Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (12 page)

“You are a good man, Wilson. More than once, I have been glad of my decision to retain your services. I shall come straight to the point.” Rannoch passed Wilson a small slip of paper bearing two names.

James Hart. Peter Weyden
.

“I do not know these men, my lord,” replied Wilson uncertainly.

“Nor, Wilson, do I,” agreed the marquis amiably. “But I should very much like to know something of them. Discreetly, of course. Both reside in London, though they probably do not move in the highest circles. The first I collect is betrothed. I should like to know to whom, and the status of the betrothal.”

Wilson nodded mutely.

“And the second is a Flemish art expert who imports a great deal of work from the Continent. It would appear that he travels extensively, and I suspect he has connections at the Royal Academy. He also refers commissions to . . . to various artists.”

Wilson blinked his eyes slowly. “And what would you have me learn of this man, my lord?”

Rannoch took another languid draw on his cheroot, then slowly exhaled. “I merely wish to reassure myself that he is a man of unimpeachable character, which I daresay he is.”

“Ah, I see, my lord. You are in the market, then, for a work of art?”

Rannoch nodded slowly. “Suffice it to say, Wilson, that I am rapidly becoming an admirer.”

“Am I to purchase something, my lord?” he asked uncertainly.

Rannoch turned to stare at him for a long moment, his quizzical expression slowly shifting to one of bemused satisfaction. “What a splendid idea, Wilson!”

“Indeed, my lord?” Wilson tried not to look confused.

“Yes!” responded Rannoch, then dropped his voice to an almost conspiratorial tone. “Seek out Mr. Weyden. Tell him that your employer—do not use my name—wishes to buy a van Artevalde.”

“A
van Artevalde
, my lord?” Wilson blinked nervously, then swallowed hard. “I must tell you, Lord Rannoch, that they are exceedingly difficult to get hold of. Rare, and rather costly as well.”

Wilson waited for the spewing verbal torrent, but none came. Rannoch merely crooked one dark brow. “You are familiar with the work of van Artevalde?” he asked respectfully.

“I—why, yes. I have some limited knowledge,” stammered Wilson. “My previous employer, you may recall, was a collector of some serious devotion. Van Artevalde is a young Flemish painter but of no small merit.”

“Is that so?” asked Rannoch, looking most intrigued.

“Oh, yes, my lord. His allegoricals are often compared to Rubens’s work. His use of color and light is exquisite; very like van Eyck’s. Indeed, his works have begun to fetch high prices, particularly abroad.”

“Excellent, Wilson,” murmured Rannoch. “Your skills never cease to amaze. Tell Weyden, or whoever runs his business, that you want a van Artevalde immediately, something glorious and epic. Soon he shall no doubt show you a piece called
The Fall of Leopold at
. . . someplace.”

“That’s
Sempach
,” corrected Wilson, then winced.

Rannoch merely nodded, rubbing his harshly stubbled chin. “Aye, that sounds right. Pay him in gold. The price is of no consequence.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Wilson dutifully. “Will there be anything further?”

“Yes,” said Rannoch slowly, drumming his long fingers on the desktop. “Tell Weyden’s people that you want first option on every van Artevalde that happens onto the market,until further notice.Buy . . . buy them all.”

“All?” Wilson was stunned.

Rannoch’s brow furrowed deeply as he stared into the shadows of the room. “No. Not all,” he corrected thoughtfully. “We would not want to restrict Ev—er, van Artevalde’s exposure to the marketplace.” The marquis’s gaze sharpened and returned to Wilson. “Buy about every second painting—you choose which. God knows I have no taste in art.”

“But, my lord, that will drive the price up prodigiously!”

Rannoch grinned. His perfect white teeth seemed to gleam ominously in the candlelight. “Will it, indeed? So much the better, then.”

Shortly thereafter, Wilson tucked the little slip of paper into his pocket and departed, greatly reassured yet exceedingly confused. With both blood and brain slightly numbed by the brandy, of which he had ultimately imbibed two ample servings, Wilson very nearly tripped over Kemble, the marquis’s very proper gentleman’s gentleman, as he entered the library.

Exhaling a long column of smoke, Elliot stared up from his chair in veiled amusement at the willowy, middle- aged man who now stood sniffing disdainfully before him. Kemble, who made no secret of his abhorrence of cigar smoke, flailed a cambric handkerchief ineffectually back and forth in a gesture designed solely, as they both knew, to annoy the marquis.

Why
, Elliot asked himself for the thousandth time,
do I put up with my valet’s snubs, snorts, and pouts?
Because, simply put, the man was an unparalleled genius. Ten years earlier, Kemble had willingly taken Elliot in hand, burned his kilt, and transformed a dour, hulking Scottish lad into a well-groomed, impeccably attired London gentleman. The regrettable fact that, during those first few months, Elliot’s level of worldly sophistication had lagged lamentably behind his tailoring was in no way Kemble’s fault. Moreover, throughout all the debacles that had followed, Kemble had stuck by Elliot. He could always count on Kemble to dress him to perfection, shave him flawlessly, and recollect which paramour preferred what cologne.

In addition, Kemble also excelled at less traditional tasks such as knowing who among the
haut monde
tended to have undesirable tendencies such as cheating at cards, reneging on vowels, or sleeping with other men’s mistresses. Kemble knew the best remedy for a hangover, how to pick locks, and who among the fashionably impure had contracted the French pox. In addition, he possessed an unfailing technique for the reduction of facial swelling in the event of a misjudged punch and was on gossiping terms with every demi-rep, housekeeper, under-butler, scullery maid, pastry chef, and bootblack in London. Furthermore, he knew their secrets as well as their foibles.

It was, therefore, with a resigned sigh that Elliot calmly stubbed out the cheroot and addressed the only servant he did not dare upbraid, humiliate, or threaten. “This is about the topboots, isn’t it, Kem?” He eyed the valet narrowly through the dissipating cloud of smoke.

Kemble’s tightly pursed lips trembled, and his hands fluttered up and down at his sides in apparent agitation. “My lord! How could you? Their condition is an abomination! They are ruined—ruined, I tell you! Exceedingly, irrevocably, hopelessly—”

“Spare me the theatrics, Kem. Couldn’t be helped. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” The valet rolled his eyes wildly. “I’m very sure that you are! But do tell, my lord, where in heaven’s name did the irrepressible urge to roll about in the mud like some swine come upon you?”

“Er—Essex, it was. The urge came upon me in Essex.” Elliot forced himself to suppress a bark of laughter, since Kemble’s scoldings were very nearly the only thing remotely resembling care or concern in his life. “Perhaps,” he added teasingly, “I have merely become the pig I have so often been called.”

“Umm,” replied Kemble sagaciously, still pursing his lips. The valet crossed his dangling arms over his chest in a familiar posture of recalcitrance. Elliot did not bother to look, but he knew from experience that the valet’s toe was busily tapping out an angry tattoo upon the carpet.

“Sorry, Kemble. Truly. Now listen, old fellow. I need some new—no, some
different
clothes.”

Kemble’s fine, angular brows arched even more dramatically. “I do not doubt it at all, my lord, for if you anticipate that this propensity for traipsing about in the filth of the countryside shall continue—”

“That I do,” interrupted Elliot bluntly, his aggravation allowing just a hint of Highland burr to creep into his tone. “And I’ll be wanting some things that do not look quite so . . . so expensive.”

“Indeed?” sniffed Kemble disdainfully. “Pray be specific. I know very little of
such things
,” he added, pronouncing the words as if they were Hindustani for
chamber pot.

Elliot sighed. “I’ll want two pairs of ordinary buckskin breeches, two pairs of plain wool trousers, a half dozen ordinary linen shirts, a frieze coat, a couple of neutral waistcoats, and—oh, the old topboots.”

“What, no hobnailed brogans?” muttered Kemble snidely.

“No, I suppose not,” replied Elliot calmly. “Just polish up the old topboots as best you can. They’ll do nicely.”

Kemble nodded sagely, but Elliot could see the sarcasm flicker in his pale, expressive eyes. “In short, my lord, you wish to look like a common peasant?”

“Not quite as bad as all that, Kem!”

“And what about some coarse flannel drawers, my lord?” trilled the valet. “Nothing so stimulating as having homespun wrapped around one’s ballocks!”

“Ouch!” Elliot felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s not get carried away with this ruse, old boy!”

Having dispensed with both his man of affairs and his valet, Elliot turned his attentions to his uncharacteristically choleric and still-indisposed uncle.

Sir Hugh had left orders for MacLeod to direct Elliot to his apartments upon his return, no matter the time. Elliot, who as a matter of principle took orders from no one, nonetheless paid this directive a moment of heed. Sir Hugh was about as prone to give a command as his obstinate nephew was to obey one; therefore, the fact that his uncle had troubled himself to leave such a message intrigued Elliot exceedingly. Though inordinately fond of each other and bound by any number of similarly bad habits, he and Hugh were not overtly close. Days, sometimes weeks, might pass without the two speaking, save for tripping over each other in a gaming hell or whorehouse.

Elliot sighed wearily. His uncle was most likely in trouble.

Sir Hugh, caustically referred to as the Blight of the Benhams by his socially rigid sister, sauntered through life with as much concern, and almost as much exertion, as one might give to an afternoon stroll around Hyde Park. As he had done with illustrious success for some eight and fifty years, Hugh Benham was resolved to enjoy a life of indolent debauchery until the precise moment at which he cocked up his toes, an event the dowager marchioness of Rannoch had often said could not possibly come too soon.

When not distempered by a gouty foot or bilious liver, Sir Hugh was a popular fellow, possessing charm and wit sufficient to offset his lack of income. As a result of Elliot’s desire to aggravate his mother, Sir Hugh lived off the Rannoch coffers. Elliot paid his uncle’s bills, settled his gaming debts, and even served as a second on those rare occasions when Sir Hugh managed to get caught in an illtimed indiscretion. In such cases, however, the combination of Elliot’s nasty reputation and Sir Hugh’s willingness to blithely—and meaninglessly—apologize was usually enough to avoid an actual sword point.

Through these worthy efforts, Elliot earned the pleasure of thumbing his nose at his cold, supercilious mother. Lady Rannoch’s father, she was ever fond of complaining, had been no more prudent than her brother. Long on the slippery slope to both moral and financial ruin, the entire Benham family had been dragged from the brink by her sacrifice on the marriage altar to a moody, pious Scot. The fact that the shame associated with her brother’s ribald antics and her son’s abhorrent reputation precluded—in her humble opinion—her appearance in polite society was but further fuel to the fires of the dowager’s self-pity.

Tonight, however, Elliot was not in the mood for his uncle, however secretly fond he was of the old scoundrel. But there was no avoiding it. Hugh was the closest thing to a father Elliot had, and so he gave a peremptory knock upon the door to his uncle’s sitting room and entered. He found Hugh much the same as he had been for the past four days, his inflamed foot elevated on a pouf, his
élan vital
drowned in misery and drink.

“Come in. Come in,” muttered Hugh, jabbing impatiently toward the sofa. “Sit over there where I can see you. And rid us of that damnable footman.”

Elliot strolled to his uncle’s table for a whisky, motioned away the footman, and sprawled on the sofa, his long legs thrust casually in front of him. “I missed you, too, Uncle,” he drawled.

Hugh stared at him down a long, bladelike nose that looked aristocratically becoming on him but huge and haughty on his similarly adorned sister. For all his age and dissipation, the baronet was still a good-looking man. “Reminds me, my boy,” commented Hugh, “where in Hades did you hie off to? Still determined to run that fancy piece to ground?”

Elliot stifled a deliberate yawn, but inwardly he felt tense and restless. It had been thus since his return to Strath House earlier in the evening. He was anxious to resolve this business with Hugh, so that he might then retire to the solitude of his bedchamber and suffer his strange disquiet in privacy.

“No, Hugh,” he responded dryly. “I did, however, manage to find her mother, and I left what I daresay is a clear indication of Antoinette’s future, or lack thereof, with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I bought her a bracelet which, should she choose to sell it and live frugally, will keep her for several months. I left it, along with a note that plainly told her to make no mistake, this was the end. My words were a bit blunt, perhaps, but I wanted to be clear.”