The Painted Lady (26 page)

Kasey was prepared to dislike the newcomer’s work, simply because he’d heard too much lavish praise. The fellow could not be that good, but he’d done an excellent piece of work in stirring interest. Not signing the pieces was a true stroke of genius, artistic talent aside, for now everyone wanted to meet the pretentious, presumptuous puppy. Everyone but Kasey, that was. He only wanted to have Lilyanne to himself again.

She was soon surrounded by admirers of her own, to the duke’s annoyance. If the dastards came to view art, let them look at the pictures, by George. He held on to her arm and excused them to the popinjays. “I see Lord Stivern and Baron St. Claire waiting for us, my dear.”

The two gentlemen stood aside so Caswell and his companion could get a better look at the portrait they were most interested in. Kasey was polishing his looking glass when he heard Lilyanne’s swift intake of air. “But that looks like one of your—”

His head snapped up, then his hand snaked out to cover her lips.

It was Dolly. In her fur-lined cloak, with nothing beneath it, although only an astute observer could tell, from the look on her face.

“A ... a woman you should not recognize, my dear,” Kasey stammered, when the gentlemen stared at his odd behavior. “My—Miss Bannister is newly arrived in the City, you see.”

He saw five other of his paintings. He saw red. His work had been spirited away, the same as his mistresses. “By Heaven, these paintings are forgeries!”

Lord Stivern shook his head. “Can’t be forgeries, Duke. The fellow didn’t sign them, don’t you know.”

Kasey ran his hand through his hair. “Not forgeries, then. Stolen. Robbed. Here without the artist’s permission. Where is the manager? By Jupiter, these pieces are not for sale!”

A crowd had gathered, naturally, so Mr. Cranmoor himself had to push his way through. “What seems to be the problem, Your Grace?”

The problem? The problem was that Kasey’s world was standing on its ear, with all the blood rushing about in mad circles. He found Lilyanne’s hand and took a deep breath. “The difficulty is that I know the artist, and he never gave permission for this auction.”

“Oh, but his representative did. I have the papers, Your Grace.”

“Ayers?”

“He did not mention any heirs. Do you mean the artist is deceased? Oh, dear, I have been accepting commissions on his behalf!”

“I mean, was it a man named Alfie Ayers who brought you the paintings?”

“I am not at liberty to give the gentleman’s name, Your Grace. A matter of confidentiality, you understand.” Cranmoor was losing his poise—and his business, he feared—in the face of the interested onlookers and the duke’s icy glare. He hurriedly added, “But I do not know any Ayers, sir. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me to my office, Your Grace?”

“I’ll see you hang, sirrah, for dealing in stolen merchandise.”

Cranmoor went as pale as the auction catalog in his hand. “I... I bought the paintings in good faith. If there has been some misunderstanding, I would be pleased to settle it with the artist, if you give me his name and direction.”

The manager waited. Lords Stivern and St. Claire waited. The spectators waited. Caswell stared at the picture of Dolly, a muscle working in his jaw, Lilyanne’s fingers clenched in his.

“But, Your Grace, without the artist’s name, I would have to accept the word of his agent and proceed.”

Then Lilyanne stepped forward, as far as she could, tethered to the duke’s side. “I also know the artist, and he never gave his permission for this exhibit.”

“I know the artist, too,” Mr. Dimm added, coming up to them. “And I’ll swear to it, as an officer of His Majesty’s Bow Street force. The man might be a fool, but he is entitled to his own work. You’ll have to withdraw them from this auction.”

“But, but what about the money?” Mr. Cranmoor almost whined. “I bought the pieces outright, I did, because the agent said the painter needed some cash to continue. You know artists. He was to get a percentage of the auction, of course, but I was to keep a goodly portion. I enlarged my showroom on the expectations of that sale.”

Lilyanne was looking at Kasey; so was Dimm. He swallowed. He could have paid Cranmoor a hundred times what the dealer had paid, and two hundred times what Cranmoor had hoped to earn—to get his own paintings back, confound it.

Lilyanne was pressing his fingers and smiling her encouragement. “Very well,” Kasey said at last. “If you withdraw these pieces now, you will have your sale at a future date, a complete presentation of this man’s works. The showing will be by invitation only, not open to the public, and the prices will be set by the artist, not at auction. You’ll get your fair share and the rest will go to charity. Homes for orphans, unwed mothers, that type of thing. Are we agreed?”

“A whole collection?” Cranmoor would walk through Hell, or an amateur artist’s atelier, for a chance at that. “But, but, Your Grace, are you able to speak for the artist? I mean, I would not want to defraud the man again, no offense intended.”

“Yes, I speak for him.”

‘Then you would know his name?”

In the silence that ensued, Dimm took out the drawing of Ayers that the duke had done. “This wouldn’t be the agent fellow, would it, using a different name?”

“No, they are not at all alike. The other gentleman was more distinguished-looking, similar to His Grace in coloring.”

Dimm scratched his chin. “A gentleman, you say? He wouldn’t of given his name as Charles Warberry, would he?”

“I... I suppose I can divulge the man’s name, since he seems to be criminal. Yes, that was the name he gave, for the check I wrote.”

“My cousin?” Kasey was staggered at the information, although Dimm did not seem surprised.

“He had the other key, Your Grace, and ambitions past his income.”

“That’s all well and good, sirs,” Mr. Cranmoor said, “and I suppose the lawyers can straighten out all of the details, but I still dare not proceed without knowing the identity of the artist.”

Kasey felt like the fox, with all the dogs in the pack hard on his heels and nowhere to go to ground. His own cousin had betrayed his deepest confidence, and stolen Caswell’s most cherished possession, his privacy. His trusted servant had robbed from innocent women, and Heaven knew what else would prove missing from the Lonsdale Street house. Kasey’s very brother thought him a despicable reprobate, without honor.

Whom could he trust, by Heaven, if not them?

Then Kasey looked at Lilyanne, with her gray eyes telling him to trust himself, that she’d be by his side.

“The artist’s name is Kennard Wyndgate Cartland. He signs his work—he will sign his work—K.C.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Lud, what have I done?” Kasey moaned, his head in his hands.

“Just what you ought, my love. This way you will know once and for all if your work will be accepted by the art world and acceptable to the polite world. You’ll be happier for it, you’ll see.”

“I’ll be a laughingstock, more likely,” he muttered, getting up to help her move a stack of paintings so she could see what was underneath.

“You saw how eager they were for the showing. No one will laugh, Kasey. And if some coxcomb does poke fun at you or your paintings, well, the more fool is he, and I will tell him so myself, see if I don’t.”

“My fearless defender.” The paintings were forgotten in a long embrace.

Kasey and Lilyanne were in the attic studio, sorting canvases to be framed for the exhibit. They had come here immediately following the duke’s declaration because Lilyanne did not want this wonderful day with him to end, and because Kasey did not want to face his cousin yet. He’d told Dimm that he needed some time to collect his thoughts, to get used to the notion that Charles was a greedy, grasping traitor. Actually, he was hoping that word of the startling developments at Cranmoor’s gallery could have reached the ears of his aunts, who would have told Charles, who should have fled. He wanted the dastard departed, not detained for trial. The Caswell name would be notorious enough soon, without adding larceny to the family tree.

Dimm was in the parlor, complaining that his poor old feet couldn’t make the stairs, but they all knew he was playing matchmaker again. Speaking of which, he’d sent Lilyanne’s maid Fanny to the kitchen, to make tea and the acquaintance of his nephew Thomas, who, being gainfully employed and single, was therefore in need of a wife.

A few moments later, a noise brought Lilyanne and Kasey back to their senses and the matter at hand. Mr. Dimm clearing his throat, or the others in the kitchen, Lilyanne supposed. She stepped out of Kasey’s arms and went to stand in front of the painted lady. “She looks happier too, somehow. Have you been retouching the picture?”

“I wouldn’t dare. But yes, she does seem to be smiling more, doesn’t she?”

“And she doesn’t seem to be staring off at the distance so wistfully. Now she is smiling at something right over my shoulder.”

Right where Kasey was standing, his hands on Lilyanne’s shoulders, rubbing the back of her neck with his thumbs. “She approves, my dear.”

Lilyanne frowned. “Did she say so?”

“She didn’t need to. Just look at her.”

“Do you think
...
That is, does she approve of me, too, or just the showing?”

“How could she not, my dearest? You are the reason for the change, in me and in her. I could not get through this without you, you know. You are everything good and beautiful in my life, Lilyanne. You make me know that I’d been sleepwalking, pretending to be someone else. Now I am awake and eager to live my own life, my own way, with you by my side.”

“Are you certain? I mean, you think you need my moral support now, but what of later?”

“Later you will be my beloved wife, I hope, for I will always need you. Not because I am weak or want-witted, but because you hold my happiness in your hand.” He placed a kiss in the palm of that hand. “Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Lilyanne would have thrown herself back into his arms, but she had to be sure. “And the difference in our stations does not matter, truly?”

“I am a man and you are a woman. That is all that matters if you love me as I love you. Unless you cannot trust your heart to a man who might never stop hearing voices?”

“So long as one of those voices is mine, I will never stop loving you.”

“Ah, Lilyanne, now I truly understand that phrase gentlemen use when their suits are accepted. You have indeed made me the happiest of men.”

Another interval went by during which no sorting of paintings got done. Then came another sound.

Lilyanne looked up. “Did you hear it that time?”

“What, the applause?”

“No, Mr. Dimm on the stairwell, calling us to come down.”

* * * *

“I know you said you didn’t want to prosecute your own flesh and blood, Your Grace,” Dimm said, “but I’d still like to be there when you confront that cousin of yours. No telling but he might come the ugly when he’s cornered, like the rat he is.”

Charles was gone from the Grosvenor Square house.

So was Lady Edgecombe.

“It was the oddest thing, dear. Charles read your note and turned so pale before rushing off that we thought you’d had an accident, didn’t we, Mirabel?”

“You thought Cartland had overturned the carriage, Maeve, I told you no nephew of mine could be so ham-fisted.”

“But there was no emergency, was there, dear?”

“No, Aunt Maeve. I fear that Charles will not be returning, however.”

“Do you want me to send men after him, Your Grace?” Mr. Dimm asked from where he stood in the doorway. “Warberry wouldn’t be hard to find, not with Lady Edgecombe alongside.”

“No, there’s no need to drag the family name through any more muck. There will be enough gossip for the gabble-grinders to chew on for a month as is.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“I said, I am only sorry Charles won’t be here to help plan the wedding.”

Even Sir Osgood partook of Kasey’s champagne toast. After a few glasses, the aunts took to squabbling again, this time over names for the inevitable offspring ... of the pugs.

Aunt Maeve preferred Rocket, Pocket, and Locket.

Aunt Mirabel’s choices were Tricky, Nicky, and Dicky.

* * * *

“I swear I could never do this without you, my love.”

Lilyanne dragged Kasey’s hand away from disturbing his neck cloth. The duke’s valet had struggled with it for hours, it seemed, since Kasey’s hands were trembling too hard to manage the intricate folds.

“Nonsense,” she told him. “I am the one who could never have faced the cream of the polite world on my own. What, poor, plain little Lilyanne Bannister, meeting Society’s elite?”

“There is nothing poor or plain about you, dearest. You are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Ha. You only think these people have come to view your paintings. They all want to get a look at the mushroom who is putting on airs above her station.”

He smiled at that, as she knew he would. “They’ll be impressed.”

Lilyanne was magnificent. She glowed in the Caswell emeralds, a green velvet gown with a white lace overskirt, and in the light of his love.

The aunts were also at their finest, basking in reflected glory in a secluded corner of the gallery, introducing their cronies to a smiling Sir Osgood. Kasey’s brother was wearing a wide grin, too, although Kasey could not tell if his brother was beaming with fraternal pride, or at the fact that he had Lady Phillida on one arm, Lilyanne’s beautiful young sister on the other.

Those lucky few invited to attend the gallery opening were also impressed with Caswell’s work, highly impressed. The comments were more than favorable; the sales were brisk. All fifteen pieces were bespoken well before the end of the official reception, at prices high enough to fund a great many foundling homes and hospitals. Kasey had accepted two commissions, at even more exorbitant prices, in exchange for the establishment of a sanctuary for troubled minds, one that Sir Osgood would manage. He’d also promised another charitable showing within the year.

That was too long a wait for His Royal Highness, Prince George.