The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (22 page)

His wife and her
retainer shared an unusually strong bond. They were so at ease with
each other. Foster had spoken of her childhood as if he’d had a
front-row seat, so he must have always been with her. That explained
why he was so protective of her, though it wasn’t clear why he was
not so fond of Reed.

Was
he not a good husband?
Is that why Foster thought so
little of him? Or was it just hard for his wife’s fierce protector
to give up his special place in her life?

Not being present for
the first three weeks of their marriage might be an indication he
hadn’t been the best of spouses. What a fool he must have been!
Maybe he’d needed the knock on his head to drum some sense into
him!

It was clear Talia
didn’t trust him, so they must have had a falling out. And Foster
believed Reed capable of hurting her... He didn’t
think
he was the type of man to hurt a woman, but how could he be sure?

Had they fought? Had he
come to London to... punish his wife?

Such a vengeful role
didn’t fit the man he sensed he was.
Hoped
he was. One of the only things he knew about himself with certainty
was that he hated lies. When he’d leapt to the conclusion that
Talia had lied to him about his wound, his immediate inner reaction
had been, ‘
I hate lies!
’
He didn’t think she liked them any more than he did. She certainly
wasn’t very good at telling them. Yet he knew that if he asked her
about what he’d just overheard in the library, she’d lie about
it. Why?

Damn
it to hell! If only he could remember!

“Mr. Mason?” Tally
popped her head out of the drawing room and beckoned the investigator
to join her.

“Yes, ma’am?” The
tall redhead ate up the space between them with his long-legged
stride.

“Foster and I intend
to go back to Monsieur Moreau’s studio tomorrow. We’d like you to
accompany us.” She moved further into the room and he followed. “I
believe he has explained the incidents that have been plaguing us
every time we go there?”

“Yes, ma’am. But,
if I may be so bold, why do you want to go back there after those
attacks?”

“Some of the
circumstances are troubling. The neighbor told us Monsieur always
asks her and her husband to keep an eye on the place when he travels,
yet this time he didn’t even tell them he was leaving. Another
thing is the note we told you about, saying that he was gone, you
remember?”

He nodded.

“I find it suspicious
that it wasn’t there the first few times we went, that it should
suddenly appear like that, and that it was not in Monsieur’s
handwriting, don’t you?” He didn’t react to her question. She
had to make him understand how important it was to find her mentor.
“I am worried about Monsieur. He promised me he would be there when
I arrived in London and he always keeps his promises.”

“I see.” He paused
to give it more thought. “Then I’ll be happy to escort you.”

She exhaled quietly,
thankful she’d gotten his agreement. The investigator was affable
yet bland, but one never knew what he was thinking. “Thank you.”
She hesitated a moment, then ventured, “There is another matter I’d
like to discuss with you.”

“Yes.”

“I want to show you
this sketch of one of the men who is watching our house.” She had
spent over an hour in here staring through her opera glasses to
capture the spy’s features accurately.

The investigator looked
at her askance.

“Didn’t Foster tell
you about them?”

“Seems not,” he
replied in his usual laconic style.

He was a man of few
words and that made her feel awkward. “Please come to the window.”
She motioned him to follow her to the front window of the drawing
room. “See that house across the street, the one with the white
shutters.”

“Yes.”

“Two men from there
have been maintaining a watch, day-and-night, on our house for lord
knows how long.”

Usually she was unable
to read his expressionless face, but this time his skepticism was
obvious in those clear blue eyes.

“I know. It sounds
ridiculous. Unbelievable, really. Why would someone be watching our
home? I must be imagining it, right?”

He started to nod then,
hesitated, realizing perhaps it wasn’t politic to be so willing to
agree with her about that.

She frowned at him and
continued. “One or other of them is there at all times and I can
see them using a telescope through their front window to observe us.
Even Mr. Leighton has noticed them.” She walked over to the writing
desk and picked up her sketch.

“Could they be the
ones wanting to harm me? If so, what are they waiting for? Are they
trying to put the fear of God into me first?” She stalked back to
the window. “I wonder, might they have something to do with my...
Mr. Leighton?”

Looking a bit
bewildered at the onslaught of questions, Mr. Mason put out his hand.
“May I see that sketch?”

She passed it to him,
not pleased by his disbelieving demeanor. He’d better be taking
this seriously! She needed this dreadful situation to be over.

It was only because she
was watching him closely when he looked at the sketch, that she
noticed the fractional lift of one eyebrow. In him, that small
movement was equal to a huge reaction in anyone else.

“You recognize him?”
Her voice rose with excitement.

His hand jerked a
little. She’d startled him with her eager question. Even so, he
maintained his composure. “I was just admiring the skill with which
this was drawn.”

“Oh, that.” She
shrugged shyly. “I like sketching.”

“You’re very good.”
He folded the drawing and put it in his inside breast pocket. “I’ll
have my men investigate this.” He looked suddenly anxious to be on
his way. “If that’s all…?”

“Yes, that is all.”
As the Scot left the room, Tally decided she must be seeing shadow
monsters everywhere she looked, because she had the strangest feeling
her investigator had indeed recognized the man’s face in that
sketch. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake showing it to him.

* * *

He must be losing his
touch. He’d come awfully close to giving himself away!

It was just that she’d
taken him by surprise when she’d handed him the sketch and two of
the recently returned Spares, Jace Mallory and Max Blythe’s faces
stared up at him.

What the hell were they
doing spying on the Leighton’s? And how was he to find out without
divulging anything about his newest client?

* * *

Why she must be a
Lawton! She was the image of Countess Hargrave, Venetia Lawton before
she married the Earl, and of Mrs. Courtney, the middle sister,
Milana. What was her name? Hadn’t Antoine told him she never came
to Town?

She was a beauty!
Mon
oncle
had never mentioned that. Watching her from the
upstairs window of his uncle’s studio, Victor Dubuc almost gave in
to the impulse to run downstairs and open the door to her. But he was
there collecting paintings and was in no suitable state to greet a
fair young lady who, he was just realizing, could fit very well into
his future, so he resisted the urge.

This was the first time
he’d set eyes on her, but he’d known immediately who she was. The
resemblance between the three sisters was startling. Thick, ebony
hair and the same luxuriant curls, he’d wager — although, at the
moment, it was pinned up in, what London matrons determined, an
acceptable style. She probably had the same flashing dark eyes as her
sisters too, below which, he noted, were very kissable lips. His
pulse sped up and his heart gave a leap of excitement.

His mind raced with the
possibilities. What better way to secure his future as an art dealer,
expert and collector than to be married to the daughter of one of
England’s foremost artists? What better way to have ready money to
finance his dreams of a life in Paris, than to be the chief agent for
her father in France and the rest of Europe? And her Italian
connections, through her mother’s family, would be invaluable.

He watched with an
anticipatory smile until the carriage was gone. Then he rushed
downstairs.

“Quickly!” he told
the two men who were helping him move the paintings. “Follow the
hackney that just left. I want to know where that woman lives.”

“Yes, sir.” The two
put down the paintings they were carrying and hurried after her.

Pleased he’d thought
of having her followed, Victor picked up the discarded frameless
paintings, already planning how he was going to arrange to meet her.
The older Lawton sisters would be busily preparing for their youngest
sister’s debut and were almost certain to host parties to that end.
He must drop the sisters a note telling them he’d seen her from
afar and was interested in making her acquaintance. That should
prompt an invitation to their entertainments and, once there, he’d
set about charming her. He’d heard she was the only one who didn’t
paint, that she was a shy homebody. They’d probably be thankful he
wanted to take her off their hands.

He adjusted the strap
of the large art bag on his shoulder. It was time to go a courting.

A sudden noise at the
front door startled him. Who on earth–?

“
Victor!
Bonjour!”

“
Betise!
You gave me a fright, Gaston, I wasn’t expecting you.” Of all the
bad timing! His uncle’s agent and best friend, showing up just as
he was about to leave!

Naturally, Gaston
Beauclaire had a key. When he wasn’t away on a business trip,
Gaston and Antoine were inseparable. They worked together, attended
entertainments and events together, all but lived together.

He found Beauclaire a
colossal bore. He’d liked him well enough as a child, but now the
man was a crank, always preaching at Victor as if he were still a
young boy.

Beauclaire advanced
into the ground floor shop. “I saw a lovely
demoiselle
departing. An acquaintance of yours,
oui
?”

“
Non
.
I don’t know who she is,” he lied, moving toward the back door,
eager to depart. He could gladly have done without this scrutiny. “I
didn’t answer her knock at the door. You might note that I’m not
dressed to greet visitors. Besides, anybody coming to the door is
here to see Antoine, so there is no reason for me to answer the
door.”

“
Alors
you have no idea who the lady is?”

“Have you?” He was
annoyed. What were all these questions really about?

“I didn’t get a
good look at her face, but she seemed...
jolie
.”

He didn’t quite
believe Gaston. There was an odd inflection in the older man’s
voice.

Beauclaire moved to the
front of the store. “Why are you here?”

“I’m keeping an eye
on the studio while
mon oncle
is away.”

“
Bizarre,
n’est-ce pas
? Usually Lisette and Francois do that.”

“I don’t know why.”
He resented the accusatory tone in Gaston’s voice. “He asked and,
naturellement
, I said
yes.”

Gaston lifted his
eyebrows showing his incredulity. “And the paintings?” He pointed
to the bag on Victor’s shoulder.

“These?” He
readjusted the strap of the heavy bag securely on his shoulder. The
last of the Lawton paintings. He was relieved they were now all moved
from the studio. “
Mon oncle
requested I bring them to the Museum on his behalf. They are to be
included in the next exhibition.”

“
Bon.
”

He looked to be
thinking it over but Victor had had enough of this inquisition. “I’d
love to stay and talk, but I’m in a hurry for an appointment.”

“
Pas
probleme, le jeune. Go... go!
” Shooing him on his way,
Gaston held the door open for him. “I will let myself out.”

“
Aurevoir
,
then.” Victor left, feeling Gaston’s piercing gaze burning a hole
between his shoulder blades. He cursed his bad luck that Beauclaire
had to turn up just before he left.

The Lawton girl had
cost him time. Had it not been for her, he’d have been safely away
before Gaston appeared. She was lucky he’d decided to marry her or
he might have been thinking of how best to punish her instead.

* * *

Zut
alors!
Now, what was Victor up to?

That young lady was one
of Lawton’s daughter, Gaston had known at a glance. The youngest
one,
sans doute
. The
one Antoine had been mentoring in secret for all these years. And she
must be the woman who’d been returning to the studio repeatedly,
looking for Antoine. Lisette had told him about her.

But what was
la
petite
doing in the City?

And how did her being
in London fit into Victor’s plans?

He was certain Victor
had some scheme going on. He always did. Gaston wished, not for the
first time, that he were closer to the young man. No matter how hard
he’d tried to befriend Antoine’s nephew, the boy had resented him
almost from the start.

Why had Antoine asked
Dubuc to keep an eye on things? He’d never done so before. Usually,
Victor couldn’t be trusted to put himself out for anybody else, not
even to accomplish so small an act as that?

Perhaps Antoine had
decided to give him more responsibility to force him to grow up?
Gaston had been in Paris on business for the past month and, although
he and Antoine had exchanged letters while he was away, they hadn’t
spoken since his return several days ago.

“
Where
are you, Antoine, mon vieux
?” He asked aloud. His dear
friend’s being gone when Gaston arrived was not unusual. But
leaving no note about his whereabouts was and he was worried.