information concerning companies listed on the Stock Exchange. Hodge then used that information in an illegal manner to invest and turn a profit. It was the only way he was able to keep his uncle’s clients, for Hodge’s knowledge of the market was limited to his field of expertise in the West Indies, where he specialized as a jobber. A good broker must be knowledgeable in all investing areas in order to successfully sustain a full client list.”

Isabel looked at him in surprise. “How do you know he bribed such a high-ranking official?”

“The official who sold out to Hodge was Junior Lord Commissioner Charles Ashton, Lady Ravenspear’s father,” Marcus said.

Shock flew through her. “Victoria’s father, Blake’s wife?”

Marcus nodded. “Blake hated Charles Ashton. The corrupt Commissioner was responsible for Blake’s father’s suicide, his mother and sister’s demise, as well as Blake’s years in the poorhouse. But because of Blake’s love for Victoria, he had arranged a deal with Robert Banks Jenkinson, Second Earl of Liverpool and First Lord of the Treasury, to have Charles Ashton discretely leave England. Last I’ve heard the man is in France with his wife.”

She didn’t know whose audacity was worse—Hodge’s to approach a Junior Lord Commissioner of the Treasury or Charles Ashton’s to accept the bribe. “How did Ralph Hodge escape unscathed?”

“There was no direct evidence linking Hodge to the bribes, but Charles Ashton confessed to Victoria. She, in turn, told Blake and me.”

Isabel sat forward in her seat. “If Ralph Hodge suspects you know the truth, he would hate
and
fear you. Don’t you think he would want you imprisoned for the theft of the Gainsborough painting? It would ensure his prior illegal activities would remain secret.”

“Yes, but I don’t think he’s knowledgeable enough in the art world to hire a man like Dante Black or to know that I collect Gainsborough’s works and, therefore, to arrange to have one stolen. My money is still on Gavinport.”

“But what motive would Lord Gavinport have to frame you?”

“None, but if he desired a Gainsborough painting, then as an avid art collector who had worked with Dante Black in the past, he would be aware of what I collect and would in turn know to frame me for the theft of the
Seashore with Fishermen
.”

Her brow creased with worry. “You trust no one, do you? Not even your father or your own brother?”

“Trust has to be earned, and the past is difficult to change,” he said dryly.

“Your father—”

“Never wanted a younger son and always treated me as a useless wastrel. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I became what he had expected.”

“And your brother?”

“I don’t like to speak of it. Needless to say, I had been involved in a disastrous relationship that had ended badly, and Roman had suspected the worst of me, just like our father.”

“From what I have seen, Roman is trying to make amends,” she said.

“Yes, but the past has a bad habit of repeating itself.”

Isabel awoke to a low knock on her bedroom door. She yawned as Kate entered the room with a smile and proceeded to open the curtains to let in the morning sunlight.

Isabel stretched and rose from the bed. She was grateful that her father had allowed the maid to accompany her to Marcus’s town house. Kate talked too much and loved to gossip, but she had a good heart and had been with Isabel for over five years. In her new home, Kate was a comforting presence whom Isabel could rely upon.

Isabel dressed quickly and grabbed her sketch book and charcoals. Closing her bedroom door, she rushed down the hall. Over the course of the past week, she had fallen into a pleasant routine of eating a small breakfast followed by a leisurely walk in Hyde Park. The park was beautiful in June with its rosebushes and colorful, flowering shrubs in full bloom, and she looked forward to the artistic inspiration.

She turned a corner, reached the grand staircase, and froze.

Marcus stood at the bottom of the stairs and smiled when he spotted her.

“Good morning, Isabel,” he called out.

She hesitated, her foot on the top step, her hand resting on the banister. As was his routine, she had expected him to be off early to his office on Threadneedle Street.

His dark eyes bathed her in admiration, and she was glad she had chosen one of her prettier gowns. Her pink walking dress of French muslin, trimmed at the bodice and hem with an intricate ivy pattern, complemented her sable hair and complexion.

“Good morning to you, too,” she answered. “I thought you had left for the day.”

“I normally would have, but I wanted to show you something.”

“You must know I love surprises.”

His laugh was deep and warm. “Don’t all women?”

She made it to the bottom of the stairs, and he tucked her hand beneath his arm. He wore fawn-colored trousers with a pleated shirt. Without his jacket, his broad shoulders appeared a mile wide. His cravat was loosely tied, as if he’d been in a hurry when he dressed, and she had a maddening urge to reach up and fix it. Looking up at the clear-cut lines of his profile, her pulse quickened.

He led her down the hall, in the opposite direction of the dining room. Her curiosity grew when he stopped at a closed door across from his library office. He reached for the door handle, and said, “This is what I’ve wanted to show you.”

He opened the door and ushered her inside.

She stopped short at the sight of an empty room. Gleaming hardwood floors and the pleasant smell of lemon polish wafted to her. Four wide windows facing east captured the full light of the morning sun. There wasn’t a stick of furniture in the entire space.

She turned to him and blinked with bafflement. “It’s empty.”

“Of course. It’s your art studio. After you have your paints and supplies moved here, I thought you would like to furnish it yourself.”

She took a quick sharp breath. “My own studio?”

He grinned. “Yes, all yours.”

Her heart sang with delight. “I’ve never had a room of my own to paint. Father never thought it necessary, and my supplies were always crammed in the corner of my bedroom. But this,” she said as she walked farther into the room, “this is such a spacious room, and the windows provide optimum lighting.” In her mind, she could picture her easels in front of the windows, her paints in the corner, and her canvases hanging on the walls.

She looked back at him, still unsure. “Are you certain you want to sacrifice this room?”

“Absolutely. Your enthusiasm is my reward. I want you to be happy here.”

A warm glow flowed through her, and she rushed to his side. “I shall endeavor to paint you.”

He laughed. “That’s not necessary. I thought you painted landscapes.”

“I do, but only because I have never found any other subject to interest me. Until now.”

“Careful, Isabel,” he said, a teasing light in his eyes. “I’ve heard of artists who become entranced with their subjects.”

She stiffened as if receiving a blow to her gut.
Damnation! He’s right! Except I’m already entranced by him.

A low knock on the door made her jump.

Jenkins entered. “Sorry to interrupt. You have a visitor, Mr. Hawksley.”

“Who is it?” Marcus asked, a thread of irritation in his voice.

“A Mr. Benjamin Harrison to see you. I put him in the receiving room.”

“I’ll be right there. See that the man is offered refreshment,” Marcus said.

Jenkins nodded and departed.

Marcus looked at her. “It’s Roman’s hired investigator. The man must have discovered the address of Lord Gavinport’s town house property,” he explained.

“I thought you had your own investigator,” Isabel said.

“I did, but when Roman’s man first learned the location of Dante Black, I fired mine. No sense supporting incompetency.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

“You want me present?”

“Quite shockingly, yes. I have found your insight and your resources to be invaluable.”

She knew by insight he meant her knowledge of the art lovers of the ton and by resources he meant her relationship with Charlotte. She gloried briefly that he valued her opinion.

She walked beside Marcus as they entered the receiving room. A heavyset man with steel gray hair rose from a leather chair. He was short, thick around the waist, and his brown eyes were level under one continuous eyebrow. There was a watchful fixity in his face that she suspected made him excel in his profession.

“I have the information you requested, Mr. Hawksley.” Harrison’s eyes briefly glanced at Isabel. “Would you prefer to speak in private?”

“This is my wife, Lady Isabel Hawksley. You may speak freely in her presence.”

Harrison handed Marcus a paper. “Frederick Perrin, the Marquess of Gavinport’s town house is located on Lombard Street.”

“That’s a stone’s throw from the Royal Exchange in Cornhill,” Marcus said.

“Yes. I’ve watched the property for three days now, and as far as I can tell, it’s vacant. No guards have come and gone, and Gavinport has not set foot inside. The only activity was a maid who entered with a bucket and mop to clean the place.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harrison. Please send the bill for your services to me and not my brother.”

As soon as the investigator left, Isabel looked to Marcus. “If the place is not being guarded, then surely the stolen painting is not being kept there.”

“Not necessarily. Gavinport may be arrogant enough to think no one would suspect him. He may also believe the presence of guards would attract unwanted attention from the neighbors.”

“What are you planning?” she asked.

“To search the place. If I find the painting, then I shall alert the appropriate authorities at Bow Street. Once they have the painting in their possession, then they will have sufficient evidence to arrest Gavinport.”

“Then I want to come with you when you search it.”

Marcus looked at her questionably. “Isabel—”

She raised a hand to stop his anticipated refusal. “You tried to stop me before, remember? If the place is vacant, then there is no risk. Whether or not you give me permission, short of tying me to the bedpost, I’ll follow you anyway.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he drawled.

“You said you valued my help,” she countered.

“I meant from a safe distance. But since I plan to search the house in the middle of the day, then having you beside me is safer than wondering if you are sneaking in through an unlatched window.” He eyed her pink walking dress with the delicate French muslin. “Change into something more suitable.”

Puzzled, she glanced down at her outfit. “Such as?”

“Do you have anything darker, less likely to draw the eye?”

“I attended a distant relative’s funeral last year. I wore a black gown and black net veil, but I lost the gloves. I can carry a muff.”

“Forget the muff. The veil sounds perfect as it will conceal your face. Get dressed. There’s no sense waiting to learn the truth.”