Midsummer Eve at Rookery End (2 page)

When a portrait could exercise such fascination over those who saw it, Miles reflected it was unsurprising that his father, a compulsive art collector, had desired it so badly. Unfortunately desire had triumphed over reason and he grimaced as he recalled his father’s actions. The painting served as constant reminder of his sire’s obsession and the legacy it had left his only son to deal with.

His father had died three months ago and while Miles still felt the pain of his loss, he acknowledged they had never been close. The fifth Earl’s passion for art had left no room for other inconveniences such as his wife and son. His wife had died a lonely, painful death while the Earl had been conducting yet another Grand Tour, searching for antiquities to bring back to Rookery End. The teenage Miles had never forgiven him.

He shook his head, cursing softly. He refused to dwell on the past; he had to look to the future. It was a daunting prospect, but in the years to come and - if he was fortunate enough to ever find a woman who loved him for himself rather than his title and supposed fortune - with the help of his wife, he would turn this beautiful but uninviting house into a home full of laughter and warmth. Any art that could not be enjoyed as part of that home would be sold. As far as he was concerned, art was meant to compliment life, not overshadow it. He had no inclination to follow in his father’s footsteps.

But the portrait presented him with a dilemma.

It hung over him like Damocles’ sword and last night, after several hours of wrestling with the problem, frustration had led to him seeking refuge in the bottle, something he hadn’t done for years. Miles rubbed his temples to soothe the pain still pulsating there. One thing was certain - getting drunk would not solve the conundrum of The Virtuous Courtesan.

A sound outside made him look around. Instantly alert, he saw that the door was ajar. He must have left it open after strolling in the garden earlier in an attempt to clear his head. The shadowy outline of a figure appeared through the glass and the door began to open.

Someone was about to come in.

It couldn’t be one of his servants; only a person with nefarious deeds in mind would be skulking around at this hour. Miles smiled wolfishly. A turn up with a housebreaker might be just the thing to shuffle off the fog of brandy. He lay back down on the chaise, watching and waiting, every muscle primed for action.

Leonora crept into the library with her heart thumping and her breathing fast and shallow.

It had been borne in on her during the last few minutes she was not meant for a life of crime. The sooner this was over the better.

Allowing a moment for her eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom, she stepped towards the desk in the centre of the room, testing each floorboard as she went. A novice housebreaker had to be wary of basic mistakes. She wondered how many criminal careers had been brought to an end by creaking floorboards. Fortunately the English oak beneath her feet made no sound as she tiptoed forward.

She reached the desk and looked up. A providential shaft of moonlight illuminated what she had come for. The Virtuous Courtesan smiled down from her lofty position, the eerie half-light adding more mystery to her features. On this occasion her smile appeared welcoming and Leonora could not suppress an answering grin – this was proving to be much more straightforward than she had expected.

With swift, economic movements, she placed a chair near the wall and stood on it. She took the knife from her pocket and ran it neatly around the edge of the painting. After extracting the canvas from its ornate frame with what she hoped was a minimum of noise, she rolled it up carefully and stowed it in the leather bag suspended from her belt.

She stepped down, replaced the chair and put the knife back in her pocket before sighing with relief. Almost done. She turned and had taken two steps back towards the doors and freedom when her shoulder was seized in a vice-like grip.

“And what, may I ask, are you about, my fine young buck?” purred a mellifluous male voice into her ear.

Leonora almost jumped out of her skin. Recovering quickly, she twisted and squirmed in an attempt to break away, but that tenacious grip held her fast. She thrust a hand in her pocket and pulled out the gun, hoping to deter her captor. He was too knowing and too quick. In a flash he had wrested it out of her grasp and sent it clattering across the room.

Then she was hauled unceremoniously upright by the collar of her greatcoat.

“A pistol?” He tutted in the darkness. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to draw a weapon on an unarmed man?”

Leonora aimed a kick at her captor’s shin. It bounced harmlessly off his boot and merely elicited a deep chuckle in response.

“Pray don’t rush off,” he drawled sarcastically. “I am eager to hear why you are in my library at the dead of night, stealing one of my paintings. Or perhaps you prefer to explain yourself to the local magistrate?”

She did not reply and tried again to escape. It was an unequal contest. He was like a cat that had caught a mouse by the tail and was waiting until it was exhausted. At one point during the struggle, her legs were thrashing ineffectually in mid air as he lifted her off the ground. The bag at her waist began to drag as if it was full of lead and she felt her strength seeping away.

“Let me go!” she panted at last.

“You’re a feisty one,” he said, amusement in his voice. He swung her round to face him. “Stop struggling! I’ll be damned if I’ll hit a slip of a boy even if he is a housebreaker, but I’ll be forced to if you won’t be still.”

Leonora’s captor loomed above her, silhouetted against the moonlight. In the uncertain light she could not see his face, but he appeared to be lithe and well-built. The shadow of his shoulders and torso filled her vision. When he shifted his grip to pull her closer, the sudden, unexpected movement caused her to topple against him. A pleasant aroma of sandalwood soap and oak-aged brandy assailed her nostrils, as well as something else – the scent of a virile man. She was not surprised; an older man could not have restrained her so effortlessly during that struggle.

She pushed hard against a chest that felt like it had been hewn from solid rock and tried to think. Oh, she was in a fix now! With no immediate prospect of escape, her only chance was to outwit him. Leonora forced herself to relax. The movement was slight, but it did not go unnoticed by her captor and his grip slackened a little.

“Very sensible. Let me look at you.” He marched her over to the desk and held her by the arm while he found a tinderbox and lit a branch of candles with his free hand.

A soft glow flooded the room, allowing Leonora to appreciate its beauty. She could see the polished mahogany bookcases which ran along two of the walls; the magnificent red and blue Aubusson carpet; the fine chess set on the table near the fireplace and various paintings, busts, sculptures and
objets d’art
scattered about the room. The chaise longue near the desk must have been where her captor had concealed himself.

Her eyes flew to his face. Whoever he was, he was a handsome devil. Tall, broad-shouldered and supremely fit, he exuded masculinity. Dark hair sprang from a brow set above a strong, lean countenance and he was studying her with a pair of deep set, piercing grey eyes.

She felt a rush of sensation, as if every nerve in her body was tingling in unison. It was a unique, incredibly vivid awareness, and she wondered vaguely at it, and why she wasn’t afraid when he was staring at her in that disconcerting way. With a deft twitch, he pushed down the muffler and took off her hat. Her hair tumbled down about her shoulders.

“I thought so,” he murmured. “You’re not a youth after all. An admirable disguise, but even that coat could not conceal your, er, very attractive assets. Who the deuce are you?”

She returned his intent look. “You said ‘your library’.”

“What?’’

“A moment ago you referred to this room as ‘your library’.”

“That’s because it is.”

“Impossible,” she declared.

To her surprise, he laughed. Leonora had to admit it was a rich, attractive sound and she couldn’t help but notice the tiny lines that fanned out from the corner of his eyes. It appeared he had a sense of humour at least.

“I’m not so drunk that I can’t recognise my own library, my engaging little housebreaker. I’m Miles, Lord Allingham and this is Rookery End. But you must know that – you came here to steal my painting which you did very tidily just now.” He pointed to the leather bag. “It’s in there.”

“Nonsense,” said Leonora, giving him a scornful look.

“Are you trying to tell me that I
didn’t
just see you steal it?”

“No, I mean you can’t be Lord Allingham. You must be an imposter because I know for certain that Lord Allingham is an older man.”

“Ah, you must be referring to my father, the fifth Earl. He died recently.”

“Oh!” She digested this and then added in a quieter voice, “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He studied her shocked expression. “You didn’t know, did you? I suppose you assumed stealing from an old man would be easy and that’s why you selected Rookery End for your next robbery—”

“No—” she began.

“—a cowardly trick,” he continued inexorably, “but then one shouldn’t expect honourable behaviour from a thief.”

“I’m not!”

“Not a thief?”

“Not exactly.”

He raised his brows. “Oh? What are you then?”

“If I explain, will you promise to let me go without involving the magistrate?”

“I promise to consider it.” He folded his arms, watching her. “What a delightful puzzle you are! You dress like a burglar and enter my house in the middle of the night. You strip a painting from its frame with the ease of an expert, yet you speak and have the manners of a gently-bred girl, and a beautiful one at that. Why did you only take the Virtuous Courtesan?”

His direct question startled her. “B-Because that was all I came for.”

“How considerate! A thief with a conscience, no less. Next you will tell me you planned to give the spoils of your, ah, visit to the poor. Of course, you had no notion it is the most valuable painting in the house.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said, chewing her lower lip nervously.

“Certainly I cannot if you won’t explain.” His mouth quirked into a sudden smile and he urged in a softer tone, “Come, won’t you trust me a little? Instinct tells me you’re not an experienced house breaker.”

There was so much amused understanding in his manner that Leonora relented. She shook her head. “This is my first and last attempt,” she admitted. “I’m not really a burglar at all.”

“Then what are you?”

Miles studied the girl before him. Her tumbled hair gleamed like jet in the candlelight. A pair of blue eyes, framed by long lashes, gazed shyly but frankly into his and her mouth was generous and remarkably sensual.

As he watched, a riot of conflicting emotions flitted across her face. She was clearly scared to death and doing her utmost to conceal it. He found himself admiring her courage as much as her person, and felt a singular, violent tug of attraction. Desperate to know more, he prompted again gently, “What are you?”

“I’m an artist.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed? You continue to surprise me. Go on.”

“I-I, er, needed this picture” she said, tapping the leather bag.

“This one and no other?”

She nodded.

“Why? Has it cast a spell over you too?”

“No, nothing like that.” She flushed to the roots of her hair but put up her chin, adding, “I can’t tell you why.”

“My charming rogue, you must to do better than that. I have a particular interest in that painting and I’d like to know why, in your desperation to have it, you were prepared to take such an enormous risk.”

“I had no choice.”

“Believe me, I can sympathise with that predicament,” he replied in a wry voice. “What is your connection to the painting?”

She shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“Nevertheless, do me the honour of satisfying my curiosity. It’s the least you can do when I’ve caught you in the act. By the way, how did you plan to get in? The door was open only by chance.”

“I brought an iron bar to smash the window.”

His lip quivered a little. “Enterprising as well as beautiful. There appears to be no end to your talents. Are you in need of money? Is that why you wanted the portrait - to sell it?”

“We - that is my father and I - are always in need of money, but that is not the reason I wanted it back—”

“Wanted it
back
!’ he exclaimed, his gaze riveted on her features. “There seems to be some mistake. The Virtuous Courtesan belongs to me, to my family. Indeed my father pledged an inordinate amount of money to buy it.”

Leonora gave a faint moan. “Don’t remind me! It makes me feel ill to think of it!”

He looked at her blankly for a long moment. “Perhaps it’s the brandy, but I find I am unusually slow this evening. I fail to see why it should it trouble you what my father paid for the painting.”

“It concerns me a great deal. You see, it was
my
father who sold it to him.”

***

“Good God,” he murmured, visibly shaken. “I should have guessed from the outset this was no ordinary robbery.”

“No,” she confessed.

He strode over to the fireplace, pushing his fingers through his hair as he went. He laid one arm along the mantelpiece and absently stirred the ashes in the grate with the poker.

“It had to happen, I suppose,” he remarked at length. ‘Take the wretched thing and be gone! You chose a novel way to regain what is yours, far quicker than involving lawyers. Less expensive too, although I don’t understand why your father allowed you to come here in his place. My difficulties will increase when the painting is gone and yet believe it or not you have my gratitude. The estate will remain in debt, but my conscience will be clear.”

Astonished, Leonora stared at him. Her head was spinning. She didn’t have a clue what he meant, but the important thing was he had told her to go. She should slip away before he changed his mind. She turned and then stopped.