The Importance of Being Wicked (10 page)

“Me too. Robert could have been a great collector had he the will to persist.”

Thomas gave the conversation his full attention, realizing they spoke of Caro Townsend's late husband.

“The word is,” Bridges said, “that Townsend never sold the Venus after all. That Mrs. Townsend still owns it.”

“What's this to me?”

“I know you are on close terms with the lady. You could, perhaps, persuade her to let us find the picture an appreciative home.”

“Where would that be?”

“Come, Julian. You know I'm not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, I know a collector who would pay four, maybe five thousand for it. I'd make sure you profited from your influence.”

“Profited from my old friend's widow?” Denford sounded amused.

“Don't pretend to scruples you don't possess. Besides, there's no question of underhanded behavior. There's plenty of profit to be had while making Mrs. Townsend a handsome offer.”

“Assuming Mrs. Townsend has the painting.”

“You think she doesn't?”

“I think it highly improbable.”

“Will you ask her?”

“I'll look into the matter.”

The flatness of Denford's voice struck Thomas. He didn't know the man well, but he wouldn't be surprised to learn he knew more than he admitted to Bridges. Thomas wondered whether Mrs. Townsend could possibly be in possession of a picture worth five thousand pounds. He had observed that the Conduit Street household was hardly a lavish one, remarkable in that it housed, as a guest, one of the richest women in England. Mrs. Townsend didn't appear to share her cousin's prosperity. Thomas wondered what kind of a man Townsend had been, to leave his widow in such straits.

Bridges spoke again. “I bought several of Robert Townsend's pictures when Quinton was selling up his belongings, trying to settle his debts and leave something for the widow. I asked about the Venus, of course, and was told Townsend disposed of it before he died. I find it odd that such a great work of art should vanish from sight. When I heard a portrait of a nude Venus had been seen in her house, I thought the mystery solved.”

“Caro does indeed have a nude in her drawing room,” Denford said, “the work of one Oliver Bream, a young artist patronized by Robert Townsend.”

“Never heard of him. Should I look into this Bream? Townsend always had a good eye.”

“My dear Bridges,” Denford said. “You know better than to ask me. I'd say Bream has a certain facility with the brush, but I have no time for modern art. Why don't you see if you can hawk the Sandby to Castleton. Or better still, that hideous Caracci. His father would buy anything.”

Thomas cleared his throat, loudly.

“There you are, Castleton.” Denford seemed quite unabashed.

“I've decided I'm not in a buying mood today,” Thomas said. “Your premises are impressive, Bridges. Good day.”

“In that case, I'll walk out with you. I'd like to see that black eye in full sunlight.” Denford took his arm. “Quite nice,” he said once they reached the street. “A sinister combination of colors worthy of Caravaggio.”

Not having any idea who Caravaggio was, Thomas let the comment slide. “I've a bone to pick with you, Denford. While I appreciated your coming to Mrs. Townsend's and my assistance the other night, you prevented me from hitting Horner.”

“And why did you especially wish to hit Horner? Not that I don't applaud the sentiment. His taste in coats alone is enough to drive a man to violence. What did he do to arouse your ire?”

“Let's just say I don't like stripes. And I don't like his attitude toward Mrs. Townsend.”

Denford leaned on his walking stick, an elaborate ebony affair with a silver top whose assistance he certainly didn't need, and fixed Thomas with an unwavering and unnerving regard. “What's Caro to you?”

“She is Miss Brotherton's cousin.”

Denford raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Caro can look after herself. Let her deal with Horner.”

Thomas's chest shook with the onset of an unexpected rage. Denford had been Robert Townsend's friend, as had Oliver Bream. Yet instead of looking out for his widow, all they did, as far as Thomas could see, was batten off her. “A lady,” he said through clenched teeth, “should not have to
deal
with a man like Horner. Her friends should
deal
with him on her behalf.”

“I grant you the man's a reptile. But you can rest easy for a week or two. He's left town for Newmarket.”

Chapter 9

T
he absence of the Quintons was a blow. Since the mail had already left that morning, Caro had to spend another night before returning to London. A lady taking a bed for the remainder of a night, while on her way to visit a well-known local family, was one thing. A female staying alone without a maid for no particular reason was not likely to win respect or good service from the staff of an inn used to serving a well-to-do racing crowd. Nor was she able to sweeten her reception by the expenditure of largesse in the way of tips. She had enough money for her return ticket, her bed, and modest board, but little more.

No doubt there were people she knew in the neighborhood, perhaps even in this very inn, which was already filling up with sportsmen arriving for the spring meeting at Newmarket Heath. Though betting on horse races wasn't Robert's preferred method of gaming, he never entirely eschewed an opportunity to lose money. But she was not eager to make herself known. Her presence here wasn't going to do much for her reputation. At other times, this wouldn't have bothered her much, but she was Anne's chaperone now. And her pride rebelled at explaining to anyone why she had traveled all the way to Newmarket, only to turn around and go home a day later.

Very inconvenient her pride. Once delicate inquiry had shown that Anne wasn't in a position to assist her, she'd fobbed her off with a story about her sudden need to visit Cousin Eleanor. If she couldn't bring herself to confide in her dearest Annabella, she certainly wasn't going to confess her problems to a mere acquaintance.

Not wishing to stay cribbed in her room on a fine day, she slipped out for an afternoon walk, protected from the breeze and curious eyes by a wide-brimmed bonnet and shawl. Despite a stiff wind, she relished the wide-open spaces of the heath, the sun on her face, the distant thunder of hooves, the splendor of superior horseflesh crossing the gallops. Though flat compared to the rolling hills of Somerset, it took her back to the happier moments of her childhood. Growing up, she'd longed only for the bustle and excitement of town life. She and Robert had lived most of their married life in London, rarely visiting his country estate, overshadowed as it was by the gloomy, neighboring presence of Caro's mother. But on a day like this, country life didn't seem so bad. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air free of coal dust or the myriad town stenches.

Not even the exhilaration of wide-open spaces, however, could keep her mind off her predicament for long. Alone, without the distraction of company, she could no longer deny her financial straits. She couldn't continue as she had. She'd never pay off Robert's debts, and, meanwhile, she was accumulating her own. As for Horner's thousand pounds—and interest, that terrifying concept designed to sink its fangs into a debtor's flesh and bleed it dry—it was hopeless. Who would lend her such a sum? And if someone did, how would she ever pay it back?

Once Anne married, she might be able to give Caro the money. Unless she had to get permission from her husband. Would Castleton allow Annabella to rescue her? Caro had no idea. The duke confused her. Her instincts told her he was a good man, but her inconvenient attraction to him made it hard to judge his character.

His decision would doubtless come down to duty, weighing Anne's duty to her cousin against his own family needs.

Her best solution was no doubt, as Julian had suggested, to find another husband, a prospect that filled her with little enthusiasm. Not only was she unlikely to find a man who inspired the ardent love she'd felt for Robert, she also feared a husband would wish her to mend her ways, make her settle down to respectability as Robert had never demanded. Her marriage to Robert had been
perfect.
Whatever anyone said, she would never find another who made her as happy.

The question was moot, however. Not only did she have no one in mind as a possible husband, no one had her in mind either. She could think of quite a number of men of her acquaintance who'd be happy to take her to bed, but not a single one who'd marry her. Unless one counted a young painter, a friend of Oliver, who regularly proclaimed his undying passion for her. He'd be delighted to marry her and come and live in her house, off her income. Her only masculine recourse was Sir Bernard Horner and his ilk.

A trio of horses thundered by, including a gorgeous gray, mane and tail flying as it passed its companions, neck extended fully as though reaching for a finish line. She envied the creature the simplicity of its life, no decisions to make, no answers to complicated questions to seek. Merely to run as fast as it could and reach the end first.

Her return to the Greyhound coincided with the arrival of a traveling coach in the inn yard, an equipage of some luxury. Its occupant looked at her through the window as it passed. She huddled into her shawl, turned her face away, and hurried into the building, but not before she recognized the man. Judging by the surprise on his face, he'd seen her, too.

“Sir Bernard Horner's arrived,” she heard the hall porter inform one of the servants. “Mr. Hobbs will want to know and show him up to his rooms himself. Tell the cook, too. She knows what he likes.”

Five minutes later, as she stripped off her outer garments in her room, she tried to decide whether the coincidence of Horner's staying in the same inn was a blessing or a curse. Perhaps she should see it as a sign, an opportunity. The trouble was, she could think of only one way to make him forgive the debt, and she wasn't at all sure she could stomach it.

Expecting to dine with the Quintons, she'd packed an evening gown in her valise. She rang for a chambermaid and asked the girl to bring her hot water and press the muslin. She washed most of her body—she couldn't afford a bath—and drew on her best silk stockings, smoothing them carefully over her knees and making sure the garters were snug.

It was a long time since she'd dressed for a lover. If that was what she did. She felt something die inside her at the thought.

Her clean shift went on next, fine cambric soft against her skin. Her undergarments had always been of the best quality. This one was worn thin in a few places, the result of many washings, and should be replaced soon. With something cheaper.

Next she turned attention to her hair, an easy task. The need to manage without a personal maid had contributed to her decision to cut it. That and angry grief had made her take the scissors to the abundant locks Robert had once loved so much. She combed the cropped curls and teased them into place around a green velvet headband.

A knock at the door announced the return of the chambermaid with her gown. First, the girl tied Caro's stays, then slipped the white muslin, now perfectly crisp and smooth, over her head, fastening the buttons and helping to arrange the embroidered tunic.

“Very pretty you look, ma'am. Will you be dining out?”

“I'm not sure,” Caro replied, and dismissed the girl with a sixpence she could ill spare.

She completed her ensemble with a simple gold cross on a narrow black ribbon and white silk slippers.

Very virginal, she thought, as she caught sight of herself in the dressing-table mirror, blurry in the mottled glass. A lump arose in her throat and choked off her laugh. She peered at her ashen face, pinching her cheeks and biting her lips. A resemblance to a ghost was never desirable. And she was supposed to be desirable.

She had decided to leave the decision in the hands of fate and Sir Bernard Horner. As twilight faded to dusk, she lit a candle, sat down, and waited. Down the street, a church bell chimed the half hour. She'd give it thirty minutes. By the time the hour struck, if Horner hadn't contacted her, she'd order a modest dinner and go to bed alone. Then God only knew what she would do.

A
nne stood when she heard the door open. She was ready to go out, in bonnet and pelisse. Lady Windermere apparently had something in common with her friend Caro: an inability to be on time. Anne didn't understand why. It was so much easier to be punctual—then everyone knew what was happening, and when. Lady Windermere's butler came into the morning room, an imposing chamber twice the size of Caro's drawing room.

Her heart sank at the entrance of the Duke of Castleton. When he'd called at Conduit Street the previous day, she'd denied him. Caro was out on an errand, and she wasn't feeling up to a stilted exchange about Roman antiquities and the weather, the pair of them politely bored as they pretended to share each other's enthusiasms.

It was perhaps a little unfair to dismiss Castleton's interests as purely meteorological. She had no reason to believe he wouldn't be an excellent steward of her inheritance, a responsible landlord, and a dutiful family man. But Lord, he was dull. The only time he showed the least animation was when he looked at Caro, which he did a lot, surely more than he knew. It hadn't ever occurred to Anne to expect a passionate attachment on the part of her suitor, but to have him stare at her cousin was disconcerting. His avid gaze reminded her of the way her pious companion Miss Smart looked at a sweetmeat during Lent: as though it was the one thing in the world she most wanted but was kept from taking by her own scruples.

“Miss Brotherton.” He took her hand with the exact correct degree of pressure and bowed at the right angle.

“Duke.”

“You are dressed to go out,” he said. “I apologize, I know it is early for a call. They told me at Conduit Street that you were here.” His eyes roamed hungrily around the room as though seeking a hidden corner. “Is Mrs. Townsend with you?”

“I am stopping at Windermere House for a day or two while Caro is out of town.”

“I see. Was this an unexpected journey? She said nothing of it the night before last. Where has she gone? When will she return?”

Such pointed questions verged on the ill-bred, but since Anne was a little worried about Caro's sudden departure, she decided to be forthcoming.

“She has gone to Newmarket.”

“Newmarket!” Castleton almost shouted the word. “What is she doing there?”

“Visiting Mr. and Mrs. Quinton.”

“Who are they?”

“Old friends.”

“Whom she suddenly took it into her head to visit?”

Anne shared his skepticism. “She wasn't very clear about the reason. Something about a matter of business. It must have been urgent for her to travel at night. She left in a hackney around six last night.”

“To take her to the posting inn? Did she engage a post chaise?”

Anne hadn't given any thought to Caro's mode of transport, being generally indifferent to practical details which, in her life, someone else attended to. “I suppose so.” What she didn't mention was that Caro had borrowed some money from her. Not much. Anne had only a small sum on hand since all her bills were sent to her man of affairs. She felt a little guilty she hadn't paid more attention when Caro had tactfully probed her about her pin money. Always having enough for her needs, Anne never worried about such mundane things. Her enormous fortune was securely tied up and in the hands of her trustees, to be handed on eventually to her husband.

“Did she go alone? Without her maid?”

“My cousin does not keep a personal attendant,” she said defensively at the note of censure in Castleton's voice. “I offered her my own as a companion, but she said she was quite accustomed to traveling alone. Newmarket is little more than fifty miles away.”

“Let me get this straight, Miss Brotherton. Mrs. Townsend, a young woman, left London, at nightfall, on an unexpected journey, without either attendant or escort.”

Though accustomed to regarding Caro's disdain for the constraints of convention with amused awe, when he put it like that, it did sound less than ideal. “I'm not my cousin's keeper,” she said.

“No,” he said, with a level of emotion she'd never have predicted in Lord Stuffy. “But obviously the woman needs one.”

T
he invitation came with five minutes to spare. Sir Bernard Horner would be honored if Mrs. Townsend would join him for dinner in his private parlor.

She wrapped a shawl about her, held her head high, and tried not to imagine that everyone looked at her askance as she followed the servant down one flight to a first-floor parlor. The Greyhound was an old building, perhaps dating back to the days when King Charles II had made Newmarket fashionable and built his own house here. The room was small but elegant for an inn, with painted paneling and decorated with framed hunting prints. Horner, who'd been lounging next to a cozy fire, rose to his feet.

He was, of course, wearing stripes. Tonight, his evening coat sported a subtle contrast in shades of brown and buff. His pantaloons, in dark brown, were skintight, leaving nothing of what they contained to Caro's imagination. She found it was knowledge she'd sooner do without. Taking a deep breath, she contemplated Horner's assets at a more elevated level.

He really was a very elegant man, she told herself. A trim figure with scarcely a hint of a paunch. A profusion of chains and fobs hung from his gaudy brocade waistcoat, each individual one in good taste, even if the total effect was a little excessive. His brown hair threaded with gray was exquisitely curled, doubtless through the considerable exertions of his valet. And he was clean. Or at least well perfumed, so any unpleasant bodily odors were well masked.

If she found him repellent, it was merely due to his personality—which hopefully wouldn't be on display in bed.

She'd heard whispers among the ladies of the artistic set that older men offered the advantages of experience, of knowledge in the bedroom unknown to callow youth. She'd listened without much interest. At the time, Robert was all she wanted or needed, and after his death she wanted no one.

Then Castleton had reawakened her. She'd lain in bed at night, her body aching for a man, trying desperately not to think of this particular one. She was trying now, but a vision of the duke plagued her mind. The way his haughty features sometimes seemed but a mask for a sweetness and good humor he worked hard to repress. How his body felt pressed against hers in the licentious heat of the Pantheon. His magnificent figure intruded on her optimistic assessment of Horner's meager attractions. If only this new desire could be fueled, then satisfied, by a different man.