Six Degrees of Scandal (20 page)

T
he only way Olivia was able to keep her composure as she sorted through her ruined clothes was to take periodic peeks at the Titian, sitting propped up against the bureau. The oilskin cloth had fallen off, revealing the painting. Even in the fading winter sunlight, St. George's figure glowed with righteous glory, and the dragon's scales had an unearthly sheen. As long as they had that painting, she told herself, Clary had not won; he had not beaten them. He had caught them off guard and given them a nasty shock, but nothing more.

Still, her hands shook as she picked up a chemise, one of her favorites that she had embroidered herself with small pink flowers on the hem. It had been ripped to shreds. So were her two extra dresses and her nightgown. Clary had left her stockings and garters untouched, but otherwise she had only the clothes she wore. If it weren't so cold out, causing her to wear every petticoat and her shawl, she would have lost even more, she thought in a burst of bitterness. Clary seemed determined to steal everything she valued and tear it to pieces.

“I think that's all,” she said to Jamie, throwing the ruined chemise behind her onto the bed. She didn't even want it now that Clary had touched it.

He was staring at his common book, which lay open in his hands. At her words he jerked up his head and looked at her with something like . . . horror. “Right. Good.”

“What is it?” she asked, her pulse jumping in worry. “Did Clary write something else?”

“No. He stole some work of mine—notes about a business proposition I had made with a friend.” He stuffed the book into the valise and closed it. “But it's nothing, a minor inconvenience. Stay here. I need to have a word with Mr. Hughes and see if he's fetched a constable yet.”

Anxiety made her stomach lurch. “Let me go with you—”

“Someone needs to stay here,” he said with a pointed glance at the exposed Titian. “Bar the door behind me, and don't open it for anyone except me. And keep the pistol at hand.”

She wet her lips. “You never did show me how to shoot it, you know.”

He flinched as if she'd slapped him. “I know. I wouldn't leave you if I thought you'd really need to use it. Just point it away from you and pull the trigger; the noise will bring help.”

“All right.” There was nothing else she could say. He left, sliding one pistol back into his pocket on his way out the door, and she put the bar in place. For a few moments she occupied herself collecting their baggage into a neat arrangement near the door, but they had only the two valises.
She put Jamie's pistol case into her valise, now almost empty, but left out the gun itself. He'd bundled all his papers from his writing case into his valise. A shiver went through her as she studied the damage to the finely crafted wooden box. It hadn't been locked; Clary could have turned the key and read everything inside. But it looked like he'd smashed it with the fireplace poker, like a wild beast might do. Olivia laid it on the bed next to her torn clothing.

She pulled up a chair near the door and found herself facing St. George again. The saint wore a noble but fierce expression as he poised his sword to meet the attack. The dragon, its gleaming green and black scales standing up like polished plates of armor, coiled like a cat preparing to spring on its victim. It was a stunning painting. She wondered who the true owner was. Mr. Pike had scoffed at the notion that the French had any claim to it, but it must have only been in France because Napoleon demanded it in one of his punitive peace treaties. That meant it had been taken from its rightful owner years, perhaps decades, ago. Would anyone even
know
who rightfully owned it after all these years?

But then, that was not her problem. Olivia rubbed her brow. Their plan was merely to deliver it to the Duke of Wellington, or some other appropriate person who would know how to return it, and reveal Clary's murderous pursuit of it. Then, with any luck, the viscount would be arrested, prosecuted, and sent to prison. Neither she nor Jamie nor Penelope would ever need to think of, or see, the man again.

Of course, that relied on their ability to return to London safely with the painting undamaged, and persuade people in power that their story was the true one, rather than any lies Clary might tell. Now that the viscount was in Ramsgate, breathing his sulfurous breath down their necks, that seemed far more difficult than it had this morning.

Her gaze fell on the note, that horrid, taunting note that exuded Clary's cruel confidence that he could reach her at any time, that he could bend her to his will by force of his name, his personality, his position, and wealth. Even when she held the painting he wanted, he threatened to ruin her if she didn't surrender to his demands.

“If you're so good at killing dragons,” Olivia softly told St. George, “I wish you would put your sword through Lord Clary's heart.”

B
y the time Jamie reached the taproom, Mr. Hughes had summoned the local constable. It appeared the innkeeper knew where the officer liked his midday pint, and he clearly wanted to present his side of the story first. Jamie put a stop to that at once.

“I wish to swear out a complaint against Mr. Hughes,” he said, “for allowing a man into my chamber for nefarious purposes.”

“I did no such thing!”

“A man who has taken an unhealthy and criminal interest in my wife,” Jamie went on. “A man who sliced every item of her clothing to ribbons
and rifled through my personal papers, no doubt for the purpose of future harassment. Mr. Hughes had so little care for his inn's reputation that he admitted a man wanted for the attempted murder of my sister, the Countess of Stratford, and gave him leave to search a guest's room.”

“Murder!” Mr. Hughes's eyes bulged. “He was a gentleman, professing his concern for his sister!”

“And yet you didn't summon the constable when you believed that ‘sister' may have been in grave danger.” Jamie glared at him. “You didn't even bid him wait in your parlor until such time as the lady could be found and queried about her circumstances.”

The constable was on his feet now, hands raised. “Now, now, gents. Let's sort this out. Is the lady in any danger at the moment?”

“No,” said Jamie. “I told her to bar the door while I was away.”

“Good, good.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Did you allow a man into this gentleman's rooms while he was away?”

Mr. Hughes heaved a bitter sigh. “Aye.”

“Not good practice, Tom,” said the constable in commiseration. “Now, was anything stolen, sir?” he asked Jamie.

“Some papers of mine are missing, and every article of my wife's clothing was cut to shreds. She has nothing but the clothes she wore today.”

“That's not right. Tom, I expect you'll have to replace what the lady lost.” The constable gave the innkeeper a stern glance, and Mr. Hughes nodded once. “And you know who this fellow is, sir?”

“I do.” Jamie checked that the door was closed,
then lowered his voice anyway. “He left a note for my wife, confirming he knows her. His name is Viscount Clary. For months now he has been harassing my wife, whom Mr. Hughes will attest is a reserved and proper lady. Several weeks ago Lord Clary pushed my sister, the Countess of Stratford, overboard while boating on the Thames. If you inquire with the magistrate in London, you'll discover that my brother-in-law, the Earl of Stratford, has sworn out a complaint against Lord Clary for attempted murder.”

“Murder! An earl! A viscount!” Mr. Hughes sank onto a bench, staring blankly in front of him. “I can't believe it . . .”

The constable looked grave. “That's very serious, sir. By the time I send to London, I expect the man will have disappeared, but I don't like the thought of a murderer loose in town.”

“You could arrest him for theft or damage,” Jamie suggested. Anything to keep Clary confined and away from Olivia. “He must have stayed at a nearby inn.”

After some more talking—the constable was a man of many words, it seemed—it was agreed that a pair of men would be sent out to look for Clary. Privately Jamie thought they wouldn't find him, if only because the constable seemed more concerned about making sure there were no murders in his town than in actually apprehending Clary. But Mr. Hughes did promise to replace at least one set of clothing for Olivia by night, and he made one other valid point.

“You'll be safe tonight in my inn,” he vowed. “Now I'm on guard against the villain and he'll
never step over my threshold again. I'll set the grooms to keep watch through the night. No one will come near you or your wife, I swear it. Let me atone for my mistake, sir.”

Jamie wasn't entirely sure, but without knowing where Clary was, there was a risk in going to another inn. “Very well. But we'll want a different room.”

Mr. Hughes agreed at once, and Jamie went up and told Olivia. Once he saw her settled, still shaken, in the new—larger—room, he told her he had to go out again. This time he took a horse from the stables and rode back to the Anchor. Charlie Pike was in his usual spot near the fire, and he looked mildly surprised when Jamie stopped in front of him.

“I have another favor to ask, Captain Pike,” he said, deliberately using the title for the first time. “Of a business nature.”

Pike hesitated, then a broad smile crossed his face. “Fetch up a chair, young man.”

T
hey reached Richmond late the next day. As she watched the red brick towers of Stratford Court come into view, Olivia quietly marveled at what money could accomplish. When she'd left London, on her own with only two hundred and thirty pounds—and most of that borrowed—it had taken her days to reach Gravesend, via public coaches and inns.

By contrast, when Jamie wanted to get somewhere quickly, he found a boat to sail them up the Thames, directly from Broadstairs to the stairs at Stratford Court. A journey that would have taken her at least three days, most likely in chilly, uncomfortable conditions, was over in a single day of fairly elegant travel. He'd said something about Mr. Pike advising him, but Olivia knew this was all Jamie's idea. Despite the cold, he had spent most of the voyage at the rail, studying the passing shore with interest, even pointing out where he thought her hired Gravesend cottage must lie.

But now they were here. Mr. Pike waved from his position near the helm. It was his boat, a small
racing schooner, and he seemed as pleased as pie to be sailing today. Olivia wished she could enjoy it as much as he did. But then, an older gentleman whose swashbuckling days were behind him might find the sudden race to Richmond exciting, while she still felt her future hanging in the balance. Could they beat Clary back to town?

Jamie had dismissed the idea of returning directly to London; he wanted to confer with Lord Atherton—
Stratford now
, she reminded herself. It certainly couldn't hurt to have an earl at their side when they lodged charges against Clary, and Olivia knew she owed Penelope an explanation. Because of her, Penelope and her husband had almost drowned.

Unfortunately, until Lord Clary was locked in the deepest, darkest dungeon London had to offer, Olivia wouldn't feel any of them were safe from him.

They made it ashore with little trouble. The late Lord Stratford had owned a racing yacht of his own, and there was a proper dock. Mr. Pike shook Jamie's hand and heartily wished them the best. “Soonsever you be in Ramsgate again, do come by for more elderberry wine,” he added.

“We will,” Jamie told him. He lifted their baggage while Olivia cradled the painting, now packed between layers of linen and the makeshift wooden frame beneath the oilskin. They climbed off the schooner and onto the dock, and waved as Mr. Pike went about adjusting his sails for the return trip.

“It's a long walk,” Jamie said as they turned toward the house. “Can you carry it?”

She nodded. “I'm not letting go of it for an instant.”

The wind wasn't as strong as they got farther from the river. Their footsteps crunched along the gravel drive and Olivia kept her cloak pulled close around her. Still, she was grateful to see the wrought-iron gates loom in front of them, with the impressive front of Stratford Court just beyond.

When the butler announced them, Penelope flew across the room to throw her arms around Olivia. “Are you hurt?” she demanded. “Did you kill that awful Clary? Where have you been?”

Olivia smiled. “I'm well—thanks to your brother. But you—Clary tried to kill you! And all because of me. Penelope, I've been waiting to beg your pardon—”

Her friend shushed her by laying her fingers on Olivia's lips. “Don't. I'm so happy to see you again! And you, Jamie. You did it! You found her!” She spun around to embrace her brother.

“Just a moment, Pen.” Jamie had left the valises with the butler and now held the painting. He shifted it to accommodate his sister's hug. “This needs to be handled with care.”

“What is it?”

“I'll show you, never fear,” Jamie told her. “Is your husband about?”

Penelope nodded. “In the gallery. He and Gray have been there every day.”

They found the new earl in his study. A door stood open into a larger room, and Olivia could see paintings covering every inch of those walls. Benedict, Lord Atherton—
Stratford now
, Olivia reminded herself again—looked up as Penelope led
them in. “You're back!” He strode across the room to clasp Jamie's hand. “And successful, I see. It's a great pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Townsend.” He bowed.

Olivia smiled back, a little dazed. The earl was a spectacularly handsome man, with wavy dark hair and vivid blue eyes. The only other time she'd met him, he and Penelope had been glaring daggers at each other, quite unlike the intimate glance they exchanged now. Penelope went to her husband's side and he slid his arm around her waist. “They found something, Ben.”

Benedict's gaze focused on the parcel Jamie held. “Indeed. Gray,” he called.

A tall, lanky fellow with untidy brown hair stuck his head around the door. “Yes?”

“My sister Samantha's husband, Lord George Churchill-Gray,” Benedict said in brief introduction. “He's an artist and has been helping catalog my father's private gallery. Gray, here are Penelope's brother, Mr. James Weston, and the elusive Mrs. Townsend. They've found something.”

Gray came into the room still holding a small picture, which he set down on the wide mahogany desk. “What?”

In answer, Jamie laid the painting on the desk and began unwrapping it. “I believe this is what Lord Clary wants.”

For a moment there was silence as St. George was unveiled. When the dragon appeared from beneath the protective cloth, Gray inhaled sharply. He made a motion toward the painting, and Jamie stepped aside, letting the artist finish uncovering the piece.

“It's definitely an Old Master,” said Benedict after a moment. “Even I can see as much.”

“It's Titian,” said Gray reverently. He lifted the panel and carried it to a side table near the windows, where he propped it up. Slowly he sank down on one knee, gazing raptly at the painting. “Look at the strokes—the light—the definition. Where did you get this?”

“Near Ramsgate.” Jamie glanced at Benedict. “Would your father have pursued this?”

“To the end of the earth and beyond,” replied Benedict without hesitation. “He had four by Raphael but only one by Titian, and that one only a lesser study. Gray has nearly completed the catalog.” He looked at Gray. “Do you know this painting?”

Slowly Gray nodded, still absorbed in the painting. “Titian didn't usually paint so small. This is rare, most likely a commission for a patron. St. George is English, so it could have been a gift.” He looked up. “I've never seen it personally, only a sketch. I knew a fellow in the Strand who made a point of copying every Titian he could locate; spent years in Italy tracking them down. He admired the technique tremendously. He kept a sketchbook of his drawings and showed me.” His eyes went back to the painting. “I remember the dragon.”

“How did you get it, Olivia?” Penelope sounded dazed. “How did you
find
it?”

Olivia shifted her weight. “That's a long story.”

“The more important question is what we ought to do with it,” Jamie said. He turned to Benedict. “You were right, by the by, about the smuggling.”

“I grew more certain of it by the day,” was the grim reply. “You brought it back to London, so I presume you have some ideas about what to do with it.”

“It's more about
how
.” Jamie caught Olivia's eyes. “The rest is a
very
long story.”

“If there's a long story to be told, we should sit down and have something to eat.” Penelope took her arm and led her down the corridor to a spacious drawing room. The gentlemen followed, Gray trailing at the rear and carrying the Titian. “Tea,” Penelope directed the servant who emerged almost instantly through the doorway when she rang the bell. “And sandwiches and cakes.”

By the time refreshments arrived, Benedict's sister Samantha came in with her mother. Olivia had heard all about the Stratford family, from the evening several months ago when the Westons had been invited to dine at Stratford Court. Then, Penelope had called the dowager countess a beautiful but cold and distant lady, and Samantha she described as quiet and reserved. Today neither appeared anything like that; Samantha was laughing when she came into the room, her cheeks pink and her blond hair ruffled by the wind, and her mother was smiling fondly at whatever amused her.

Both women stopped short at the sight of guests. Penelope leapt to her feet. “Samantha, Lady Stratford, this is my brother, James Weston, and my dear friend Olivia Townsend.”

“Welcome to Stratford Court,” said Lady Stratford. She held herself very gracefully erect, but a cordial smile curved her mouth as Olivia bobbed a curtsy and Jamie bowed.

“I'm very glad to meet you at last,” said Samantha warmly to Olivia. “Penelope has told us so much about you.”

“They've brought news, Mother,” said Benedict before Olivia could recover from her mortification at the trouble she'd brought on everyone. He came and took the countess's arm and led her to the painting. “I suspect this is what Father was pursuing when he died.”

The color leached from the countess's face as she stared at the Titian, and for a moment she looked frozen. “Oh my,” she murmured at last. “It is something he would covet desperately.” She turned anguished eyes on her son. “Is this what caused him to endanger you and Penelope? My dear, I am so sorry—”

Penelope hurried to her side. “My brother thinks this painting will help us see Lord Clary chained in the bottom of a prison. Isn't that right, Jamie?”

“I'd like nothing better,” her brother agreed.

“Then you are very welcome, today and for all time,” Samantha said fervently. “That man tried to kill Penelope. I could lock the chains on him myself.”

“I still prefer the hangman,” said Benedict with a covert glance at his wife. “But where on earth did you find this? And how?”

Jamie's eyes met hers. Olivia read his unspoken question there. After all she had done to avoid telling anyone her suspicions about Henry or how menacing Clary had become, including fleeing London without a word to anyone, he didn't know how much she wanted to reveal now. Olivia knew
that if she gave any sign of distress, Jamie would keep her secrets.

But she was done with that. There was no way they could destroy Clary without revealing Henry's illegal activities, and even though Olivia hadn't set out to ruin her late husband's name, he had brought it on himself. Her loyalty lay with the people in this room now, her real family. She gave a decisive nod.

“This painting was smuggled into England,” Jamie said. “It most likely came from France, where it may have been looted from Bonaparte's grand museum.” Benedict said nothing but his brilliant blue eyes were fixed on Jamie. “We think—with good evidence—that Lord Clary was part of the operation, most likely as the man who located buyers for the smuggled art.”

“Including our father,” whispered Samantha. She, too, listened raptly.

Jamie nodded. “I believe so.”

“I'm quite sure of it,” Gray interjected. “The late Lord Stratford made entries in his ledgers indicating substantial payments to Lord Clary, although not why. The dates correspond to when certain paintings were entered in his private gallery, but nothing else exists to demonstrate where those paintings came from.”

Olivia felt Jamie's satisfaction. It fairly radiated off him as his guess was proven right once more. And it made her strangely elated as well—not merely the facts of the matter, but the fact that he was pleased. “The smugglers brought their cargo ashore in Kent. Local people were paid to hold the works until a buyer was found, when the paint
ings would be brought into London or sent anywhere in England. In Lord Stratford's case, they could have been delivered right to his door. We came today on a small sloop from Broadstairs, courtesy of a gentleman who was extremely helpful to us. As for how the works were brought out of France . . .” He lifted one hand. “I can only remind you that Lord Clary's younger brother is a navy commodore, stationed in Calais. That may be utter coincidence, of course.”

“I'm convinced.” Benedict looked fierce with triumph.

“How did you get caught up in this?” Penelope asked Olivia in a stricken voice.

She took a deep breath. “Henry was the leader of the ring.” Penelope's mouth dropped open. “He arranged everything, with Clary's help. I knew nothing about any of it,” Olivia went on. “But I believe this is why Lord Clary was so persistent in his . . . attentions. He discovered this painting—or one like it—was smuggled into England but never delivered, and he wants it.”

“The Duke of Wellington ordered all looted artwork repatriated,” said Gray, frowning. “Are you certain?”

“No,” said Jamie. “But many pictures disappeared in spite of the duke's order. And I daresay some collectors wouldn't hesitate, if offered something like this which couldn't be traced.”

Gray conceded that. “Of course there would be some. But if you bring this to the duke—that is your plan, isn't it?” Jamie nodded once. “It could cause an international incident. You're saying not just this painting, but several pictures of equal
rarity and value, were stolen and smuggled to English citizens with the aid of an English naval officer.”

“I don't give a damn about any of them except Lord Clary.”

“Nor do I,” muttered Benedict.

“That helps.” Gray returned Jamie's annoyed look with a shrug. “Wellington has other concerns now; he may consider the matter of the art done with and not want to resurrect it over Lord Clary. You should be forewarned. My older brother is in the Home Office and they've got plenty more to worry about than one smuggler.”

Jamie said nothing, but Olivia saw the lines of worry settle on his forehead. Her own stomach seemed to drop into her shoes. And suddenly she didn't feel nearly as confident that they were any closer to a solution.

S
he didn't have a chance to speak to him until late that night. Jamie was quiet through dinner, listening as Gray and Benedict argued about the best way to proceed. He barely looked up at her when the ladies left the dining room, and when the gentlemen rejoined them later, he wasn't with them. Olivia murmured an excuse to Penelope and went in search of him.