Chapter Four

L eo wet the tip of the finest, most delicate paintbrush he owned and dipped it in a tub of charcoal-colored paint. A fuzzy ball of gray fur danced at his feet. He picked the kitten up and briefly cuddled her against his cheek before setting her down. A footman had chased her into his studio, and he had not had the heart to send her away. Much like he could not close his eyes without seeing Saffron Summersby's face. The way she had stared up at him, her wide eyes filled with tears, her hair drooping onto her pale neck. She had seemed so fragile, like a glass sculpture that would shatter if not handled with care. The urge to gather her up in his arms and spirit her away somewhere safe had overwhelmed him. Rather than face what that meant, he'd fled.

Coward , the voice in his mind whispered.

At least he had made progress on the Ravenmore. All it had taken to convince Lady Jarvis to relinquish the painting was a strongly worded letter threatening to expose her to the press.

But the woman could not tell him how she had acquired it, as the seller had routed the transaction through several intermediaries. Worse, he'd reached out to his museum contacts and learned there were no reports of theft.

"My lord, your cousin is here."

Lady Jarvis's Ravenmore should have been hanging in the British Museum. It still was hanging in the museum. A second, identical painting.

There was only one conclusion.

Someone is stealing Ravenmores and replacing them with forgeries.

He set his brush against his canvas, forming the hull of a ship. The same ship from the painting that had caught Miss Summersby's interest. It was familiar, somehow, although he could not remember ever seeing it before.

"My lord?"

His hand cramped, slashing black ink through the gentle waves of the blue sea.

He threw down his brush. His butler, Sinclair, stood solidly by the door, waiting for a response. The kitten, who he had not yet named, sprinted across the room and clawed up Sinclair's leg. The butler disengaged her and held her by the scruff in one hand far from his body, the way Leo might have held a rodent. "Shall I tell him you are not receiving?" Sinclair asked.

Leo sighed. "Send him to my office."

"Your office, my lord?"

Leo swirled his paintbrush in a cup of water. "What's wrong with my office?"

"Nothing, my lord. The dust gives the room character."

A book flew from Leo's hand and hit the door as it closed.

Leo removed the stiff, gray apron splattered with paint and hung it on a peg jutting from the wall. The apron, and his clothing, were so restrictive. Given the choice, he would have painted in the nude, but the one time he had done so during the day, his housekeeper had caught him and nearly fainted.

He capped the small bowls of oil paints and rubbed sand on his hands to remove the flecks of paint from his skin.

The latest letter from his mother sat unopened on the windowsill. He had stopped reading them years ago, when she had accused him of being the cause of his sister's death. He didn't need her to remind him of what he already knew.

He set his painting out of the sunlight then closed and locked the door to the one room in the house that still held some of the life and warmth that had once filled the estate. Once, he'd considered filling the house with the sounds of laughter. Back before his family had shattered, before he'd retired to his ancestral home and buried himself in art.

Those days were long past.

He followed the cold, barren halls to his office and stepped inside. Although it was just as dark and brooding as the rest of the estate, this room held something of the man he had once been. The walls were covered in paintings. Not portraits, but colorful landscapes. His sister's early works.

Simon sat in a chaise by the crackling fireplace, holding a cut-crystal glass in one hand and a cigar in the other. He was impeccably attired in a double-breasted frock coat and striped trousers. A significant amount of spirit was missing from the bottle of brandy on the table.

"Helping yourself to my spirits already, Simon?" Leo asked as he sat across from the man. "It can't be that bad."

Simon waved a hand. "Good afternoon to you, as well. I must ask, where are all your servants?"

Leo handed Simon an ashtray. "The noise was making it difficult to paint."

Even after he'd issued instructions that no one should come near his studio, the sounds of footfalls and murmuring conversation had still reached him and disrupted his focus. Finally, he'd instructed his housekeeper to dismiss all but the most essential of the staff.

Simon set his glass down on the table. "I came to ask you to join me in town for a Season."

Of all the things he'd expected his cousin to say, that was not one of them. "Why come to me?"

"You rarely leave the grounds, I know," Simon said. "I had thought after the ball last week, you might have changed your mind."

Leo snorted, and Simon winced. "Right. Yes, poor excuse. Well, straight to it, then. I do not have the means."

Leo nodded. This was more in line with what he'd expected his cousin to discuss. He crushed a twinge of disappointment to dust as he calculated the amount he should give the man that would send him away without setting expectations for further funding.

"You can use my townhouse and carriage in the city," Leo said, "and I will open an account for you to use at your leisure."

Simon beamed. "Excellent. Will you be joining me?"

Leo looked at the pile on his desk and shuddered. He had no desire to re-enter society, but he had to figure out who was stealing the paintings. Writing to the collectors would be a pointless exercise. Even if he trusted them to tell him the truth, knowing who had purchased the paintings did not help him track down who had stolen them in the first place. There were thousands of artists in England alone who were skilled enough to create a forgery that would not be detected as false except by the most skilled appraisers.

But he couldn't tell his cousin any of that without risking the entire Ton learning his plan by week's end.

"I thought I would host an event here," Leo said. "A country party, for perhaps three days."

It would be a challenge to organize such an event on short notice, and it would require Mrs. Banting to hire many more servants, but he was more concerned about the disruption to his studio. He would have to relocate his supplies, and there would be few opportunities to paint, but he was not willing to threaten his sister's legacy. He would find the thief, recover her paintings, and restore them to museums, where they belonged.

Simon fell back into a chair. "At this mausoleum? Wherever will you find space for all the eager ladies?"

Leo crumpled a vellum invitation to an afternoon tea and took aim at his cousin's head.

"Better luck next time," Simon said as the projectile landed a foot away. He kicked it into the fireplace, where it hissed and sparked with greenish flames. A foul odor wafted out of the fireplace and wreathed around them.

"I hate the scented ones," Simon said, waving his hand in front of his face. Then he pointed to the wall above the fireplace, where a painting was mounted. "That's it," he said, "That is how you lure your guests."

Leo looked at the painting. In coarse brush strokes, it depicted a group of cherubs clutching small golden harps in their chubby fingers. Streams of warm, golden light shone down on their fluffy, white wings.

Simon tilted his head. "What is that monstrosity worth? A hundred pounds?"

Leo shrugged. "Perhaps. My father imported it from Germany."

Simon inspected another painting. "I don't know much about art, but I know many of your fellow lords are collectors. They would love to have a chance to peruse the Briarwood collection, and the matrons of society adore an exhibit. If you host one, they will demand to come and bring their daughters. You will have the whole of the Ton 's marriageable ladies under your roof."

Leo looked at the horrid cherubs glaring at him from the wall. As a child, he'd thought they looked more like trolls than angels. He'd had nightmares about the winged creatures flying out of the clouds and bludgeoning him with their harps. He would be glad to be rid of the piece, and there were hundreds more dusty paintings in storage.

"An auction it is," Leo said.

*

Leo clenched his fingers around the railing of the ship as the calm water of the Thames washed against the hull. Gulls squalled overhead, diving into the murky depths near the rocky shore.

Being on the water was an uncomfortable reminder of everything he had lost. He would never forget the hundreds of bodies bobbing in the waves amid the flotsam.

The blare of a horn pulled him from his thoughts. The boat shuddered as it docked, making him break out in a cold sweat. He shoved past the other passengers to the gangplank, clutching the railing in a white-knuckled grip. The lapping waves beneath his feet made his stomach perform somersaults. It did not help that so close to the water's edge, the sour smell of what the river had washed ashore was overpowering, like a slop heap left to rot.

He inched across the narrow bridge until at last he was free. Nothing had ever felt so sweet as the solid and immovable earth beneath his feet.

The clip-clop of horse hooves drew his attention. He searched until he found the source, a hansom cab meandering down the street. He raised a hand in salute. The driver chirruped at his horses, nudging through the crowd.

Leo flicked the driver a guinea. "Sheffield and Sons. I am late for an appointment with my solicitor."

The cabby, a grungy-looking man in a dusty, black coat and bowler cap, tested the guinea with his few remaining teeth then pocketed it. "Right, guv', git in."

Leo opened the door and settled inside to rattle down the London streets. How many years had passed since he'd sworn never to return? The weeks had blurred together, punctuated by moments of brilliant clarity in his art. Painting was the only light in his life, distracting him from the utter silence of a home that should have been filled with the chatter of managing relatives.

Family. He could have it again if he wanted. But the edges of his soul were still ragged and bleeding, unable to bear another loss. Better to keep to himself and avoid further hurt. He did not want to become like his mother, so damaged by grief that she could no longer participate in any of the social activities she had once loved.

The cab hit a rut, and his teeth clacked. He closed the drapes tighter, keeping the revolting sights from his view. He longed for the serenity of his studio, but there was something he had to do first.

Finally, the cab rattled to a stop, and the driver rapped on the roof. "'Ere we are, guv."

Leo jumped out, placing his feet to avoid the piles of horse manure that covered the road. He stepped inside the white building, then held up a hand to greet his solicitor, who was sitting at a desk on the other side of the room, wearing a dark-green suit jacket with bronze buttons.

"Lord Briarwood!" The man rose quickly, scattering papers to the floor. "I did not expect you." He gathered the papers in his arms and returned them to his desk, then pulled out a smooth, glass container and tilted it back and forth so the rich, amber liquid inside sloshed around. "Drink?"

It was a tempting offer, but Leo's stomach had not yet settled from the trip. "I will get straight to the point," he said, going on to explain his theory.

Percy paled, making the hollows around his dark brown eyes even more prominent. Between that and the sharp lines of his cheekbones, he could have passed for a specter in the dark of night. "Stealing? How is that possible?"

Leo examined his solicitor's expression and judged that the man's surprise was genuine. He had not wanted to believe his most trusted advisor could have betrayed him, but Percy was one of the few who knew his secret, that the paintings he supplied under the alias "Ravenmore" were his sister's creations. Had she lived, the paintings might have slipped through history unnoticed. But with the help of the pseudonym Ravenmore, her work finally had the acclaim it deserved.

It was the least he could do, considering he was the reason she was dead. He only wished he had thought of the idea before the accident.

He cracked the joints in his hand. "I don't know. I recovered a painting from a private collector and confirmed its authenticity, but the museum did not report it missing."

Percy's brows knitted. "If the thief, or thieves, are selling to private collectors, it will be difficult to catch them."

"I have decided to host an auction at the Briarwood Manor," he said. Then he withdrew an envelope with Percy's name scrawled on it from his pocket and held it out.

Percy took the envelope and stared at it. "How can you be sure your quarry will attend?"

"My family has an extensive collection of artwork, and to ensure our thieves will make an appearance, I will add a Ravenmore to the docket."

He had one left, the final painting his sister had created before her death. Parting with it would be difficult, but once the collectors learned the mysterious Ravenmore had allowed a painting to go up for auction, they would swarm the viscount with demands for invitations. Every private collector in the country would be at his doorstep, and he'd interrogate each of them until he got to the truth.

They won't get away with it.

His sister's paintings belonged in museums, where they could be seen and enjoyed by all. Private collectors did not deserve to have Sabrina's works gracing their walls, not after they had rejected her from their ranks.

He sighed. "It is time for Ravenmore to retire."

Percy sloshed brandy over the edge of his glass. "My lord, I must insist that you not act so rashly, and leave this matter to me—"

A crash from outside interrupted them. Percy set down his drink, then scurried to the door, throwing it open as a familiar feminine voice shrieked, "Release me, you beast!"

Leo was on his feet and at the door before he could think.

Saffron Summersby stood on the sidewalk, holding the front of her skirts in both hands, attempting to tug it out of the snarling jaws of a mottled, brown-and-gray mutt.

It took all his strength not to lunge forward and scoop her into his arms, away from the danger. What was it about the woman that called forth his protective instincts that had remained dormant for so long? He resolved to keep his distance.

Then she pinned him with an accusing look. "What are you waiting for? Help me!"

Propriety be damned.

He shoved Percy aside and clasped his hands around her waist, lifting her off the ground, out of the reach of the dog yapping at her heels. She struggled in his grip, the feathers in her hat brushing against his face as he breathed in the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, like baked apple pie, straight out of the oven. It shocked him enough that he held on to her longer than was appropriate, and she struggled harder.

He moved her away from the door, then set her down on the floor behind him.

You didn't want to let her go. What would you have done if you were alone?

"Lord Briarwood." She dipped into a quick curtsey without lifting her head. "I didn't expect to find you here."

He chuckled. "I could say the same, Miss Summersby. I am unaccustomed to the role of savior. Perhaps I should accompany you home, lest you find yourself in another difficulty."

"Ah, thank you," she said. "That will not be necessary."

"Odd thing for a mongrel to do," Percy said, having chased the dog away with shouts and claps of his hands.

"It's my fault," Saffron said, falling on the bench near the door. She picked at the tattered remains of a petticoat, which was, by Leo's estimation, damaged beyond repair. "I passed a butcher on the way here and stepped in something dreadful. The hound must have smelled it."

Percy cleared his throat. "Miss—"

She fluffed her skirts, rose to her feet, and curtseyed. "Summersby. I apologize for the intrusion. I would not be here if it were not a matter of some urgency."

"You'll have to return another time, Miss Summersby," Percy said. "I am otherwise occupied with a client."

She turned her head so her bonnet obscured her face. "Then I will wait here." The spray of golden feathers bobbed above her head. "Go on. I have important matters to discuss, and I do not have all day."

Percy frowned. "Miss Summersby, I cannot assist you today. Perhaps you could return tomorrow with an appropriate chaperone?"

The glare she gifted Percy was so venomous that Leo had to pretend to muffle a cough to hold in his mirth. She was like a lioness stalking an injured prey, determined and unwilling to back down. Percy withered before her ferocity.

Is this the same woman who shuddered in my embrace not two nights ago?

"That is unacceptable, Mr. Percy," she said mulishly. "I have come all the way from the other side of London. You will not throw me out because this man demands all of your time." She folded her hands in her lap. "I must speak with Ravenmore."

The rush of panic that followed those words choked Leo's throat. She couldn't know, not unless Percy had done him a disservice. It had to be something else. But what?

Percy smoothed his cravat. "I do not know what you are talking about, miss. I don't know anyone by the name of Ravenmore."

She straightened. "I spoke with the curator at the Royal Museum, and I know you negotiate on behalf of Ravenmore. You are his solicitor. Sir, I must speak with the painter. It is of the utmost importance."

Masterful. She played him like a violin.

His respect for her increased further. The woman knew what she was about.

Percy worried his hands together. "I am sorry, but I cannot help you."

Before she could mount a new line of attack on his beleaguered solicitor, Leo stepped closer. "Why is it so important you speak to this painter?"

She faced him, her eyes fixed on his cravat. "That is no concern of yours."

The way she avoided the topic only made her more interesting. Did it have something to do with how she'd reacted to the painting at Lady Jarvis's ball?

Percy flapped his hands about ineffectually. "Lord Briarwood is acquainted with Ravenmore. Perhaps he can help."

Leo sent a baleful glower his solicitor's way, to no effect. Percy returned to his desk and refilled his brandy, then downed it.

Saffron stepped toward him, clutching her hands together in front of her, and his reason was once again swept aside.

"I must speak to Ravenmore," she said. "Please. I beg of you."

He ran his eyes down her form. Her plain gown, though fashionable, was a clever re-tailoring of a different dress. The scuff marks on her shoes and the tarnish on her buttons suggested she was not from a wealthy family, as his cousin had said.

"Well?" she asked. Desperation tinged her words. If he did not help her, she would find some other way to accomplish her goals.

For a fleeting moment, the image of his sister overlaid her. Sabrina had shared Saffron's impatience, demanding his attention when he was busy, pouting and raging, until he'd acknowledged her.

He remembered her accusing eyes staring up at him from her swollen, blue-tinged face.

Sabrina had trusted him, and he'd betrayed her. He could not go through that again. A chill settled over him, and he took a step back. As alluring as Miss Summersby was, his sister's legacy came first. Nothing else mattered.

"I apologize, but I cannot help you."

She leaned forward, beseeching him with her wide, brown eyes and pouting lips. "Surely, you could pass on a letter, at least."

Her bosom rose and fell in a way that made him long to sweep her back into his arms and capture her wind-chapped lips. He remembered how she'd felt pressed against his body.

"It's not that," he said, scrambling to recover his scattered wits. "Ravenmore has… retired."

Saffron paled. "Retired? No, that cannot be. I must speak to him. If I can't…" She trailed off, staring at the ground. She looked so distraught, like a child separated from her parents in a crowded market, that he could not stop himself.

"There might be a way."

Her lips parted on a soft gasp, and her cheeks bloomed with color. "Truly? What is it?"

The pure, innocent hope in her words slayed the last of his reluctance and the words tumbled out of him like marbles released from a jar. "I am holding an auction at the Briarwood estate. There will be a Ravenmore for sale, so it is likely that the artist will attend. If you wish, I could invite your family."

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from taking the offer back. Not only because it would be rude, but because he was surprised to find he liked the idea of her wandering the halls of his home. She would be a ray of light in the otherwise bleak house.

She folded her arms over her chest. "You would do that?"

The blatant skepticism scratched at his pride. What had he done to earn such distrust? She was so flighty around him, ready to bolt at any moment. When he moved, she flinched, as if she expected him to strike.

"My lord, if I could make a suggestion?" Percy asked timidly.

He jerked his head toward his solicitor, having forgotten the man was in the room. "Yes?"

Percy held out the invitation Leo had handed him earlier. "I regret I cannot attend."

Leo accepted the envelope and flipped it over in his hand. He brushed his thumb over the unbroken wax seal. "A pen, please, Percy."

As Saffron shuffled by the door, he took a seat and drew a line through Percy's name, then wrote in "Summersby." With that complete, he stood and held out an open hand to Saffron. She narrowed her eyes, then placed the tips of her fingers against his palm. He folded his fingers over hers and kissed her knuckles.

Her hand trembled. "Lord Briarwood, that is not—"

"Appropriate? I so rarely am these days." He released her and she whipped her hand back to her chest. A minute later, she left with the envelope clutched in her hands.